Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Victoria Hamilton

  “I’m staying to help get everything back into shape,” Binny added. “Has anyone seen Juniper? I was supposed to give her a ride back into town before heading home.”

  There was a chorus of nos, and Emerald said to me, with a worried frown, “I haven’t seen her for quite a while, not since before I caught up with you and asked if she was okay.”

  I shrugged. “She must have found some way back to town and didn’t want to bother anyone.” Or be cajoled into helping clean up. “Anyway, I want to thank you all so much,” I said, clasping my hands in front of me in a prayerful salute. “I know this was a lot of work.”

  “But it was fun!” Binny said, her eyes shining. “I’ve never been to a party like this before!” She worked so hard that this was not surprising.

  “I have to go and tend to a few things, but I’ll be back,” I promised. I felt guilty about leaving them to it, but I could hear Gogi in the butler’s pantry helping Hannah and her parents get ready to go, and I wanted to be there. Gordy, a good and careful driver, had backed their specially equipped van into position at the butler’s pantry door for Hannah’s father, who was worried about doing that kind of maneuvering in the dark. Then he and Zeke opened the van doors to get ready for the wheelchair. I rushed to say good-bye to Hannah as her mother tucked a shawl around her shoulders.

  Her thin face was wan and gray with weariness, but she smiled up at me with delight in the weak illumination of the overhead pendant lights. “I had such a good time,” she said, grabbing my hand.

  I shared a worried look with her mother. “You’re not overtired?”

  “Please don’t fret about me. I truly have had such a good time tonight, and people were so kind to me! Your friend Zee introduced me to a whole bunch of people, and when I told them what my costume was and what I do, they all sat down with me, and we talked about the books they loved as kids. Goodnight Moon and Harry Potter and Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins. Then we talked about classic literature and new books and . . . and I drank some champagne! Zee said every girl should drink champagne at a party.” She giggled, then hiccupped. “Pish and I danced. I had so much fun.”

  I hugged her, not letting her see the tears in my eyes. Zee was going to get a special note of thanks. I loved Hannah so much; she was like a cross between the sister I never had and the daughter I probably never would. It was going to be so hard to leave Autumn Vale once the castle sold. I had thought leaving New York was difficult, but this was going to be worse, and I wasn’t quite sure how I had become so deeply entangled in such a short time.

  They left after Hannah’s mother hugged me hard, whispering a heartfelt thanks, and said good-bye. I asked Zeke and Gordy to clean up out front and make sure there were no live cigarette butts anywhere out front or in the parking area. They would come back and do a more thorough job in the light of day. As Gogi and I strolled in through the pantry door, she yawned and told me she was going to find Doc and sit down somewhere with him until Virgil was done with my friends.

  “If you want to go right now,” I said, threading my arm through hers, “I can wrest Virgil from Pish and his friend.”

  “No, dear, please don’t,” she said, undoing a barrette and loosening her wig. “I can wait another half hour, and Doc is probably already asleep. Virgil so seldom has anyone to talk to about work. Being the boss, he’s used to giving orders, but none of the PD staff are up to his level intellectually.” She stopped, so we stood in the dim, quiet hall, with just the sound of the girls’ laughter from the kitchen echoing softly to us.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say that,” she continued, “but being his mother, I suppose I’m allowed a bit of bias. You know, he worked for the Rochester Police for three years, and then he was going to join the FBI. He applied and was accepted for training, but when I got sick, he came back to Autumn Vale to look after me. The Autumn Vale sheriff died, so Virgil took over and stayed on.” Gogi had had breast cancer but was now cancer-free after a radical mastectomy and treatment. Virgil, her youngest son, had been the one to look after her through the ordeal.

  “I know he’s a good man, Gogi—you don’t have to sell him to me,” I said, one hand on her shoulder.

  “He likes you a lot, you know,” she said, searching my eyes in the dim pendant light of the back hallway.

