Together we finished hanging the bundles, and I was about to leave to get lunch at the inn when Reginald McMahan, the hobbyist blacksmith, appeared in the doorway.

  Susan lit up. “Ah, Reg, how nice of you to swing by.”

  Reginald looked every bit the silver fox, just as he had the day I’d seen Susan leaving his cottage back when her husband had still been alive. His tall frame was clad in a loose, expensive-looking shirt that drew attention to his robust physique.

  “Have you two been formally introduced?” Susan asked me.

  I shook my head. Not formally, but I felt like I knew a lot about Reginald.

  “In that case, let me do the honors. Reginald is a neighbor.” She cleared her throat. “And a good friend,” she added. “Poppy Wilkinson is one of the bakers.”

  He extended a hand and then shook mine with an almighty grip. Whoa, cowboy, I’ll be needing that wrist to stir with, thank you very much.

  “Pleasure to meet you properly, Poppy.”

  I tried to be cool, but I couldn’t help feeling awkward. It had only been a week since Arnold died, and I couldn’t shake the image of Reg and Susan looking pretty cozy on his cottage steps. But I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Or to judge.

  “I saw your work in the estate gift shop, actually,” I told Reginald. I was about to say how much I’d admired the fire tools, but I caught myself just in time. I’m sure no one wanted to be complimented on the tools they’d made that had been used as a murder weapon.

  “Ah, yes, well, they won’t be there for much longer. I’m not going to be stocked there anymore, so they’re selling off what’s left––at bargain prices.”

  I swallowed. Why did I have to mention the tools at all? What a doofus. But maybe now I could afford one if it was discounted enough. I’d love one of the pieces to hang beside my fireplace in the kitchen. Not a fire poker, though. I shivered.

  I told Reginald how nice it was to meet him properly, and then I excused myself, feeling like three was definitely a crowd. Besides, what better way to celebrate my book contract than checking out the sale at the estate’s gift shop?

  Chapter 2

  After throwing the ball a few more times for Sly, who pretended he didn’t know what ‘this is the last time’ meant, I hitched my tote bag back onto my shoulder and set out toward the village. Sly kept running ahead and dropping the ball in my path until he finally gave up in defeat and turned back.

  The sun was in full glory, showing off in the blue sky, and I tried to shake the weird feeling that had come over me when I witnessed how Susan glowed when Reginald entered the barn. I could see why she liked his company. He was certainly polite, and with that lovely head of bright silver hair and debonair manner, I supposed he was charming in his own way. But still. There was something about him I didn’t trust. Was it his thin mouth, the way it was set in a stubborn line? I liked Susan a lot, but the friendship between those two was awfully warm when her husband had only been dead a week.

  I shook away the thought and carried on walking back toward the pub. The big white tent sparkled in the sunshine, and the crew were already at work setting up. I headed that way, said hello to a couple of the crew I recognized and put my eggs and ginger and white chocolate chunks away.

  It was crazy how familiar the tent felt when this was only week three.

  It was nearly noon and I was drawn to the pub—and food, but the idea of getting a bargain on some of that lovely iron work was too appealing.

  I had to pass the estate gift shop anyway on my way to the pub so I decided to stop in. The window display had changed. The fireplace tools were now gone and, in their place, Jonathon and Elspeth’s cookbooks took center stage. Baking tins, The Great British Baking Contest aprons, and an array of wooden spoons and spatulas made a semicircle around them like a baking shrine. Some of the Somerset products were in the window, too: applesauce, fancy bottles of the local cider, dried apples, and cellophane packages of fudge, which I hadn’t seen on my last visit.

  The souvenirs for Broomewode Hall were next to the food goods. I felt a pang in my chest. I hadn’t gotten anywhere near as far as I wanted with the search for my birth parents. There’d been so much drama, and perhaps I’d let myself get a bit waylaid. But as I looked at the tapestry of the great hall, I felt a renewed sense of urgency. This week I would make more progress. No excuses. It was time to turn my detective skills to where they were most needed: on my own trippy family history.

