Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (10 page)

I went up to my office, the one in which Pish and I had spoken to Virgil the night before. It would eventually become a storage closet, being too small for anything else. I mostly preferred working in the library, which was gloomy but would be better once I had the draperies dry cleaned and the windows properly washed. The primary attraction of my uncle’s tiny office was that it had one of the two working landlines in the castle, the other being in the kitchen.

So I spent the morning making calls of thanks to friends and asking if they’d enjoyed the party. Universally, the ones I managed to connect with said they had a good time, and some went so far as to assure me that they were going to rub Leatrice’s nose in the fact that I was now living in and owned an honest-to-goodness castle. I sincerely begged them not to, but I doubt they listened. That part of my life seemed so over, and I didn’t want to even think about Leatrice, much less hear about her.

My next task was to contact those who I thought might actually be interested in the castle as a hotel or retreat venture. That was less successful, as I couldn’t seem to get ahold of anyone and had to leave messages with secretaries, assistants, and, in one case, a wife. That’s about when the phone began to ring off the hook. It started with a call from a TV station in Rochester. I thought it was a joke at first, because the young woman on the other end asked me about my role in the haunted castle murder. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You are the owner of Wynter Castle, right? Merry Wynter? What happened? Was the dead man a guest? Who do you think killed him, if it wasn’t you?”

I got my wits back, said I had no comment at this time, and slammed the phone down. Which then rang again. I couldn’t ignore it, because I had people calling me back. I stared at it for a moment, then picked it up. “Merry Wynter,” I said, with trepidation.

“Hello, Mrs. Wynter. My name is Shawna Potters, and I’m with the
New York Daily News
. I heard about your party, and I’m interested in talking to you about it.”

“Wonderful,” I said, not bothering to correct her misuse of the honorific. So, maybe someone was actually interested in the castle as a real news story! “What would you like to know?”

“I understand that after the party you found a body gruesomely murdered and wearing a grim reaper costume. What did you think when you found it?”

I said, “No comment,” and hung up. Grim reaper? Really? She didn’t ask about the truly gruesome part, that his throat had been cut, probably by a prop from someone else’s Sweeney Todd costume, and that he’d been stuffed in a casket I had thoughtfully provided. It seemed that all the details hadn’t leaked out, and I was not going to fill folks in. From then on it was all junk calls: newspaper reporters, pranks, and cranks. I checked out some social media on my spotty cell reception, and sure enough, word was traveling fast: we were trending, touted as “a place to be seen at Halloween” on Facebook and every other social media platform. Someone had gotten ahold of an online newspaper account—from the
Ridley Ridge Record
, no less—of the dead body being found; given the Halloween tie-in, it was becoming the most forwarded item.

Great. How had people found out so quickly? All of my out-of-town guests had been gone by the time I’d discovered the body. I looked online further . . . Darn! We had already been named one of the top twenty places to see on a blog called Weird Upstate New York. My poor, beautiful old castle! It had been nicknamed the Ghastly Gothic Pile, and a file photo had been used. I knew it was an old picture because there was no ivy on the castle.

I switched on my answering machine so I could weed out the cranks and went downstairs for lunch. A young officer came to the kitchen and informed me that, because of the social-media buzz, there were cars cruising the area back roads looking for Wynter Castle. The only thing saving me from being found, ironically, was the township/county propensity for renaming roads in the area and neglecting to make changes on the maps.

Virgil had borrowed a few police officers from the Ridley Ridge force to take care of gawkers and make sure they didn’t come up my lane and disturb us. I was grateful that the castle was not visible from the road, and I hoped the furor would die down quickly.

