Chapter 15

I started out with a sweet shortbread pastry. I was sure to taste every ingredient. These ingredients were supplied and I wasn’t taking any chances. I formed the ingredients into a ball and put it in the refrigerator to chill for thirty minutes while Agnes stood guard.

A Yorkshire curd tart was made with cheese curds, flour, sugar, butter, raisins, egg, lemon zest, and nutmeg.

The piecrust rolled out to perfection and I placed it in tart pans. Then I added beans to hold down the crust as I prebaked it for fifteen minutes, ensuring that my oven didn’t go out or my crust get too brown.

Once I pulled the piecrust out, I filled the it with lemon curd and then the cheese curd mixture. Then I put it in the oven to bake. A quick glance at Chef Butterbottom showed me that he was about five minutes ahead of me in making his tarts. I had used smaller tart pans so that they would cook more quickly. Cheese tarts were best served cool, and that would take at least twenty minutes. A glance at the clock told me I had thirty minutes left. I was cutting it close.

Butterbottom had already begun to create his presentation. I stuck to my picnic theme. I prepared white ceramic plates that mimicked popular paper plate shapes, then created a warm ginger sauce to decorate the plate.

A quick check on the tarts showed that they were done. I pulled them out and put them in the chilling box to cool. Agnes stayed beside the box.

I worked quickly and efficiently. I wasn’t worried. I knew it wasn’t in the script for me to win. That said, I wanted to do my best possible work to show everyone that the duchess was not wrong to hire me.

The judges came over to interview me one last time.

“How did you learn to cook Yorkshire curd tart?” Judge Storm asked. “I highly doubt cheese curds are sold in American groceries.”

“You would be surprised,” I said. “People in Wisconsin love their cheese curds. Living in Chicago, I had access to all kinds of cultures and flavors. It was a pleasure to learn all about British pie-making.”

“So they do have cheese curds in America?” Judge Young asked.

“Yes,” I said. “We are much more than fast food.”

“And who is your assistant today?” Judge Storm asked.

“This is Agnes.” I tugged the older woman forward. “She is my assistant at the palace.”

“Hello, Agnes,” Albert Nash said. “How does it feel working with a chef whose first assistant was murdered?”

“Well, we certainly don’t dwell on murder.” Agnes puffed up. “It’s a pleasure working with talent like Chef Cole. I enjoy feeding the duke and duchess and their lovely children.”

“We’ve noticed that you and Chef Cole are tasting everything and keeping tight security on your bake today. Can you tell us why?” Albert Nash asked.

“There was some speculation that Chef’s pies might not be safe,” Agnes said. “We know Chef doesn’t deserve that reputation. In fact, I believe Chef is being framed. We want to ensure everyone’s safety.”

“Are you sure you’re not trying to prove Chef Cole’s innocence?”

“There’s nothing to prove,” I said. “We’re simply acting with an abundance of caution.”

“Sounds like you have nothing but the best intentions,” Judge Storm said.

“Exactly,” I said.

The crew then moved over to interview Chef Butterbottom, who was supremely confident that his pie would win. And why not? They told him he won before we even started the round.

I wiped sweat off my brow and started plating my tarts.

The camera crew, host, and judges took their places at the front of the tent.

“We are on the countdown to naming a champion in the British Best Pie competition,” Nash said. “Chef’s you have ten seconds … five, four, three, two, one. Time’s up.”

I put my hands in the air and turned and hugged Agnes. We had made it through the competition with some of the best pies of my life and no one sabotaged me. I turned and went over to Chef Butterbottom to shake hands. “Good competition.”

He gave me a back handed compliment: “Not bad … for an American.” I took it. At least in all this Butterbottom was beginning to understand that I was good at my job, and that I was here to stay.

They filmed the judging segment next, and Agnes and I cleaned up our area, carefully packing all the remaining ingredients in the cooler. We washed and dried the dishes and placed them in the baskets.

Hannah came over to touch up my makeup for the last time. “Best of luck,” she said as she finished dabbing at my face. “You deserve to win.”

“You are too nice,” I said. “I know Butterbottom is slated to win. But it was fun to film this and to compete with so many great chefs.”

“You never know,” she suggested. “The producers might go for a twist in the finals.”

I shook my head at her. The director called us all to our places for the finale shoot.

I stood beside Butterbottom in a fresh chef coat and listened to them critique my pie as having a smooth buttery flavor, and the crust was thankfully done to perfection.

Next, they talked about Butterbottom’s pie. It, too, was perfection.

“To prevent a dead-even tie,” Nash said. “We will now go back over all of your pies for the day and the winner will be the Chef who proved without a doubt that they are Britain’s Best Pie Maker.”

“And cut—” the director called. “Chefs, please stay on your marks. We’re going to shoot a short bit where the judges go over all of your work.”

