Much Ado About Muffin (14 page)

She spoke in the same vein for several minutes. Was this all there was, endless psychobabble positivity chatter that I could hear in any self-help group?

But when we had been lulled into receptiveness, I supposed, she got down to brass tacks. “As babies we know instinctively how to get what we want without being bogged down by the expectations and desires of others. But through our life we become burdened by guilt, overwhelmed by the neediness of others, depleted by the negative emotions surrounding us and the confusion of everyday life.”

Everyone nodded. She had struck a nerve.

“With Consciousness Calling, you can learn to
rid
yourself of all that toxic negative energy. Abandon worry, escape guilt. You can become
truly
free to receive from the universe exactly what you
need
,” she said, pointing and letting her finger rove over the audience. “What do you
need
? Whatever it is, you can have it.”

She had them, I could see it. The young couple were rapt, leaning forward, as were the two singles. Even Helen was transfixed. Who didn't want to escape guilt and worry? The only holdout was Dewayne, who sat back with a neutral expression.

“It's simple, and
anyone
can do it. You need to open your heart, and let your body become one with your mind. You must stop trying to
control
the people around you, as you don't wish them to control you,” she said, flashing a glance in my direction.

I heard Lizzie snort in the background and saw the severe look Crystal threw her way. From then on I started listening with more vigilance.

“Control is an illusion,” she said, her voice becoming even more fluid, with almost a singsong quality. “Give up control.
Allow
yourself to be happy. Give yourself
permission
to become prosperous. Release those in your lives who only want to tie you down, make you bend to their will, destroy your confidence and peace. The universe wants to
reward
you, but you've been blocking it from giving you peace, love, happiness . . . and
prosperity
.” She approached the crowd and met their gazes—except for me, who she skimmed over—and lowered her voice further, the sensation intimate. “You
deserve
money. You
deserve
happiness. You
deserve
all the nice things in life. Others have it; why not you?” She looked at the young couple. “Why not
you
?”

They nodded and both murmured what sounded like “Why not me?”

“Do you have people in your life who are tearing you down? Those are downward-trending people, DTPs. They want you to fail so
they
can feel better about themselves. They're
losers
on a downward spiral, and you are
winners
willing to do whatever it takes to become wealthy, influential, and happy. Once you become your true self, they may get angry,” she said, pointing. “They may say you've changed.
Well, you will have; you will no longer be the
sucker
who makes them feel better about their
pathetic
lives. They'll try everything to make you come back into their loser fold and behave like the wretched, hopeless, joyless
losers
they are.”

Helen sat back, an expression of distaste on her face. She shifted in her seat, sitting up straighter, clutching her purse tighter.

“But you're
better
than that,” Crystal continued. “
You've
made the decision to make something of yourself, of your life. Do you wish you could find the strength to confront that boss who only wants to put you down? Or your mother-in-law who is always so snide?”

Nods, again, among the crowd, especially the young couple. But Crystal had lost Helen. The churchwoman's mouth primmed with a moue of distaste. Dewayne simply watched, a thoughtful look on his face, his beefy arms folded over his chest.

“I can help you eliminate the sources of turmoil in your life. But you need to
trust
me. Can you do that? Can you
trust
me?”

It was the siren song of the guru;
I can teach you to be happy, you just need to abandon all caring for those in your life who offer more complications than a bean sprout
.

There were murmurs of assent.

“We're going to do a focus exercise, Chanting the Contexts,” Crystal said. She began, and those inclined followed.

“I deserve love. I deserve happiness. I deserve wealth. I am whole, I am complete, I am perfect as I am.”

She went through that again and again, gathering people into her chant as she repeated it. I slipped into a meditative state, and caught myself saying, “I deserve love,” with the rest of them.

There was a moment of silence, and I looked up to find Crystal staring at me with an odd, vibrant intensity. I was taken aback, my breath caught in my throat. She broke it
off, and at a hand signal, Brianna sprang into action and wheeled out the massage table I had noticed along one wall. She centered it in front of Crystal.

