Cherry Buried Cake (Black Cat Cafe Cozy Mystery Series Book 13) Page 2

  “Maybe once he gets going with his teaching he’ll lay off the insults. I think everyone is just a tad stressed because of the storm. After your delicious dinner and more wine, emphasis on the wine, we can turn the rest of the night over to the chef.”

  Leona took another sip. This one was bigger than the first. “I’d better not chug this down or I’ll burn my chicken cordon bleu and forget to make my salad.” She giggled. “At least then Mr. La-di-da Chef Marcel will have a legitimate complaint.”

  “We could put hot pepper flakes on his meal,” Annie suggested.

  “Or douse it with salt.”

  “Maybe burn his piece of chicken but cook everyone else’s to perfection.”

  “I’ve got it,” Leona grabbed onto Annie’s arm, “I’ll smear some of Trouble’s chicken pate on the chef’s portion.”

  “Or none of the above,” Annie said. “It’s fun to speculate, but you do want good reviews and repeat customers, don’t you?”

  Leona pulled her glass dish with the prepared chicken cordon bleu from the fridge and added the rest of her dinner ingredients to her work island. “You’re right, Annie. I can’t think about revenge when the customer is always right.” She sighed. “Can you set the table while I get all this going?”

  “No problem.” Annie left Leona to what she did best and headed into the dining room. Soft music played in the background along with the muted tones of conversation coming from the living room. She opened Leona’s hutch for the winter snowflake china which paired well with the woven red placemats. She set five places for the guests. She and Leona would serve, then eat later.

  She opened the drawer for the silver and heard footsteps behind her.

  “Annie?”

  Annie turned around. “Robin. How can I help you?”

  “I’m not feeling great. Do you think I could get a tray of food to take to my room instead of eating down here?”

  “I suppose so, but don’t you want to be part of the conversation? That’s an important part of a workshop like this, to hear what everyone’s specialties are, secret ingredients, and stuff like that?”

  “Not really. My mom,” Robin rolled her eyes, “gave me this workshop as a gift. I guess she’s hoping I’ll figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life or something like that. But I know cooking is not my future.”

  “So you don’t even want to be here?”

  “The bed and breakfast is awesome but as far as Chef Marcel,” she rolled her eyes again, “is concerned, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than spend another minute with that old creep. Have you noticed how he either ogles all the women or insults them? He’s a narcissistic pig.”

  Everything Robin said was true, more or less, but Annie wasn’t sure she’d be quite as harsh with her description of the chef as Robin was. It was going to be a long weekend and the more people engaged, the better to dilute the chef. “You should give it a chance at least. You never know what might inspire you this weekend.”

  “You sound like my mom. I know she worries about me but she shouldn’t. I’ve got a plan, it’s just that she doesn’t like it.” Robin placed her hands on her hips. “The food? I’m entitled to eat, aren’t I?”

  Annie sighed. “Of course you are. Come on into the kitchen and I’ll round up something for you since diner isn’t ready you. You’ll have to come back down for dessert though.

  Robin shrugged. “That’s okay.”

  Annie scratched her head. “I’m starting to think your mother made a huge miscalculation by sending you here to a pastry workshop.”

  “Right? But I plan to enjoy the weekend anyway. Snowed in. Away from home. What more could I ask for?”

  Annie led the way into the kitchen. Why did Robin even agree to come to this workshop if she wasn’t interested? She pushed the door open and let Robin enter first. “We’ve got a hungry girl here, Leona.”

  Leona, with a white apron covered with blackbirds, straightened with a casserole hot from the oven. “Robin. How’s it going?”

  Robin scrunched her pierced lip to one side. “You’re friends with my mom. What did she tell you?”

  Leona set the casserole on the counter and shook the oven mitt off her hand. “She told me to keep an eye on you and make sure you enjoy the weekend.”

  “And?” Robin’s eyebrows ticked up.

  “And to make sure you learn how to bake at least one thing without setting the smoke alarm off.” Leona grinned.

