Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Victoria Hamilton

  Zeke and Gordy, dressed in tailcoats and white gloves, were to check names at the door against the master list I had given them and park cars for those who had not been chauffeured. I didn’t have the kind of insurance I would need for true valet service, so they couldn’t present it as such, but they could help folks out if they asked. There wasn’t much they could get in trouble with, as far as cars went—I hoped—since we were in the middle of nowhere.

  I personally supervised Hannah’s arrival at the pantry door, where the wheelchair ramp had been installed. Her Clara costume, a white blouse, pink striped dirndl and shawl, was adorable on her slight frame, and her parents, dressed in cute Tyrolean costumes rented from some shop (definitely not the Party Stop in Ridley Ridge), were Grandfather and Fraulein Rottenmeier. Once they had seen the ground floor, I left them to their own devices. Juniper Jones arrived dressed as a French maid, though her sour expression did not seem very service oriented. I crossed my fingers and hoped she wouldn’t throw a tray of hors d’oeuvres at a guy if he pinched her butt or did something equally heinous, like saying hello or smiling at her.

  The stretch Escalade and the tour bus arrived, as did other chauffeur-driven vehicles. The Westhavens, a couple from a family of famous hoteliers, had come as Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, which I appreciated even if no one else got it. They were friends of Pish and attended as a favor to him. I didn’t expect them to be interested in the castle as a purchase; they just loaned élan to the whole affair, and I thought I might be able to pick their brains later regarding who might be interested in buying my castle.

  I had also invited a couple of society-type newshounds, hoping the party would warrant a small notice in the New York Times or the Daily News, or at least some social media buzz. The bartenders did their jobs, and the two servers circulated with glasses of wine, threading in and out of the ballroom and the great hall, as Juniper carried trays of hors d’oeuvres and pastries. Once I judged everyone to be lubricated but not drunk, I went to the stairs and took the microphone that Pish had set up with his PA system. I cleared my throat and said, “Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Wynter Castle. My name is Merry Wynter, and the fellow in the casket is not my late uncle; he is the ghost of Wynters past!”

  Chapter Seven

  EVERYONE TITTERED AND applauded politely, then I stated the reason for the soiree. “We have gathered you all here to give a first exclusive look at the Wynter estate, a property that not only holds this wonderful eighteenth-century castle, but also has seven outbuildings, including a garage holding a genuine vintage Oldsmobile, and various sheds. There is so much more here, though, than meets the eye.

  “More than fifty years ago, my great uncle Melvyn Wynter planned and planted an arboretum that holds hundreds of species of native flora. The whole property is several hundred acres, and I believe this place would be perfect for a retreat or a spa, or a country destination inn like the world famous Castle on the Hudson or Oheka Castle. Please enjoy your drinks and the snacks provided by local businesses, such as Binny’s Bakery in downtown Autumn Vale, and ask any one of the waitstaff where the washrooms and smoking area are set up. Please see me for information about the castle.”

  “Or me,” Cranston said, stepping up on the stairs beside me, grabbing the microphone and waving his hand around. “I am Cranston Higgins, the grandson of Melvyn Wynter.”

  I held my temper; this was not how we had talked about the intro, but I wasn’t going to get into family—or faux family—business in front of the crowd. “Please see me personally,” I said into the mic, “so we don’t get confused about who is thinking about what, okay?”

  As I drifted from the great hall to the ballroom and back, I overheard Cranston bragging about his roots in the area. There was no real way to stop him, not without creating an unpleasant scene, so I ignored him, chatting with my guests about Wynter Castle and its potential. I had prepared a few pieces of interesting history about the area and the Wynter family, but I didn’t know enough. I needed to correct that before the next party.

  Some of the folks on the list would never be investors or buyers of the property and had been invited simply because I wanted gossip to get out. This would be the beginning of creating buzz, as marketers say, so I had tried to capitalize on many of my past connections. This unfortunately meant inviting some of my former friends in the fashion world, and it seemed like every single one of them felt the need to give me the latest scoop on Leatrice’s continued descent into lunacy.

