Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (4 page)

Pish talked about banking a lot, but much of what he said was beyond me. He talked about “regulatory burdens,” “syndicated loans” and “sticky deposits” (which sounded like something to be handled with an SOS pad, to me) along with other such junk about which I knew little. I’m not stupid, just bored by the whole thing. My dear, dapper friend is a passionate defender of diversity in the banking industry and has said, in his serious moments, that the history of small- town America has often times been the history of its locally owned bank. He was very
It’s a Wonderful Life
about it.

“I saw Isadore this morning,” I said to Janice, letting my gaze roam over the store to see if there was anything new I just had to have. “She’s trying to find a job.”

“She’s cooperating with the Feds, but she still can’t work at the bank, not after what she did,” Janice said, her expression serious for once. “They’ve got a professional in there right now doing the work while they look for someone local. If Isadore gets out without being prosecuted, she’ll be lucky.”

After a moment of silence, I got down to the reason I was there, which was to pick up a quirky piece for the smoking pit I was devising to keep people from smoking in the castle. In an outdoor corner just off the terrace I had built, with the help of Gordy and Zeke’s labor, a graveled area with a few wrought iron tables and some ashtrays would make a little smoking pit. Janice brought out the piece we had spoken of on the phone.

“It’s perfect!” I said. It was a papier mâché tombstone. Inscribed on it in gothic lettering was:
Jimmy knew what would happen if he smoked. His doctor said, “Coffin.”

“Speaking of which, when are you going to pick up the casket?” Janice asked.

“I’ve got Zeke and Gordy coming out the day before the party to pick it up.”

I paid her and we parted ways. I carried the lightweight tombstone out to the car and put it in the trunk, hoping the trunk lid would stay closed; it had a fifty-fifty chance betweeen locking tight and staying that way for the next year, or flying open at an inopportune moment. Just as I heard the
snick
of the latch catching, a sloppily dressed middle-aged woman strode toward me, her flyaway hair, back in a tight ponytail, fluttering in wisps on the breeze.

“You!” she shrieked, a string of spittle landing on my blouse as she pointed at me. “You and your highfalutin friends! You’re oughta be ashamed of yourself, bringing people like that gypsy and that . . . that
man
to our town! Everything was fine until you came, and now it’s awful. Go home!” She then strode away at a furious clip.

I stood on the sidewalk, mouth open, staring at her retreating backside. “Crazy!” I muttered. “This town is freaking loony tunes!” I grabbed some kind of note off the windshield of Shilo’s car, crumpled it up, and stuck it in my purse, then got in and headed back to the castle, troubled by the confrontation. What the heck had I done to deserve that kind of treatment?

At the castle, I parked the car in the empty parking area and frowned; no one was there, and that meant no one was working. The party was in just a week, and I needed to get stuff done as quickly as possible. It was all turning out to be much more expensive than I had anticipated, so I needed to get moving on finding a buyer for the castle before I bankrupted myself.

The big oak doors opened easily; as always, the squirt of WD-40 added to the hinges was the cheapest fix I had found for any problem in the castle. But when I opened the doors and entered, it was not to silence but to the gentle strains of Satie’s
Gymnopédies
soaring through the cavernous great hall. I stopped, eyes closed, overwhelmed by the lovely sound, violins and harp. Tears welled in my eyes as the ache of missing Miguel ate into my heart. I sank down on the stairs and let the music flow through me.

Miguel and I had made love to
Gymnopédies
one long, lazy rainy October Sunday in New York. Slow, passionate, sweet, soft, fulfilling; it had been magic. We slept together in a heap, bedcovers tossed around us, water streaming down the window; when we awoke, I restarted the CD and we made love again. I never felt so beautiful as when I was making love with Miguel.

The following day, he had died in a horrific highway accident while driving to a photo shoot in Vermont. It had been awful, the worst thing I had ever experienced, and it still haunted me. I had been trying to ignore it, trying to silence the weeping in my soul, but the next day would be the eighth anniversary of his death.

“Merry?”

I looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. The owner of the gruff voice was Virgil Grace; he stood in the doorway watching me, his gaze troubled. The music finished and I stood, trying to smile. “That music . . . it makes me think of Miguel. I was missing my husband.” At that moment, Copland’s “Hoe-down” came on, the rambunctious, energetic strains filling the great hall and the clicking beat of the woodblock percussion echoing from the ceiling. The contrast was absurd, and I couldn’t help it—I laughed—a little wildly, I must say.

