Chapter 1.
I sat at the kitchen table with my hands wrapped around a mug of meadow tea, trying not to stare at my silent phone on the counter.
Detective Damon McCloud had been gone for what felt like years. In reality, it had only been a couple of weeks while he gave evidence in a court case in Scotland, but time had taken on a stretched-out quality, like taffy that had been pulled one time too many.
I took a sip of tea and tried to focus on the here and now.
The here and now involved my kitchen, which looked as though it had lost a fight with a baking supply store. Mixing bowls, measuring cups, bags of flour, sugar, and cocoa powder covered every surface. A muffin pan already lined with paper cases waited on the counter.
Matilda sat across from me, legs neatly crossed, knitting something that I suspected would eventually become a perfectly serviceable cardigan for someone. With Matilda, it was always difficult to know where her domestic pursuits ended and her spy instincts began. She could knit at surprising speed while still remaining fully aware of everything that moved inside and outside the house.
Eleanor stood at the counter beside the stove, her hair rollers in place, peering earnestly into a mixing bowl. Mr. Crumbles lay on his back on a nearby chair, one paw in the air, fast asleep.
I sighed.
Matilda looked up from her knitting. “You’re thinking about Damon again.”
I had given up trying to hide anything from Matilda long ago.
“I was just wondering what time it is where he is,” I said.
“Very early morning,” she said. “He’ll be awake. They will have him marching up and down court corridors in that very serious way he has.”
I could picture him in his suit, his expression focused, his jaw set with determination. My stomach gave a little flip.
“I miss him,” I admitted.
“You can miss him and still enjoy your tea,” Matilda said. “There’s no rule against that.”
Eleanor straightened, holding her bowl as though it were a priceless object. “I have important news.”
Matilda set her knitting on her lap. “If your important news involves the incident yesterday with Billy and the laundry basket, I already know.”
Eleanor waved that away. “No, no. This is far more exciting. I’ve taken a step forward in my baking career.”
I sat up a little straighter. “You have a baking career now?”
“I’ll have one after this,” she said. “I’ve entered a famous baking competition.”
Matilda lifted one eyebrow. “What do you mean, entered?”
Eleanor put her bowl down with great care and rested both hands on the counter. “I mean I filled in a form on the computer and was notified that I was successful. They wanted local flavor and authenticity. I’m local, and I’m authentic.”
I stared at her. “Eleanor, what competition are you talking about?”
“The one they’re filming in town. You know the one. They have the big white tent in the square. The television people.”
I nearly choked on my tea. “You signed up for that competition?”
“Of course I did,” she said. “They said it was open to professionals and amateurs. I’m an amateur. I thought it was important to represent our household. Besides, how hard can it be to make little cakes in front of some cameras?”
Matilda folded her hands on top of her knitting. “You failed to mention this earlier.”
“I didn’t want to tell you until it was all confirmed,” Eleanor said. “In case the computer changed its mind. I was worried it might. Machines can be fickle.”
“When is this competition?” I asked.
“They start filming the first round tomorrow,” she said. “That’s why I’m practicing now.”
I looked again at the kitchen. Flour dusted the counter and part of the floor. There was a bag of sugar that looked a little more deflated than it had that morning. Something sticky dripped very slowly down the side of one mixing bowl.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated in horror.
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “There will be judges and a host and all kinds of cameras.”
Matilda frowned. “Did the message say anything about camera angles or lighting?”
Eleanor blinked. “Camera angles?”
“Sometimes producers like to show the ingredients on the counter,” Matilda said. “And they might want a few close-ups of your hands while you pipe frosting. We will have to practice that. The way you hold the piping bag is important. It needs to look authoritative.”
I ran a hand over my face. “You’re both very calm about this. Eleanor, you have never baked under pressure, let alone in front of cameras.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “Jane, I’ve trained a goat to wear underpants on its head. I can make cupcakes in a tent.”
That was hard to argue with, although I was not entirely reassured. “What are you making today?” I asked her. “For practice.”
Eleanor picked up the bowl again and peered into it. “I’m not really sure now. I was basing it on something Rebecca sells in the shop.”
The mention of the shop made me think of my twin sister, going about her day with calm competence among the cupcake cases and frosting bags at the Amish cupcake shop. Rebecca would be quite interested to learn that Eleanor intended to appear on television as a baker.
“Have you told Rebecca?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Eleanor said. “I thought I would surprise her. I’ll just add the last of the milk and then I’ll be ready to put the batter into the cases. You’ll see, this batch will be perfect.”
She took a step toward the fridge. “Oh, I forgot the milk,” she said. She spun back around.
The bowl didn’t.
It slipped from her hands, did a half turn in the air, and for one suspended heartbeat I thought she might somehow catch it. Instead, it tilted at exactly the wrong angle.
The entire contents poured straight down onto Mr. Crumbles.
One moment the large gray cat lay dozing on his chair, minding his own business. The next, he was covered from head to tail in thick, sticky cupcake batter.
There was a sound that, in any other creature, I would have called a roar. Mr. Crumbles shot upright, his fur plastered to his body, his whiskers stiff with batter.
Eleanor clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh dear. Mr. Crumbles, I’m so sorry.”
Mr. Crumbles didn’t appear interested in apologies. He leaped from the chair to the floor, landed with a wet splat of batter, and then bolted across the kitchen.
