Much Ado About Muffin (18 page)

Just wondering
,
I texted back.
Gotta go. Getting my car fixed after some jerk tried to run me off the road last night . . . poor Caddy!
I sent a smiley face emoji. She'd probably hear about the incident at some point, I figured, and I didn't want her to worry. There was text silence after that. I hoped she hadn't gotten in trouble for texting during class.

Mr. Hayes came toward me wiping his perpetually grease-stained hands on an orange rag and smiling a gap-toothed grin. “She's settled down some and is happier now,” he said. “But I'll need to have her for a day or two to get the dings out. Or I can replace it—the bumper, I mean.” He nodded and whipped the rag over his shoulder. “Tell ya what: I'll check around for a new bumper—an
old
new
bumper—and maybe it'll be even cheaper than fixing this one. Meantime I checked out the oil pan and gas line, brake fluid, tranny, carb, everything. She's okay, but don't go getting run off the road again,” he said, waggling an admonitory finger at me. “She don't like it!”

“I'll take that into consideration next time a homicidal maniac comes gunning for me.”

He paused and knit his shaggy brows. They were interesting brows, with stray hairs that stuck out at random angles, like a bird's nest. “How about I call your sheriff honey? I can give him a good heads-up on the kind of car it might be. Seen a lot of wrecks in my day.”

I wrote down Virgil's office number and Dewayne's contact information on the back of a receipt and handed it to him, telling him who Dewayne was. “I'd appreciate anything you can tell them.”

I drove back through town and parked on main street. The post office was still closed and crime scene tape circled it. There was a grim-faced fellow in an FBI shirt at the front, and I thought I could see a car at the back, as well as the command center vehicle.

Janice was outside of her shop, fussing with a display of wrought iron patio furniture. A couple went into the Vale Variety and Lunch. Otherwise, on this hot September afternoon, there were few folks on the street. I needed to talk to Emerald alone, and there was no time like the present. She was in her shop—I could see her moving about—and Crystal was nowhere in sight. I locked the car and climbed the steps into Emerald Illusions. “Hi, Em. How are you today?”

She turned from her task, dusting the shelves that lined the wall, and eyed me warily. “I'm fine.”

“How is Lizzie? She wasn't too happy last night.”

“She's fine.” Emerald checked her watch and glanced out the window.

“You waiting for someone?”

“A delivery. It was supposed to be here this morning.”

I plucked one of the Consciousness Calling pamphlets off the table near the window and perused it, then looked at my friend. “I have to admit, I didn't understand Consciousness Calling from last evening's presentation. Maybe you could explain it to me?”

“Crystal says some people aren't ready to receive the message. It takes a certain kind of person to get it.”

“Patricia didn't get it, either, she told me.”

She shrugged.

I sighed and stared. How could I break through to Emerald? “How is your mother doing lately?”

“I haven't seen her in a while. She doesn't understand all of this,” she said, waving her hand around the shop. “She doesn't approve.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. You were mending your fences nicely, I thought.”

“Crystal says we need to cut out of our lives the people who cause us grief or try to pull us down.”

So the CC way of dealing with life was that at the first sign of difficulty in a relationship you cut and run? You'd be left with no one, eventually. I strode to her and grabbed her hand, staring into her eyes. “Em, is that what she's telling you about
me
? That you need to cut me out of your life? I'm your friend and want what's best for you, but I won't stand by and see you going the wrong way.” I knew I had put my foot in my mouth the moment I said it. “I didn't mean that Consciousness Calling—”

“Yes, you
did
,” she said, snatching her hands away and putting them behind her back. “You're like my mother, thinking I can't manage my life and Lizzie's. Crystal understands. All she wants is for me to be happy.”

“Then why is she trying to pull you away from those of us who care?”

“She's
not
!”

“Em, she's got you working back at that sleazy bar, and you're not even seeing your mother. Lizzie's having trouble in school again.”

“And that's all my fault?”

“I didn't
say
that!”

“You
are
saying it. Crystal is right; you interfere everywhere, stick your nose in everyone's business.” She glared at me. “Consciousness Calling and Crystal are the best things that have happened to me in a long time. I finally own a business!”

