Much Ado About Muffin (15 page)

“You don't need to worry about Dewayne.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared over my head. “I know him.”

Trying to keep from being distracted by bulging biceps in a short-sleeved sheriff's department shirt, I said, “You
know
him? I thought he was new in town.”

“He is.”

“Then how do you know him?” I righted my spilled coffee mug but didn't take my gaze from Virgil.

He didn't answer, his jaw flexing as it does when he's agitated. He rolled his shoulders. I put my hands on those shoulders and kneaded, feeling the tension knotted there. He'd called himself my boyfriend;
that
was an interesting development, since we'd never yet had that discussion. Adult dating is awkward sometimes.

A throaty growl murmured though his body, and he took
me in his arms, kissing me again, more gently. It was nice—very,
very
nice. Our relationship seemed to be leaping around in all directions, and I was confused.

However . . . “Virgil, I won't be distracted,” I murmured as he nuzzled my neck. I sighed. His hand wandered down, cupping my bottom, pulling me to him. Oh dear. I moved his hand back up to the small of my back. “Virgil, how do you know Dewayne Lester?”

“He's a PI.”

I jumped back like a scalded cat. “A
what
?”

He grimaced at my reaction. “A private detective from Buffalo.”

I digested that. “But why . . . who . . . ? I don't get it. Who is he working for?”

“Me, indirectly. The county, actually.”

“You've got some explaining to do, mister,” I said, hands on my hips.

“I'm at your command.”

I felt at a distinct disadvantage with him in his uniform and me in a shortie robe. “Wait here.” I went in, got dressed, and made us both coffee and him some breakfast, bringing it out on a tray.

It was a secret for now. Gogi knew, but no one else, he told me between bites of leftover quiche and crisp bacon. About a month ago he'd decided that if the postal service wasn't going to send anyone to investigate Minnie, he'd try to get a line on what she was up to. It was his jurisdiction since it involved his citizens, he figured, and there may be crimes apart from those involving the post office that he could nab her on. Because of his thrifty management there was money in the department budget, so he allocated some to pay a private detective. It's not a common route to take, he admitted, but well within the law.

He had met Dewayne years before, when the man was a part-time firearms instructor at the police academy Virgil
went to, as well as being a cop. In the years since then Dewayne had retired from police work and set up as a private investigator. When Virgil heard through the grapevine that Minnie was on one of the online dating sites, he had Dewayne contact her. His intent was to get information on what she was up to so Virgil knew what direction to pursue. On the strength of their “relationship”—which consisted of chatting online and talking on the phone—Dewayne thought there was enough justification to move temporarily to Autumn Vale to gather evidence.

The sweetheart ruse worked; Minnie had bragged about petty thefts, trying, in some absurd way, to impress her new beau. The woman was sly, Virgil told me. She had left very little actual evidence except for a string of complaints from citizens to the post office about missing mail. So far there hadn't been any evidence of check theft; it was mostly magazines, small packages, and cash. She never stole anything with a tracking number. Dewayne had discovered enough that the U.S. Postal Inspectors were
about
to raid her postal station and home.

But her murder got in the way. Her death
seemed
terribly coincidental, but coincidence is a part of life. Dewayne had given what information he had to the FBI, trying to help them in the murder case.

We then discussed whomever had run me off the road. It could have been reckless kids joyriding, some other random and possibly drunken jerk, or someone targeting me for something, who knew what? I had my fans, locally, and I had my haters.

“Dewayne is coming out to have a look at your car,” Virgil said. “Can you stay put for the day?”

“Part of it. Hannah is coming out to visit this morning.”

“I want to know if Dewayne can find any bits of paint from the other car. It's a specialty of his. Do you have any idea who it was?”

I thought, but shook my head. “If I think of anyone, I'll tell you.”

“I'll be checking out every car with front-end damage; you can bet on that,” he said, his tone grim.

“In Autumn Vale, that could well be every other car.”

