A Rolling Scone Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  A Note from Nancy

  A Bundt Instrument

  Poppy’s Recipe for Ginger and White Chocolate Scones

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Butter, sugar, flour — and Death!

  British amateur bakers must turn out the perfect scone in this week’s filming of The Great British Baking Contest.

  But fledgling witch Poppy is losing her concentration as she gets closer to discovering more of her own history at Broomewode Hall, a postcard pretty manor house in Somerset, England. However, someone is warning her to leave as she’s in danger.

  Can she keep her cool while solving mysteries, working on her witch skills, and still turn out a decent scone?

  Taste this culinary cozy mystery series from USA Today Bestselling author Nancy Warren. Each book is a stand-alone mystery, though the books are linked. They offer good, clean fun, and, naturally, recipes.

  The best way to keep up with new releases and special offers is to join Nancy’s newsletter at nancywarren.net or www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits

  Praise for The Great Witches Baking Show series

  “I loved it! I could not put it down once I'd started it.”

  Cissy. Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

  “Such a cute, fun read to kick off a new series!”

  Becky, Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

  “I love the story. The characters are wonderful. And #2 in the series cannot come soon enough! More, please!”

  Barb, Goodreads Reviewer

  “This book was funny, sweet and had a good amount of mystery and suspense which kept me invested throughout. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”

  Erin, Goodreads Reviewer

  Chapter 1

  It was hard to get too excited about baking the perfect scone when I’d been warned I was in terrible danger. All week long I’d been having nightmares. The cryptic note I’d received at the end of last week’s filming of The Great British Baking Contest played across my mind in a repeating flashing sequence.

  Dearest Poppy,

  You are in terrible danger. You shouldn’t be here. I’m begging you: Do something to get yourself voted off of the show next week. Otherwise I fear it will be too late. Please heed my words.

  Had I considered taking the anonymous letter writer’s advice? Maybe for a few minutes, but then I got mad. Who sent a person a note like that with no supporting evidence? No hints on what specifically to watch out for? And, oh, yeah, no signature. I’d read, and re-read and studied the message in between practicing baking and working at my real graphic design job.

  The first puzzling thing was the tone. If someone wanted me off of the show, then why address me as “Dearest Poppy”? Dearest made it seem like they were my friend or cared about me deeply in some way. I only ever wrote “dearest” when I was writing emails to my mom and dad, or maybe in a text to my best friend, Gina. And then there was the element of real fear behind those words: terrible danger…I’m begging you…too late. It felt like a genuine warning. But why not tell me what the danger was? Or when it might be coming?

  I’d ruled out it being from my ghost pal Gerry’s bored and warped mind; he still couldn’t work out how to grip a pen. But I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if it had been from one of the other bakers on the show. Did anyone want to win The Great British Baking Contest so badly that they’d try to spook out the competition? Maybe I hadn’t been the only one to receive a warning note. I’d deliberated about whether to ask Florence or Hamish if they’d received one too––but if they hadn’t, then I didn’t want to alert the whole show that someone wanted me to quit. Or, even worse, what if they’d been the culprit? But I’d banished that thought from my head immediately. If I stopped trusting my friends on the show, then it really was a downward spiral from there.

  I was supposed to be resting and baking, baking and resting. But each morning I awoke in a cold sweat. Did someone really have it in for me, or was I in real danger?

  The only antidote I could think of was to repeat master baker and my witch mentor Elspeth Peach’s protection spell every evening before bed and then again in the morning as she’d instructed. I’d stand before my bedroom window, staring out at the silver light of the moon or the beginning of a new day and recite the spell.

  A chill went down my spine every time I finished.

  A week had passed since we’d filmed the last episode. I’d scored a new design job that meant I could keep paying my mortgage. Even though my background was in graphic design, I also had a portfolio that cataloged some of my sketches. I’d put it online with my other work more because it pleased me than anything else. So I was thrilled that I’d been commissioned to illustrate a new hardback book about the English country garden. The publisher was famous for its beautifully designed books, and I was buzzing at the prospect of drawing trees, flowers, and herbs. I knew that Broomewode Farm would be the perfect place to begin.

  I arrived at the inn a day early and checked in—my cat Gateau in tow, obviously—hoping to see Eve, who ran the pub and was a sister witch. But she wasn’t due on shift until the lunchtime rush, so I’d have to wait for a gossip.

  My new job wasn’t the only reason that I wanted an extra day here before the baking show began filming. I also wanted to check on Susan Bentley and see how she was coping after the tragic death of her husband. So taking a stroll up to Broomewode Farm would be a case of killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. And the cherry on the top would be seeing Sly, Susan’s Border Collie. I’d bought him a new red ball and I couldn’t wait to hear the joyful bark as he went bounding after it. I’d left Gateau at the inn happily napping on the bed.

