ExSpelled (The Kitchen Witch Book 5): Witch Cozy Mystery series Page 2

  Easy for you to say, I thought. I would have been happy to lie on the beach all day and never set foot inside the kitchen.

  On a brighter note, my room was out of this world. It was breathtakingly magnificent, a huge bed on a beautiful, polished wooden floor. A couch backed onto the bed and afforded, through sliding doors, expansive views of the white sand with waves gently lapping. There was an outdoor setting and three beautiful palm trees behind it. A table to one side of the couch was laden with fresh fruit, wine, and chocolates.

  It all screamed luxury. I poked my head into the en-suite bathroom and was surprised to see it was almost as big as the other room. A magnificent freestanding bath stood under double aspect windows over which were plantation shutters, and then off to one side were double vanities, each with their own mirror. It could only be more perfect if Alder had been here to share it with me. I thought how lovely it was for my friends to pay for this, considering it must have come at a high price.

  I took photos of the room on my phone to send to Alder, but there was no service. I sure hoped there would be service at some time. The brochure stated there was WiFi, so I would have thought there would be cell phone service, too.

  I took a quick shower—I would languish in the bath later—and hurried out to the deck to meet the others.

  When I arrived, Benedict was already deep in conversation with Laura. They both looked up at me. Was that guilt I could see on their faces?

  Owen and Abby arrived immediately afterward, accompanied by a tall, pinched-faced woman, as well as a woman who looked very much like Nigella Lawson. For a moment, I wondered if I had fallen into a themed celebrity look-alike event.

  My eyes wandered to Benedict, and I was surprised to see that he had gone deathly white. He staggered to his feet and grasped the back of the chair. “Victoria!” he said in horror.

  The woman likewise appeared horrified. “If you mean Victoria Vincent, then no, I’m her sister Vanessa.” Her voice held a measure of distress.

  I was shocked that she was English, given that I had thought she looked like Nigella Lawson.

  “Vanessa?” Benedict said, taking a step closer and peering at her. “Pleased to meet you. I was devastated to hear of your sister’s accident.”

  Vanessa dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, I can hardly bring myself to talk about it.”

  “Was it her heart that caused the fall?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was fine after the surgery. Her psychiatrist said she’d been talking of suicide for the months leading up to her death. It all came out at the inquest.”

  “And this is Sarah, Sarah Stafford,” Abby said loudly, obviously trying to break the somber mood that had descended on the group. “And Mandy Martin. Now we’re just missing Michael Marshall.”

  Right on cue, a man hurried over to the group. “Sorry I’m late. Hello everyone!”

  I took an instant liking to the man. He appeared to be in his fifties and had a decidedly cheerful manner.

  As the others chatted amongst themselves, I wondered how I would remember everyone’s names. Benedict, the English gentleman, was easy enough because he looked like Benedict Cumberbatch. I would remember Vanessa, because she too was English and looked like Nigella Lawson. I would remember Laura because she had a crush on Benedict, or so I thought.

  I looked around at the others. I figured I would remember Michael, the cheerful man, because he was older than everyone else in the group. Owen, the owner, was clearly henpecked by his wife and bore a remarkable physical resemblance to Owen from The Vicar of Dibley. It was the other three women I was worried I’d mix up: Abby, Lisa, and Sarah. The three women did look very much like Laura, but Laura was never far from Benedict and was always staring up at him longingly. I didn’t think I was in any danger of confusing Laura with anyone. She would be the one closest to Benedict.

  Owen’s announcement snapped me out of my reverie. “Please follow me to the teaching kitchen so we can have our introductory lesson. I always think baking is such an intimate thing, don’t you?”

  A choking noise sounded directly behind me.

  Chapter 3

  I swung around to see Abby pulling a rude face at her husband’s remark. She avoided my gaze and pushed past me to cross the deck. It was with great trepidation that I followed her into the kitchen. It was, as was to be expected, a huge professional kitchen, all stainless steel and shiny surfaces, yet it did not have a clinical feel, far from it.