For which she was working in a bar to pay.

“I'm on my way up, and none of you can see it.” She was quivering with rage. “You're trying to pull me back down. Crystal's right; you're a DTP. Mom, too. You're all
bitter
and want me to stay suppressed so you all can feel better about yourselves.”

I was stunned and angry, but kept a tight rein on my emotions. I found Crystal and the whole Consciousness Calling thing irritating, but it was unfair to take that out on Emerald, who was more impressionable than I had thought. Crystal was manipulating her. At this point I couldn't hit my friend with the full weight of what I suspected, but I
could
take another tack. “Let's not argue. But about the business . . . I notice you're using photocopied Consciousness Calling materials with their logo. Em, I'm concerned. If Crystal is not a proper franchisee, this could all be illegal.”

“Shows how much
you
know,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I've
seen
the contract; it's all legal. She's paying off the franchise fee monthly.”

I was sure I was right, but if I trod too heavily I risked losing Emerald completely.

My pause and silence must have given her some hope. She uncrossed her arms and clasped her hands together as if pleading. “Merry, I know you can't see it, but Crystal is
wonderful! She's given me direction for the first time in my life. With her help I'm going to be rich! I mean,
super
rich, like helicopters-and-private-jets rich. This is just the beginning,” she said, waving a hand around at the shop. “Crystal is going to help me get there. She's misunderstood. You can see that, can't you?”

The dream every con artist sells: easy wealth, riches beyond imagining. “I'm a little curious; what has she said to you about me?”

Emerald's eager expression died. “She doesn't know you. She thinks you're trying to destroy everything she's building here in Autumn Vale.”

“She's labeled me a DTP, isn't that right? Are you supposed to even be talking to me?” I saw the truth in her eyes; Crystal had told her to shun me. “Emerald, you have to know this: my only hope is that you and Lizzie find peace and happiness. If you're truly happy, tell me now.”

She blinked. If this was a hostage situation I'd think she was signaling me—blink once for
Help me
.

“Happiness isn't something handed to you, Merry. You should know that,” she said, in a tight voice. “It's something you work for, hard. Something you
suffer
for. Something that you need to go through tests to get to.”

“Em, no,” I said softly, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Happiness isn't a prize at the end of some gauntlet, where you're battered senseless in the name of getting to a magical goal.”

She had pulled her hand from my grasp but was silent, fiddling with the hem of her pale blue tunic top; the garment was unusual for her, making her look like an acolyte.

“I've thought about this a lot lately,” I continued, watching her eyes. “Happiness is being surrounded by people who love you. Bad things will still happen. People will get sick. You may lose loved ones. But when that happens, the love of your friends and family will keep you sane. I know. That's what
Pish and Shilo did for me when I lost Miguel. Don't let anyone separate you from those people. Lizzie. Your mother. Me.”

She was still silent.

I longed to reach out to her, but I was afraid of scaring her off. At least she was listening. “Em, I've had a lot on my plate in the last year. I worry about money all the time. There have been the awful murders. I don't know what to do with the castle, and if I can't figure it out, I don't know how I'm going to pay the taxes. But what I've found here in Autumn Vale . . .”

I shook my head.
Start again, Merry
.

“What I'm trying to say is, life in Spain was easy. I spent over two months in the lap of luxury with decent people. But what I found instead of happiness was numbness. It was all very nice, but I didn't feel
anything
. Happiness ebbs and flows. Sadness invades. Pain happens. Happiness is being with the people you care about and who love you, even amidst the worry, tension, and pain we all live through.”

Crystal entered and eyed us. “Merry. Are you here for a session?”

“No, I was talking to my friend.”

We had an awkward conversation about the town and the weather as I examined her, trying to decide if what I suspected was true. I thought of how Aimee had stiffened up, how she had seemed so wary and had refused to criticize Crystal or confirm much of what I suspected. She had hinted, alluded, and skirted around interesting accusations, though.