Meanwhile, the smoking pit was still off-limits to everyone, and the police had an officer posted there to make sure it
stayed
off-limits. I had Shilo take the poor fellow a cup of coffee and some of the breakfast muffins, then got down to seriously considering what work needed to be done if I was ever going to sell the place and move on. Wynter Castle is magnificent, but I, like other inheritors and/or buyers of gothic monstrosities, was quickly finding out how expensive mansions and castles are to heat, light, and maintain. No wonder Melvyn died virtually broke. The property taxes were paid up for the next year, at least, and there was some money for incidental upkeep expenses, but I just couldn’t keep it. In my more irrational moments, I wept over that fact, but it remained just that: a fact.

So I had to suck it up and figure out how best to market the castle. The conversations I had had last night and on the phone that morning had pointed out how desolate the place still felt. I had done my best with the fabric and decorations to make it feel fuller, but it was still dusty, dank, and virtually unlivable, except for little pockets of sanity created by Shilo, Pish, and myself. My uncle had not been a decorating wiz, so it was some kind of miracle that he had at least done something right in the kitchen.

Pish joined me at the table in the kitchen, and we ignored the ringing phone while I made lists, one enumerating things I still needed to do before I could sell the castle, and another of the more achievable suggestions folks had for me. I ignored many, including Zee’s idea that I should make a dungeon in the cellar so I could rent the place out to S&M enthusiasts. Zee has always seen things from a slightly different angle than anyone else I knew. The only use I was putting the cellar to was its current one, as a wine cellar.

“So, this is what I have so far,” I said, showing Pish my list of things I needed to do.

He put on his close-up glasses and read the list out loud, only complaining once about my terrible handwriting. “One—Rooms not open have to be aired out, furnished at least minimally so people can see them. Two—Exterior gardens still require a lot of work. Three—Zoning needs to be nailed down. The problems with Junior, the former, now-fired zoning commissioner have complicated things. Four—The inheritance needs to be tied up, and if that includes paying off Cranston, we’ll need to figure that out.” He laid the list on the table. “That’s all true,” he said.

“And?” I could tell there was more. He seemed distracted, and it worried me. “Pish, is there anything wrong?”

He shook his head. “No, not at
all
my dear.” He took a deep breath and looked at the list again. “Let me think on this,” he said, tapping it with one finger. “But why don’t you, at the same time, explore options for
keeping
the castle?”

“Are you out of your mind?” I stared at him. He was serious, I could tell. It was a horribly impractical suggestion, especially coming from a financial wizard. “It would never work, Pish. I just can’t keep it. What am I going to do, open a hotel? It would need hundreds of thousands in renovations. Maybe even millions. And I’m not a hotelier; never was, never will be.”

“Maybe a hotel isn’t the
only
option.”

“If you have other ideas, spit them out.”

He reached across and put one warm hand over mine to calm me. “Let me think it over, dearest.
Then
we can talk.”

I eyed him, a little worried at his continuing distraction. “Pish, truly, if there is something wrong, don’t think you’re worrying me, because I can handle it. I’m a big girl. You just seem . . . I don’t know. Distracted. Not quite yourself.”

The doorbell sounded; that loud
gong-gong
sound took a little getting used to, but it was necessary in such a big place. I jumped up and hustled to the front door with Pish trailing behind me. I found Virgil standing on the terrace with Zeke and Gordy watching. “Hey, Virgil,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve thought of some stuff, like . . . I should have told you about Zoey Channer showing up in my woods, and then we think she was maybe at the party. This whole thing is freaking me out, and I was hoping you’d be able to give us an update.”

His expression was grim, and he eyed Pish warily. “Mr. Lincoln, is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Did you hear any of what I just said, Virgil?” My gaze slewed from the sheriff to my friend and back. “Why do you want to talk to Pish? What’s this about?”

Another cop got out of the cruiser and joined the sheriff at the door. Virgil sighed, and said, “Mr. Lincoln, we
need
to talk.”

Pish was silent.

“What is this about, Virgil?” I asked, my concern ratcheting up at the weird vibe I was getting from everyone. “You need to say something, and
now
.”