  At any rate, kitchens always filled me with horror. I took careful note of the position of all the fire extinguishers, as well as the nearest exit. Owen directed us to sit on green and white metal seats at a long kitchen island facing the cooking area. That was the only splash of color in the room, apart from the green feature wall behind the cooktops and ovens. The floors were a timber color although I wasn’t sure of their material, given that they did not look like real timber, and everything else was stainless steel with white countertops. The ceilings were quite high, and pendant lights hung low from them. The rest of the lighting was bright fluorescent even though it was a sunny afternoon.

  Owen introduced the only person I had not yet met, a short, cranky-looking man. “This is Marcel de Vries,” he announced proudly. “He’s our French chef. He’s been working for us for nine years, ever since we opened the Paradise Island Cooking School. Now as you already know, we keep the numbers low so students can work in small groups and then enjoy their cooking at a sit-down meal together afterward. Today, Chef will show you how to make chocolate chip cookies. It’s a nice way for everyone to get to know each other, and then the cooking classes proper will start tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

  I looked longingly out at the water lapping gently at the sand at the bottom of the slope. I wished I could be out there to dip my toes in the water instead of what I suspected was shortly to be the instigator of an insurance claim.

  The chef spoke very quickly with a thick French accent, and waved his arms around like a windmill as he spoke. I didn’t quite follow what he was saying, but he did say that chocolate chip cookies should be chewy in the middle. My heart sank to my stomach. I was happy with my last baking effort because the edges of the cupcakes weren’t rock hard. There was no way I would be able to make something soft in the middle. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know if ‘chewy in the middle’ meant ‘soft in the middle.’ I supposed I was about to find out.

  The chef bent over the fridge and then with a flourish, produced butter. “Take unsalted butter straight from the fridge,” he said excitedly. “And now, there is brown sugar for caramel flavor which gives it the edge and white sugar for crunch.” He demonstrated as he spoke. He moved rapidly, and I forgot everything as soon as he said it. Yes, I know he would give us a written recipe, but just the thought of baking made my mind go blank. It was on a par with doing taxes.

  I shot a look at the others, but they weren’t watching the chef. I supposed this was all second nature to them. Abby was deep in conversation with Michael Marshall, and kept touching his arm at intervals. Her husband, Owen, was likewise deep in conversation, but with Mandy. Benedict and Laura were playing footsies, and making no attempt to hide it. I wondered if the cooking school was in actuality a front for a Swingers’ Club. I hoped no one thought I was a likely player!

  The chef did not seem to mind that no one appeared overly interested in his cooking, but that was likely because he was so engrossed in what he was saying that he hadn’t noticed what anyone else was doing. “Start at a low speed until it comes together and then start to increase the power,” he said in his same rapid speech. “You can see how the butter and sugar ingredients have creamed together. Add eggs and a little bit of milk and then whisk it around until they are combined.”

  I tried to concentrate, but my heart was racing and my cortisol levels were out of control. Cooking always brought out the worst in me. The fact that he said, “You need to be precise when you’re baking,” just made matters worse.
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  As he said something unintelligible followed by, “Two cups of plain flour and make sure they’re level,” I could sense my blood pressure skyrocketing.

  I leaned forward and forced myself to concentrate. “Now it’s very important to get this part right,” he said. “Use one quarter teaspoon of baking powder, one quarter of a teaspoon of baking soda, and one quarter of a teaspoon of salt.” His hands moved so rapidly that my eyes had trouble following him.

  Just then, a loud text sound emanated from my pocket. I pulled out my phone and turned off the sound as I mumbled my apologies. I surreptitiously looked at the screen. The text was from Alder, but before I could read it, Benedict barked at me. “It is not polite to have one’s phone turned on during a cooking class.”

  “That’s right!” Sarah snapped. “How rude.”

  I wanted to say something cutting, but instead apologized. “I thought there was no service,” I added. “I tried earlier and couldn’t get a call or a message out.”