Aimee was scared, and it occurred to me why. I already knew Crystal's semihypnosis, likely learned at the CC seminar in San Diego, caused some people to tell things they wouldn't otherwise. Patricia had confirmed that. I was willing to bet that Aimee had told Crystal things she shouldn't have. The other possibility was that she had done something in San Diego at the conference that only Crystal knew about, and of which Aimee was ashamed.

It was all I could do not to tell the woman off, but I had plans. At the end of it all Emerald may not be speaking to me, but if I got rid of Crystal and saved Emerald from eventual humiliation or worse, it would be worth it.

I headed back to Wynter Castle. As I pulled up to my usual spot in the parking area, Esposito came out of the castle hauling Roma with him, her arm tightly clasped in his hand. I got out of my car as Pish rocketed out of the castle after them, phone up to his ear.

“What's going on?” I asked, racing to Pish's side.

Pish put the phone against his chest. “They're taking Roma in for more questioning.”

“But they questioned her already.”

“They've found something, but they won't tell me what.”

“
Found
something?”

“In her clothes that they took away, or
something
. I don't know; they're not saying. I'm on the phone with Stoddart, and then I'm calling a lawyer friend in New York.”

Roma looked over to me, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I didn't do anything. Merry, please, believe me!”

Esposito, his expression dead, said, “We're taking her to the command center for further questioning.”

“So she's not under arrest?”

There was warning in his dead eyes. “Not at this time.”

We could tell him to release her immediately. She didn't
have
to answer more questions. But without knowing what they had on her, I hesitated; to protest could force Esposito's hand and make him place her under arrest. I didn't say a word as he put her in a car and drove away.

I
don't like
Stoddart, Pish's last boyfriend and a regional something or other in the financial crimes investigation division of the FBI. They had met almost a year before during the federal investigation of the Autumn Vale bank, and hit it off. He was snarky, superior, smug, and a bunch of other stuff, but Pish liked him a lot, so the guy must have had some redeeming qualities. And he must have had some lingering feelings for Pish; even as Roma's high-powered attorney, renowned for getting clearly guilty people off the hook, was ensuring her silence and release from questioning, Stoddart found out what it was they had on her.

It was almost midnight by the time we got everything sorted out. Roma was asleep after taking a sedative with a glass of merlot. I wouldn't suggest that, but nobody asked me. Pish and I were in his sitting room, since he was e-mailing and messaging and who knew what else. I'd made tea and brought up two mugs with a wedge of double cream
Brie, cranberry preserves, and some water biscuits. When Pish is anxious he forgets to eat.

“I still don't know what to think, Pish,” I said about the shocking news of what the FBI had uncovered that made them detain Roma for questioning. “How
did
Minnie Urquhart's blood get on an article of Roma's clothing?”

He shook his head. “Do you think they're telling the truth?”

I put one hand over my heart and fluttered my lashes. “I'm shocked you would suggest that the FBI would lie to anyone about evidence they may—or may
not
—have uncovered!”

He didn't even crack a smile at my jest. “You don't really believe Roma murdered Minnie, do you?” he asked, his expression troubled, frown marks etching deep lines under his eyes.

I thought about it. Roma was vain, needy, emotional, high-strung, borderline hysterical at times. She was also talented; I'd heard her sing beautifully. Though she had apparently threatened the music director at her opera company, she was the dramatic type who often said things she didn't mean. Long ago I'd heard her threaten to poison a rival and take a dagger to her own breast; her threats were operatic in their fervor and were
not
followed by violent actions.

Similar was her dramatic scene when she flew down the stairs, letter opener in hand, threatening to kill Minnie. It was reckless and stupid, but still, I didn't believe she intended to hurt Minnie, nor did I think she'd killed her. Reluctantly I shook my head; I say
reluctantly
because I didn't have another single idea of who had done it, using, apparently, Roma's letter opener. Plenty of folks were angry with Minnie, but to kill her using the letter opener? “No, Pish, I don't believe Roma did it. But if not her, then who? And Minnie's blood . . .” I shook my head in puzzlement.
“Esposito is too careful an agent to lie about something like that.” Even though the police can and will lie to you to get a confession or for other reasons. They just can't lie in court.

