Chocolate Macaroons and a Dead Groom (Poppy Peters Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

"What are you getting at, Poppy?" She abruptly stops what she's doing.

"Nothing." I run my fingers along the counter before brushing them against the diamond dangling on my chest. "Just trying to make conversation."

Marta exhales and resumes unpacking her things. She pulls out a file containing recipes and our work schedules for tomorrow. I will most likely be in charge of the tiny confections that will surround the wedding cake on the dessert table. Chef Gautier's extravagant wedding cake will be the showstopper. I'm sure he trusts Marta with the cake batter. I doubt he'll let me anywhere near it.

There is a firm knock on the door. Marta looks up and changes the look on her face completely. She bends her torso slightly as she nods as if she's discreetly bowing. She rushes to meet our client and gracious host.

I fix a strand of my hair and quickly press my lips together to make sure my lipstick is an even color after my tiresome train ride. I chose a more sensible, conservative outfit for my first trip to England. Unlike Paris where it rains more than I expected, the English coast is sunnier. But the air is chill. I brought along my best cardigans even though they'll be hidden underneath my chef's jacket. I straighten the emerald cardigan I paired with dark wash jeans and a collared shirt.

"Lord—" Marta begins.

"Oh, there's no need to be so formal," he interrupts. "At least, not until my guests arrive tomorrow." The man chuckles, and instantly my heart pounds. I stare at the proud owner of Dovington Manor.

A sleek suit.

Glowing smile.

Chestnut hair.

"Just call me Sam," the man instructs Marta.

"It's such a pleasure to be here, sir." Marta grins from ear to ear as she shakes his hand. I contemplate reaching for the diamond pendant around my neck and yanking it off. Sam spots me before I have the chance to hide it.

"And I see you've brought along the intern," Sam comments, taking a step forward.

"Yes," Marta answers. "But I promise you are in good hands. Right, Poppy?"

"Of course." I smile at Sam as if it's the first time we've seen each other.

"Welcome." Sam's eyes wander down my neck and stop at the silver glint peeking out from underneath my shirt. He smirks. "Nice to meet you, Poppy." He briskly shakes my hand. "Supper is waiting for you ladies in the dining room."

"Thank you," Marta replies.

Sam nods and promptly leaves the kitchen.

"
That's
Lord Dovington? The groom-to-be?"

"Watch your tongue," Marta scolds me. "He's a very important client, and Chef Gautier would be furious if he knew you forgot your manners back in America."

"Well then." I take off my diamond pendant and drop it on the table. Marta's eyes widen when she spots the sparkle. She narrows her gaze, confused. "I should probably give this back, don't you think? I mean, he's engaged. I shouldn't be accepting expensive gifts from engaged men, right? It's bad manners."

"
That
was from
him
?" She stares at the necklace with her jaw wide open like she's in shock.

"Long story," I answer.

"Oh…" Marta pulls her eyes away from the diamond in the table and smoothes her auburn hair, which is partly pulled back with a gold clip. She finally sighs. "I've heard of Lord Dovington's
taste
for women, but I guess I assumed it was all rubbish. So, you've met him before?"

"My first morning in Paris," I inform her.

"Hmmm." She stands up straight and regains her usual superior demeanor.

"You believe me?"

Marta nods.

I'm surprised that for once she's choosing to take my side.

Maybe she's not as bitter as I thought she was?

"Not many people can afford such a lavish gift," she admits. "I'll give you that." She shakes her head. "All men are rubbish, Poppy. If you take anything away from this internship, chew on that for a while."

The morning of Sam's wedding started bright and early with a quick coffee and buttered toast. As promised, Marta went over my duties for the day last night during dinner. She was still a tad stubborn when I tried a second time to ask her a few questions about her personal life. But the air between us was more comfortable than usual. I guess she can relate to my not-so-lucky taste in men.

"
Arrêter ce
! Stop!" Jean Pierre shouts. He shoos a group of caterers who place a wooden crate of vegetables too close to his workspace. "No! No! Eh!" Chef Jean Pierre Gautier is a small man, but when he opens his mouth he seems ten feet tall. The group of caterers obey him immediately, putting their food on the opposite table.

We are sharing the kitchen with a group of cooks who are in charge of dinner. We are in charge of dessert, and Jean Pierre hasn't stopped working since the moment he got here. It is still early in the day, and his cakes are almost done cooking. The fondant is ready, and the frostings and fillings are sitting in pastry bags waiting to be piped. Marta is working on edible leaves, and I'm whisking together a filling for my mini lemon tarts or
tartes au citron
. After the mini tarts I still have to prepare my coconut wedding macaroons, which Marta emphasized have to be scooped into perfectly rounded balls.

Travelling with premade cake layers for onsite assembly is the process Le Croissant normally follows, but Lord Dovington requested the cake be made the same day. According to Marta, he paid extra for the edible gold accents and same day freshness. Chef Gautier hasn't veered from his schedule, and his precision is working in his favor. Our team seems much more calm and composed than the dinner bunch.