  Abby waved my concerns away. “That’s quite all right. There is good service here most times, but there’s a storm on the way. That usually plays havoc with the service.”

  The chef, clearly oblivious to others speaking around him, continued. “And now to the chocolate. Use top quality eating dark chocolate. Non! Not the for-cooking chocolate! Eehh-arghh! Cut it with a knife like this”—he demonstrated in the manner of a serial killer with a hapless victim—“so you have different shapes and textures, some big pieces, some little pieces, some shards. Make sure you cut it up finely enough, as you don’t want large chunks. Good quality chocolate will stay soft when it’s baked.”

  That’s what you think! I thought. Wait ‘til you try my cooking. I shuddered.

  And now to the part I was dreading. The chef declared that we should make our own cookies, and that he, Owen, and Abby would oversee our efforts. I was glad at the promise of help, but to my dismay, none eventuated. Owen helped Mandy, and Abby helped Michael. The chef appeared fixated on Vanessa. The rest of us were left to our own devices.

  I did the best I could by copying the others, until Sarah noticed and glared at me. Abby appeared to notice my incompetence, as she occasionally called out instructions such as, “Fold that into the mixture,” followed by “No, not like that,” several times.

  The chef then returned to the front. “Now scoop the mixture onto your baking tray just so, remembering that the mixture will spread. Make each precisely the same size. Yes, and now place the trays into the oven for twelve minutes.”

  It was the longest twelve minutes of my life. I kept one eye on the oven and one eye on the closest fire extinguisher.

  To my surprise, the twelve minutes passed uneventfully, and we were told to take our cookies from the oven and place them on the cooling racks. I was delighted that the cookies were not black and the cooling rack did not collapse, just buckled. There was no fire. This was indeed a significant improvement.

  The chef walked up and down, peering at the cookies. When he reached mine, he said, “They should be crunchy on the outside and golden brown on the base. These cookies should not be hard all the way through.” He glowered at me, and I wondered how he knew they were hard all the way through just by looking at them. He then spoke to Vanessa in French for a good five minutes, while the rest of us stood around awkwardly.

  “And now that they are cool, we shall make them into s’mores,” the chef said. “We shall do this again later in the week around a campfire on the beach. Place marshmallows on one half, and a slab of dark chocolate on the other.”

  I inhaled the delightful aroma of sugary caramel on top of the marshmallows.

  “Now take one side and place on top of the other side,” the chef said. “You need to eat s’mores quickly. I shall sample one of each student’s.”

  My whole body tensed at that. Vanessa’s was first. “Well done! A sticky indulgence!” the chef exclaimed with delight. “You were not good at cutting the chocolate, but no matter; this is superb!” He then reached for mine, and I instinctively took a step backward.

  He placed one of my s’mores in his mouth and bit down hard. Simultaneously, his eyes widened. He clutched at his throat and then screamed, a horrible, high-pitched scream. As he did so, something hard fell to the ground and clattered away.

  He threw himself at me, yelling rapid-fire words in French.

  Owen and Michael grabbed him before he reached me. He covered his mouth and continued to yell in French. I saw that Vanessa’s face had turned beet red.

  “It’s his front teeth,” Abby said in horror. “They’re missing!”

  “No, they’re not,” Michael said calmly, as he bent down to pick something off the ground. “Here they are. If he goes to a dentist quickly, the teeth can be put back in.”

  “Hurry, the boat hasn’t left yet,” Abby said urgently. “Take him to the boat! Hurry up, Owen!”

  Owen escorted the furious chef from the room, while I apologized profusely to Abby. “Don’t worry about it,” Michael said, patting me on the shoulder. “It could happen to anyone. By the way, you can’t speak French, can you?” I shook my head. “Good, good,” he added.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve ruined everything,” I said sadly. “Now there’s no chef.”

  Abby threw my cookies in the trash. “No need to worry,” she said in a tone that was clearly worried. “Owen and I are chefs, so the classes will continue as usual. They’re the Beginners’ Classes after all, not the French Patisserie classes. Why don’t you all relax until dinner, which will be served at six in the dining room. Feel free to wander around.”