  As I opened the door, a bell tinkled and the kindly-looking older woman who’d served me last week smiled up from a stool behind the till. “Hello again,” she said. She lowered her silver-rimmed glasses to the edge of her nose and looked at me more inquisitively, a sparkle in her eyes. “The quince jelly baker.”

  Wow. I’d bought that jelly over a week ago. I told Eileen I was impressed with her memory.

  “Nice to see you again,” she said, extending a slender hand. It was mottled with age spots but soft to the touch, with a silver signet ring on the little finger. “And I can always match faces to what people have bought here. My gift for working in a gift shop.” She gave a soft laugh.

  I told her that the quince jelly had been delicious but today I was back to take a look at the fireplace tools. “I just saw Reginald, the blacksmith, over at Susan Bentley’s. He told me that they were on sale.”

  Eileen raised an eyebrow at the mention of Susan Bentley but said nothing. I was suddenly shot through with guilt. Why had I felt the need to mention Susan’s name? That was so thoughtless.

  “Anyway,” I continued hurriedly. “I have a cottage not so far from here, and it has a huge fireplace and hearth in the kitchen. I saw the tools last week and thought it would be fun to display some authentic hand-forged black iron tools at home.”

  “They really are lovely. I have an old cottage, too. I bought a pair of wrought iron candlesticks. They’re lovely.” She removed her glasses from the edge of her nose and let them dangle around her neck on a silver chain. She was wearing a pretty white lace shirt with a crocheted collar.

  She was old. Her cottage was old. Maybe I should start my sleuthing here in the gift shop. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Broomewode’s always been my home. I’m lucky to live in such a beautiful village. Perhaps, at my age, it would be nice to be nearer a hospital, but except for some heart trouble, I’m in very good shape.”

  My own heart began to beat double quick. If Eileen had lived in the village all her life, maybe she knew the mysterious Valerie. “So you’ve always lived here?”

  Eileen nodded. “My whole life.”

  I couldn’t hold the question in any longer. “Did you by any chance know someone named Valerie who lived in the village more than twenty years ago? She might have worked at Broomewode Hall.”

  Eileen looked lost in deep thought, and then the lovely wrinkles in the corners of her lively eyes creased into a smile. “Yes, yes, I think I do remember a woman named Valerie. I used to be an occasional server at Broomewode Hall.” She laughed softly. “Well, who wasn’t? They’ve employed most everyone in the village at one time or another. Those were better days. The boom years. So much going on at the hall, parties and great galas. I can remember serving caviar on silver platters, coupettes of the finest champagne. The Earl and Countess were famous for their parties. I didn’t know Valerie well, but I do remember her. She worked in the kitchen, I think. Why do you ask?”

  I could have jumped up and down on the spot with joy but I tried to sound cool. “I think we’re related. I’ve been trying to find out more about her while I’m in the village, but so far I’ve just hit dead ends.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’m sure I must have a photograph of Valerie somewhere. I have a whole box of them taken during those years. I’d happily root through them for you if that’d be helpful?”

  Before I could say thank you a million times over, the shop bell tinkled and a woman walked in. She looked to be about the same age as Eileen and was wearing a lavender cardigan with a cream pleated skirt.

  “Hello, Penelope,” Eileen called out, smiling. “Come on through. Pop your things in the back, and then we’ll start.”

  Penelope called out a hello in response and gave me a nod before disappearing through a door at the opposite end of the shop.

  “That’s Penny,” Eileen said. “We’ve been friends since we were babies. She’s just started here to lend a hand for the summer tourist season. I can’t manage on my own, and two heads are better than one, I always say––even if they’re two gray heads.” She laughed softly. “Why don’t you come for tea after my shift finishes? I’m done at two p.m., and then I’ll try to find the photograph for you. Does four p.m. sound okay?”

  I nodded eagerly, trying to contain my bubbling enthusiasm in case I came across like a total maniac, and thanked her profusely. Eileen wrote an address down on a piece of paper, and I tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans.

