Murder At The Fete: A Lady Margaret Turnbull Culinary Cozy Mystery (Culinary Mystery Books Book 1) by C T Mitchell Read Free Book Online Page B

candle to Jack
Shepherd’s scones and tarts, and he made one hell of a flat white sponge as
well.  Maggie could spend all day, every day in his bakery if she were of the
mind to gain an extra few pounds a week. But being in her early fifties, Maggie
knew that putting on those pounds was far easier than taking them off. She cut
a trim, toned figure for a woman of her vintage; not unnoticed by quite a few
of the town’s male folk; single or married.
     
    Melissa laughed and nodded her head.  For a shy girl,
she knew her father had more talent than most and was fairly confident he’d win
every category.  There was to be a purse of five hundred dollars for the best
strawberry sponge cake, two hundred dollars for the best English scones, and
one hundred dollars for the best fruit tart.
     
    “Who’s the weird old fella that’s putting it on,
again?  I can never remember his name,” Melissa asked.
     
    “Mr. Stewart, that handsome old Scottish coot with all
the money.” He obviously appealed to Maggie’s eye; albeit he was probably
thirty years her senior.
     
    “How’d he get so much money, anyway, Mrs. Turnbull?  I
don’t remember ever having a benefit before he showed up and it’s like he can
just afford to do….anything.”
     
    “No one knows, dear.  But he doesn’t seem terribly
strange in a bad way, so no one really cares!”  Maggie laughed and imagined Mr.
Stewart probably made money as a voice-over actor in secret, what with his
thick Scottish accent.  It drove the ladies mad and he found great joy in
really working it when he was in front of a microphone.  Maggie suspected that
was why he did things like throw galas and benefit picnics, to fight the
boredom of being incredibly wealthy and give the ladies something to fuss over.
He probably considered himself to be a bit of a Sean Connery, although Maggie
could never see His Majesty’s service employing him. Mr. Stewart was not the
most athletic man she had ever laid eyes on. She couldn’t quite be sure he
cared terribly about the Bangalow Boarding School receiving all the benefit
money either…the man had never even stepped foot in the town’s home for
disadvantaged and delinquent children.
     
    ****
     
    For the last four years, the fete has been renowned for
its good food, fun rides, and fantastic baking prizes.  Everyone in the town
loved going, as it gave them something to look forward to every year.  All the
proceeds from rides and games went to whatever charity or organization Mr.
Stewart chose, and the soirée even attracted people from many neighboring
villages of Byron Bay, Clunes and Lismore. 
     
    Even though Maggie was not a baker, herself, every year
she was a guest judge of the baking contest.  And every year, she vowed to
learn how to bake properly, though her apple pies and the occasional lemon
meringue were the extent of her efforts in that regard. Her big dream was to
have a famous guest chef run a cooking school at her Lawler’s Loft bed and
breakfast. Jamie Oliver was her ultimate wish, but she’d settle for some local
Australian talent to mesmerize her guests with their culinary skills.
     
    Her nephew, Simon, would be driving into town for the
festivities and to spend some time with her.  Maggie loved her nephew, he was a
fine young man, but she wished he would get his act together quickly and settle
down with a nice girl so she could have a little one to bounce on her knee. 
     
    That was the only thing she lacked in life, family with
little ones running around.  She loved when people brought their young children
to the bed and breakfast, though it was mostly older couples or couples on
vacation without their kids that came to stay.  Occasionally, though, there
would be five or six little ones running through the halls and racing up the
stairs, and Maggie loved it.  Simon was her best chance at having young ones
around to spoil, and she couldn’t quite convince him to settle down.
     
    ****
     
    When