The wedding cake display covers a large table in the reception area. Set up neatly with crystal serving plates and baby blue cake platters, the table is meant to be filled with sweets including a variety of tarts, macaroons, French macarons, petit fours, mini
croquembouche
towers, and of course the main attraction—a six tier wedding cake.

Jean Pierre's sketch of what the final product will look like is sitting in front of him. I catch a glimpse of it every once in a while when I walk past to the fridge. He prepares a fondant mold imprinted with a delicate lace pattern and a small tub of edible twenty-four carat gold powder.

Chef Gautier then pulls a pan of almond cake out of the oven and tests it. The smell wafts through the entire room, and a woman on the other side of the kitchen turns around. She's wearing an apron that matches the rest of the dinner team. Her eyes widen, and her black ponytail swings as she moves her head to get a closer look at the source. She takes a few steps toward the ovens and presses her lips together.

"Poppy," Marta says quietly. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Oh, but—"

"Those tarts and macaroons will be here when you get back," she says. She pauses for a brief moment, making sure that Jean Pierre is fully occupied with cooling his cakes. She shows me one of her fondant leaves. "I need a few orchids from the garden to compare my flowers to. Will you run and fetch some for me? I can't leave the kitchen or Chef Gautier will blow his top."

"So you want him to get mad at
me
?" I ask.

"Be quick, and he won't notice." She nods, but I don't budge. "Fine, I'll finish your tarts for you."

"And…"

"And." She rolls her eyes. "You're lucky I'm offering to do that."

Whether or not Marta warms up to me before I leave doesn't matter. I've had women despise me before and survived. But Jean Pierre trusts Marta for some reason. I can tell by the way he lets her make madeleines when he has more pressing orders to attend to. I haven't seen any of the others make madeleines, or even address the subject. Chef Gautier takes ownership of those mini sponges every morning.

If Jean Pierre sees that Marta is giving me a second chance, then maybe he will too.

I sigh.

"Coffee?" I offer.

"Milk and two sugars," Marta answers. She looks at her boss. "Chef, café?"

Jean Pierre shakes his head.

I quickly take off my chef's jacket and hang it on a hook near the door. I walk out into the reception area, taking a minute to stretch my legs. Last night, Marta and I stayed in the old servant's quarters turned guest wing. My bed was a tad too stiff, and I woke up sore. I hear the clanging of silverware as members of staff rush to set up more serving tables. I turn toward the back doors leading past the conservatory and into the gardens.

"I can't believe they came early," a woman mutters to herself, walking briskly toward me. I stop and peer around the corner at a sitting room full of well-dressed guests being served their morning tea. Three women take off their coats and sit on a loveseat facing me. All three of them are blonde, thin, and move delicately as if they're made of porcelain.

I proceed to the back garden to collect an orchid and stall before I have to make Marta her coffee. I breathe in the ocean air and let the cool breeze run across my rosy cheeks. The weather is much chillier than I thought it would be. I rub my hands together, scanning the rich green lawn in front of me for a cluster of perfectly formed orchids. A couple of seagulls blitz past me, and I look into the distance at the rolling waves.

A figure is standing near the cliffside, surveying the beach down below. I cautiously approach Sam, unsure if it's the smart thing to do. I place a hand on my chest where my necklace used to be. I walk closer to the sea and hear the sound of the ocean more clearly. Sam turns around, his hands in his pockets. My eyes dart to the nearest group of wildflowers. I carefully kneel next to them and study their pale pink color.

"Taking a break?" Sam comments.

"Looking for orchids."

"Over there is your best bet," he responds, tilting his head back toward the manor. "If you go around the side of the house toward the orchards, you'll find a whole lot of them."

"Perfect." I stand up and smile. Sam's chestnut brown hair waves in the wind. He's wearing another one of his sleek gray suits. I open my mouth to say something more, but a screech from right behind me makes me jump.

"Sam! What the devil do you think you're doing?"

I turn and see a tall, delicate woman who looks much like the blondes inside who arrived for the wedding early. The only difference is that her chocolaty locks are curled up in soft rollers, and she's wearing a powder blue tracksuit. 

"Darling," Sam greets her. She marches right past me as if I'm invisible. She stamps the heel of her sandal and almost stumbles when it sticks to the muddy ground.

"You're supposed to be getting ready," she scolds him. "My parents are already furious enough as it is."

"Oh come on." Sam takes a step back. "I invited them to be nice. I didn't think they would actually come."

"In what world is it acceptable to invite an ex-girlfriend to your wedding?"

"Olivia—" Sam tries to calm her down, but she points her finger at him. I take it as my cue to leave. I back away slowly so as not to disturb their lover's quarrel.

"But you invited not just
one
," she continues, "but
three.
Three ex-girlfriends!"

My thoughts jump back to the three blondes sipping tea in the sitting room.

I'd be pissed too.

"Okay." He chuckles and waves his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, but they've obviously shown up out of spite."

