Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  A couple of other townies, Helen Johnson, a church lady, and a bright-eyed woman named Eleanor, rounded out the number at her table.

  Vanessa LaDuchesse, one of the Legion that I actually liked, held court at the next table, with four more townsfolk with whom I had come in contact at various times over the winter and promised a tour of the castle. Vanessa had fabulous stories to tell, since she was an actress renowned for her B-movie career in noir films of the fifties, so the townsfolk, two senior couples, were enthralled and scandalized in equal measure, a pleasant state for them all. She had a long memory of the Studio 54 days, and her “mingling” with young Hollywood studs.

  I had seen studio stills of her from the fifties and she was gorgeous. Even at eighty-something, Vanessa was striking. She kept her hair dyed jet-black and in an elaborate twined bun. She still wore her trademark red lipstick, black eyeliner, and her penciled brows arched over green eyes, very much in the Joan Crawford manner. She was slim and elegant, with long fingers bare except for one large ruby ring on her middle finger, left hand, and wore well-fitted skirt suits, plain in color, letting her magnetic personality attract all the attention.

  Her manner was one of cool amusement at almost everything, even her fellow Legion members’ foibles. She was wry about getting older, refusing to divulge her real age, though I couldn’t figure out why it mattered if she was eighty-one or eighty-five. I had a feeling she had had plastic surgery; when she turned her head in good light, you could see faint scars along her hairline. I had seen that same taut skin and those catlike eyes on many an older lady at fashion shows.

  The last table held Barbara Beakman, the fourth Legion member. Her features were plain and large, a bulbous nose, thick lips, and her high domed head was adorned with short hair that sprayed over her scalp in a thin scattering of dark gray and white. She was extremely overweight and often short of breath, her double chins melting into her neck with no visible beginning or end. She rarely wore dresses, preferring pantsuits.

  I worried about her breathing and held my own breath every time she mounted the stairs, terrified she was going to either tumble down or have a heart attack. Barbara could be tolerable at times, but her own brand of horribleness was being a wet blanket. If you said it was a beautiful day and the sun was shining, she implied, with a groan, that we were in for a drought. If it was raining, we’d flood. If she had a stomachache, it was food poisoning. Even after a month I didn’t know much about her family, whether she had ever married or had kids, but I did know every inch of her digestive tract and several other canals in her body. She had a habit of announcing what hurt that day at breakfast, like a weather report.

  At her table was Pish’s federal agent friend, Stoddart Harkner, a suave, sophisticated, and handsome older man who had an ineffable charm I suspected of cloaking a cynical and calculating disposition. Also at the table was Rusty Turner, a remarkable fellow who’d survived almost a year living in the wild, convinced Russian mobsters were after him. He still looked a little rough, but he had gained weight and his craggy face had fleshed out a little. He was subdued in company; I had a feeling he was suffering a little post-traumatic stress from his awful experience.

  His daughter, Binny, was a talented local baker. In fact, the napoleons and mini-éclairs I was offering my guests came straight from her Main Street bakery. Lizzie was Rusty’s newly discovered granddaughter and Binny’s niece. She was a visible reminder of the son he had lost to murder, and he watched her with love and yearning in his squinty eyes. Their relationship was advancing, but slowly. I hoped they worked it out. If Binny had anything to say about it, they would.

  Hannah’s parents, a quiet little couple, were also at the table, but would leave early to pick up their daughter at Golden Acres, where she was holding one of her book days. Once or twice a week she would take coffee-table books to the senior home and share them with the folks.

  Tea proceeded. I drifted from table to table, joining conversations that were lagging, and clearing dirty plates as needed. Emerald was brilliant as a hostess. I could have left the whole thing to her, as a matter of fact, and I appreciated her swift but calm service and sharp gaze. A plate that was about to be overturned, a cup that was close to falling off a table, Hubert Dread needing a hand up and guidance to the washroom: nothing got past her. Consciousness Calling must be a wonderful organization, I thought, as I watched her smiling, circulating, helping, and chatting, the way she had blossomed from their teachings evident. She filled in for Shilo, who was not paying attention, and for Lizzie, who had come to help but instead hung around listening to Hubert Dread’s stories and taking photos, or talking to her grandfather, who held on to her hand at every opportunity.

  Eventually Lizzie’s attention shifted to Vanessa LaDuchesse, and I hoped that the woman wasn’t telling some of her more scandalous tales of life in Hollywood in the fifties and sixties, because most of it was inappropriate for young teenage ears. I don’t know why I worried; little seemed to shock Lizzie, who had been with me when I found a dead body once and had to help me out of the woods. She appeared fascinated by the actress and took dozens of photos. Vanessa loved it, I could tell, and preened, presenting her striking profile in the light from the arched windows.