Crystal put her hands on the table and smiled. “This is the cleansing table, where with just
one
Calling Inner Consciousness session I can help you remove from your life every
single
obstacle to happiness, wealth, freedom of mind and body. Do you want to be
rich
? I can help you. Do you want to find your perfect lover? Freedom from worry? Let me help you! Do you wish for better health? I can help you rid your body of those nagging problems that are keeping you from living and walking in perfect health.”

Brianna appeared at her elbow with a clipboard.

“We do group Callings, but I'm only booking
private
Calling sessions for this week. They're far more effective for those seeking the maximum benefit, a quick fix to all your life's troubles and turmoil. It's
very
intense, and I can only do two every day. Maybe three. Four at the most. Let me help you receive the light and make your life
exactly
what you want it to be.”

Logan had disappeared at some point during the session. I hadn't even noticed, and I realized that it was Crystal's quality of voice and the way she emphasized certain words that had made me so rapt I had missed some stuff during the chanting. Interesting. As strong as I thought myself, she had managed to snag me. She had the combined mesmeric quality of a county fair huckster and an evangelical preacher—a dangerous combination.

Lizzie and Brianna set up a little table with a kettle and jar of instant coffee and some bakery boxes of goodies I recognized as Binny's. Helen fixed a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup, snagged a cream puff, clutched her purse to her chest, and hustled out of the place as if she had accidentally strayed into a black mass ceremony, scattering white powered creamer as she beetled out.

The young man and woman were already signing up on the clipboard. After a brief, intense conversation, he got his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a card.

“And there's the payoff.” Lizzie was at my elbow, arms crossed over her chest.

“What do you mean?”

“He's got his credit card out,” she muttered. “It's either that or cash to book a session. She's a freakin' genius.”

Crystal made them sign something, then wrote down his credit card number. The other two unknowns in the class were lined up waiting, and I examined them. I had seen them around before, but I didn't know their names. Both looked uncertain, but when you want a better life it's tempting to believe someone who tells you they know all the answers. Crystal was convincing.

“Maybe she
can
help people,” I murmured.

Lizzie looked up at me with a snort of disbelief. “What is it with adults? You're all so . . . so brainwashable.”

Lizzie was young and despite her difficult life so far, she still had the faith that if adults left her alone, she'd manage just fine. When you get older, life crowds in on you; there are so many demands, all competing. Sometimes to fulfill all of other people's needs and expectations you sacrifice your own. Crystal had tapped into a desperate desire for release.

“I know that's Brianna, Minnie's boarder,” I said, motioning toward the girl. “What's she like?”

Lizzie shrugged. “She's okay. Messed up in the head, but okay otherwise.”

“Messed up in the head?”

“When she was kicked out of the foster care system at eighteen, she didn't know what to do. She was practically homeless. But then she moved here and found a job and lived at Minnie's.”

“A pseudo-family.” With Minnie as pseudo-mom. “I
talked to her once, but I'd like to speak to her again. Can you get her out of here?”

“Sure.” She went to Brianna, motioned toward me, and the girl nodded.

Lizzie and Brianna followed me out the door, watched by Dewayne. Crystal noticed, but she was tied up with the couple, and trying to keep the attention of the two singles, who were getting impatient and starting to eye the exit themselves.

The evening was cooling off. I turned as the two girls followed me out and down the walk a few steps.

“Bri, this is Merry Wynter,” Lizzie said. “She wanted to talk to you about stuff.”

I gave my young friend a look. That was not what I had in mind, her being warned that I wanted to talk to her. She'd be on her guard and probably report back to Crystal. “We've met,” I said pleasantly to Brianna. “I'm sorry about Minnie.” I hadn't thought it through, and my lack of planning was going to make for an awkward moment. “Actually, I know I didn't say it when we met before, but I'm the one who found her. Dead. It's . . . it's terrible, and when I saw you here I wanted to say, I'm sorry.”

Brianna's face was blank of expression and she didn't reply. I examined her for a moment, the petulant lips stained with bluish lipstick, her dyed hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. How could I find out what I wanted to know? “I understand Minnie came here to the Consciousness Calling a couple of times. There was some kind of confrontation with her.”

Brianna shrugged. “It wasn't her thing.”

“That must have been awkward for you. Is anyone pressuring you to leave the house, with Minnie gone?”