  One former model, who was now a talent scout for Leatrice’s agency, followed me around as I mingled, telling me that my former employer had gone through four assistants since my hasty departure, and had called the police on three of them. “Everyone knows she trumped up that crap about the necklace, Merry. You should come back to New York! So many of the girls could do with your stylist skills.”

  “I’m so far out of it fashion-wise,” I told her. “I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

  She didn’t continue on that line, thank heavens, and instead wanted to know what Shilo was doing hooking up with a local yokel. I watched Shilo and McGill whirling down the ballroom to the barely heard music, her skirts and long, dark hair, headscarf apparently abandoned, flaring out around her. “Jack has been good for her. I’ve never known her to feel like any place is home, but here, she seems to feel . . .” I paused. I was about to say safe, but I didn’t know why I was thinking that. “At home,” I said instead. My former “friend” looked at me like I’d lost my marbles, then walked away, shaking her head, to rejoin the fashion crowd that huddled as far away from the food table as they could.

  Home. Had Shilo found that in Autumn Vale and with Jack McGill, real estate agent and jack-of-all-trades? It was an elusive concept, home. I hadn’t had one—not a true home in every sense of the word—since Miguel died.

  Pish approached and took my arm. He was one constant in my world, and his kindness had been my most homelike experience for some time. I leaned against him as we observed the chattering, circulating mob, gowned and costumed in an array of gaudy outfits. It sure seemed like there were a lot of people. I had kept the guest list down to what I thought we could comfortably hold, but the ballroom was crowded.

  “Does this seem like a lot of people to you?” I muttered to Pish. The babble of noise was growing in volume, and the jazzy music was barely audible over the chatter.

  He looked around uneasily and nodded. “I’m seeing people I don’t know, and I knew everyone on your list. Did you see the hooker in the Mardi Gras mask and the cowboy?”

  I shared his concern. “There’s one guy here with a wild wig who is either the Barber of Seville or Sweeney Todd, it’s hard to tell which. I don’t know who he is. And there are three Draculas, though I thought only one of our guests was coming as a vampire.” I was glad a fair number of our important guests had opted not to wear costumes, because at least I recognized them. Percy Channer, I noted, was not among the attendees, unless he had managed to elongate and thin out his barrel shape. But I had this uneasy sense that there were people avoiding me, vanishing onto the terrace or into the great hall as I moved toward them. I was pondering that, trying to figure out what had led me to that belief, when Pish stiffened beside me, on the alert.

  “Who are the ones dressed like a football team?” Pish asked, pointing across the room.

  I eyed the group. It was all men, and they were having a wonderful time drinking wine and talking to the girls. One slung his arm over Juniper Jones’s shoulders, almost upsetting her tray. I was about to cross the ballroom to intervene, but she ducked away from him and continued on with the hors d’oeuvres, a frown etched permanently on her face. “I don’t know who that is,” I said, but then remembered the truckload of guys I had turned away the day before. I shared my hunch, and Pish agreed I was probably on the money. “What are Zeke and Gordy thinking, letting them in?”

  I started toward them, trailed
by Pish, but was waylaid by Melanie Pritchard, an amazing New York real estate agent I’d met while I worked for Leatrice Peugot. I had invited her to get an honest critique from her viewpoint on how likely it was that I could market the castle to New York entrepreneurs.

  She was angry, and I knew there were few things that infuriated her. “Merry, what the hell is going on?” she griped, tugging her suit jacket down over her hips. She was not costumed, and I hadn’t expected she would be. “First of all, my flight was delayed—some kind of bomb scare—so I had to rent a car instead of catching your bus. Then those goons at the door tell me I’m already here!”

  I exchanged a glance with Pish. “I’m so sorry, Melanie. I’d better sort this out,” I said, and headed out of the ballroom to the great hall and toward the front door. I was stopped often on the way, sometimes by well wishers, sometimes by folks actually interested in the castle, but twice by other people who’d had the same experience as Melanie. I was getting more and more annoyed with the boys.

  “Merry, have you seen Binny?” Emerald asked, stopping me with a hand on my arm.

