Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Victoria Hamilton

  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

  “IT’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 origin
al 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?”

  Chapter Five

  PERCY CHANNER? A convenient time? What the . . . ? “I’m not ready for him,” I moaned, hopping from one freezing foot to the other. “He’s supposed to come to the party and have his look then.”

  “Mr. Channer likes to see things when he likes to see them. I would go along with it, ma’am, if I were you. If you turn him away right now, he won’t be back.”

  I was furious, but I’d dealt with his kind of people before and the chauffeur was right. This was business, not pleasure, and I needed to snatch this opportunity and make the best of it. I was happy about one thing; at least the graffiti was gone. I hoped no new crap had been written on the wall overnight.

  Pish joined me at the door, and I quickly explained the situation in an undertone.

  “Merry, why don’t you go get dressed while I take Mr. Channer to the library?” my wonderful friend said. He wore an elegant smoking jacket over his silk pajamas, and was eminently presentable.

  I was grateful it wasn’t Shilo who had come down first, because she likely would have asked him if he wanted his aura read or sung him dirty ditties while he waited. As Pish showed Mr. Channer to the library, I got dressed in a forest green Kiyonna wrap dress—because they were inexpensive and flattering to my body type, I had Kiyonna wrap dresses in all colors—and slipped on some bone pumps and pulled my dark hair back in a chignon. I pinned a cameo at my cleavage and hastily stuck bone-colored enamel stud earrings in my lobes. It took all of five minutes, and then five more for some makeup.

  I descended, put on the coffee, and then girded my loins, so to speak, to go to the library.

  Having dealt with my fair share of eccentric millionaires and the models they married, and armed with the laconic chauffeur’s insight into his boss, I knew I might only have one shot at impressing him with the beauty of Wynter Castle. I was going to have to position it as a diamond in the rough, a blank slate, ready for molding into a highly polished gem. The stark exterior, no swimming pool, no formal gardens or even informal gardens to speak of, would have to be presented as a plus; this was virgin ground, ready for the imprint of a bold investor and brilliant designer. I would appeal to his ego, saying only a man with foresight could take on Wynter Castle and turn it into a finished gem.

  Mr. Percy Channer was a short man, with a bulldog face and no neck to speak of. He was dressed in an expensive suit but with no necktie. I greeted him warmly, asked about his drive from New York, and offered him breakfast.

  “Nah . . . we stopped at a McDonald’s. Love the Sausage McMuffin. But Brooke, my driver, might want some coffee.”

  “I’ll have someone take him a cup of coffee, or he can come in to the kitchen and have a cup in comfort.”

  Pish bustled off to take care of it while I began the tour. I couldn’t get a handle on the man. He followed me willingly enough, but kept bringing the topic back around to Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge, rather than the castle. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to scope out the potential for converting the castle into a romantic destination for locals and tourists alike, but I could have told him not to hold his breath as far as the locals. They were more interested in a beer at the Tap Room on Saturday night than an evening of fine dining and wine as a classical quartet played.

  I didn’t say that to him of course, and I was not being snobbish in thinking the way I did. I had plenty of evidence, and had even been to the local bar a few times to shoot pool. It was just that kind of community: no pretension, no polish, just relaxed and real. We finished inside and I grabbed my pashmina and strolled out to the flagstone terrace, leading him around to get a view of the distant woods and the property. I emphasized the castle’s potential as a boutique hotel or even a spa retreat. There was plenty of room to build custom structures like a pool and sauna, I said, indicating the land with a sweep of my hand, or even cottages. We were, I said, protected from the outside world by forest and my uncle’s arboretum, which I called Wynter Woods.

  “Isolated, right? How about newcomers; how are they welcomed?”

  I grimaced inwardly, as the unhappy incident with the woman in town and the graffiti on my castle had left a bad taste in my mouth. But I said, honestly enough, “Most of the locals have been very warm and welcoming. Though isolated, it’s not especially insular.”

  He nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. “Any new faces in your town?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. “Uh, not
really. Mr. Channer, will you consider coming back for the party? I have locals catering, including Binny’s Bakery in town; Binny makes the very best European pastries, as good as any I’ve tasted in Paris.” I watched him for a moment, then said, “It’s just that I’ll have more of the work done by then, and can showcase rooms of interest. We’re actually not ready for viewing yet.”

  Arms folded over his chest, he silently scanned the property.

  I followed his lead, wondering what had him so irritable. When I’d first arrived, the property had seemed barren, but now I noticed all the subtleties. There were a few groves of trees in the open expanse, a couple of big oaks surrounded by grassy stretches. Outbuildings dotted the landscape, including a large garage and some smaller sheds, most empty, but with the reminders of their original uses for animal husbandry and tool storage.

  Of course, because the late Tom Turner had dug quite a few big holes on my property before ending up dead at the bottom of one, there were large dirt patches where McGill had filled in the holes for me. This was not good; the longer we stood there staring, the more problems I saw and thought of.

  Finally, Channer said, “I’m going to have a look around the area. If we decide to buy Wynter Castle and take on the rebuild, you do have clear title to the land, correct?”

  I crossed my fingers, and said, “Yes, the castle was left to me, and me alone.” That much was true enough. Brooke had the limousine door open for his boss. Channer strode over, climbed in, and didn’t so much as glance back as the chauffeur closed the door, got in, and drove off down the lane, disappearing around the bend beyond the forest.

  I returned to the house discombobulated, as Doc often put it. That was how my day started. It continued in the same hurried manner, with muffins to bake and the town to visit. I decided not to expect much from Mr. Percy Channer. If he came back for the party, then I would consider him interested.