Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Victoria Hamilton

  “Maybe,” she said, dreamily.

  When I glanced back to Cranston, his eyes were wide and startled looking; he sat, mug in hand, like a tribute statue honoring the benefits of caffeine in promoting alertness. “What’s wrong, Cranston? It’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just . . . I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think . . .” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee, putting the mug down. To my embarrassment, he got up and came around the long trestle table to me, leaned over, and hugged me hard. “You don’t know what this will mean to me,” he finally said as he released me, more serious than I’d ever seen him. He clasped his hands in front of him. “It’s more than the castle, Merry. I’ve never had much family, and if it turns out we’re cousins, how cool will that be?”

  I was moved that that was how he saw it, and I reached out to touch his hand. “Thanks, Cranston. I hope we’re really cousins, too.” I paused a beat and looked over at Shilo, who was unresponsive to our touching family scene. “I have to go into town in an hour or so. Let me know if either of you need anything.”

  Cranston was still staring at me with fervent hope. “My granny Violet is smiling down on you from heaven, my dearest,” he said.

  His voice was choked by a sob that was ruined for me by Shilo rolling her eyes. I had to restrain a snort of laughter, not an appropriate reaction to a man talking about his late, beloved grandmother. I understood Shilo’s reaction, even though it was unsuitable; everything about Cranston was larger than life. He wore his fervid emotions on his sleeve and expected to be taken seriously even while saying things nobody’s said since the nineteenth century. “I’m sure she is,” I said to Cranston while giving Shilo a stern look behind his back. She stuck her tongue out at me, the brat! She then bounced off to clean Magic’s cage, which, the way she did it, could take the rest of the day.

  Cranston left, heading off to wherever it was he went. I didn’t know if he had ever worked, but he didn’t have a job right now, that I knew of. He had vaguely talked about being lucky in finance, and I pictured a situation much like Pish’s, My dear friend had done well enough to retire early but for a few clients he still retained.

  Once Cranston was gone, I went outside to talk to Zeke and Gordy, wrapping my sweater around me to ward off the late October chill. They were busily tidying up the terrace outside the front door, picking up cigarette butts and random bits of paper and the occasional costume piece that couldn’t have been seen in the dark the night before. The rest of the terrace was off-limits, as the police were keeping a perimeter around the scene of the crime. Both fellows studiously avoided my eyes, and I knew them well enough to know what was up. “Hey, guys, come here,” I said.

  They trudged over to me and stood, identical hangdog expressions on them both.

  “I just wanted you to know that you are not to blame for what happened last night.”

  Zeke, a shocked look on his face, looked me in the eye finally, and said, “That murder? Course not!” His Adam’s apple goggled in his throat like a fish rising to bait.

  “I think it was a hit,” Gordy whispered, his gaze slewing between the lane and the forest. “Weird folk been hanging around hereabouts lately.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the murder! I meant it wasn’t your fault that stray, uninvited guests got into the party. I didn’t equip you properly, so I’ll rethink our system, I promise.” Both looked relieved, but I wasn’t done. “However, the football team is another matter. You didn’t even try to account for them on your list. How come?”

  They exchanged guilty glances.

  “Are they friends of yours?”

  They shook their heads. Gordy swiped a hank of wispy hair out of his eyes. I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

  “Well, then, who were they? I know you know them.”

  Zeke sighed. “It’s just . . . those guys were from our high school, back in the day. They . . . we . . . you don’t understand.” He choked to a stop.

  But I thought I did. Everyone has known a group of guys who were the kingpins of their school, the elite, the top dogs. And what did guys like Gordy and Zeke do? Placate. That was likely why they let them into the party. Old habits die hard. The football uniforms probably took Zeke and Gordy right back to their spot on the bottom of the pecking order. “But you’ve been out of school for what . . . twelve or more years now?”

  “Maybe that matters in New York City, but in Autumn Vale, things kind of freeze around high school.” Zeke glumly stuck his hands in his pockets as Gordy nodded in agreement.

  “Were they hanging out with two girls or three?”

  Zeke glanced over at his friend, then said, “We were talking about that, and figured we ought to tell you the truth. We weren’t sure at first, but we were when we saw them again. The two girls were Candy and Sylvia Frobisher. They’re twins.” His tone was worshipful, and I knew who those girls were, though I’d never met them. They were the girls every guy in school wanted to date. They were the prom queens, the cheerleaders, the social butterflies. They were probably still coasting on their looks and would until life offered them a wake-up call.

  Neither guy knew who the third girl was, and they weren’t even sure they had let her in. It was one of the Frobisher twins who had impersonated my friend, Melanie Pritchard—I had a feeling that, despite what Zeke said, the boys knew that when they let them in—but the two were not with the third girl at that point. This was not good. It seemed some of the crashers could have come by way of the terrace door through the smoking-pit area, bypassing the doormen, such as they were. That was going to complicate Virgil’s job, no doubt, but I was sure he had already thought of that.

  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

  PISH 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 wa
tched 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?”