“Merry?” That was Pish, and he emerged from the hallway toward the kitchen. “I
thought
I heard you!” He stopped and cocked his ear. “Isn’t it
grand
? I picked up the last bits and bobs I needed in town and
just
finished installing the music system for the party!” He charged for me, grabbed the crook of my arm in his, and we did a hoedown, twirling in abandon on the marble floor. Shilo darted out, having followed Pish, and she grabbed Virgil, who did not comply so readily, though he allowed himself to be hauled around by my slim and vigorous friend until the last, triumphant
duh-duh-duh!

Panting, we laughed and I hugged Pish to me, tears still streaming down my face. Thank heaven for wonderful friends. I’d be
so
alone at the castle without them. I shook my clothes into place and turned toward Virgil. “I’m assuming you came here for something other than a barn dance?”

He just stood and stared at me wiping the last of my tears from my cheeks with my sleeve until I felt a little uncomfortable. There was something in his eyes, dark and shadowed by his thick brows, something that disturbed my insides. Maybe it was the vivid reminder I had just experienced of Miguel making love to me, his hands, his body, his breath warm on my cheek. Virgil’s eyes, like Miguel’s, were dark, a mellow brown like milk chocolate, though in almost every other way the two men were so very different. Or were they? Something to ponder.

He shook himself and blurted out, “I, uh, the federal agents want Mr. Lincoln to call them. They tried calling his cell, but—”

“Let me guess; it didn’t go through. We seem to be in this weird cell-tower dead zone,” I chirped. “It’s only when I really want to make a call that it doesn’t work.”

Pish and Shilo looked back and forth between us, and Shilo got this funny secretive smile on her face. Pish said, “What on
earth
could they want now? I
just
spoke to them an hour ago, and we were good to go, I thought.” He headed off to the kitchen.

“Want a cup of coffee, Virgil?” I asked to cut the zinging tension. I retreated to the kitchen, assuming Virgil would follow, and he did.

Becket sat on the kitchen table, against all health codes and my remonstrance to the two guilty parties, Pish and Shilo, who both constantly let him in. When I first got Uncle Melvyn’s ginger tabby to move back into the castle—he had been wandering the woods since my uncle’s death—I found that the tag on his collar had a paper insert that slid out and unfolded in accordion pleats. Pish and Shilo had it open on the table, spread out on a pad of paper. Pish’s neat handwriting was evident in a list he was creating from the cat tag enclosure. He finished something up as I entered and gave me a bright smile. “I think we’ve got it, sweetie.”

“You’ve cracked the code?” I put on a pot of coffee.

“Perhaps. . . . Could it truly be as simple as being a list of the trees we need to follow to find his hidden loot?” Pish asked me.

“Maybe we’ve been overcomplicating it all along.” Given that we had been investigating the Latin names and trying to find some kind of cipher in the list, that was likely. I explained the list to Virgil as I looked over Pish’s work. I’d have to talk to my friends about it later.

“Shall we move into the parlor? I’m not supposed to let Becket sit in here,” I said, glaring at Shilo and Pish, who looked innocent and slightly hurt.

“I’d better call the agents,” Pish said, retreating to the sitting area near the fire, where the best landline phone was hooked up.

“And I’m doing laundry,” Shilo said, melting away, her vanishing act being one of her gypsy tricks, as she called them.

So I was stuck with an uncomfortable Virgil Grace for a half hour as we chatted about his mother, Gogi, and her work at Golden Acres, and how the case against Dinah Hooper was shaping up. He left with an obvious sense of relief, and I stormed off to clean something with the uneasy feeling that I was using work to replace something more fun.

The next morning I awoke knowing it was going to be a tough day.
Eight years ago today
 . . . those were the first words I heard in my brain. But too many anniversaries had passed with me holed up and crying all day, drying my tears on a soft old shirt of Miguel’s. That was not helping me progress with life, and I was not going to do the same now that my life had changed so dramatically in every other way.

Instead, I got moving with renewed determination to get the castle cleaned up and back on the market, with “word of mouth” being the most likely way I was going to sell an eighteenth-century mill baron’s folly, a castle too big even for the hundreds of acres it was set upon. As usual I was first up, so I put the coffee on to brew and let Becket out the front door to do his business. He preferred au naturel to the litter box I had so kindly provided for him. Something caught my eye, and I stepped out onto the terrace, as I had taken to calling the wide flagstone patio that lined the front of the castle and wrapped around on one side.

“Blast! What the . . . ?”

All of my carefully placed and potted planters had been dumped, dirt all over, fall chrysanthemums ripped out and torn up. I wrapped my housecoat around me, and as Becket followed me, curious, I circled to see if there was more damage. Spray painted along the side of my beautiful, mellow gold stone castle were the words
Go Home!

