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A squad car stops in front of Buttercup Manor where Narine and Pudding the Yorkie are waiting for me. As soon as I slide out of the passenger’s seat, Narine wraps her arms around me leaving Pudding to wander around the front yard. I keep a fixed gaze on the little Yorkie. We don’t need another accident today.
“Oh, I can’t believe it,” Narine exclaims. “I just can’t believe it. That poor man.” She pauses and glances at the officer carrying my bags up the front steps. “Uh, who was it again?”
“A John Doe, Ma’am,” the officer replies. He sets my things on the porch and nods in my direction.
“Thank you very much,” I say.
“No problem, Miss Peters. I’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. Enjoy your stay.”
“Give my regards to your Auntie, Officer Hensel,” Narine adds. “I look forward to seeing her gingerbread entry this year.”
“Will do.” The officer scans the yard for Pudding before getting into his squad car and slowly driving down the gravel lane.
“His aunt came in third last year for her gingerbread castle with sugar stained glass windows,” Narine says. “Heaven only knows how she pulled that one off. Anyway, welcome to Buttercup Manor, darlin’. You won’t find finer accommodations this side of the Buttercup Mountains.”
The entrance to Buttercup Manor is a set of dark wooden double doors with arched windows on both sides. The entire three-story estate is made of beige stucco that has been framed with dark timber. There is a wooden balcony on the top floor displaying a few flowerpots. The manor matches the rest of the Swiss-inspired buildings in town. And when you add in the acres of woodland grounds, it really feels like I’ve stepped into old world Bavaria.
“Narine, this place is magical.” I survey the front porch in awe. It has been decorated with garlands and wreaths with large crimson bows.
“You should see it at night with the lights on.” Narine takes a deep breath. “It’s spectacular. Wait until you see the inside. The house has been fully renovated. We took out a pretty hefty loan to pull it off, but it’ll all be worth it when we’re fully booked.”
“How long did it take?”
“Too long,” she replies. “It scared the pants off of my no-good husband, Monty. He packed his bags and left a few months ago before this place was finished.” Her floral blouse sways in the subtle breeze. She isn’t wearing her fishing hat which means her short, white hair is in plain view.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She grins. “Don’t be. We’re just fine without him, aren’t we Puddin’ pop.”
Narine whistles and waits for Pudding to head back toward the house. The Yorkie eventually listens but takes her sweet time. Narine opens the front door and I carry my bags into the front foyer. The walls are the same shade of beige as the exterior. Low wooden beams outline the ceiling, and the floors are the same dark shade of wood from outside.
There is a desk in the foyer with a clay pot full of poinsettias. More garlands drape the railing on the staircase and the smell of cinnamon fills my nose. Narine is ready for Christmas and I hope I please all her guests with my cooking. Pudding prances inside and settles at my feet. I scratch her behind the ears.
“I prepared a little Sunday lunch, but you’ve had an eventful morning,” Narine says, closing the heavy front door. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“Okay,” I respond. “Then you can show me the room that really matters. The kitchen.”
“Right you are, darlin’.” Her concerned expression shifts into another welcoming smile. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. I don’t want to tell her the truth, which is that I have, in fact, seen a dead body before. Those are images I try hard to forget but it seems impossible. The sight of that man by the river covered in gold thread washes over my mind and gives me shivers.
“You don’t look it,” Narine argues. “You actually look a little nauseated if I’m being completely honest.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the small segment of gold thread I picked up off the ground before discovering the body. I don’t understand. Why the thread? Why make the effort? I hand the metallic piece to Narine.
“The body was wrapped in this. Any idea what it is?”
Narine narrows her eyes. “I don’t have my glasses on me, but I don’t need them to tell you what this is. It’s cotton crochet thread from the holiday silver and gold collection.”
My eyes widen. “Are you serious? How can you be so sure?”
“Because, darlin’, I own a bundle,” she confesses. “There’s a basket of silver and gold in the shop window at Ina’s Quilt Emporium. I couldn’t resist buying some for the New Year’s Eve scarf I’m making. I drew the line at Ina’s bedazzled knitting needles, though. I don’t need my lounge turning into a disco every time I want to knit a potholder.”
“So, that means the killer is a local?”
Narine tilts her head. “Now, wait a minute. I thought the fella they found was a John Doe?”
“He is, according to Brant and the officers at the scene,” I explain, playing through those moments carefully in my head. “He had no identification on him.”