Virgil was finishing his breakfast when Roma came out dressed in only a red silk–and-lace peignoir set, stretching in an unconvincingly casual way. She practically purred when she saw Virgil, though her expression of delight faded when he got up, took my arm, and led me over to his sheriff's department car. He leaned me back against the car, kissed me thoroughly until my cheeks and chin were slightly sore from his constant stubble—the man could shave and an hour later he'd have stubble—and declared his intention to find the bastard who'd run me off the road if it took all his time and that of his department. He then departed on a call, promising to follow up with Dewayne.

I was smiling as I swayed past Roma, picked up my man's dishes, and sashayed into my castle, of which I was the queen. Then, being the adult I am, I washed the dishes, put them away, and considered that Virgil and I were going to have to have a talk, since we had apparently started “going steady” when I wasn't looking. Or something.

Patricia arrived with a box of assorted goodies from the bakery. She was there to lend moral support to Roma, who was nervous about the final recording of “O Mio Babbino Caro” she was doing that day. I was in a charitable mood, despite the frightening episode the previous night, so as Roma warmed up in the library, I sat down for a cup of tea and a Napoleon with Patricia. I told her that I had attended a CC introductory class the previous night, and asked if she had, too, and if so what she thought of Consciousness Calling and Crystal Rouse.

“I'm not one much for organized anything,” she said. “But I was curious, so I went.”

“Did you have one of those . . . what does she call them? A Calling Inner Consciousness session?”

“I did at one of the group sessions.”

“What did you think of the Chanting the Contexts part? And what happened with the calling?”

“The chanting bit was interesting; I found myself relaxed, even sleepy. I thought it might be good for me.” She frowned, her double chins tripling as she stared down into her tea mug. “But then, the Calling . . . well, I was lying on that massage table with the group feeling self-conscious.”

She didn't need to say why. Big girls usually do feel self-conscious in a social setting, and Patricia is a good deal larger than I. Lying on a table with a bunch of other folks around? Not for me, not on your life.

“There were three other folks, and we each had a thirty-minute session. They put their hands on me while Crystal talked a bit and felt my head. She was touching what she called ‘Consciousness Centers.' I'm not sure what I was supposed to get out of it. She
said
it would trigger memories, associations, and let my mind float. I can confidently tell you that nothing of mine floated.”

“You didn't get anything out of it?”

“Nothing. She said I could talk, say whatever I wanted, sing, moan, whatever. All I could think was that my stomach probably looked even bigger lying on my back. And I worried about rolling off the table, which was not meant for a gal of my proportions. When we did the others, two of them swore they had the sensation of floating, and felt freer at the end of it.”

“Did
they
say or do anything?”

She colored faintly. “The . . . uh . . . the one fellow got an erection.” She giggled with a girlish smirk. Her smile died. “And one woman said some personal, painful stuff, things I don't think she should have shared with strangers.”

I was curious about who that was, but knew Patricia well enough to not ask. She is a thoroughly nice person, and
doesn't gossip. As the overweight daughter of a once-wealthy family, she had put up with a lot of mean-girl behavior in social circles and at private school.

“It almost sounds like hypnosis,” I mused.

She sipped her tea and put down the china mug on the trestle table. She gazed out the window over the sink, which looks out on the woods. “I don't understand what the others got out of it that I didn't.
They
felt better afterward, lighter, freer. Crystal booked them for private sessions. I felt like I'd missed out on something.”

“Don't think there's something wrong with you. If it was a form of hypnosis, some people are easier to hypnotize than others, and I've heard that some report what they think the hypnotist wants or expects to hear. It's not you, it's them. Did you go again?”

She met my gaze and rolled her eyes. “No
way
. She wanted three hundred dollars for a private session.”

Three hundred dollars, and she said she could do four a day. That would be twelve hundred in one day, potentially. I chewed on my lip. “I'm worried about Emerald. She has shut me out, and I think I'm being shunned at Crystal's command.”