“Stoddart got some more information for me,” Pish said, turning in his chair away from his laptop. “He says that the medical examiner who did the autopsy doesn't believe the letter opener made the wound that killed her. He thinks there was another weapon.” He took some Brie on a water biscuit, carefully dressed it with cranberry preserves, and ate.

“That's important.” I pondered the possibility of two weapons, and perhaps two assailants.

He nodded, brushing crumbs from his linen shirt. “And if there was another weapon that killed her, why use the letter opener at all?”

“To implicate Roma. It was someone who had either witnessed the event here, or heard about it.”

“Which doesn't narrow things down at all,” he said. “Everyone in Autumn Vale has heard about it.”

We sat gloomily sipping our tea and sharing the Brie. “Are you canceling the recording tomorrow with Zeke?”

“Roma begged me not to. She's terrified, but she needs this as a distraction.”

“I've been listening in. Her voice is shaky. What's up with that?”

“I don't know, but it's been plaguing her for a while. She's okay, and then suddenly her voice gets this quaver and she can't control it. I had vocal doctors assess her before we left New York, and there's nothing physically wrong with her voice.”

“She's fortunate to have a friend like you.” I thought about it for a long minute. “Maybe ‘
O Mio Babbino Caro
' isn't the right song. Is there anything you can use that shakiness in?”

“Anything worth singing must be sung with clarity and steadiness.” His look became thoughtful. “But you
have
given me something to think about. Perhaps another song. I'll consider it.” He reached across his desk and took my hand, gazing into my eyes. “Do you know how much I missed you while you were gone? I hope you do. You are my muse, my darling, and I'm overjoyed you came home.”

*   *   *

Becket had bounced back to his full vigor, and at three in the morning he decided to start whining about going out. I pointed to the litter pan and threatened to shut him out of my room, which I finally had to do, shoving the litter box out my door into the hallway and him with it. There was enough room for him to roam in the castle without going out in the middle of the night.

But as I made my way to the kitchen in the morning, yawning and stretching, he paced back and forth, walking down the butler's pantry hall and back to me as his yowling got increasingly urgent and distracting. Finally, I'd had enough. There comes a point when a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

I followed him to the back door, picked him up for a long hug, and set him down. “Now, you be back before sunset, buddy, please,” I said, wagging my finger at him while he stared up at me, waiting. “I know you're a big boy and can take care of yourself, but I worry.” I opened the door and he scooted through, running by leaps and bounds toward the forest as if he had an urgent appointment.

The men in my life: always running for the woods. If Virgil was chosen and headed to Quantico and then to wherever he was stationed—I had no doubt he'd be chosen, nor did I doubt he'd make it through the course—we would have a long-distance relationship. We should talk about that. I sighed, returned to the kitchen, and put the coffee on.

I made breakfast, which featured, of course, muffins—chocolate walnut ones this time because I felt the oncoming
need for chocolate. It was good to get back to baking and cooking after being gone so long, but I still didn't feel entirely like I was at home; maybe there was too much up in the air. Roma appeared fragile and weary, but Pish was bubbling with excitement, leafing through some notes and sheet music. He had his laptop and had e-mailed a friend, who sent him some music to use for the day's recording.

“So what piece are you going to do?” I asked looking from my friend to Roma, who picked at her food and sighed a lot. I felt for her. It could not be easy to be a suspect
and
know that you had brought it on yourself.

Pish shook his head. “It's going to be a surprise. As soon as Zeke gets here we'll close ourselves in the library, and I do
not
want to be disturbed. If the boys are going to mow today, could they start with the far field?”

“I'll make sure.” Since my primary goal of the day was to talk to Karl Mencken, I was not worried about that in the slightest, even if they got no mowing done at all.

When Pish left the table to make a phone call in solitude, I watched Roma for a moment, then said, “I'm sorry this is happening to you, Roma.”

She turned her tragic gaze to me. “I don't know what I ever did to deserve all this trouble.”

Well, you threatened to kill a woman with a letter opener and then she died . . . after being stabbed with your letter opener
. I didn't say it, but I sure thought it. “I still can't figure out how the killer got the letter opener. What exactly happened the day you threatened her?”