  “And I like him,” I replied, gently. “I’d better look over the rest of the castle. I have to track down a missing casket and Uncle Mortimer.” I squeezed her shoulder and rustled away down the hall and through the kitchen, holding up my skirts so I wouldn’t trip. How could I tell her that I was not in the market for a boyfriend, and anyway, all Virgil ever did was criticize me and my approach to life in Autumn Vale?

  McGill was putting out the fire in the great hall with an expert hand, and I thanked him, then strolled past the men and through the ballroom, out the open doors, and onto the terrace. It was chilly, so I was glad of the long sleeves of my dress. I walked the length of the terrace to the smoking pit, the stench of cigarette butts alerting me to their presence. I didn’t want to take Lizzie’s word for it that she and Alcina had checked for live cigarettes. I was sure they had done their best, but they were kids, after all. From the lingering odor of butts, I surmised that they may not have emptied the ashtrays like I’d asked, so I was glad I checked.

  I retrieved the can I had put in the corner for the butts, and set it on the wrought iron table. Given that October evenings are chilly in upstate New York, I had rented a propane heater for the smokers. It was still on, so I reached up and turned it off, then noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I squinted into the darkness just beyond the edge of the terrace. Crap, was that the casket? Yes, it was. I sighed. Was Uncle Mortimer still with it?

  I gathered my skirts and stepped off the terrace, thinking to move it back up onto the flagstones and off the gravel. In the dimness, I lifted the lid, which must have slammed shut while they’d moved it. I squinted; was that the mannequin still there? Must be, I figured, but it had been dumped onto its side. Damn footballers! I tried to move Uncle Mortimer onto his back, but he felt heavier than last time and not as rigid.

  The mannequin was dressed wrong, too, in suede fringed chaps, blue jeans, and a leather vest; who had I seen dressed like that? The cowboy slouching around the party! I had made a mental note to figure out who he was, but I never got around to it and then he’d disappeared, so I had forgotten about him. Had he dressed Uncle Mortimer in his clothes as a prank?

  I picked up the battery-operated lantern that was sitting, still lit, on the wrought-iron table and brought it over to the dummy, held it up, and looked down. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I said out loud. It wasn’t a dummy; it was the dang cowboy. He must have gotten wasted and fallen asleep in the casket. Now what were we going to do with him? All the cars and buses had left.

  “Come on, you, wake up!” I said, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. I was going to have to give him a place to sleep it off, then get him to Rochester the next day to catch a bus or a train home. Why hadn’t his friends looked after him? He had been with others, another guy and a girl, when I’d seen him, hadn’t he? “Come on!” I said, shaking harder. Why wouldn’t he wake up?

  I gasped and knelt by the guy, putting my hand on his chest and my face near his mouth. His shirt was wet; what from, I wondered? There was no breath, no heartbeat. No . . . no life!

  That’s when I dropped the lantern and started screaming.

  Chapter Eight

  I KIND OF HEARD the sound of footsteps, but entrenched in horror, I just stood staring, my mouth open. The pool of light flickered from the lantern on the damp, yellowed grass and I wavered, dizziness sweeping over me.

  “What’s going on, Merry?”

  That was Virgil behind me. I turned and threw myself at him, grabbing hold of his muscular shoulders, his solidity reassuring. “It’s a . . . It’s a . . .”

  Pish followed Virgil,
then stepped off the terrace and picked up the lantern from the ground. He stepped into the shadowy dimness where I pointed, and approached the casket, the lantern swinging and sending an arc of light back and forth. “It’s a man wearing a mask. What is he doing in the . . . ?” He knelt beside the casket. “My God,” he finally said. “He’s dead.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, trembling.

  Pish stood, wiping his hand on his jacket and shaking his head. Virgil, oddly equipped with a pocket flashlight—did Sherlock always carry a torch?—pushed his deerstalker cap back, and clamped his meerschaum between his teeth, then bent over and directed the light on the body’s face, pulling up the Lone Ranger–type mask. I was watching Virgil and saw his body go rigid.