His mouth twitched and his ears got red. He turned to Pish and said, “I’d prefer to do this somewhere private, but okay. Mr. Lincoln, would you like to tell us about your connection to Davey Hooper?”

Chapter Ten

P
ISH GRIMACED AND
sighed.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked. Both Virgil and the officer remained stone-faced.

“Maybe I’d better speak to the sheriff in private, Merry,” Pish said, eying Virgil with what seemed like trepidation.

“Uh-uh. Nope. No way. You are
both
going to tell me what is going on.” I noticed Gordy and Zeke still watching, goggle-eyed, rakes in hand. I grabbed Virgil’s shirtsleeve and pulled him in, then said to the other officer, “You, come in. Go to the kitchen. We’re all going to have a little chat.”

I put off the talk as I made more coffee and set out a basket of fresh muffins—anything to let Pish have a chance to gather his thoughts. I had no clue what Virgil was talking about, but given how distracted my friend had been in the last twenty-four hours or so, it worried me.

“Enough! Merry, if you insist on staying, then sit down and stay quiet,” Virgil barked. I bristled and was about to retort, but he had already turned to Pish, and said, “Mr. Lincoln, what is your connection to Davey Hooper?”

Ignoring the sheriff’s command to sit down, I watched my friend from my spot at the counter. After a moment of silence, I opened my mouth to speak, but Virgil sent me a warning glance. This was between Pish and him.

“That’s just it, I
don’t
know him,” my friend said, unhappily. “Or I don’t think I do. But when I saw him—when I saw his face—he looked vaguely familiar. I just don’t know
why
!”

The sheriff exchanged a look with his subordinate, who was taking notes. “You didn’t pull his mask up when you looked at him, correct?”

“No, of course not!” Pish said.

I was getting an uneasy feeling about this, and it put me on the defensive. “Virgil, why does it matter if Pish knew him or not?”

He ignored me. “Mr. Lincoln—”

“Stop
calling
him that!” I exclaimed, pushing away from the counter, my gaze flicking back and forth between the two men. “You were calling him Pish yesterday. Why are you suddenly—”

“Mr. Lincoln, does the Cayuga Correctional Facility ring a bell?” Virgil raised his voice to talk over me, an effective way of getting me to shut up. I glared at his profile, but he ignored me.

Pish started to shake his head, but then stopped and knit his brow. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve been there. But Davey Hooper? I just don’t remember the name.”

“Why would you visit a jail?” I asked him as I sat down across from him at the table. “And why would you remember someone from there?”

He sighed and met my gaze. “Dearest, you remember
Cons, Scams, and Flimflams
?”

“Of course. That’s the book you wrote on financial scams, the scammers, and the victims who fall for them,” I said, pretty much quoting the press release blurb. Becket had followed us into the kitchen, and I was agitated enough that I didn’t shoo him out and even let him jump up on the long worktable.

Pish turned to Virgil, his manner calm and his eyebrows raised. “I went to Cayuga—as well as several other facilities all over the country—to interview men and women incarcerated for financial cons. It was research for my book.” He sat back in the Windsor chair—one of the mismatched set I used in the kitchen—crossed his legs, and tilted his head. “Are you telling me I actually interviewed that young man?”

Virgil nodded. “It’s on record.”

My friend shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the tension I could feel radiating from him. “All right, so I interviewed him.”

The deputy, who sat just beyond Virgil, jotted down some notes.

“Did you recognize him? Was he here to met you?” Virgil asked. He leaned forward and continued, “Did you talk to him, Mr. Lincoln?”

“No, no, and no,” Pish said, a hard note in his voice. I only ever heard that when he was angry and being very blunt. “Sheriff, I interviewed over
two hundred
scammers for the book as well as hundreds of their victims. I may have notes on my conversation with Mr. Hooper, and I can find them for you if you want—in my New York condo, of course, not here—but I did not see him nor did I speak with him last night.”