"You think this is funny?" Olivia puts her hand on her hip. "You honestly think this is funny?"

"Olivia, darling," Sam answers. He walks toward her with open arms. "Calm down, or I swear you'll be the death of me."

"You should have seen their faces when they saw me coming down the staircase for a quick cup of tea." Olivia pouts, crossing her arms so that her soon-to-be husband can't hug away her embarrassment. "Those women are vile. They obviously have their own agenda for being here. Why else would they dare to show their faces?"

"It doesn't matter." Sam keeps a grin on his face, and even amidst the panic and shouting he makes it look effortless. "You have something they'll
never
have." The two of them glance down at the sparkly rock on Olivia's finger. She studies it, holding it up to the sunlight. I touch the bare spot near my collarbone where my diamond pendant used to hang. I left it in my room this morning. Wearing it in Dovington Manor feels weird.

I take a few more steps toward the house as Olivia subtly wipes away tears. I don't know if they're tears of joy or tears of frustration, but I do know that today is going to bring a whirlwind of emotions for everyone. The staff. The guests. The bride.
Everyone.

A bed of orchids waits right where Sam said they were when I turn the corner. I pick a good handful of them and pause again to watch the crashing waves in the distance. My heart jumps when I hear Olivia shouting yet again. This time I am too far away to hear their argument. I walk to the front of the manor and give them their privacy.

Inside the house, more guests are arriving early for tea. I walk through the front door and see the same frantic woman who passed me on my way outside. She looks me up and down and nods, realizing that I belong in the kitchen. My eyes dart to the three blondes resting their teacups in their laps as their dates pace in front of the fireplace.

The three of them are different shades of blonde—yellow, dirty, and almost white. The middle woman looks up at me, her platinum blonde hair brushing against her shoulders. She leans forward slightly and lets her cleavage spill from the top of her cocktail dress. I look away and head back to the kitchen.
Sam invited that to his wedding?

Marta looks anxious when she sees me. There are beads of sweat on her forehead, and her hands tremble as she grabs the bundle of orchids in my hand. I glance at Jean Pierre and see that he has moved on to frosting his cakes and rolling his fondant. He doesn't look up when I enter the room. The caterers continue prepping for dinner on their side of the kitchen. I snag my uniform and return to my mini tarts, but Marta has already finished them for me as well as started my sweet coconut batter.

"Macaroons next," she instructs me. "That's
macaroon
with a double 'o.' Then you can help me with the fondant molds." She avoids making eye contact, but the fact that she's trusting me with a piece of the wedding cake speaks volumes. I happily grab a mixing bowl and begin sifting almond flour and confectioner's sugar.

"Really?" I blurt out.

"Don't get too excited," Marta comments. She keeps her eyes glued on the orchids as she compares the flowers to the edible ones she made earlier. She wrinkles her nose and breaks her concentration long enough to look at me. "And where's my coffee?"

*   *   *

I skipped lunch and afternoon tea to finish my desserts on time. The wedding is set to start in less than an hour, which means that the manor is completely full of guests now. I can hear chatter through the kitchen walls, but none of it is loud enough to break my concentration. When I finish decorating my first mini
croquembouche
tower with the sugar paste sweet peas Marta made, I take a step back and admire my handiwork.

My wedding macaroons look like perfect spheres of toasted coconut, but something is missing. They need an extra something special to make them glow like the other desserts. I eye a bit of leftover chocolate near Marta, then get to work melting it. I drizzle white chocolate over half of my macaroons, and sweet milk chocolate over the rest. Now, my desserts look complete.

"That's very cheeky of you," Marta mutters, noticing my chocolaty addition to Jean Pierre's menu. "You better hope Chef Gautier is too knackered to notice."

The counter is filled with elegant desserts that look too pretty to be eaten. Marta dusts a light coat of edible gold powder on the last batch of black currant petit fours. She searches through a bowl of fresh cut strawberries and choses the fattest ones to grace the tops. My eyes wander to Chef Gautier while he puts the finishing touches on his wedding cake.

"Oh my…" A group of servers gather together to gawk at it before it is moved to the reception room. Jean Pierre ignores them and finishes laying white fondant molded to look like lace around the base of the cake. Marta hands him more edible orchids. They are various shades of lavender. Together with the marshy green leaves, the flowers look almost identical to the ones growing outside.

A server enters the kitchen looking frantic and hesitant to put down his serving tray. He's tall and lanky, and a silver hoop earring dangles from one of his ears. He takes a deep breath and mutters something to the plump woman minding the stoves. Most likely his boss for the evening.

"Well, how am I supposed to know, Greg?" the woman responds. "Just find Lord Dovington and give him his tea. It's not that hard."

"I've looked a hundred times," Greg whines. "His tea is cold now anyway."

"Have you checked the garden?" I chime in. The server looks at me, surprised.

"No." He tilts his head back and rolls his eyes. I glance at the tray of cold tea, a plate of small finger sandwiches, and one of my mini lemon tarts.