  Robin picked up a buttery roll from a wicker basket, pulled off a chunk, and stuck it in her mouth. “Oh, I plan to learn something, all right. But I’m not sure it’s what my mother is hoping for.”

  “Oh?” Annie leaned on the counter with her arms folded over her chest. “It’s a pastry workshop. If you aren’t planning to make éclairs and croissants, what’s on your agenda?”

  Robin popped the rest of the roll into her mouth and chewed slowly while a grin spread across her face. “I like that you ask, Annie. That’s not something my mother has learned how to do. What do I want to learn?” She looked from Annie to Leona. “You see, what my mother can’t seem to get through her head is that I don’t want to learn to bake, I want to be a writer.”

  Annie felt her forehead wrinkle and noticed Leona nodding. “Interesting. So, this weekend is going to be a study in characters?”

  Robin smiled broadly. “Exactly. I watch and listen and learn. What better location than a beautiful bed and breakfast to be stranded at? I think there’s so much potential here for my first novel.”

  “Thanks for the beautiful compliment but . . . you’ll change the name, won’t you?” Leona asked.

  Annie saw Leona’s mouth turn down. With all the problems on the first day of her first big exclusive event, ending up in a novel might not be her idea of a positive endorsement.

  Robin flicked her wrist dismissively. “Of course. I’m talking fiction so this just provides the inspiration for my ideas.” She tapped her head. “I’ve got so much already, I can’t wait to find out how the rest of the weekend goes.”

  “And all the guests? They’ll be in your novel, too?”

  Robin laughed. “Bits and pieces will be. For instance, Chef Marcel is such a blow-hard, full-of-himself fake and Connie is the stereotypical grandmother taking care of everyone. Although, it could be just an act. Sarah and George have some issues in their relationship that I haven’t completely figured out yet, but if George pushes her enough I think she’ll snap and let him know exactly what she thinks about him forcing her to come this weekend.”

  Annie’s jaw dropped. “You certainly have learned a lot in a short amount of time.”

  “Yeah,” she said proudly. “I’m young, and while I’m quietly sitting in the corner everyone assumes I’m not paying attention . . . but I don’t miss much.” Robin smirked.

  “You left out your observations about two other people here.” Annie raised one eyebrow as she appraised Robin.

  “Yes. I did.” She nodded her head back and forth as if she was trying to come to a decision as her eyes scanned the kitchen. “It’s always harder to tell people to their faces what I’ve observed.”

  Annie forced a smile on her face. “Go right ahead. I’m sure your observations will be enlightening.”

  Robin’s eyes darted to Leona who stood staring at her. “Okay. Well, you know my mom, Leona. She told me you can be blunt and outspoken.”

  Leona’s mouth opened but she shut it as Robin put her finger up.

  “Let me finish. It’s true, but I don’t say that in a bad way. You speak your mind with an honesty that I, at least, find refreshing.”

  Leona nodded. “Thank you . . . I guess.”

  Both Robin and Leona now turned their attention to Annie.

  “Annie?” Robin said. “You’re more complicated. You tend to find yourself the mediator, jumping in to smooth over potential problems. Am I right?”

  Annie nodded. “I guess you are.” Was that a bad trait?

  “So, you keep your tru
e feelings masked. To a degree, anyways.” Robin shrugged. “At least that’s my observation based on a limited amount of time here. How about that food? I need to get up to my computer and work on my characters.”

  Annie searched in the refrigerator and found leftover beef stew with plenty of carrots and potatoes. She scooped some into a bowl and heated it in the microwave. “This ought to hold you over for now. And help yourself to some salad over there.” She handed the bowl of stew to Robin and pointed to a stack of wooden salad bowls next to Leona’s spinach salad.

  As she scrounged up the food, Annie thought about Robin’s ability to zero in on someone’s character quirks so quickly. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Water’s fine.” Robin added a couple more rolls to her tray and a pat of butter. “This looks good. I’ll probably be down when I get my writing done. Can I take these stairs?” She pointed to the back stairway that led from the kitchen to the upstairs.