“Emerald is a tough nut,” Patricia said. “She'll be just fine.”

I shook my head, not sure she was right. Em had been through a lot in the last year, and perhaps it was all crowding in on her now. Besides, I was more concerned with the effects of it all on Lizzie.

Patricia was called into the taping session. She was, it seemed, a calming presence to Roma. In truth, many singers do better with a live audience, and I didn't fault Roma for that.

I was finishing up some muffins for Patricia to take back to the bakery when I heard a vehicle outside. I went out to greet Hannah and her parents at the door off the butler's pantry, the only one we could get the motorized wheelchair through. Her parents saw her settled in the kitchen, and Mrs.
Moore was kind enough to ask if there was anything I needed. I overwhelmed her with a lengthy list and a fistful of cash. She laughed when I demurred, realizing what an imposition it could be, and said she loved grocery shopping. She bid a fond farewell to her daughter, the light of her life and headed off to shop at the Aldi and Hobby Lobby in Batavia.

We sat at the table and I made more tea, poured some, and told Hannah about my experience the previous evening. She was horrified and frightened for me, but then said, “See, I told you that you live an exciting life!”

“That kind of excitement I can do without. Anyway, Watson, what have we discovered?”

“Some interesting stuff.”

Becket wandered downstairs, wound around my legs, then leaped up on Hannah, trying to find room to sit on her tiny lap. They managed to find a way to be comfortable, and she stroked his fur, picking at mats with her slim fingers, while indicating her laptop, on the table. “Fire it up, Sherlock, and I'll
show
you what I've discovered. I've made some notes, too, in a document file.”

First there was information on Consciousness Calling. Hannah had bookmarked their website for me. It was indeed a franchise listed as a therapeutic health-care business. While emphasizing the spiritual nature of their company, they claimed that what they actually did was holistic healing, motivational training, and “teaching people to be happy.” I didn't know you could teach folks that.

All the photos on the website showed shops with a teal banner that proudly proclaimed them to be Consciousness Calling businesses. There was nothing like that on Emerald and Crystal's shop, not even a sign in the window. I shared what I was thinking with Hannah. “I wonder if Crystal even has a legitimate franchise, without that branding.”

“Maybe you can take that up with Aimee Jollenbeck.”

“Do you happen to have an address?”

“I do,” Hannah replied. “And I also know where she works. She's a cleaner at the Methodist church,
and
she's Helen Johnson's stepsister.”

“Wow,
that's
a surprise. Helen was at the meeting last night.”

Hannah ruffled Becket's fur and he took exception, jumping down. “Maybe she was gathering intel, spying for Aimee.”

I smiled at my Watson's vivid imagination. However, she had been right more than once about things, and perhaps she was now, too. “I'll pay a visit to Ms. Jollenbeck,” I said, and wrote down her address, which was in an unfamiliar section of town.

The huge knocker on the front door banged, and I excused myself and scooted out to answer it. There was my knight in shining armor. “Dewayne! Virgil said you'd be stopping by.” I looked over my shoulder, closed the door behind me, grabbed his wrist, and led him to the edge of the terrace. “He told me who you are, too,” I said, searching his dark brown eyes. “I'm sorry if I seemed hesitant last night.”

He touched my shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “You had just been run off the road, and I charged up in a big old truck. You were right to be wary.”

His round face was split by a ready grin, teeth slightly yellow, eyes a bit bloodshot; it was the face of an honest man. “Thank you. I did appreciate the help last night, and you were so calm. It made everything easier.” I paused a beat, then asked, “What was Virgil like when you first met him?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Aw, no. No
way
. You'll have to discover Virgil Grace for yourself. I have the four-one-one on you two; he's nuts over you. Never seen him like this, not even when he first got engaged to Kelly.”

I stayed silent; any mention of Virgil's ex-wife was dangerous ground for me. I never mentioned her by name, and tried not to criticize her. That was between them.