“I'd had enough. After Minnie's insults I went upstairs and fumed, then just . . . I saw red. I had been humiliated, and I was
not
going to take it. I picked up the closest thing, which was the letter opener—it sat on a little stand on my desk—and when I heard them all talking in the hall I came down the steps, and I guess . . . I
guess
I said I wanted to kill her. I don't remember that. I flew at her in a fury.”

“And what happened to the letter opener?”

“That's what Agent Esposito asked me. I don't know.”

“What did you do with it right then and there?”

She shrugged with a hopeless look. “I don't remember.”

“
Think
, Roma, think back. Put yourself there, in that moment. What were you wearing that day?”

“I had on a red sleeveless silk blouse with a pair of white palazzo pants.”

“Did the police take those clothes away?”

She nodded, her expression aggrieved. “And they're my favorite pants. Irreplaceable!”

Pish had described what happened. “So you tore down the stairs and flew at Minnie,” I said. “What happened then?”

“I guess I slashed at her with the letter opener.”

This was very important. “Roma, did you make contact with her at all? Do you remember?”

“I don't think so. I cut myself on something.”

“Are you sure?”

“There was blood on my hand. I must have!”

It was safe to assume, I thought, that she actually did manage to pierce Minnie's skin with the letter opener; the blood on Roma's hand was Minnie's, not her own, and would have gotten on her clothes that way. In fact, the scab I saw Minnie picking at in the post office when I first got back could have been that healing cut. I would bet the FBI knew that was possible, which explained why they had not charged Roma, nor did they insist on holding her in the face of protestation.

But now the letter opener . . . “You've had the scuffle with Minnie and there is much excitement. Then you're separated. Everyone mills around for a moment, then goes home. Did you take the letter opener back upstairs? Drop it? Throw it? Give it to someone?”

Pish came back in and clapped, rubbing his hands together. “Zeke and the boys have arrived. Time to get down to business.”

I put my hand up, not breaking my gaze from the opera singer. “Roma, concentrate!”

She stared off into space, wrinkling her nose. “I
think
I set it down, maybe on that round table in the middle of the great hall. There was a lot of commotion.”

And that was all I got, but it was enough. Roma and Pish scurried off to the library and I let Zeke in so he could join them to see to the recording.

Roma's misty recollection made one theory possible. Doc told me about Minnie and her penchant for collecting “trophies” from her spats. I would bet dollars to doughnuts that Minnie Urquhart, pleased with the response she had elicited from the emotional soprano, grabbed the decorative letter opener and took it with her. She likely kept it somewhere, her home or the post office, where
anyone
could have seen it. She may even have bragged about it.

I called and left a lengthy message for Agent Esposito about what I had learned, my theory for Minnie's blood on Roma's clothes, and what I had heard from Doc about Minnie's “trophies.” Then I headed outside, where Gordy was already backing the riding mower I had purchased secondhand out of the garage. The other guy was standing with his hands in his cargo shorts pockets, looking sulky.

“You must be Karl!” I said, approaching and holding out my hand. “I'm Merry Wynter. Thanks for helping us out today. Normally Zeke would be doing this with Gordy, but he's tied up with the sound engineering.”

He didn't shake my hand.

“Huh. I could do that, no problem,” he said, scruffing his weedy beard, then tugging at his earlobe, stretching the flesh tunnels. “I know everything there is to know about sound equipment. I'm in a band, you know,” he continued. “I'm probably better than Zeke.”

I was taken aback and examined him. I was offering paid
work, and he was sulking about it? “I rather thought, since you're staying with Zeke and Gordy, that you'd want to help.”

He shrugged, watching Gordy fill the tank from a gas can kept in the garage, and picked at his acne. “Whatever.”

“You must have been shocked when you heard about Minnie being murdered.”

“Crazy!”

“Too bad you had such a nasty fight with her the night before.”

His stance changed, and he stilled for a long moment, casting a glance my way. Then he cracked his knuckles, starting with his pinkie fingers and working through each one.

“I'm sure the FBI agent has asked you about that. What was the fight about, anyway?”

He grimaced, his mouth twisted. “Nothin' much. I used her car without her permission.”