  Penelope emerged from the back, and I went to check out the fireplace tools before I left. To my delight, they were half price. I chose a small wicker broom with a beautiful hand-forged iron handle. I smiled to myself. Although I had to keep being a witch to myself, I could hang a broom on my kitchen wall by the big fireplace like a private joke.

  I took the broom to the counter, where Eileen and Penelope looked to be gossiping.

  “Eileen tells me you’re one of the bakers on the show. What a pleasure to meet you. You bakers are quite the celebrities in the village.”

  I blushed as she wrapped crinkly brown paper around the broom. It was strange being a celebrity in this village. I was beginning to dread how crazy it would get when the show aired. “That’s right. I’m very nervous for this week’s challenge.”

  Eileen shot me a conspiratorial look. “Not that I know anything about this whatsoever,” she said, “but if it did happen to be scone week, what with all these extra copies of Jonathon’s book on scones arriving on Monday, then perhaps I might treat you to my own scone recipe later.” She winked. “I’ve had eighty-odd years to perfect it.”

  I laughed and paid for the broom, taking a moment to flick through Jonathon’s scone book. I’d caught him memorizing his own recipes and wondered if he’d have to do the same again before filming tomorrow.

  I thanked both the women and left the shop with my broom. I looked at my watch. I’d have to wait another four hours before I was due at Eileen’s and could see a photograph of the woman who might be my mother. Time couldn’t go by fast enough till then. However, unpacking then lunch would help pass the time.

  Chapter 3

  Back at the inn, I climbed the stairs to my room, still buzzing with excitement over my tea invitation and a chance to learn more about Valerie. None of the other contestants appeared to have checked in yet, so with any luck, I’d be able to get away later without having to make any excuses. I knew how Florence got when I went off on my “adventures,” as she referred to them. And although they’d been nothing but supportive, I had a sneaking suspicion that Hamish and Gaurav thought I attracted drama.

  I opened the door and had to swallow down my groan. Speaking of drama, there he was: my not-so-dearly-departed friend. I’d been hoping that maybe this week Gerry would have made it over to the other side.

  “All right, Pops,” Gerry said, giving me a mock salute. “I’ve missed ya. How you been?”

  I had not missed Gerry’s restless spirit, but I couldn’t very well say so. Instead, I told him all about preparing for tomorrow’s scone challenge, how I thought I’d perfected a crystallized ginger and white chocolate recipe. I scanned the room for Gateau but she’d gone out through the open window. Or maybe Gerry had hustled her out. There was no love lost between those two.

  “I’ve got the perfect recipe for scones,” Gerry said, “if you’d like some tips.”

  I rolled my eyes. What was it about scones that everyone thought they’d discovered the secret to the perfect bake? Before I could politely decline, Gerry launched into a scone monologue.

  “Now, you’ll find that the secret of good scones is not to handle them too much before baking and to make the mixture on the wet, sticky side.”

  He paused for effect, and I took the opportunity to butt in. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve read Jonathon’s book, too, you know.”

  Gerry looked offended. “These are my own tips.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, laughing. “That was almost word for word from Jonathon’s book. In fact, I reckon you probably know them better than he does himself.”

  Gerry stuck out his lower lip and told me that there wasn’t much else to do other than reading. “All this time to study for the perfect bake, but I can’t grip a bloomin’ wooden spoon. The irony.”

  Aww. I felt bad for Gerry. “Maybe you could help me decide on whether to stay traditional with my scone or experiment with something more exotic. I’ve been playing around with both all week, and I still can’t make my mind up.”

  Gerry perked up. “Well, I’m glad you say that because I had a real light bulb idea this week.” He paused and spread his hands open. “Imagine this: You’re in Morocco––”

  “I’ve never been to Morocco.”

  “I said, imagine, Pops. I know you have a good imagination.”

  I took a seat on the armchair and did my best to paste an attentive look across my face. It looked like I was going to be here for a while.

