Much Ado About Muffin (17 page)

“We'll work out a trade,” he said, and winked. “Maybe you can set me and your friend up.”

“My friend?”

“Patricia. My kind of woman. She married?”

“She's not.” I had a feeling he was the hunky fellow she was describing when she told me Rusty had hired a couple of new guys. “I don't think you need me to set you up,” I said. “She works at the bakeshop most days starting midmorning and bakes the best cakes and cupcakes I've ever eaten. And I've eaten a lot of cupcakes in my day.”

“Thanks for the intel.” He strode back to his car whistling a cheery tune, tossed his tool kit in, and took off.

I returned to the kitchen and washed up the mugs and plates. Hannah dried as we chatted about the mystery surrounding Minnie's murder, Shilo's behavior of late, and everything else.

“You'll be at the library tomorrow morning, right?” I said. “What day does Brianna usually come in?”

The thing I love about Hannah is I never need to explain anything to the girl. She's so quick on the uptake, it's frightening sometimes.

“She'll come any time I tell her I've got a new batch of entertainment magazines. Mom is getting me some in Batavia today. I could text Brianna to come on in tomorrow morning. What do you want me to find out?”

I chuckled. “I'm going to have to find a new nickname for you. You're far too clever to be a Watson or Hastings.” I sobered and took the dried dishes, stowing them in the cupboards, then sat down at the table. “I need as much as I can get about Brianna, Logan, and Karl. It seems to me that Karl is as likely a suspect as anyone, but I'm getting conflicting stories. The boys told me that Karl said he walked out after a quarrel with Minnie the night before she was murdered, but though I didn't have time to follow up with Brianna last night, she told me that Minnie kicked the guy out. It can't be both. I would like to know what was said, what they argued about, that kind of thing. Do you feel comfortable finding out? I don't want to put you in an awkward position.”

“I'll see what I can find out without tipping her off.”

“Perfect.”

Hannah's parents arrived. We unloaded all the groceries they bought me, then settled up financially, since I owed them a bit more than I had given her. I insisted on giving them gas money, too; it only seemed fair given the huge favor they had done. I hugged Hannah good-bye and they drove away.

This had all gone on long enough, this multidirectional turmoil in my life. Shilo was upset and no one knew why. I was going to get to the bottom of that. Emerald was angry at me, and the rift between Lizzie and her had reappeared, and all because of some fake wannabe swami. Someone had
killed Minnie for whatever reason, and
someone
appeared to be trying to kill me, too; they might—or might not—be the same person.

I had enough. If I was a catalyst, as Doc claimed, I was darn well going to be a catalyst in all directions.

I
t was as
good a time as any to take my banged-up car to the fellow who looks after it for me, a lackadaisical and oddball mechanic named Ford (short for Rutherford) Hayes. He considers cars the greatest invention of mankind, behind only the wheel and fire. On the way I would drop in on Aimee Jollenbeck, who could tell me more about Crystal Rouse, and why she had brought Consciousness Calling to little old Autumn Vale, rather than a larger city.

I sat outside Aimee Jollenbeck's home, a slightly ragged-looking bungalow on a street of other ragged-looking bungalows on the outskirts of town, and wondered how to approach her. I had no right to bother the woman. She might be ill, she might be sleeping, she might wish she'd never heard of Crystal Rouse, or she might in secret be her best friend and behind what felt like a scam, to me: the whole three-hundred-dollar consciousness-clearing exercise.

But I'd never know if I didn't ask.

Feeling like a hapless vacuum cleaner saleslady, I hoisted
my purse like a shield, locked the car, and marched up the weedy walk to the house. I tapped on the aluminum door and waited. I was about to tap again when the inside door creaked open and a woman peeked out.

“Aimee Jollenbeck?” I said, staring through the screen.

“Yeah.” She yawned, scratching her stomach and tugging down her top, a striped multicolored T-shirt she had paired with pajama pants that were patterned with images of hot air balloons. “Can I help you?”

“You don't know me, but we have mutual acquaintances. I believe you're friends with Crystal Rouse?”

She stilled in midscratch. “Who are you? Did Crystal send you?”

Gauging her alarmed reaction, I swiftly said, “Not at all. I barely know the woman, though I
am
friends with Emerald.”

“So what do you want? I don't have anything to say about Crystal.”

“May I come in for a moment?”

“Who
are
you?”

“I'm so sorry; I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Merry Wynter.”

“I've heard about you. You inherited Wynter Castle, right?”

“Yes, I did. I know your stepsister Helen Johnson. She's been out to the castle for tea a few times.”

“Okay. Yeah, Helen.” She yawned. “I don't sleep well, so I was napping, and you woke me up.” She retreated from the door.