“Is that the story you’re going with?” Virgil said.

I was astounded at his insinuation that my friend was lying and leaped to my feet, startling Becket. “That is enough, Virgil Grace. This interview is over. Pish, you are going to call your lawyer and you’re not going to say another word until you speak with him.”

“Merry, sit down,” Pish said, that hint of steel still in his voice. “I do not need you to mother me like you do Shilo.”

I looked over at him, hurt.

“I’m sorry, my
darling
,” he said more gently, reaching out and touching my arm. “I know this frightens you; it does me, too. But you need to calm down. I can take care of myself.”

I did as he said.

“I do not take Sheriff Grace for a fool,” Pish continued, eyeing the man. “And only a fool would think I would kill the fellow when I had no motive. I don’t even remember him. Something about his face—the jawline or his mouth—looked vaguely familiar, but that’s all.”

“Does it happen so often, then?” Virgil said, watching Pish.

“Does
what
happen so often?” I asked, frowning across the table at the sheriff.

Virgil glanced at me, but his gaze returned to Pish. “Mr. Lincoln, do you get sued for sexual harassment so often that you don’t even remember the men who sue you?”

I gasped.

Pish’s eyes widened and there was a subtle change in them. Now he remembered Davey. I could tell that, but Virgil wouldn’t understand his expression as I did.

“Ah, so
that’s
who he is. Was. His last name wasn’t listed as Hooper, though, was it?”

Virgil said, “No, he was David Isaac Smith. Hooper is Dinah’s last name by her second husband, but Dinty and David had their father’s last name, Smith. They used Hooper, but it wasn’t their legal surname.”

“
That’s
why I didn’t make the connection when you said his name,” Pish said. “You must realize that a dead body, with his throat slashed and wearing a Lone Ranger mask . . . well, it doesn’t make a good visual cue for the living man.”

The young police officer was scribbling madly, his whole face red.

Virgil’s expression was blank, and I couldn’t tell anything from it, not if he believed my friend or didn’t believe him. “So, I repeat . . . do you get sued so often you don’t even remember who sued you?”

“You have no right to speak to him like that,” I said, my voice controlled but trembling.

“Merry!” Pish’s tone held warning. He gave me a speaking look, and his expression assumed a professional blankness, very much like Virgil’s. “Remind me of the details, Sheriff, if you please.”

Virgil looked down at his own notebook, now open flat on the table in front of him. “The complainant said that during the interview you attempted to touch him inappropriately. He claimed that you suggested that when he got out of prison, he might like to come to New York and stay in a fancy condo in Manhattan.”

My friend’s expression hardened into distaste. I was reeling from the information, but he calmly said, “I remember now. It was ridiculous, as there was a guard present the entire interview. The fellow filed the complaint after attempting to blackmail me with his spurious claims.”

“I didn’t know about this.” I watched his expressive face, his mouth twisted in a grimace from the memory.

He turned to gaze at me fondly. “I don’t tell you about sordid details, my dear. You’ve had enough to deal with in the last eight years or so. This has happened twice in my life.” He turned back to Virgil, a subtle change in his demeanor that troubled me, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. “I have nothing to hide, Sheriff. I’m open about my life, and I’m relatively wealthy. Some see that as an invitation for chicanery. I reported him for the blackmail attempt, which is why he tried to sue me. I say ‘tried’ because the suit was dismissed, and the fellow was warned that another nuisance suit would land him in trouble or delay his release. I had the impression he had been a thorn in the prison warden’s side for some time.”

“So you never gave him money or any other gift?”

Pish stayed silent for a long moment. “I don’t like the tone of this conversation. I think I am done talking, Sheriff.”

It did not escape me that he didn’t actually answer the question, and I was afraid it didn’t escape Virgil, either. His next words confirmed that. “Mr. Lincoln, if you could take my deputy to fetch the costume you wore to the party, I would appreciate it greatly.” He then turned to me and added, “Merry, we’ll be taking your gown, too.”