  “No, why?”

  “I’m worried about Juniper,” she said, chewing her lip and looking around. She said something else, but the noise level was worsening in the great hall as folks were posing for photographs with the dummy in the casket. Uncle Mortimer, as Pish had begun calling him, was a popular fellow.

  “I couldn’t hear you,” I hollered. “What did you say?”

  Emerald came closer and cupped her hand near my ear. “I said, Juniper was talking to some dude, and he had his hand on her arm, and she looked upset. I wanted to find Binny to get her to ask Juniper what was wrong. Last time I tried to talk to that girl, she gave me a look that would freeze Satan in his tracks.”

  “If I see Binny I’ll tell her. Or I’ll tackle the girl myself; where is Juniper? I saw her heading this way, but she’s disappeared on me.”

  Emerald turned and searched the boisterous crowd around the casket. “I don’t know. She was talking to that guy, the one just heading back into the ballroom,” she said, pointing to a blue-jeaned figure wearing a cowboy hat.

  I was torn; find Juniper or talk to Gordy and Zeke? “Look, I saw Juniper just a few minutes ago and she seemed fine . . . as fine as she ever is, anyway. But I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “Are the girls doing all right?”

  Emerald grinned, her eyes lighting up, the great hall fire giving her face a soft glow. “Lizzie is having the time of her life! But Alcina? Who can be sure what that girl is thinking?”

  We parted ways. When I finally got through the crowd to the front door and exited the castle, there was no one on the front terrace. That was not right; one of the two guys was supposed to be there at all times.

  Pish followed me out a moment later. “Where are they?” he asked.

  My answer was not as eloquent as usual. The explanation soon presented itself, as Zeke and Gordy, in their rented tailcoats, came galloping around the side of the castle and along the flagstone, followed by Becket, who was howling furiously.

  “Get that cat away from me!” Gordy yelped. “It’s got weird eyes. Get it away from me!”

  A couple of girls in sleazy/sexy hooker getups, followed by another girl also disguised in sleaze but with a feathered glittery mask instead of elaborate makeup, trotted around the corner, laughing. As soon as they saw me, they skidded to a halt, their eyes wide behind the masks. The third girl retreated.

  “Who are you two?” I asked pointing at them. “I don’t remember inviting you, whomever you are.”

  They backtracked, giggling and hooting, and their laughter was joined by some male rumbling laughter around on the ballroom terrace. Ten to one they were with the football players. Followed by Becket, I stalked over to Gordy and Zeke who were conspicuously checking their clipboards and conferring. “Hand it over,” I said, my palm out.

  Gordy handed me his clipboard, and I checked it in the weak light of the outdoor sconces, running down the list of names. Some had two check marks against them, and one of those was Melanie Pritchard. “If you can tell me how one person can arrive twice, I will let you both off the hook,” I said, pointing to the offending names.

  Zeke shrugged. “How are we supposed to know what these folks look like?”

  “So who were those two girls?” I said, hitching my thumb in the direction of the two gigglers.

  “Uh, Melanie Pritchard and friend,” Zeke responded, his eyes wide. Gordy nodded in agreement.

  “Neither one of them is Melanie. How did this happen?”

  Zeke shrugged. “When she came—the taller one . . . they came together in a taxi from somewhere—she laughed and told me if I could guess who she was I’d get a kiss, so I said Miss Melanie Pritchard, ’cause she looked like a Melanie, and she said, yes, that’s exactly who she was. With a friend. And Gordy checked her off.”

  “And she kissed us both!” Gordy added.

  I thought I had covered everything with them, but apparently I forgot to tell them to engage their brains and not their groins in the ID process. “Okay,” I said, looking over Gordy’s clipboard. Every name had been checked off with the exception of Les Urquhart, the owner of the Party Stop, and Percy Channing. “So why did you start letting a second of each of these people in?” I asked, indicating the double checkmarked names. “Why didn’t one of you come get me?”