With every step, he left a paw print of pale beige goo.
“Catch him,” I said, jumping to my feet.
Eleanor lunged for him and missed by several inches. Mr. Crumbles swerved like a furry, batter-coated eel and streaked past her legs, leaving a trail of prints in a wide curve.
Matilda remained seated for exactly one second, then set her knitting aside and stood. “Don’t chase him. You’ll make him think this is a game.”
Mr. Crumbles chose that moment to sprint toward the hallway.
I dove for the doorway and managed to swing it mostly shut, but one battered paw slapped against it and the cat skidded to a halt inches from my toes.
We stared at each other. His entire expression radiated indignation.
“Mr. Crumbles,” I said, trying to sound soothing and reasonable. “You need a bath.”
He flicked an ear, then sat down and lifted one paw as if to inspect it. Batter dangled from his claws.
“Don’t let him start grooming,” Matilda said. “We don’t know how much baking powder he might ingest.”
“Is baking powder dangerous for cats?” I asked.
“It’s not ideal,” she said. “We will avoid adding experimental data to the question.”
Eleanor edged closer, hands spread. “I’ll pick him up. He trusts me.”
Mr. Crumbles flicked his tail. Batter sprayed off the end and hit the cupboard.
“I’m not sure trust looks like that,” I said.
Eleanor inched closer. Mr. Crumbles gave a warning hiss, which, given the batter drooping off his chin, lost some of its usual effect.
“Eleanor, wait,” I said. “Let me get a towel first. We need something between you and all that.”
She stopped. “Good idea. I’ll get one.” She turned quickly, and her elbow bumped the bag of flour. It tipped, then righted itself at the last moment.
Matilda moved to the counter and steadied it. “Perhaps you should focus on one incident at a time,” she said.
I threw Eleanor a towel I kept for animal emergencies and then opened the hallway door a little wider. Mr. Crumbles watched me warily.
“All right,” I said. “We’re going to wrap you up like a little burrito and then rinse you off. It will be quick.”
He didn’t look convinced.
Eleanor approached with the towel held out in front of her like a shield. “On three,” she said. “One, two, three.”
I reached for Mr. Crumbles at the same time she swooped in with the towel. For a moment, it looked as though he might dart to one side again. Then the towel landed over his back.
There was a muffled yowl and a flurry of movement, but between us we managed to scoop him up, batter and all, and bundle him firmly.
“I’ve got him,” Eleanor said, hugging the towel-wrapped shape to her chest.
“You have most of him,” Matilda said. “His tail is hanging out.”
The tail in question flicked back and forth with clear opinion.
“It will have to do,” I said. “Carry him to the laundry sink. We need to rinse this off before it dries.”
As we moved toward the laundry, I glanced back at the kitchen floor. Batter paw prints covered half the linoleum in a pattern that would probably have delighted a modern artist.
Eleanor carried Mr. Crumbles through the doorway, still apologizing in a low stream of chatter. “You’re a very good cat, and I appreciate your patience, and I promise you’ll get some treats later.”
Mr. Crumbles responded with a series of muffled sounds that I decided to interpret as dignified acceptance.
The next half hour involved a great deal of water, a surprising amount of cat hair, and more towels than I would normally use in a week. By the time I rinsed the worst of the batter off, I was wet from my elbows down, Eleanor had a streak of it across her cheek, and Mr. Crumbles looked like a small, grumpy lion.
He shook himself, then stalked out of the laundry with as much dignity as he could manage in his damp state.
“I’ll bring him his treats,” Eleanor said. “He deserves a reward.”
I followed her back to the kitchen. The paw prints on the floor had begun to dry at the edges.
Matilda already had a bucket and mop ready.
“I took the liberty of mixing some water while you were in there,” she said. “You can mop, and I’ll scrape the thicker bits off with this spatula.”
She held up one of my spatulas.
“I use that for frosting,” I said.
“Not anymore,” she said.
I decided not to argue.
As we set about restoring the kitchen, Eleanor untied her apron and inspected the front of it. There was a smear of batter across the fabric where Mr. Crumbles had brushed against her. “This is all my fault,” she said. “I should have put the bowl on the counter while I got the milk. That’s what they would say on television. They always talk about proper kitchen safety.”
I swiped the mop across a cluster of paw prints.
“It was an accident. No one was hurt.”
“Mr. Crumbles was hurt in his dignity,” she said. “That’s still very important.”
Matilda scraped a thick dollop of batter off the chair where the bowl had first landed.
“If anything, this has been a useful rehearsal,” she said. “You have just experienced how important it is to maintain control of your equipment under pressure.”
Eleanor nodded. “That’s true. Tomorrow there will be cameras and people talking and other bakers moving around. I’ll have to concentrate.”
“I’ll make a perfect batch today,” Eleanor added. “Then I’ll make another one this evening. I’ll practice until I can do it with my eyes closed.”
“Please keep your eyes open around the oven,” I said.
She laughed. “Very well. I take your point.”
Mr. Crumbles padded back into the kitchen and hopped onto his chair. His fur was still damp, but he had regained much of his normal composure. He curled up, wrapped his tail around his paws, and closed his eyes.
I looked around at the batter splatters we had not yet reached and the avalanche of measuring cups waiting in the sink.
Eleanor, on a televised baking competition.
It would certainly be an experience.