  Gerry cleared his throat. “Right. Morocco. You’re wandering through a souk, marveling at all of the merchant’s wares. There are piles and piles of spices as high as they are wide, the most beautiful colors you’ve ever seen. We’re talking sunset glory here, Pops—burnt orange, rich reds, golden hues. Saffron, coriander, paprika, ginger. Not to mention all those spices you’ve never even heard of.”

  Wow. I was seriously regretting indulging Gerry with this one.

  “And then you come across the nuts and dried fruits,” Gerry was saying, a wistful look in his eyes. “Stacks of them.” He stopped, licked his lips, then looked me in the eye. “And that’s when it all comes together. You update a British classic with the flavors of the East.”

  He tried to inhale for effect before realizing it wasn’t possible. “Think of it. Scones made with saffron and dates, served with orange blossom jam.”

  He flopped dramatically back onto the bed, and I had to laugh. “Gerry, that does actually sound delicious.”

  “I could have won this round, I know it. But since I’ve been so rudely knocked out of the running, you’re free to borrow from my genius.”

  “I just worry that Jonathon is such a purist. What if he only likes traditional scones?”

  Just then a furry bundle leapt from the windowsill to the bed. Gerry shot up with a little cry.

  “There you are, my sweet,” I said to Gateau, who leapt from the bed to my arms and promptly began hissing at Gerry.

  “Oof, that animal gives me the creeps,” Gerry said.

  I told Gerry off and put Gateau on the armchair where I’d been sitting. She curled herself into a tight ball, pointedly angling her backside in Gerry’s direction.

  I began to unpack my suitcase and let Gerry bore me with his fashion advice. I was secretly proud of my wardrobe choices for the weekend. Gina had helped me shop for some new shirts in a couple of boutiques in Bath last weekend, and we’d found some real gems. A cornflower-blue silk, a pistachio cotton with a lace trim. I was excited to pair them with my favorite jeans. And since the new season sales were on, I’d even splurged on a new denim skirt for the warmer weather. Gina had lent me a pair of her favorite earrings, too, gorgeous silver hoops with a line of tiny white shells swinging from the metal. If the baking this week didn’t go my way, at least I’d look good doing it. Even Gerry had to compliment my choices.

  “Wow, Pops. You’re really moving away from the granny cardis and into some serious fashion.”

  I leaned over to pinch him for being so mean, but he just laughed as my hand passed through his arm. Gerry was so annoying sometimes it was hard to remember that he wasn’t real.

  But I was pulled out of my annoyance by the sound of Gateau hissing. Gerry was levitating, legs crossed, arms folded, from the bed to the ceiling.

  “You’ve got to stop that in front of Gateau,” I said, wagging a finger in Gerry’s direction. “It upsets her.”

  He came down from the roof, muttering.

  With my unpacking complete and a head full of new recipe ideas, I told Gerry I was going down to the bar to see Eve––and he was not allowed to follow.

  “Aww, no fun,” Gerry whined.

  And then I had a bright idea. Annoying or not, Gerry had played the helpful sidekick during my detective work in Broomewode Village. The anonymous warning note I’d received last week was still nagging at me. Maybe he could do some secret ghostly scouting around the inn to see if he could find anything that looked to be written by the same hand. Or even with the same thick black ink.

  Although this meant that I’d have to let Gerry in on another one of my secrets, at least I knew I could trust him: He had no one to tell.

  I went to my tote bag and pulled out the note. I laid it flat on the desktop so Gerry could read it and explained how it had been left for me behind the bar downstairs. And that I was spooked.

  Gerry read the note and said, “This is bad, Pops. There are some crazy things going on around here. It can be dangerous. Well, look at me. Dead!”

  I didn’t think anyone wanted me dead, just out of the competition for some reason. “Maybe you could help? I really want to know how serious this warning is or if it’s a sick joke. I hate thinking it might be one of the other contestants, trying to scare me away, but after what Marcus was like with you…” I trailed off, as no explanation was necessary.