  It was a gorgeous May morning, and as I headed up to Broomewode Farm, my sketchbook and Sly’s ball in my bag, I thought about family. For so long, I’d been fixated on finding my birth parents, who’d abandoned newborn me in an apple crate for a reason that was still a mystery to me. But I was slowly realizing that the idea of family wasn’t fixed. It came in many forms. I was more sure than ever that my birth parents could still be out there somewhere, and my drive to find them hadn’t diminished. But now I had a new kind of family, too, my witch’s coven. And after we’d been through so much together, even the other baking contestants were beginning to feel like family. The same went for Gina Philpott, my best friend and hair and makeup artist on the show.

  Now that we were into May, the two hundred or so acres of fields surrounding Broomewode Farm looked more luscious than ever. The rolling green fields were vibrant; the flowerbeds on either side of the path had gorgeous blooms tumbling from the rich soil. I loved the variety of flowers that had been planted: vivid pink azaleas, their delicate petals a symbol of gentleness and femininity; sunshine yellow freesias, with their long stems graced by strange but beautiful knots of flowers; multicolor pansies, bluebells clustered in shady spots. I particularly liked the puffy round heads of allium. They reminded me of brightly colored cotton wool balls. There were also some early buds of foxgloves, beginning to bloom into elegant heads of white and purple. I stopped to pull my sketchbook from my tote ba
g and began to draw, enjoying the morning sun as it warmed my bare arms.

  When I’d finished, I stood again, tucking my white T-shirt back into the waistband of my stonewashed jeans, and pushed on toward the farm. Soon, I saw the huge barn with its curved roof and the Somerset stone of the farmhouse. I heard the now familiar shift from crunch to silence as the path switched out wood chips for stone and the flowerbeds changed to laurel hedging and bright springy fern. I could smell Susan’s amazing herb garden before I saw it, the fragrant and earthy scent tickling my nose and making me long for an herby cheese omelette. I guess my version of it’s five o’clock somewhere was it’s lunchtime somewhere, right?

  But my hunger was curbed by the loud sound of a very happy woof. Sly burst from the side of the farmhouse and ran toward me, a blur of black and white fur. He leapt up, pawing my jeans, wagging his tail and barking. I laughed. “Hello, boy,” I said, peeling his muddy paws away from my light pants. “I’ve missed you, my canine guardian angel, even if you are a bit mucky.” I took the new red ball from my bag, and the very moment he saw it, Sly bounced up and down like an adorable maniac.

  I lobbed the ball as far as I could (sports has never been my thing), and he bounded after it. In a flash he was back again, panting. I laughed. “Where’s your mommy, hey?” He blinked, pink tongue still lolling, in crouch position, alert only to the ball. I threw it again and then went in search of Susan.

  After trying the main house, I found her working in the barn, a huge array of herbs spread in front of her across a wide oak table with tree stumps for legs. Susan herself was perched on a smaller stump, singing something in a low, soulful voice that I couldn’t quite catch. I was surprised she hadn’t heard me calling out for her.

  “Knock, knock,” I said with a smile, lightly tapping the side of the open barn door.

  Susan looked up. She was wearing a large apron over a loose, white linen shirt. Her short, curling hair was pulled away from her face with a navy headband. Although she still looked pale, her eyes were more lively than they’d been when I last saw her. I hoped that meant she was getting some good rest and not worrying about how she was going to manage the farm.

  “Poppy,” she said, smiling. “What a nice surprise.” She motioned to the stump next to her. “Come, take a seat. We can chat, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand with all these herbs. I’m somewhat behind all my chores…” She trailed off.

  I nodded and sat beside her. The table smelled absolutely incredible; all of earth’s green treasures were in piles before me. Susan was an excellent herbalist.

  I picked up a bundle of dark green rosemary and held it to my nose. Maybe I should think about making savory scones in tomorrow’s first challenge. Rosemary and local cheddar. What would that be like?

  “I use most of these in my tonics,” Susan explained. “My mother and my grandmother before her were both herbalists, and they passed down their knowledge to me. Each herb has its own healing property, and if you blend them in the right combinations, then their properties blossom and multiply.” As she spoke, her voice was tender, as if she was speaking about her babies. I guess they were, in a way. She touched the plants lightly, letting her fingers ruffle the green foliage.

  “I tie these into bundles,” she said, gesturing at a ball of string that I knew Gateau would go crazy for. “And then hang them from the line here.” She looked up at a washing-line strung from the barn’s rafters. “Once they’re dry, I crush the herbs in my pestle and mortar and blend them into tonics with distillates.”

  “How do you remember which plant or flower does what?” I asked, shaking my head. “There’s so many here, the combinations must be endless.”

  Susan smiled. “It takes time and patience, but I was also born into the herbal world.”

  “I’d love to learn even half, no––a quarter of what you know. After Elspeth cured Hamish’s cold during filming last time, I’ve seen firsthand how powerful a tonic can be.”