I let my mind wander and studied the crowd that had gathered outside the tent. The ticket holders were seated on both rolled-up sides of the tent. Gawkers and those who stood surrounded the tent. There were a lot of people there.

I felt nervous for the first time. I’d been so focused on baking that I hadn’t thought about what the crowd would think or how they would react. The couple who had commented on being seated in front of a nobody were fastened to their chairs even though I had moved.

I saw the other chefs standing at the front of the tent. Chef Wright winked at me, and I sent him a smile. The man was a flirt. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Not that I would see that many.

Then I made eye contact with Penny. She was with Evie. They waved, and I waved back.

“We are going to taste your pies one more time,” Nash said. The assistants brought out the pies. My pies held up well for a day under filming lights. I looked over at Chef Butterbottom’s pies. They looked spectacular. In comparison, mine looked like a home cook made them.

My shoulders bowed a little. Still, I could proudly say I entered the competition and got farther than anyone thought I would. I certainly hoped it was due to my efforts as a baker and not the talking points of murder or the duke and duchess.

“Chefs, we have finished our final judging. You were both strong competitors and the good news is you are both competing for good charities. Chef Cole, you are competing for the Children’s Charity and Chef Butterbottom’s efforts go to the Women and Children’s Clinic. As a bonus, all of the pies made today will be auctioned off, and any funds raised will benefit the winning charity.

Without further ado, it’s time to name the winner.” Nash took a card out of the inside pocket of his suitcoat. “And the winner of Britain’s Best Pie Maker is…”

I held my breath.

“Chef…”

I bit my bottom lip.

“Butterbottom.”

Chef pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!” The crowd went wild to see one of its favorite chefs acknowledged. Agnes patted me on the shoulder. “Good job, Chef.”

“Thank you.” I patted her back. “Good job to you, too.” Then I stepped over to Butterbottom’s camp and shook everyone’s hands. The cameras continued to roll, but my part in the competition was done. I stood straight. At least no one died from eating my pies.

Suddenly there was a scream and someone shouted to call an ambulance. I turned to see that Chef Butterbottom hunched over in pain. Then his assistants began to double over one by one. Each held his stomach and moaned.

Oh, boy.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Ugh, food poisoning.” Butterbottom raced for the trash outside the tent. Shockingly, he and his entire crew turned an odd shade of green and acted as if they were dying. Maybe they were.

The emergency techs were on the scene taking care of everyone. Agnes and I stayed out of the way. The judges looked queasy, but so far only Butterbottom’s crew was hurt.

So much for auctioning off the winning pies. The production crew would be lucky to be able to give the pies away. CID showed up nearly as fast as the EMT’s. DCI Garrote walked into the tent and glanced from me to the pies and back. “Tag those pies for evidence,” he barked at the patrolmen who followed him.

“This is going to get complicated,” I said to Agnes. “We should get out of the way.” We picked up the cooler and baskets and headed out the side entrance of the tent.

“Stop right there, Chef,” DCI Garrote said. “I need everyone to stay right where they are until we determine what has happened here.”

“Okay.” I sat down on the steps that separated the tented stage from the ground. I noticed that the crowd had been cleared back from the chairs, but people continued to watch with fascination. I suppose this was a bit of a train wreck.

“What do you think happened?” Agnes said to me from the stair below mine.

“Maybe they got some bad ingredients,” I shrugged. “The judges seem to be okay. Strange.”

“I don’t think Chef Butterbottom and his crew pretested their pies like we did.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” I said. “The judges didn’t get sick. I wonder if Chef Butterbottom drank anything that the judges and we didn’t.”

“I think he had tea brought in,” Agnes said. “Probably had bad milk or something.”

“Huh,” I said.

We waited there while they hauled Chef Butterbottom off in the ambulance along with the four members of his staff. Everyone else was checked out, but no one else was sick. CID was taking samples from every cup plate and saucer in Butterbottom’s kitchen.

“Are you ladies all right?” a tall, thin ambulance technician asked. His nametag said Hyde.

“Yes.” I stood. “I feel fine. Agnes?”

“I’m fine as well,” she said, standing beside me.

“Good,” he said with a shy smile. His blond hair fell into his blue eyes. “I’ve brought you some water. You could be here a while until Detective Chief Inspector Garrote gets to you.”

“Thanks for checking on us,” I said.

“And thanks for the water,” Agnes said. She opened her bottle and went to take a swig when it was slapped out of her hand by a policewoman. “What are you doing?”

“Do you know that man?” The policewoman asked.

“No, but we don’t know you, either,” I pointed out.

“Until this thing is resolved, you should think twice before eating or drinking anything around here. Okay? We don’t know the source of the sickness yet.”

“I think we’ve narrowed it down,” DCI Garrote said as he approached us.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Is it in the water?” Agnes asked.

“It appears someone poisoned Chef Butterbottom and his staff.”