Taking that as all the invitation I was going to get, I stepped into the dim interior, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed through the front door. I closed it behind me and turned the lock, then followed her past closed doors down a dark hall to a sunny back kitchen in what was probably an addition to the tiny bungalow. The cooking area
was U-shaped, with a breakfast bar on one end near a tiny dining area.

She entered the cooking space and plugged in an electric kettle. “You drink tea?”

“I do.” I looked up and noticed teapots lining the top of her eighties-style cupboards. My own collection was more elegant, but hers was whimsical. She had a Mother Goose, a mama cat in an apron, a Noah's Ark, an old-style stove, and many more figural teapots. I chatted her up about them, pointing out the ones I liked as the kettle came to a boil and she threw two teabags in a big old Brown Betty, probably the best teapot ever made for actually brewing tea.

She seemed more relaxed. Bonding over teapots will do that to a gal. I examined her as she fixed our mugs, hers a chipped one that said, There's a Chance This Is Vodka. I got a plain pink one. She perched on the other bar stool, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from under an ashtray, and lit one, letting out a long puff of smoke with a satisfied sigh. She glanced over at me as she tapped some ash off her cigarette into the ashtray with a practiced move. “So, what do you want from me?”

“I understand you're involved in the Consciousness Calling, uh . . . group?”

“Was,” she said taking a long drag, and then a big gulp of hot tea.

“I'm not sure I understand anything about it, but I'm concerned about Emerald's involvement, and I'm looking for information. Their website didn't tell me a whole lot.”

“You think she's making a mistake?”

I watched her eyes. She had settled into amused detachment.

“What business is it of yours anyway?” she asked, when I didn't answer.

I thought about that. What business was it of mine to interfere if Emerald was happy with what she was doing?
None, maybe. But of all the regrets I had lately, the most poignant were for the things I had
not
said or done. I couldn't explain that without explaining a hundred other things about me, my life, and coming to Autumn Vale. “Emerald and her daughter are my friends. I've met Crystal and I'm not sure how I feel about her. I'm worried about Em and Lizzie,
especially
since Crystal is living in their house.”

She nodded, pursed her lips, and blew out a stream of smoke as she stubbed her cigarette out. “Let's go and sit in the garden. I want to see if my cats are around.”

The garden turned out to be a weedy patch of grass surrounding by tall cedars that blocked the view of every other yard, though I could hear things: a Weed eater somewhere, a dog barking, a baby crying, someone hammering on something metal. We sat in PVC chairs on a patio stone square at the back of the yard, our tea mugs on a glass-topped table stained with mug rings.

A big tabby male wandered in and sat at the edge of the patio licking himself, one foot pointing up to the sky, as a dainty calico stepped toward him, rubbed her body along him, then headed straight for Aimee and jumped on her lap with no warning.

“So, you and Helen are stepsisters?” I eyed Aimee, who had frizzy blonde dyed hair pulled back in a ragged ponytail and wore outlandish color combinations. Helen was always obsessively neat, her short gray hair groomed, clad in tweed and pearls. Probably slept in a skirt suit. “You don't seem to have much in common.”

“She's my half sister, actually, the result of my dad marrying after my mom died, and having a second family. I don't have a lot in common with them, but Helen and I get along all right. She got me a job at the church, and I appreciate that. It's nice and quiet. I clean, do repairs, and help in the office. When my ex took off, he left everything a mess financially, and the ratfink doesn't pay me a cent. So . . .” She shrugged.

“From what I understand, Consciousness Calling is a franchise business. Did you go to San Diego to look into that?”

“You
have
done your homework, haven't you? Busy little nosy bee.” She had carried her smokes and ashtray out and fired up another from a psychedelic-patterned Bic lighter. The calico took offense, wrinkling her little nose and jumping down, running off into the cedars, from which she glared out at us. “I heard about it from a friend online, so we met at the conference, but I knew damn well I couldn't afford a franchise.”

I thought about my next question. Her expression seemed wary and watchful. “So you met Crystal there, at the conference, and she came back here with you?”

“Not quite. My friend flaked off early—said it sounded like a bunch of hooey, so she went home. I spent the money to go, so I decided I may as well see it through. I met Crystal the first day, and we hit it off; she can be a real hoot when she's had a couple of margaritas. I came home thinking we'd stay in touch on Facebook, through e-mail, you know. A week later she showed up on my doorstep.”

“Why didn't you tell her to take off? Didn't that seem kind of pushy to show up uninvited?”