Chapter Four

“I
T’S TOO BAD,”
Virgil said, arms crossed over his manly chest. “It’s really too damn bad.”

“Too
bad
?” I screeched, ready to tear my hair out at his casual choice of words. Someone had spray painted my castle! “Too bad? That’s all you can say about the defacement of a beautiful landmark?” Pish didn’t help much. He snorted even as I made ineffectual snuffling noises of fury. Why did my interactions with the sheriff amuse him so? “I called
you
to investigate,” I said to the sheriff, shivering in the cold wind that whipped around us as we stood staring at the defacement.

“I will certainly do that. It sure seems that you’ve made someone mad. Can you think who that might be?”

I sighed and went over the list in my mind. Junior Bradley, the former zoning commissioner I had exposed as incompetent and lacking in the appropriate education, despite his claims to the contrary? Isadore Openshaw, who likewise had lost her job and might be facing federal prosecution because of me? Simon Grover . . . well, likewise on the federal prosecution if he didn’t toe the line from now on. “You know all the obvious suspects.” I suddenly remembered my tense confrontation from the day before, the angry woman who had told me to go home. I told the sheriff about it and he wrote down my description. “She was dressed in sweatpants and a sweater and had her wispy hair up in a ponytail.”

“Sounds like half the women in town,” he said. “Except for you,” he added, looking over my DKNY jeans and Igigi Ishiko teal wrap top, gorgeous but practical.

“There is no reason to look slovenly, even in Autumn Vale!” I said huffily.

He let that go without comment, but there was a smirk there as he eyed the cleavage-baring décolletage of the top. “I think you ought to just stop making people mad.”

I hopped from foot to foot, getting colder as we stood. Pish, who had gone inside, came back out with a gray pashmina that I wrapped around my shoulders, giving him a silent thanks. I turned back to the sheriff, and more calmly said, “That’ll be a lot easier if I can just get the cooperation I need so I can sell this behemoth and go back to New York.”

The smirk died and he nodded, eyeing the damage. “Merry, I’m not suggesting this as a police officer, but as a . . . as a friend.” He met my gaze. “I think some people in town are afraid of your plans for the castle.”

“What, you mean like selling it to someone who can make it a hotel or an inn and actually bring some much needed jobs and tourists to your weird little burg?”

He shrugged, his expression stony, his jaw hard and jutting.

I had gone too far and I knew it, especially since I truly liked Autumn Vale and
most
of the people in it. I had no defense, except that I had awoken in a sad and weepy mood and the vandalism had sent me over the edge. Wind whipped around the edge of the castle and I hugged myself. “They can’t have it both ways, Virgil. This says, ‘Go Home!’” I said, pointing at the offending graffiti. “But I don’t have a home and won’t unless I can sell the castle and get out of here.”

Virgil, his thick brows knit, watched me with a considering stare. “I thought you liked it here. I thought you liked the people.”

“I do. You
know
I do. I love your mother, Binny, Janice, Hannah, Doc, Zeke, Gordy . . .” I eyed him, left him off the list, then sighed and closed my eyes in weariness. “Everyone! But I can’t let myself love this place. I just can’t afford to keep it.”

Jack’s Smart car bounced up the lane and pulled to a stop next to Virgil’s black and white. Like a clown car, it disgorged its passengers: Cranston, Zeke, Gordy, and the driver, McGill. They trooped up to stand beside us and stare at the damage.

Cranston, his face red with anger and his hands on his hips, said, “This is atrocious. Sheriff, what are you going to do about this?”

For an answer, Virgil opened his car trunk, pulled out a camera and took photos of the damage. There wasn’t a lot more he could do, I realized as I calmed down. There were no tire prints on the newly cleaned drive, and there was no way of knowing if there were fingerprints or other evidence. The culprit or culprits had not left spray cans or anything else behind.

I had regained my equilibrium by the time Virgil was done and thanked him before he left. Cranston, Zeke, and Gordy promised to set to work on cleaning up the damage. Because the stone was so dense and hard, we hoped the fresh paint might come off with little evidence left. Zeke and Gordy had a surprisingly good knowledge of spray paints and assured me this was not professional grade, but cheap, watery stuff; we apparently were fortunate that the graffiti artist had not cared enough to buy a better grade of spray paint. I didn’t ask how they came about their knowledge of the right paint to permanently deface stone walls.