“That doesn’t mean a resident of Buttercup Ridge is guilty,” she argues. “I mean, how do we know that man didn’t die of a heart attack?”
Gunshot wound. The words are ingrained in my brain. I heard them used several times while I was being question. Thankfully, I didn’t see the damage when the body was rolled over. The John Doe by the river did not die of natural causes. That part was pretty clear.
“I’m not accusing anyone, Narine. I’m just trying to make sense of what happened.”
Pudding barks, livening up the conversation before it takes a dreary turn.
Narine sighs. “Oh, I know. I can’t believe it either. I just hate the thought of losing business because the news has branded our little town a killer’s paradise.”
“That won’t happen,” I assure her. “The police will run that man’s fingerprints and then this will all be over.”
“Good.” Narine snaps out of her depressive trance by clapping her hands. “Let’s move on, shall we?” Her eyes dart to the front window. “Oh, she’s early this week.”
I push aside my thoughts about crochet hooks and knitting needles and force myself to focus on the present. I have a lot of baking ahead of me and I can’t get distracted. For the week, I’m Narine’s employee, not a private detective.
A car pulls up to the front of the manor, and a woman with silver hair gets out. She is shorter and plumper than Narine, and she greets her friend with a tight embrace. Pudding barks some more as the woman takes it one step at a time toward the front foyer.
“Hello, I’m Poppy Peters.” I outstretch my hand, assuming she is one of Narine’s guests. The silver-haired woman goes in for a hug instead.
“Poppy, meet my dear friend, Mary Booker,” Narine announces. “The cleverest young lady in all of Buttercup Ridge.”
“Oh, stop that.” Mary waves a hand.
The name sounds familiar, and all at once, I remember my conversation with Brant about Ethel Corwin and the drama surrounding the Alpine Bakery. Mary Booker is the widow of Hank Booker, the woman who should have rightfully inherited a block of Main Street.
“It’s true.” Narine continues to brag. “You’re looking at the person responsible for the success of the Gingerbread Festival year after year. This town wouldn’t have half as many tourists if it weren’t for Mary.”
“And my days are about to be jammed packed with meeting after meeting until Christmas,” Mary adds. “I hope you have a large pitcher of sweet tea waiting for me in the kitchen.”
“Of course.” Narine takes her friend by the arm. “Oh, Poppy, do you mind? Your room is on the third floor. It’s the second door on your right. I call it the peach room.”
“Don’t you worry about me, Narine. I’ll give myself a little tour of the place while you two catch up.”
“Lovely,” she replies. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
“Just follow the sound of two old hags squawking away,” Mary adds. The two of them laugh.
Pudding stays behind and follows me up the stairs. My heart is pounding by the time I reach the top floor. Apparently, the squats and weekly yoga sessions aren’t enough. I am out of breath. I stop at the second door on my right. It’s slightly cracked.
Pudding enters the room first, hopping on the bed and making herself cozy amongst the lace pillows. I raise my eyebrows. Narine wasn’t kidding about calling my suite the peach room. Not only are the walls painted a bright shade of peach, the bedding and the curtains are both made of the same fabric containing a picturesque depiction of peach trees.
“Wow,” I say out loud. Pudding looks right at me like she understands every word that comes out of my mouth. For all I know, she does. “Did you choose the paint color?”
Pudding barks.
“I thought so,” I reply.
I quickly unpack my things. I didn’t bring much – pajamas, jeans, a couple of sweaters, and one fern green dress for the Christmas Eve party. I hang my dress in the closet and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. My window faces the front of the manor. I see the front gate, the long gravel driveway, and the woods in the distance. The sky is still a sapphire blue, but I’m not fooled. I know it won’t be long until fluffy snowflakes cover the lawn.
Pudding follows me back downstairs. I peek into the lounge area before joining Narine and Mary for lunch. There are bookshelves along the walls, brown leather couches, and an ornate jade rug. When I’m finished snooping, the sound of laughter leads me all the way to the kitchen.
“There she is,” Narine says as I enter the room. I’m overtaken by the smell of cinnamon. It looks like I’ve found the source. A large diffuser full of cinnamon oil spills puffs of steam onto the counter.
“Just a quick observation,” I say. “I notice you don’t have a Christmas tree.”
“That’s because this old fusspot can’t choose between pine and fir,” Mary answers.
“That’s on the itinerary for Tuesday,” Narine says. “I want the tree to be as fresh as they come for the party.”