  Both shuffled their feet and shrugged. I heard some boisterous noise through the open doors and uneasily wondered if things were getting out of hand. I sure hoped not, or this whole idea of introducing Wynter Castle to the world via parties could be done before it began. Pish appeared concerned, too, looking over his shoulder into the great hall. “Okay, no one else gets in,” I told Zeke, thrusting the clipboard back at Gordy. “I’m trusting you guys. I understand that you didn’t know who was who this time, and I’ll make sure you’re better prepared next time.” If there was a next time for them.

  The evening wore on. I knew I should be schmoozing the potential investors, but there were too many other things going on, and I ended up stomping out social fires like a flamenco dancer on Red Bull. One of my fashion friends, Zimbabwe Lesotho (not her real name, and I only ever called her Zee), mortally offended Isadore Openshaw by cornering her and trying to give her fashion advice. I took Zee aside and told her that Isadore was a bit prickly; besides, what she was wearing was supposed to be a costume, though it was how she usually looked. My friend then had the good grace to apologize, complimenting Isadore on her “cool old-lady costume,” which opened up a whole new can of worms.

  Doc English got tiddly and told a couple of my friends, “You’re fired!” They thought he was hilarious and launched a drinking game with the old guy. I was too busy looking for the football geeks and their girlfriends, a couple of whom had been seen heading upstairs. I didn’t find them, but I did find an angry Becket, who now sat teetering on the railing howling down on the gathering. “Becket, why don’t you hide in my room if you hate this so much?” He just hissed at me and stalked along the railing, leaping down to the floor and crawling away to a dark corner to grumble.

  Cranston was, oddly enough, a saving grace. He was gently humorous, a hit with one and all. He circulated, making sure folks had drinks and something to eat, encouraging people to try one of Binny’s pastries and extolling her skills. In short, all the things I ought to have been doing if I had the time. It was good to have him there.

  At some point in the evening, the casket containing Uncle Mortimer disappeared from the great hall while Pish and I talked to a group of interested investor types in the ballroom. I thought I knew who had taken it—the football team—so I wasn’t concerned. If it got ruined and I had to end up paying Janice for it rather than merely renting it, then so be it.

  Finally it was over. The Westhavens were already gone, and I couldn’t help but feel that the boisterous footballers were t
o blame for their early departure. I had wanted to talk to them, to get their professional input on Wynter Castle, but that would have to wait. The other chauffeur-driven folks left fairly early, too. The danged footballers and their giggly girlies—only the two; the third had disappeared—were also gone, probably to some raging bush party that was hopefully not in my woods. Then the big tour bus and the stretch Escalade took off with their loads of New York and area investors.

  Finally it was only locals remaining, except for one particular friend of Pish’s, who had a summer place nearby and so had driven himself over. Pish’s friend happened to be one of the Feds who was looking into the Autumn Vale Community Bank fiasco, so Virgil was hanging out with the two men as they talked about legal aspects of the banking business.

  I had already checked upstairs and no damage had been done, I was pleased to see. Locking our personal rooms seemed to have kept folks out. Shilo’s bunny, Magic, was peacefully munching on a fresh carrot in his cage in her room. My room and Pish’s were exactly as we’d left them. Becket was asleep in a corner of the gallery overlooking the great hall.

  I trotted back downstairs and checked the kitchen, which was a mess. “Wow, this is awful,” I said, surveying the piled up dishes, bags of trash, and food everywhere. The local helpers had not been paid to clean (I couldn’t afford to pay anyone to do what I could do after the party) and were already gone, as were the bartenders and servers, aboard the charter tour bus.

  Shilo skipped over to me and hugged my shoulders, while McGill, who was drying dishes, smiled after her. “Don’t you worry about it. It’s not as bad as it looks, right girls?” she asked of Lizzie, who rolled her eyes, and Alcina, who yawned, gently flapping her faery wings in time to some internal rhythm. I hadn’t figured out how she worked her wings and didn’t care to know. Let it be one of the mysteries of life. Emerald and Binny were washing dishes, laughing, and talking, perhaps about the evening. Emerald turned, and said, over her shoulder, “Shilo is right, Merry. It looks worse than it is. I’m going to help clean up, then get the girls home.”