  “Sure. Are you trying to avoid bumping into anyone?”

  Robin chuckled. “Exactly.” And she was gone.

  “I didn’t see that coming,” Leona said. “When her mother signed her up for the workshop she told me that Robin is a quiet, introverted girl. She’s worried about her ever figuring out a path forward. She had such high hopes that Robin would be inspired by this French chef and begged me to nurture her along.”

  “She couldn’t have been more wrong about her daughter,” Annie added.

  “Robin’s mother told me that something like this workshop was what she had always wished she had done when she was younger. Too bad she didn’t do it herself so she didn’t feel compelled to force her lost dreams on her daughter.”

  “I’m sure her mother won’t look at it this way, but Robin has already gotten quite a bit out of her first day here. I find her observations of the attendees, and the two of us, thought-provoking,” Annie said. “I’ll be doing my own observations from a new perspective tonight.” She turned her head. “Do you hear something?”

  Leona cocked her head. “It sounds like pounding on the front door.”

  Annie gave Leona a puzzled look. “Who could be here in this storm?”

  3

  Leaving Leona to tend to her cooking, Annie hustled to the front door. The pounding grew louder as she got closer. Anxiety flooded her brain.

  She cupped her hands around her face and peered through the small window on the side of the front door. Even with the outside light on, all she could see was white. She cracked the door and peered out, then pulled it open the rest of the way.

  Cold air and snow blew in behind a tall walking snowman who stepped inside. “Thank you. I thought I was destined to freeze to death tonight.”

  Annie blinked, trying to clear the mirage from her eyes. “How did you even get here?”

  “Do you mind if I hang up my coat and warm up before I get into the details?”

  Annie nodded and watched the man’s mouth move as bits of snow fell from his face. He dropped a small backpack on the floor before he slowly unwound a navy-blue scarf from around his head. He pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his parka and stuffed the scarf, along with a matching hat and gloves, into the sleeve before he hooked it on the coat tree. When he pulled his feet out of his boots, a small snowdrift landed on the floor.

  “You walked here?” Annie asked.

  “Not exactly.” He rubbed his hands together. “Do I hear a fire crackling?”

  This wasn’t part of the plan for the weekend, but what was Annie supposed to do? Send this poor guy back out into the blizzard? “Yes. Come on in.” Annie held her hand out. “I’m Annie.”

  “Alex Harmon.” He took Annie’s hand in both of his. “I owe you my life, Annie.”

  They walked into the living room and four pairs of eyes turned as one to see the newcomer. Buddy barked.

  Chef Marcel threw up his arms. “Who is this intruder? What is going on here? I thought I had the whole bed and breakfast for only my group. It’s one of the reasons I chose this place—small and intimate. No distractions or nosey people butting into my workshop.”

  Annie clenched her jaw and ignored the chef’s remark. “Everyone? This is Alex Harmon.”

  The chef frowned, making his displeasure obvious.

  Annie ignored the chef and continued, “Apparently, somehow Alex stumbled to the Blackbird’s front door in this storm.” She quickly told Alex everyone else’s names.

  “You’ll give him a room, won’t you?” Connie asked. “After all, there is one room available now, after . . .” Connie didn’t finish her thought about poor Phil Hanks who died before arriving.

  “Yes, well, um,” Annie stumbled for the best words to explain the free room to Alex. “Connie is right. There is a room available.”

  “Thank goodness,” Alex said. “But I’d be willing to sleep on the couch if necessary. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

  “Too late for that,” Chef Marcel mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear. He refilled his wine glass. “I hope there’s no shortage of wine to get me through this disastrous weekend.

  “Wine. Perfect,” Connie gushed. She filled a glass for Alex, took his arm, and moved him closer to the fire. “You look like you almost froze to death.”

  “Well, I thought that would be my fate until I saw the light shining through the snow. This storm caught me by surprise as I was heading north through town.”

  Connie patted his arm. “No need to worry about that. This Blackbird Bed and Breakfast is lovely. I think dinner is almost ready. Is that right, Annie?”

