Chef Maurice and the Bunny-Boiler Bake Off (Chef Maurice Cotswold Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page A

to the concept of rabbit-ness, she was also wearing satin bunny ears in her shoulder-length auburn hair and a white fluffy tail.
    “Arthur, this is my top research assistant, Miss Karole Linton,” said Mayor Gifford, apparently quite unfazed by the young woman’s costume, which was more than could be said for a number of gentlemen milling around nearby.
    “Hallo. Mr Wordington-Smythe, isn’t it? I recognise you from your restaurant column. Lovely to meet you in person,” said Karole, holding out a neatly manicured hand. She had the cut-glass tones of the type of young lady more accustomed to pencil skirts and cashmere cardigans than bunny-girl outfits. Arthur wondered whose idea her costume had been.
    “Sorry to drag the mayor away,” she continued, “but Rory, I thought you should come and say hello to our new Youth Campaign. I’ve managed to get a few of the local boys interested in putting together a few events—”
    With a brief smile at Arthur, she led Mayor Gifford away into the crowd, their white tails bobbing in tandem. Arthur, watching them depart, couldn’t help but speculate as to the exact cause of the sudden turnaround in the area’s usually politically apathetic youths, and suspected that Miss Karole Linton’s shapely ankles, amongst other numerous assets, might have held some sway in the matter.
    His stomach gave a little rumble, reminding him that breakfast had been quite a long while ago. Arthur snuck a glance at his watch. If he moved fast, there’d be time for a session at the cupcake-decorating stand, plus the disposal of all evidence thereof, before Meryl made her promised appearance around lunchtime.
    At the ‘Glam Up Your Cupcake!’ stand, he snagged the last seat at the low bench, his knees creaking as he clambered into place between an underage fireman and a ladybug with a dribbly nose.
    It had been some time since Arthur had last been required to make small talk with the single-digit age group. He turned to the ladybug on his right. “So, simply splendid weather we’ve been having, don’t you think?”

    Come half past eleven, Chef Maurice, Arthur and Patrick had succeeded in securing the last few seats in the back row of the cookery demo tent, with the latter two sitting on either side of Chef Maurice, ready to intervene in the event of heckling, persistent low-level grumbling, or projectile cheese.
    Ten stifling minutes rolled by, and Miranda Matthews had still yet to make an appearance up on stage. The tent was packed with culinary enthusiasts of all ages, many of whom were clutching copies of Miranda’s latest oeuvre, Blend It Right! , a paean to the art of smoothie making.
    Chef Maurice jiggled his steel-capped boots and pulled out a battered wristwatch, an item that Patrick had never seen him actually wear. This was not surprising, though, as a professional kitchen involved far too much vegetable rinsing, splattering oil and hot oven doors for one to consider wearing any form of wrist accessory, not to mention the danger of it falling off into the dishes themselves. Diners did not enjoy fishing flies out of their soup, and they certainly had something to say when they found timepieces underneath their steak minute .
    “ Voilà , she is late! How does she dare to call herself a chef? To be a chef, one must have the most fine sense of time. For a customer waiting for his food, a delay of ten minutes is a torture. He begins to stare at the food of other diners, he finds the conversation of his table companions to become intolérable. Non , to be late, it is unacceptable.”
    “You could just leave now, you know,” said Arthur. “There’s plenty of people who’d take your seat, I’m sure.”
    “Pffft,” was all the reply he got to that particular suggestion.
    Another tolerably torturous five minutes later, Miranda Matthews strutted in through the back of the tent and up onto the stage. With a little hop, she seated herself up on the kitchen counter and crossed her legs