  I was the first to leave the room, my cheeks burning. I was mortified. I barely breathed again until I was in my room. I locked the door and leaned against it. Oh gosh, I knew this wasn’t a good idea. I crossed to the bed and reached for the remote. No reception. A look out the window showed me why. The clear blue skies had been replaced by threatening black clouds, and the sea was wild. I could almost smell the coming storm in the air.

  It was then I remembered that Alder had texted me. I swiped the screen to read his message. Amelia, get off the island fast! I did a divination and you’re in danger!

  Chapter 4

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I hurried to the sliding door and opened it, only to see the boat sailing off to sea. I was stuck on the island, and the next boat wouldn’t be for days. I tried to text Alder, but again there was no service. I at once connected my phone to the charger. If the coming storm cut the power, I didn’t want to be without a charged phone if danger was headed for me.

  I sat on the bed and forced myself to think rationally. Who would have reason to harm me? The only one who came to mind was the chef, and he was on the boat on its way to the mainland. Or would I be in danger from the storm? I knew the area had frequent bad storms, but there was no reason to think that the coming storm would be worse than any other.

  Hopefully, Alder would send more information, but until he did, I would just have to be vigilant and take precautions. Luckily I had brought my travel altar. I crossed to my suitcase and rummaged through it for my little bag of supplies and discovered the jar I was looking for near the top. It held a mixture of cascarilla powder and red brick dust. I unscrewed the bottle and sprinkled the substance across my doorway and the sliding doors, and then across the two windows in the bathroom.

  One of the shutters blew inward as I did so, bringing with it a gust of sea air. I fastened it shut, and shivered. The air was fairly alive with electric current, and the storm was gathering momentum. I hurried back to my bag, retrieved two bay leaves, and placed one in each shoe as fast as I could. Now, what other protective measures did I have? I checked my phone again, but still no service. Energy was building, and I knew it was more than the storm. Why would I be in danger? Perhaps Owen and Abby wanted to do away with me because I had proven to all and sundry that I was a terrible cook, but would that be any reason to murder me? I supposed that depended on just how seriously they took food.<
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  After checking the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows, I threw myself back on the bed. I intended to close my eyes just for a minute to try to relax.

  When I awoke, it was dark, or dusk, to be precise. I leaped out of bed and checked my phone—still no service, but to my dismay, it was just after six. Did they dress for dinner? I had no idea, but I quickly pulled a lilac and white dress over my head and strapped on some heels. I again stuck a bay leaf in each shoe, and dabbed some Fiery Wall of Protection Oil on the back of my neck.

  I followed my nose to the dining room from which emanated the heady scent of dukkah spices. The interior was sophisticated and stylish with huge windows overlooking the sea. I could certainly get used to this lifestyle. The décor was tropical and beachy, as was to be expected. My eye went straight to a giant Buddha next to a stunning wall feature. This was indeed a tropical oasis.

  Everyone else was sitting around a long rectangular glass and timber table, and I took my seat on a beautifully textured seagrass woven chair.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I fell asleep.”

  “You’re not late at all,” Michael said kindly, although Benedict pointedly looked at his watch and cleared his throat loudly.

  Sarah pouted at me. “To the contrary, she is late, and it’s inconvenienced us all.”

  Benedict nodded his approval at her. “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” When she said that she was, he added, “I might just have a big scoop for you later.”

  Owen, who was sitting at the end of the table, stood up. “A tropical storm is on its way.” He held up his hand. “Now there’s no need to be alarmed. Tropical storms are not uncommon in this area, and we’re well set up for them. It will sound wild, and the windows will shake, but there’s nothing to worry about. The worst that will happen is that the cell phone service and the internet won’t come back on until the storm blows over. We have a large generator, and the cooking and hot water are gas. Obviously, you shouldn’t go outside when the storm comes, but here inside, you won’t notice it.”