“This will be my first Christmas without Hank.” Mary takes a sip of her sweet tea. “He would have loved to see this place up and running again.”
Narine places a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary lost her husband last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I take an empty seat at the table and Pudding jumps onto my lap.
“That’s okay,” Mary replies. “I’m coping.”
“Would anyone like a slice of tomato tart?” Narine rubs her hands together. “The tomatoes are fresh from the green house.”
“Of course.” Mary takes another sip of her tea and then pours me a glass. I normally drink half sweetened and half unsweetened when I indulge in sweet tea, but I take sip anyway to be polite.
The manor has a modest sized kitchen with a wooden table in the center, terracotta tiles, and a cottage door leading to the backyard. From the window above the sink, I see Narine’s greenhouse and a covered pool. Narine retrieves the food and places it in the center of the table. One plate contains her tomato tart and the other is a blend of chopped apples and cheese.
“I still have plenty of apples from the orchard. I have enough for you make cider for the party, Poppy.” Narine bites down on an apple slice.
“So, you have a menu prepared? That makes my job easier.”
Pudding sniffs at the plate of diced apples.
“It’s my mother’s usual menu for Christmas dinner,” Narine continues. “Turkey with cider gravy. Cajun ham. Mashed potatoes and pecan dressing. Creamed spinach, obviously. Then there are the desserts. I’ve already acquired the meats, but we’ll sit down tomorrow and make a shopping list for the rest of the ingredients.”
“Would you like help brainstorming for the contest?” Mary chimes in. She takes the liberty of cutting the tomato tart and dishing out plates.
“I haven’t gotten to that yet, Mary,” Narine mutters.
My eyes dart from Mary to Narine as they exchange nervous looks.
“Go ahead.” I casually take a bite of my tart. It’s slightly underdone but the tomatoes have a sweet and vibrant taste. “Nothing you say can surprise me. I’ve heard it all.”
Mary and Narine chuckle.
“In that case,” Narine responds. “I’ve entered Buttercup Manor into the Gingerbread Confections Contest. First prize is a feature in Atlanta Food Magazine. The manor would be known throughout all of Georgia.”
“That must be a coveted prize,” I comment.
“Oh, it is,” Mary says in between bites. “Just about every culinary business in the area is gunning for it.”
The wheels in my brain start to spin. I bet the local bakery will be gunning for a prize like that too. Maybe this is the real reason Narine wanted the best of the best from Calle Pastry Academy to join her at the manor over the holiday break. No pressure. No pressure at all.
“I see.” I take a deep breath. “And who might I ask will be creating this scrumptious morsel of gingerbread magic?”
Narine clears her throat. “Well, you did win that contest your first semester of pastry school.”
“And Narine tells me you spent some time in Paris,” Mary adds.
“I’ll do what I can, but I don’t want to let y’all down.”
“All we can ask is for your best effort.” Narine refills my half-drunken glass of sweet tea.
“And that I blow the Alpine Bakery out of the water?” I know I shouldn’t bring it up, but I can’t help it. “I’m sorry, but Brant told me about Ethel. He made it sound like it’s common knowledge around here.”
Narine’s face turns pale. She looks at Mary.
Mary pauses for a moment before letting out a cackle. “Bless your heart, Poppy. I always forget that gossip travels faster than hellfire!”
Narine fans her face. Her cheeks are bright red. “I told you she’s a feisty one. Refreshing, isn’t it?”
“I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t love to see that woman lose,” Mary continues. “She has caused a lot of heartache.”
“When people think of nothing but themselves, it turns them ugly from the inside out,” Narine states. “Remember that, Poppy.”
“I will.” I raise my glass of sweet tea. “Now, let’s talk holiday baking.”
* * *
There is barking in my dream. I open my eyes. My room is pitch black. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours before I finally fell asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Gingerbread Festival and the work I have ahead of me. Ruff! I hear it again. I’m not dreaming this time.
I sit up and smooth the wrinkles from my t-shirt. I check my phone. It’s six a.m. I rub the sides of my arms. The temperature must have dropped significantly during the night. I pull back the peach-themed curtains and realize it snowed. The lawn is frosted and the woods in the distance look serene all covered in soft, white powder.
As my eyes scan the front yard, I see why Pudding is barking.
My throat tightens.
What the hoecake?