  He said something unrepeatable and staggered back, letting the mask drop. “It’s Dinty Hooper!” he exclaimed, huffing like a sprinter.

  “That’s impossible!” I blurted out. Dinty Hooper was already dead, having been identified from his unfragrant and decaying remains in my forest—Lizzie and I had found the body, and we eventually discovered that Binny’s poor old dad had killed him in self-defense—so I was on pretty firm ground there.

  But Virgil had his cell phone out and muttered some sharp commands to whoever was on the other end. His colleague from the Feds, an older man, had come out to the terrace and was assessing the situation in a calm manner.

  “Who is it really, Virgil?” I asked, shivering and clinging to Pish. It was dark and cold and I was near tears.

  He looked over at me, then to Pish. “Take her inside; she’s cold. Make sure she has something for shock, but not booze. I need her clear.”

  “I am not a child, Virgil Grace!” I said, stomping my foot to make that perfectly clear. “Who is it?”

  “I told you,” he said, his voice gritty, “that he looks like Dinty Hooper.”

  I could hardly make Virgil’s face out in the shadows, but he sounded ticked off. I had nothing else to say, except, “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know. The ME and my team are on their way. Go inside and make sure the kids don’t come out here, but don’t let anyone go home. This is a crime scene.”

  “Okay,” I said, still clinging to Pish.

  “And Merry . . . I’m going to need a guest list and phone numbers of every person who was here tonight.”

  I started to shake and covered my face with my hands. It wasn’t exactly an answer to “How did he die?” but it told me a lot. It was murder. “Not again!” I wailed, my voice muffled. At this rate the castle was going to get a reputation. I was going to get a reputation. That shouldn’t have been my first thought, but I just didn’t want to ponder the poor dead soul—whomever he was—lying so fittingly in the casket I had rented.

  “Take her inside!” Virgil barked to Pish.

  “Of course, Virgil, right away,” Pish said, tugging me toward the open terrace doors. His hands were shaking and his voice was weak.

  I pulled myself together once we were back in the dimly lit ballroom. “Pish, wait! We need to talk about what we’re going to tell the others.” I couldn’t see his narrow, clever face very clearly, but I could feel him thinking, and I did the same. “We’ll tell them there’s been an accident,” I said, slowly. “We can’t let them go home, so we’ll have to tell them some of the truth, but I don’t want them to know everything yet.”

  “We’ll keep it bare bones,” Pish said. “But I think Gogi can know everything, or as much as we know.”

  I nodded and went to find Gogi. She was in the turret breakfast parlor and had her feet up on another chair, her head back; she must have dimmed the lights a little, because it was subdued, just the wall sconces on low. She was dozing, as was Doc, who was sprawled on a settee by one of the windows, snoring loudly. I knelt by Gogi and touched her arm; she awoke immediately, alert as always. She put one hand to her elaborate, frizzed coiffure—a wig, of course—and smoothed it back with a self-conscious chuckle. “I guess I’m not as young as I once was. Can’t party with the best of them.” She sat up and shook herself awake. “Is Virgil ready to go?”

  “Gogi, something has happened,” I whispered, crouching beside her as if at a confessional. I told her everything and enlisted her help to keep the worst from the girls. I gathered them all, including McGill, who had been wandering about somewhere. I asked them to come to the breakfast room, which was a little brighter now with the chandelier—a smaller version of the one in the great hall—lit.

  Binny, Emerald, Lizzie, Alcina, Shilo, and McGill sat around the round table. Gogi still sat on her chair with her feet up, her lovely lace Edwardian gown drooping around her. Lizzie and Alcina had their heads down in their arms and were facing each other, making funny faces and giggling wearily, beyond tired, no doubt, after such a long evening. Emerald looked worried and picked at her manicure, tugging her lace French maid’s cap off her glossy hair and tossing it down on the table. Zeke and Gordy, hunched on the settee at Doc’s feet and whispering to each other, both seemed a little frightened, but Doc English snored on, oblivious.