  Barbara was complaining to her tablemates about Cleta, who wasn’t in her spot. Probably had gone to the bathroom, I figured. She complained how rude her friend was, and how unsympathetic, mostly to Barbara’s gastric woes, to hear her tell it. “I don’t know how Cleta Sanson ended up coming here to stay with us. She certainly wasn’t invited by me! If I were Merry, I would have told her to turn right around and march out that door.”

  I sighed, wondering whether to intervene. Rusty looked bored and Hannah’s parents were clearly mystified, while Stoddart looked amused in a not-quite-nice way. I drifted closer. “How are you today?” I asked of Hannah’s mother. “Your dress is lovely.” She wore a taupe dress with a teal and sage floral pattern in a style that suited her petite figure perfectly.

  She lit up, turning her small, round, lightly lined face toward me. “I sewed it myself,” she said, jumping to her feet and twirling.

  “It’s so well made!” I exclaimed, examining it closely. It was a retro fifties style with a fitted waist and bell-shaped skirt.

  “I started sewing when Hannah was young because it was so hard to find clothes to fit her.”

  Hannah had extremely frail limbs and a narrow frame, but she wore the loveliest clothes, mostly dresses in light gauzy fabrics with pretty, fanciful prints. Now I understood why her clothes always fit her so perfectly and suited her whimsical personality. “You have a special talent,” I said, then turned to Barbara, who appeared miffed at the interruption of her diatribe. “Mrs. Beakman, why don’t you tell the others about your work with the youth theater in Harlem?”

  I had been fascinated to learn from Pish that once upon a time whiny, sickly Barbara had created a group to teach acting to kids in Harlem, back in the sixties. It was revolutionary then, to teach the arts to kids who often didn’t even have the basics of life, and maybe it seemed frivolous. Shouldn’t she have been giving them food and educational supplies and clothes so they could go to school in the bitter winter cold? Perhaps, but at least she did something. Pish fondly remembered the Barbara of that time as someone who took him to the theater, explaining the subtleties of Shakespeare and Ibsen in equal measure.

  She spoke; as I lingered nearby, I forgot what a complainer Barbara was as she told the tale of a family of kids who came to her theater group because she offered a free lunch, and stayed to get lost in her world of make-believe. I reminded myself to never judge someone based on minor flaws.

  I turned and noticed how the afternoon sunlight streamed in one of the arched windows, touching Shilo’s lovely face with such ethereal beauty. Since she had gotten married we had drifted ever so slightly apart—inevitable, I suppose, but I missed her. I strolled to another table when Stoddar
t, interested, joined the conversation as Barbara spoke of one child from the family who grew up to be a famous actor.

  Cleta shuffled into the dining room and made her way back to her seat, her huge pocketbook over her arm. One thing from Barbara Beakman’s earlier complaint came back to me; I could get no one to admit who had spilled the beans to Cleta Sanson about their move to my castle. It was a dumb detail to fuss about, I suppose, but it rankled. Lush said Cleta already knew about their temporary relocation to Wynter Castle and raised a stink; Lush being a sweetie, felt bad and invited her. They all claimed they were trying to keep Cleta from finding out so they could sneak off into the night. Not one would ’fess up to being the first to tell her their plans, saying they only discussed it with her because she already knew.

  The tea and snacks portion of the afternoon finished, Pish moved to the piano as Hannah’s parents departed to pick up their daughter. He started with a medley of Broadway tunes. To my surprise and delight, some folks sang along, especially Elwood Fitzhugh, who had a lovely tenor voice. He stood while he sang and gestured grandly, belting out “Hello, Dolly!” to the world. If Pish and his troupe had been putting on Gilbert and Sullivan or Rodgers and Hammerstein, Elwood would have been a grand addition.

  But Pish then switched to some light opera. After that Stoddart, silvery hair glinting in the sunlight that streamed in the window, joined him at the piano and they sang a duet, “Lily’s Eyes” from The Secret Garden, taken down a bit for Stoddart’s lower range. It was lovely, and I felt like the audience held its collective breath. The best part, for me, was when Pish met my gaze and sang just to me. I love him so; he was one of the few who I felt understood and valued Miguel as much as I. He has told me I am the daughter he never could have, and he is more than a father for me; he is friend and brother and father all in one.

  Stoddart, Pish’s friend, is a federal agent who was sent to Autumn Vale to consult about the illegal goings-on at the Autumn Vale Community Bank. He is handsome, fit, perfectly tailored, exquisitely groomed, and he was riveting as he went on to sing Lancelot’s song “If Ever I Would Leave You” from Camelot. As the applause died down, he bowed, but remained standing, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will come to the castle for our performance of The Magic Flute, in which I have a small part. My friend, Pish Lincoln, myself, and various other folk will be doing our best to perform one of the greatest pieces of opera ever written.” He again bowed.

  “I cannot bear to wait,” Cleta Sanson said loudly. “What a pleasure it will be to sit in the audience while amateurs wail and yowl over each other in German.”