Gordy’s uncle had a power washer he used to clean stalls and pens that would get a lot of the paint off, so they left in Shilo’s car to pick it up. Shilo went off with McGill to take his mother to some doctor’s appointment and then on to meet someone for a home viewing. McGill’s business, Autumn Vale Realty, was only part of his professional repertoire, since there was not enough business to make it his sole avenue of income, but he was still a darn good real estate agent.

Pish and I retired to the library to work on the guest list for the party. There were a million details to coordinate, and ten million lists on the go. The library was one of the rooms I wanted to work on but hadn’t yet had the time, beyond a good cleaning. Being a turret room, there were a lot of windows, so the bookcases were lined up on the walls that backed the ballroom. My uncle had left a lot of the books on the shelves, mostly classic literature and poetry, and the rest of the furniture had been left in place. There was a mahogany library table in the middle of the room that we were using as a desk for our planning, and we had our lists and sheets of ideas spread out on its maroon leather surface.

I had tentative yeses from lots of folks, but a few who I wanted to see at Wynter Castle had been elusive, so I was amazed and overjoyed when one that we had not yet gotten to actually called
me
. The executive secretary for Percy Channer, of Channer Hotels International, called and told me her employer was interested in my castle. Would I speak with him?

I said yes, of course, and waited for a few minutes. The bluff, businesslike boom of Percy Channer’s voice was music to my ears. This was the first real interest I had gotten, and it could lead to something.

“Miss Wynter? Understand you’ve got a castle for sale!”

“I do. It is an amazing opportunity for the right buyer, a true one-of-a-kind American castle, built by my ancestor, a mill baron, pristine and in practically original condition. We’re planning a showcase party before Halloween here in upstate New York to let potential investors or buyers have a good look at the castle and property. We would love to have you as a guest, Mr. Channer.”

There was silence for a long minute, then he said, “I’m trying to locate you on a map, Miss Wynter. Am I right in thinking you are near the town of Ridley Ridge?”

“Yes, though Autumn Vale is closer.”

“But Ridley Ridge
is
close by.”

“We’re about fifteen miles from there. Do you know the area?”

“I’ve traveled through many times. My son went to Cornell, which you’re close to.”

“We’re chartering some executive buses and an Escalade limousine for those who wish to come from New York City but don’t want to drive.” It was cheaper to hire land transportation than to buy plane tickets, though it was certainly a long drive.

“I’ll find my own way, Miss Wynter. Could you e-mail my executive secretary with the directions and details?”

When I hung up I was excited, but oddly disheartened. Selling was becoming a real possibility now, with Channer showing interest. Several “castle” hotels exist in the United States, like Castle on the Hudson, Landoll’s Mohican Castle, and Oheka Castle, but whoever bought Wynter Castle with that in mind would have a big project on their hands. However, it could end up being the jewel in their crown if they had the vision.

Pish was watching me, and I looked over at him across the broad library table. “He’s interested,” I said. “And I don’t know whether I’m more pleased or depressed.”

We went on to formalize more lists and estimate the food and wine we’d need to keep about fifty people, give or take, happy. It wasn’t the only party we’d be having, and probably wouldn’t be the most successful. It was, in essence, a trial run, and that’s why I was nervous about Channer’s call. We hadn’t planned on hitting any of the big-time guests until the next go-round, when we knew what we were doing. But I couldn’t exactly refuse Channer, not when he’d asked to come. Hey, maybe he’d love the place so much he would bid big enough that I could offer Cranston a buyout.

By the end of the day, thanks to Cranston, Zeke, and Gordy, we were back to where we were the day before, though no further.

That evening, Pish, Shilo, and I had a quiet dinner together in the parlor at a low table in front of the fire. We made a toast to the memory of Miguel Paradiso. He was gone but would never be forgotten in the hearts of those who knew and loved him so deeply. Especially me. I cried myself to sleep, then dreamed of him all night.

The next day was going to be a muffin-baking and delivery day again, so I set my alarm, but it never had a chance to wake me up. Instead, the deep
bong-bong
of the doorbell and repeated hammering rousted me from bed. I tripped over Becket as I scooted down the stairs, bleary eyed, and to the door, which I flung open, yelling, “Yes? What is it?”

A uniformed man in sunglasses stood at the door, and asked, “Is this the Wynter residence?”

I squinted to clear the sleep from my eyes and, shivering at the cold wind coming in the door, looked up at him. It was a frosty upstate late October morning, dew heavy on the grass, a chill wind coming through the open door. “Yes, I’m Merry Wynter. Who wants to know?” Was he UPS? Or the Feds?

The fellow stepped back and indicated a dark-windowed limousine idling in my drive. “Mr. Percy Channer would like to know if this is a convenient time for him to look over the castle?”