A figure is standing on the front lawn frozen in place. Is it a person or a statue? I can’t tell. I pause and wait for it to move. Nothing. It’s too dark to see much else. I grab my jacket and peer into the hallway. I hear more barking and shushing. Narine must be up.
I fold my arms and tiptoe down the staircase. I don’t want to scare Narine any more than she probably already is. Unless she is expecting company for breakfast and the guy or gal arrived extra early. I clear my throat as I approach the foyer. Narine is standing by the front window in her pajamas and a lemon-yellow robe. She turns around and waves at me.
“Shhh,” she whispers.
“What’s going on?” I ask quietly.
Pudding wags her tail when she sees me. I join Narine at the front window. My heart jumps. I see much more clearly from this angle. There is a man standing near the porch. He has on a thin, black jacket and a backpack. A baseball cap makes his face only partially visible. I can’t see his expression.
“I’m trying to decide if I should call the police,” Narine whispers. She takes a few deep breaths. Her cheeks are rosy. “Oh, I forgot where I put Monty’s shotgun. I think it’s outside in the shed somewhere. What good that’ll do us now.”
“Don’t panic,” I mutter. “Is it possible you know this man from town?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he’s a potential customer?”
“Some manners he’s got,” Narine replies. “He couldn’t wait until the sun comes up?”
“This is an Inn, Narine. Don’t people check-in at all hours of the day?” I shrug.
“Yes, yes,” Narine agrees. “You sound like my brother. The voice of reason. Perhaps we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I mean, he’s not exactly sneaking around the property checking doors.”
“That we know of,” I add. Her eyes widen. “It was a joke.”
Narine nods and Pudding barks some more when she opens the front window.
“Hello?” she shouts. “Excuse me? Can I help you, Sir?”
The man immediately responds. “I’m sorry to wake you, ma’am. I’m Mackey Granville. The coffee cart on Main Street told me you have vacancies.”
“Oh, of course.” Narine promptly closes the window and unlocks the door. She runs her fingers through her hair before greeting her first guest.
An icy breeze swirls through the foyer. I hold out my foot and stop Pudding from darting outside and disappearing into the early morning air. The man dusts off his jacket as he steps inside the manor. Narine adjusts her robe and forces a friendly smile.
“My apologies, I know it’s early,” Mackey says to both of us. He takes off his baseball cap revealing mahogany brown hair with flecks of gray. “My taxi dropped me off, and I did knock but there was no answer. Everywhere else in town is full for the festival.”
“Sorry about that, Sir. We do have some openings this week.” Narine’s voice goes up an octave. “If you have a seat in the lounge, I’ll get everything ready for you.”
“Thank you.” Mackey tightens the grip on his backpack as Narine escorts him to a comfy couch. Pudding follows them but quickly returns when Narine speed walks back to the staircase.
“Follow me,” she mutters under her breath. Narine races up the stairs. I’ve never seen her move so fast. When the two of us are on the second floor, she hurriedly opens a linen closet and pulls out a set of bed sheets. “Help me with these. I wasn’t expecting customers so soon, but I’m not going to complain.”
The two of us pull the pea green quilt off the bed and start with the fitted sheet – an item of linen I still don’t know how to fold correctly. After the fitted sheet, Narine continues with the flat sheet, making sure there are zero creases before placing another blanket on the queen-sized mattress. The room isn’t as bright as mine and it has its own sitting area.
“Is that everything?” I ask.
“I didn’t get to spritz my cinnamon spray in here.”
“I think you’re good on the cinnamon,” I comment. “This is a spacious room.”
“All of the rooms on the second floor are slightly larger,” she replies. “Although, the rooms on the third floor have better views. I’ll be filling the second floor first, so you’ll have the third floor to yourself for a while longer.”
Pudding barks and hops on the newly made bed.
I wrinkle my nose. “Does it seem strange to you that he doesn’t have a suitcase?”
“Not really,” Narine answers. She sighs, glancing out the window and dabbing the corner of her eye.
“Is something wrong?”
She sniffles. “Oh, just something Monty said to me years ago. When we started the renovations, he bought me a frame. He said it was for the first dollar from our very first paying customer.” She pauses and dabs the corner of her eye again. “I told him it was stupid since everyone uses credit cards these days.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job here, Narine. The Manor is spectacular.”
“You’re a sweetheart, darlin’.” Narine claps her hands and the hospitable smile returns to her face instantly. “Chop chop, little onions. We’re officially open for business and we have lots of work to do.”