The girl, her eyes rimmed in dark makeup and her lashes thickly coated in mascara, stared at me with suspicion.
“Why did you talk to me and Logan earlier? And why didn't you say who you were? Minnie
hated
you. She told, like, everyone. Maybe
you're
the one who killed her.”

“Merry would never hurt anyone!” my young friend bellowed, hands balled into fists. “You watch what you're saying or I'll—”

“Lizzie, enough!” I held up a hand and gave her a look, then returned my gaze to Brianna. I hadn't figured that Minnie would have openly talked about me to her boarders. But what else did she have besides work and her various interpersonal wars? “I didn't kill Minnie. I felt sorry for her, in a way.”

Brianna snorted and looked away.

“How did you learn about what happened to Minnie that morning?”

She shrugged. “Cops came hammering on the door. I was in the shower getting ready for work, so Logan answered.”

“That's right, there were just the two of you. Your roommate Karl had a big fight with Minnie the night before and stormed out.”

She sharply turned and stared at me. “Who told you that?”

“The guys he's crashing with.”

“He didn't
walk
out,” Brianna bluntly stated. “Minnie
threw
his ass out . . . kicked him to the curb.”

I
opened my
mouth to ask why, and what their argument was about, whether it had become physical, but Emerald strode down the sidewalk toward us.

“Merry, what are
you
doing here?”

Taken aback by both her arrival and her abruptness, I waited a moment so I wouldn't snap back, then said, “I took your suggestion and came to the introductory CC session.”

“What are you doing home from work so early, Mom?” Lizzie asked, hope in her voice.

“I hated leaving Crystal to manage this all on her own,” she said, her gaze slewing uncertainly from me to Lizzie to Brianna and then into the shop, where Crystal was still dealing with potential clients. “I knew
you
wouldn't be much help,” she said to her daughter. “What are you doing out here gabbing?”

Lizzie whirled and headed off down the street. “I'm going home!” she yelled over her shoulder. “
You
can help Crystal put away the stinking snacks. I've got homework.”

“Lizzie, you get back here!” Emerald shouted, then sighed and shook her head.

Brianna, looking disgusted, headed in and Emerald turned to go, too, but I caught her arm. “Em, is everything okay? Maybe we can have a cup of tea back at your place and talk. I haven't even seen your new home yet.”

Crystal came to the door and opened it, gazing out silently.

“Lizzie went home, Crystal,” Emerald said, pulling her arm from my grasp. “I'll come and help in a sec.” She turned to me and opened her mouth to speak.

Crystal called out, “Deety pee, Emerald, dear . . . deety pee.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, wondering if it was some weird signal that she needed a bathroom break.

“Nothing. I have to go.” She turned and trotted up the steps into her shop.

And then I got it: not deety pee, DTP. In Crystal-speak I was clearly a downward-trending person. I walked away in a funk, feeling like I had a communicable disease.

It was almost dark. Despite there being a murderer in our midst I still felt safe in Autumn Vale; maybe I was delusional. I strode down the sidewalk into the gloom, and turned the corner. Were those footsteps behind me? I paused; silence. Maybe it
wasn't
such a good idea to walk off alone. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, and chills raced down my back.

Perhaps I should have stayed with the others for a while. I turned and waited, but no one came around the corner. I got my keys out, splaying them between my fingers like I always did in the city, clutched my bag to my chest, and walked on.

Who had so brutally murdered Minnie Urquhart? Someone who knew her, I assumed, because she had apparently let them into her postal station. How, though, did the killer get the letter opener? I needed to confront Roma and
ask her. Footsteps behind me echoed again as I trotted down the shadowy side street where the Caddy was parked. I turned, but there was still no one there. “Hello?” I called out.

A garbage can clattered nearby, a dog barked, and a cat screeched, the trifecta of woman-in-peril scenes in movies. Maybe it was normal to be unnerved when someone I knew had been murdered. I took a deep breath and relaxed, though I did not let down my guard. I got to my car, looked around, checked the backseat, then got in, started the Caddy, and cruised out of town, heaving a sigh of relief.

Safe at last!