  “And a little magic,” Susan added.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  Susan showed me how many herbs to tie in a bundle, and we set to work. I noticed that she had a small pile of foxglove, just like I’d seen earlier, except hers were in full bloom. “Don’t foxgloves usually bloom later in the summer?” I asked.

  “That’s right. But there’s a patch in the garden where they’re sheltered. And I’ve been giving some special attention to these little beauties and got them to flower earlier than usual.”

  I touched the gorgeous trumpet-like petals, admiring how they hung toward the ground, their intricate patterns and pink hue. I explained my new illustration commission to Susan, who seemed thrilled. “Would you mind if I sketched these quickly?” I asked her. “I don’t think I’ll get another chance to see them up close for at least a month.”

  Susan encouraged me, and I took my sketchbook and charcoal pencil from my bag and laid it on the table, brushing away a few stray leaves and stalks.

  “Foxglove is a devious flower,” Susan said, somehow both watching me draw and continuing to tie plants and flowers into bundles. “It has the ability to both cure and kill.”

  What? I so did not need any talk of killing this weekend.

  I must have looked shocked, because Susan nodded. “It’s true. Part of the plant is used in a prescription drug for congestive heart failure. Digitalis lantana, it’s called. It strengthens the heart muscles and changes the heart rate. Foxglove is poisonous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I stared at the beautiful stems in wonder. How could something so lovely and fragile be used both to keep hearts beating and to make them stop?

  I enjoyed letting my pencil roam around the page and made a few shadings until the first outline was finished. I asked Susan if the tonics she made were seasonal, and she said yes. She talked me through the various tonics she only made in the late spring. She had some finished tonics stocked on shelves behind her.

  “This one has valerian and lavender for those who suffer from anxiety. This is for increased energy. The chaste berry in this one helps women conceive.”

  “Wow,” I said. I had zero clue plants could help with all that.

  “But the mind is also powerful. Sometimes, simply believing a tonic will help is a big part of the effect. The power of positive thinking.”

  We worked in silence for a while, and I realized that we hadn’t heard a peep out of Sly. He must be enjoying his new ball. I was trying to think of a way to tactfully ask Susan how she was feeling since Arnold’s passing when she started to speak. “What’s tomorrow’s baking challenge? It’s week three now, so the competition must be getting more intense.”

  I told Susan that this was the week of the scone. I was especially nervous of the scone challenge. It was such a perennially British bake. Although Norton St. Philip felt like home to me, after the age of eight, all my childhood memories were of the States. And treat-wise, that meant cookies, pancakes and red velvet cupcakes. I mean, I didn’t even taste my first scone until I was in my twenties. I imagined that the rest of the bakers had been chowing down on those delicious suckers from the moment their teeth came through. And as if that wasn’t enough of an advantage, Jonathon first shot to fame because of his tasty scones. It was his signature bake. He was going to be tough on us, for sure. Even more than usual.

  Susan leaned across the table and began bundling up some rosemary. “Don’t worry. You’ll be brilliant. Are you going to play around with the recipe?”

  “Well, I started doing batches made with cranberry and white chocolate. But something about that combo just wasn’t working. I think it was too sweet.” In fact, Mildred, my cottage ghost, had been outraged by my suggested flavor combination. When it came to scones, she was a stickler for tradition. But I wasn’t about to tell Susan that––I was still getting used to the idea that I didn’t have to hide my little gift. For now, it could just stay between Elspeth and me.

  “So after a lot, I mean a lot, of panicking,
I started making them with crystallized ginger and white chocolate. But I’m still not sure, to be honest.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “It’s inspired by some of the pastries I ate on a trip to Denmark.”

  Susan told me she’d be rooting for me tomorrow and then gestured at the washing line above our heads. I stood to help her peg the plants so that they hung from their stems.

  I touched her shoulder. “How are you getting on without Arnold? I mean, emotionally and physically.” I grimaced. Why couldn’t I find the right words? Gina, or Elspeth, probably Eve, too, would know exactly what to say and how to say it. I wished I had their way with words.

  Susan shook her head. “It still feels so surreal. Like it all happened to someone else. It’s hard to explain. But I’ve been lucky to have my sister here, although she’s going home soon. The neighbors have been helpful too. I’m going to stay on the farm for the time being and hire some extra help for the big months. It’s home now.”

  I told Susan I was happy to help in any way she needed: bees, herbs, or even a little sheep-shearing. She laughed, and it was good to hear that throaty guffaw. For someone who devoted so much time to healing other people with her tonics, it was tough knowing that time would be the best healer for Susan herself.

  She turned away and I thought she was blinking back a tear. After a moment, she said, “Let me get you some eggs for your baking.” She kept chickens and insisted that happy hens laid better tasting eggs. Since her hens were clearly happy, I was delighted to accept. In the world of the baking contest, who could say what difference an egg could make? She went into her kitchen and came out with a dozen eggs, which I carefully placed in my tote bag.