  “Leona is working on the finishing touches. I’ll go and help. Just keep feeding the fire to keep it toasty warm in here and I’ll call when the food is on the table.”

  “I hate to be a bother,” Alex said.

  “Too late for that,” the chef mumbled again before he drained his wine.

  Annie stopped and faced Alex.

  “If you were serious about finding a room for me on such short notice, could I bother you to show me the way?”

  “Oh, of course.” She didn’t have anything more important to do, she thought sarcastically.

  “I’ll just get my backpack first so I can change into some dry clothes.”

  Annie led Alex upstairs to the room that had been reserved for Phil. Should she tell him what happened?

  “From Mr. Marcel’s comments, I’m surprised you have an empty room,” Alex said, forcing Annie to make a quick decision.

  “This room was reserved but . . . there was an accident . . . which led to a cancellation.” She opened the door and gestured for Alex to go in.

  “This is charming.”

  Annie had to agree that Leona performed some decorating magic making each room unique and comfortable. “You have a private bathroom through that door,” Annie pointed to a pocket door next to the bed. “Dinner is just about ready if you would like to join us.”

  “Thank you for the invite, but I got the distinct impression that the chef doesn’t want anyone crashing his party.” Alex grinned. “Maybe I could trouble you for something later?”

  “Don’t let Chef Marcel keep you away from the dining room. I think the more the merrier.” And the more to dilute that annoying man, she added to herself.

  Alex nodded. “All right, then. Thank you.”

  Annie started to pull the door closed until Alex’s question stopped her.

  “What happened to your guest that was supposed to stay in this room? You said there was an accident?”

  Annie hesitated but decided on the truth. “All I know at this point is that he was found dead in his car which was stuck in a snowbank. The detective from the Catfish Cove Police Department called us after she found the brochure for this workshop in his car.”

  Alex’s eyebrows disappeared under his shaggy dark hair and his hand covered his mouth. “Oh dear. That could have been my fate.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “Once the storm had m
e boxed in, I looked for accommodations on my phone. Fortunately, I wasn’t too far from here so when my car got stuck in a snowdrift, I decided to walk the rest of the way. In hind sight, it almost became a deadly decision.”

  “But you made it.”

  “I did, but honestly, I had almost given up when I saw your lights.”

  Annie nodded. “Come down when you’re ready.” She closed the door and rushed to the kitchen.

  “Where have you been?” Leona asked with panic in her voice. “Was someone actually at the door?”

  “You won’t believe it. This guy, Alex Harmon, got stuck in a snowbank and walked here. He’s upstairs in the room reserved for Phil. Chef Marcel had another meltdown when I brought Alex in by the fire.” Annie peeked under the foil covering Leona’s chicken cordon bleu. “Your dinner is making my salivary glands work overtime and my stomach is begging for a taste. Is it about ready?”

  Before Leona could respond, the door into the kitchen swooshed open. “There is a problem,” Chef Marcel announced.

  With dinner forgotten for the moment, Leona and Annie followed the chef into the living room.

  Connie was slumped on the Queen Anne chair in the corner, closest to the fireplace.

  The living room, overheated from the roaring fire, forced Annie to unzip her own fleece vest and fan her face. One look at Connie’s red face let Annie know that at least the older woman was alive.

  Sarah crouched in front of Connie, fanning her with a folded paper. “Connie, honey, can you hear me?”

  Connie moaned and her eyelids fluttered.

  Annie poured a glass of water. “Here,” she handed it to Sarah, “try to get her to sip this. She looks overheated with all those layers on. It must be close to ninety degrees in this corner near the fireplace.”

  Leona propped open the door between the living room and the dining room and the door leading into the kitchen to let the heat circulate better.

  “Oh my goodness,” Connie moaned. “I think the wine got to me. It was a bad idea to drink that second glass on an empty stomach.” She unbuttoned her wool sweater and flapped the two sides. “I’m starting to feel a bit better.”