His face didn’t give away anything, and I complied, tight-lipped. They were going to test our clothes for blood.

After, Pish stayed up in his room (which had already been searched as part of the investigation, as had mine and Shilo’s) to work on his current book, as Virgil and his minions spent more time investigating the scene. Eventually the sheriff returned to the kitchen, where I was doing prep work for the next morning’s muffins. As he entered, I kept chopping nuts, my knife flashing in the bright light of the halogen bulb I had put in the pendant over the stainless steel countertop.

Virgil stood near the door. I felt his steady gaze on me. It made me want to shrug my shoulders, anything to get rid of the weird feeling of being watched, but I didn’t.

After a long moment, he said, “Merry, I know you’re mad that I’m investigating Pish.”

I whirled and shook my fist in his direction. “You’re darn right I’m angry! Pish Lincoln is the sweetest, gentlest man you will ever meet, and he is no more capable of slashing someone’s throat than I am!”

His thick eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked pointedly at the knife in my fist. “I have no opinion on this, Merry, believe me. But when I come across a piece of evidence like that, I can’t and won’t ignore it. Someone killed Davey Hooper, slashed his throat in a brutal manner. Until I figure out who, everyone is a suspect.”

I didn’t much like all the grunt work associated with getting the castle ready. I cleaned when I had to, but it didn’t make my day. Unfortunately Pish and Shilo were pretty much the same. We were gradually getting through all the dusting, washing, laundering and scrubbing associated with bringing the castle up to snuff. There was so much else to do, it was slow going. I was just grateful for the inexpensive and enthusiastic outdoor help of Zeke and Gordy, but Pish and Shilo . . . they pitched in for nothing. I had no idea how I was going to repay my wonderful friends for all their help, but I was going to have to come up with something substantial.

Fortunately, I
do
enjoy decorating, and that includes painting: walls, trim, cutting in, everything! There was a lot of it to do if we were going to hold another soiree to try to market the castle. Some of the advice I received from friends who had visited was that any buyer would want to see more finished rooms, so that their imaginations would be sparked by the potential displayed. To that end I was fixing up some of the bedrooms.

My great uncle Melvyn had done work, but it must have been decades ago, and he’d had atrocious taste. Jack McGill insisted that my uncle had had a vision for the castle, but if that was so, it was the vision of a color-blind hippie squatter. One of the rooms was done up in seventies turquoise and yellow with cheap rattan furnishings spray-painted white. It looked like the sunroom in a Florida retirement home. Another was a hideous eighties mishmash of dusty rose and ruffles, and chrome and glass; and a couple of others were all hunter green, burgundy, and faux wood finishes. Horrible!

At least he hadn’t touched the bones of the rooms, though, so we could work from there. Of course, in twenty years someone would likely be complaining about my design esthetic, but I was starting over with some of the best rooms, meaning the turret bedrooms and the luxury suites, particularly the ones that had already been fitted out with private bathrooms. At least Uncle Melvyn hadn’t installed the bane of any decorator’s existence, colored bathtubs and toilets.

Shilo was a willing and energetic participant, so we were beginning that morning in the west turret bedroom, the one that had been painted dusty rose. We were using a glossy white for the trim. Perhaps painting trim doesn’t sound like much work, but picture an octagonal turret room with many windows soaring to ten feet or so, and all the trim that entails. It was a daunting task. Melvyn’s dusty rose mess just ate up all the sunlight in the afternoon, so I had to figure out another color for the walls once we were done with the trim. I had called a designer friend in Manhattan, and he’d asked for photos, for which I had enlisted Lizzie’s help. We had sent him a ton of pictures, not just of the turret room but others as well. He was fascinated, but I explained that I had little money and didn’t want to decorate everything in sight; I just wanted a few choice rooms in which to use the antiques already available to me and needed to paint or wallpaper them on a strict budget.