  “There has been an accident and someone is hurt,” I said, trying to smile around the table. I was very aware of the young police deputy who had been posted just inside the door. “We all have to stay put for a while until Virgil decides what to do.”

  The girls asked what was going on, but I just shrugged, then Pish, Binny, McGill, Shilo, and I tried to make conversation about the party. It sounded stilted and fake, and we trailed off eventually. I could hear officials arriving, the heavy thrum of an ambulance and police cars rattling the windows, flashing roof lights casting weird moving illumination across the breakfast parlor walls. Nothing happened for a long time. The ME arrived at some point, I presume, made the pronouncement of death and took a stab at the manner, and then the rest of the team descended upon us. In this weird case, Virgil had witnessed much himself, so he directed the investigation without interviewing us all first.

  A while later he appeared at the door sans deerstalker cap and greatcoat. His plain white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves and his buff trousers were tucked into riding boots. He was a handsome man, even weary as he clearly was, his thick eyebrows two angry slashes angled over his chocolaty eyes. He beckoned to me and Pish, and we followed him out of the room.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Virgil asked as a couple of uniformed officers searched every corner of the great hall with the aid of their own brilliant lights, collecting bits and pieces of detritus.

  I led them up to my uncle’s office, a tiny airless room tucked between the bedrooms upstairs, and unlocked it. Virgil followed us in and shut the door behind him. I turned on the green banker’s lamp atop the desk, content with that faint, gentle illumination on my weary eyes, then sat down with Pish on a leather ottoman along the wall.

  “What’s going on, Virgil? How can that poor man be Dinty Hooper?” I asked.

  “He’s not.”

  “Okay, I know that. But who is it?”

  Pish put his arm around me and squeezed, trying to comfort me.

  Virgil slumped down in a vintage wood office chair that screeched at his weight. “We think it’s Dinty’s twin brother, Davey Hooper.”

  “He had a twin?” I shrieked.

  “Will you keep it down?” Virgil said, jumping up, pacing to the door, and looking out. Becket slipped in before he shut the door again.

  “Nobody downstairs is going to hear me. The walls in this place are two feet thick.” I digested the news. “What the heck was he doing here?”

  “I was just going to ask you that.”

  “Like I’d know?” I said, staring at him.

  “Hush, children,” Pish said, in his most paternal tone. “Virgil, you know Merry could not possibly know Dinty Hooper’s twin brother, or even that he had one. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Okay, all right,” Virgil said, threading his fingers through
his hair and jamming it back, though it just flopped back over his forehead when he was done. “We’re not one hundred percent certain about that yet, but when we did a search, we came up with Dinty having a twin, and I’m almost certain that’s this guy, or it’s an eerie coincidence, given that he looks just like him.”

  “It has to be him,” Pish agreed. “It’s too big a coincidence that someone looking just like him would come here.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “So what did he come here for . . . revenge?”

  “Because of his brother dying, you mean?” Pish said. He looked perturbed and took my hand, cradling it in his. “But why sneak into the castle? It was Rusty Turner who killed Dinty.”

  Virgil held up both hands. “First things first; did you notice the cowboy, assuming he was the only one dressed like that? How did he get in to a private party? I thought this was by invitation only.”

  “He was the only cowboy; that’s one thing I’m sure of. I did see him, but only from the back.” Then I told him about Zeke and Gordy’s shoddy doorman act, and that I could give him the guest list, but it wouldn’t help him a whole lot.

  “At least with the list I’ll be able to track down folks who were here and talk to them, ask them if they noticed anything about the cowboy: who he was with, what he did, who he talked to.”

  I perked up. Who he talked to? “I know one person he talked to: Juniper Jones.”