Her expression was shuttered as she drained her tea mug and set it down with a bang. “Hey, she was fun in San Diego, so I figured why not?” She stubbed out her cigarette, crushing it until it shredded and the filter wrinkled into a wad of stuffing.

I wasn't buying it; there seemed to be an undercurrent of anger in what she said and did. I thought about what she'd said so far. “I went to the information meeting last night. Helen was there. I thought maybe she was checking it out for you.”

Aimee nodded. “I wondered what was going down. Crystal's making a pretty penny off of it, from what Helen tells me.”

“She is. But what happens when she's made everything she can?” Aimee just looked blank. “I don't like how she's treating my friend,” I said. “And I
don't
like what I've heard about how she is laughing behind people's backs about the information she gets from them while they're experiencing her . . . one of those sessions. Sounds like a form of hypnosis to me. Does she actually have a franchise? If she's using Consciousness Calling materials and their name and techniques, she must, right?”

Her plain pale face betrayed some internal struggle. Her gaze flicked away, and she took out another cigarette, lighting it with slightly shaky hands. “Okay, you did
not
hear this from me, but no, she doesn't have a franchise. They wanted ten thousand before you could set up and use the techniques we learned during the conference.”

“Techniques?”

She blinked, took a long drag, and got up, saying, “I need another cup of tea.”

“Aimee, please . . . Can you tell me anything about these techniques? I don't understand why Emerald has turned against me. There's something called a DTP, a downwardtrending person, and Crystal called me that. What makes a Consciousness Calling devotee label someone that? Can you tell me
anything
?”

She stood, holding her mug and looking down into it, for a long minute. Finally, she said, “Wait here. I'll come back out in a few minutes, and I'll tell you
some
stuff if you promise to keep me out of everything.”

She was true to her word. When I left a half hour later, my brain was buzzing like I'd had five espressos and a shot of adrenaline. I now had an idea of what Crystal was up to, but I wasn't sure how to stop it. Aimee hedged and hemmed and hawed her way through much of her story, but she told me enough that I could guess there was worse she wasn't talking about. If I was right, Emerald would be dragged down in
something so nasty that when it was exposed, she'd be lucky if she wasn't forced to leave town, hauling Lizzie away again just as the kid was getting settled into her new life.

I took my car to my genius, Ford Hayes, a funny old dude in overalls who loved cars like some men love the ladies. He was horrified by what had happened to my back end . . . the car's back end, rather. He spent a few minutes crooning over her, stroking her bumper, and telling her it would be all right, then said he could do some of what the car needed right away. Some people would call his place a junkyard, but he called it home, and had the lot neatly laid out, with dirt lanes between areas of junk separated by car manufacturer. He could fix the taillight from his vast array of car parts if I wanted to wait.

Where else was I going to go? When you find a mechanic as good as Mr. Hayes, you let him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

I sat cross-legged in the scrubby dry grass under a spreading chestnut tree (I'm not making that up, though there was no village smithy) and checked my phone. I had missed a few calls and texts, one from Hannah, so I leaned back against the tree trunk, stretched my legs out, and called her.

After salutations, she said, “I talked to Zeke and passed on your message. I guess they were supposed to kick Karl out of their apartment, right?”

“That's what Binny told them; she said she'd take the blame, if they wanted, as their landlady.”

“Well, neither he nor Gordy seem to like him much, but they're too sweet to do it. He said he'd bring Karl out tomorrow to work with Gordy on the grass, if you want.”

“Yes, please. I'll pay them and give the boys supper.”

“I'll let him know. He's coming over to my house later, after work, to help me with my computer.”

I suspect that Zeke has a thing for Hannah. He treated her with reverent solicitude that seemed beyond friendship,
but she had been in love with Tom, Lizzie's father, and even a year after his death I didn't think she'd recovered wholly.

“Have you spoken with Brianna yet?”

“She's at work right now, but she's coming to the library tomorrow morning. Do you want me to handle this end of the investigation?”

I smiled at her eagerness. “That's probably wise. She didn't react well when I asked about Minnie and Karl. I think Crystal's hostility toward me is probably one of the reasons.” I gave her a list of questions to ask, a tangle of ones about Brianna herself, her apparent love interest, Logan, Crystal, and Minnie. “But please, Hannah . . . be careful. There is a killer out there, and there's no guarantee it's not Brianna!”

I then texted Lizzie a quick question: where were they all the morning Minnie was killed? Given that she must have been in class, I was surprised by how quickly the answer came back. She said they were all at the house having breakfast that morning. Cereal and skim milk, if I needed to know, with fruit, thanks to Emerald's new health kick because of Crystal, she added. I jokingly texted back,
poor kid!
, but got a text back immediately that said,
why u want to know?