I opened the window. As night fell the air got noticeably cooler, now that we were past the halfway mark in September. I hadn't forgotten about the one-year anniversary party I wanted to throw. I started to compile guest lists in my mind, and plan the food; maybe I could rope in Binny for baked treats and Patricia for a cake. Pish could do some show tunes on the piano. If Roma was still at the castle, she could sing. She'd love that, and it would be both good practice and advertisement for their opera.

I could see the headlights of a car bobbing in my rearview mirror. Well, that happened on occasion, even on my way down the lonely road back to the castle. We had come to a stretch that was enclosed by forest and had a sharp decline on the right, though if you weren't familiar with that section of the road you wouldn't know that because in the dark it was masked by the tall trees. I didn't see the headlights behind me anymore, and relaxed.

Then I felt a jolt and experienced that shock, the sick feeling in the core of your stomach when you know that your vehicle is no longer in your control. I shrieked as the car moved seemingly on its own, as if sliding on ice, even though I gripped the steering wheel so tight my fingers spasmed, freezing in place, pain shooting through them. Weirdly out of body, I caught a glimpse in the rearview
mirror. There were no headlights, but a vehicle nudged me ever closer to that sharp drop-off, even though I wrenched the steering wheel with all my might in the direction I wanted to go.

But I knew the road after a year of driving it, and I knew the Caddy. I jerked the wheel the other way, using the full power of the '67 V8 engine and rear-wheel drive to get me off my assailant's front bumper. My heavy, lumbering, wonderfully sturdy American-made tank lurched to the left. Gravel skidded out from under me, pinging on the underbody, and the Caddy settled up on the opposite shoulder as the other vehicle roared past and down the road.

Silence settled with the dust. I started shaking and whimpering, quivering like a kicked puppy, my shoulders aching and my hands cramped on the wheel. I had to consciously flex my fingers to release the steering wheel. I was off-kilter, the seat belt digging into my shoulder.

Who had done this? And
why
? As I calmed I realized why I felt pressure and was on a slant; in wrenching the car so far away from the edge of the slope, I had gotten myself away from the jerk who was trying to wreck me, but had ended up on the opposite side with the car stuck up on something.

It was a moonless night. Just sitting there all evening wasn't an option. I took some deep yoga breaths, letting my heart rate decline. First step, I had to ascertain the damage. The car started but did not want to move, even though the rear wheels seemed to be in contact with the road or shoulder surface. I undid the seat belt and awkwardly climbed out of the car, rolled my aching shoulders, and peered into the dark, but couldn't see a bloody thing. I picked my way around the car to the trunk, where I kept a tool kit with a flashlight. Using my cell phone flashlight app—barely bright enough to find the keyhole and wrench open the trunk—I got it out. My car flashlight was big, the beam nice and wide. Hoping the car or truck that had run me off the road wasn't
coming back, I checked out the bumper damage. It was crumpled, and my taillight was broken. Good old Detroit sturdiness had prevented more damage. Then I circled to the front.

“Well, that sucks!” I said. The Caddy was jammed up on a thick log from a tree that had fallen in the spring. County workers had shoved it off to the side of the road. It had saved me, I supposed, from hitting the rocky outcropping, which would have done a lot more damage to the car, and perhaps me.

A heavy motor rumbled, and I saw headlights coming down the road. My stomach lurched. I scrambled to get into the car, probably the best protection I could get, but awkward because of the angle it was on. The vehicle slowed as it got closer, and then stopped, facing the Caddy. The driver cut the headlights. Someone big emerged, and I saw the beam of a flashlight bob around, slicing through the darkness, circling the car. I whimpered and started, with shaking fingers, to dial Virgil's number.

When someone tapped on the window I jumped and screamed.

“Merry, are you okay?”

It was Dewayne Lester. He shone the flashlight away, angling it so there was enough light that I could see his face, his dark, intelligent eyes, his stubbly round chin. I nodded and took a deep breath, trying to calm my shaking. “I'm okay!” I asserted. What was he doing here? I had last seen him in the CC meeting, and he was still there, I thought, when I left. If he was my assailant, he would have zoomed past me, and if he circled back . . . I quivered, my nerves making me shudder. He would have come from that exact direction. “I'm fine. Really.”

“No, you're not. You're in trouble here,” he said, his voice muffled through the glass. He motioned to the front of the car. “Can I give you a hand?”

I paused. If I called Virgil he might not even get the message right away. “What are you doing along here?” I asked, rolling down the window an inch. “Last I saw you were at the meeting.”

“I left right after you, but somehow I got turned around on my way out to Turner Construction, so I was backtracking,” he said, watching my eyes. His expression was mild as he said, “Look, if you're freaked out I'll leave you alone. Pete drives a tow truck; I can call him. He'd be here in ten minutes. What can I do that will make you comfortable?”

That's exactly what a helpful man would and should say. I took a deep shaky breath and looked out at him, rolling the window down farther. “Someone tried to run me off the road—I don't know who. I managed to wrench the car in the other direction, but now I'm kind of wedged on that tree.”

“Is your car still working?”

“It seems to be fine.”

“They don't make 'em like this anymore,” he said, nodding. “My dad worked in the plant that built them. Probably worked on this very car. My truck's a Ford F-150 and I have towing straps in the back, so I can pull you free, if you like. I don't think there'll be any damage.” He shone his flashlight toward the front of the Caddy and squatted, looking under it. “You're not up on there far enough to have punctured anything, so if I can free you, you can at least get home. You don't have far to go now. Take the car to your mechanic tomorrow for a look-see.”

“I'd appreciate the help,” I said and took another deep breath. His matter-of-fact manner and helpfulness were restoring my nerves to their normally calm state. If I trusted my instincts, he was not my attacker.

It would take too long to describe how we managed it, but we did. He checked underneath the car again, and said I didn't appear to be leaking anything. I thanked him. In the city I would have offered a good Samaritan money, but we
don't do that in the country. We're all in this together, and someday he might need a lift or some help. I clutched his strong, warm hand through the car window and he smiled.

He followed me back to the castle to make sure the car worked, then tooted his horn and turned in the driveway, heading back wherever he came from. I did have a fleeting thought; he seemed to know
exactly
where the castle was, despite never having been to it . . . to my knowledge.

Pish's car was in its spot, so Roma must be back from wherever she went. I didn't want to talk to anyone, I was so drained and unnerved. After locking up securely I retreated to my room, flung my clothes off, and climbed into bed naked, something I hadn't done in a long time. Becket seemed to sense my mood. He leaped up on the bed, butted my chin, then turned once on the cover, tucked his tail in over his eyes, and drifted to sleep, purring. Despite the fear I had felt—or maybe because of it and the consequent adrenaline rush depleting me—I, too, fell fast asleep, my hand resting on the purring cat.

*   *   *

The next morning I made a cup of coffee and headed out, dressed in my silk robe over shortie pajamas hastily thrown on, to sit on the terrace. I had just settled when a sheriff's department car screamed up the lane and screeched to a halt, spraying gravel. Virgil, his face red, erupted from the car, tore up to the terrace and grabbed me up from my chair, kissing me so hard my coffee spilled everywhere and I would have fallen if he hadn't had a
very
firm hold on me.

I spluttered and wrenched myself away from him, shocked by his vehemence when I wasn't even awake all the way. “Steady, Sheriff!” I spluttered.

He pulled me back into his arms and held me against him; his heart was thudding like a jackhammer. “What the
hell
were you thinking, not calling me last night after you were run off the road by some lunatic?”

I pulled away again, looking up into his worried brown eyes. “I should have called the police, but I was so tired when I got home that I never thought of it. I'm sorry.” Of course, he was right: if someone that crazy was out on the roads, they were a danger to others.

“
Screw
the sheriff's office,” he said, his voice gruff. “You should have called
me
, your . . . your boyfriend. Or whatever you want to call me.”

I was taken aback, thrilled, and then puzzled. “Wait, how did you even hear about it?”

“Dewayne Lester. He stopped by the station this morning on his way to work and asked if we'd found the guy who ran you off the road.”

“That probably eliminates him as a suspect,” I said with relief. “Being Johnny-on-the-spot as he was, I thought he might be the one who . . .” His gaze had become shifty, and I cocked my head to one side, watching him. “Virgil, what aren't you telling me?”