  Chapter Three

  I THOUGHT IT was a little ambitious for the players to take on The Magic Flute, but Pish never does anything by half measures. He had enlisted Stoddart, Janice Grover, Sonora Silva—she was the estate lawyer’s wife—and a few others, and had ruthlessly harassed them into learning their parts phonetically. Even Lizzie, Alcina, and Hannah had been corralled to perform.

  But Cleta Sanson had no business making fun of them like that.

  Pish, accustomed to Cleta’s behavior from long familiarity with all his aunt’s friends, just grinned and chuckled. He stood, bowing toward her. “It is possible we will live down to your worst fears, Cleta, but in that case,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the others, “don’t you all want to come and laugh at us?”

  That is the best part of my friend, his ability to make light of himself and his considerable talents. Stoddart appeared miffed, but Pish, unfazed, sat back down at the piano and played a selection of oldies that gave my dining room the atmosphere of a jazz nightclub in New York. He played some Duke Ellington and Count Basie, and it took me back to parties in his Manhattan condo before his mother moved in with him. Pish would play the piano and I’d pop the cork on a bottle of bubbly, and we’d have a wonderful time with friends from the fashion and financial industries, both our milieus. Pish and Shilo were what kept me alive in the days and weeks and months after Miguel died. My eyes filled with tears at the unexpected wash of memories, but I dashed them away and circulated, trying to ignore how badly my shoes pinched.

  Barbara Beakman, her voice as loud as a trumpet, said, “Cleta may gripe about the opera, but at least it will be something to while away the hours in this monstrosity. When I heard castle, I thought luxury, you know, like the great castle hotels of Europe.”

  She could just take herself back to the city if she was going to such a wet blanket.

  “Cleta can’t help but criticize,” Vanessa said, with an arch look around at her tablemates. “It’s like expecting a python not to bite.”

  Her clear tone carried nicely over the music, and Elwood, nearby, snickered, slipped from his chair, and took the elderly actress’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “Madam LaDuchesse, celestial being that you are, dance with me! Our friend is playing a lovely old tune.” He led her to an open part of the dining room and slow danced with her while Pish played “As Time Goes By.”

  I had a moment of worry that his flattery would be grating to Vanessa, but I needn’t have been concerned. She appeared completely happy with the charmer’s attentions and flirted back outrageously. I made a mental note to invite Elwood to every single event I had at the castle. He is flighty as a butterfly in his attentions and has a new “lady friend” every week, but for my purposes that was his charm. After Vanessa he swept up Patsy, who looked tearfully delighted, and then hefty Barbara. They circled ponderously around the tables while I fretted about her health. Finally he stood before Cleta, hand out, asking if she’d care to take a turn around the floor.

  She looked up and, in her perfectly modulated voice, said, “I’d rather die than dance with a small-town hick, thank you for asking.”

  Emerald, who was nearby, looked down at her and then turned to Shilo, who stood nearby. “See, Shi? That’s why you don’t have to worry about anything Miss Sanson says. She’s miserable to everybody.” Everyone laughed and even Shilo smiled as Cleta bridled, stiffening with rage, then gave a sniff of disgust and turned away.

  Gogi slipped over to me as she was making the rounds ensuring that her people behaved, and whispered, “I’m happy that Emerald gave the woman that set-down.”

  “Me, too. I thought people got over that kind of crap—being a mean girl—when they got older.”

  “My dear, the tales I could tell you after years of running an old-age home,” she said, linking her arm through mine and hugging it to her. “Mean girls and bully boys get older, but they don’t usually get better.”

  “Well that’s depressing.”

  I heard a commotion in the great hall and Zeke burst through the dining room door. “Merry, you gotta help!” he yelped, his prominent Adam’s apple galloping up and down his throat.

  Pish’s piano playing tinkled to a stop. A heavyset middle-aged woman in an ankle-length mud-colored dress and with frizzy hair sticking out in fluffy hunks galloped into the room after Zeke. Her gaze swept over the gathering, a belligerent expression on her plain, doughy face, her protruding eyes wide. “Where is she? Where’s my aunt?”

  I wove through the tables toward her as Gordy, hunched and hustling, followed into the room. He caught my eye, grimaced, and shrugged. The woman bolted toward me but then elbowed past, chugging along like a steam engine, huffing and puffing.

  “Auntie!” she howled, hands outstretched, wheezing as she caught sight of Cleta. “Are you all right? I didn’t know what to think when you were gone, I just didn’t know. Did these people abduct you? I tried to talk to the police in New York, but they wouldn’t let me file a missing persons report!”

  Cleta stiffened, frozen in place as the woman surged toward her. “Lauda, stop this instant!” she said, her cultured voice trembling, her hands lifted as if to ward off blows. “I will not see you. Someone take her away.”

  Vanessa and the other members of the Legion collected around Cleta, their expressions iden
tically alarmed. I followed the woman as she bumbled though the tables, and motioned to Zeke and Gordy to come with me. “Miss Sanson, who is this?”

  “This is Lauda, my niece,” she warbled. Her dark eyes wide and staring, magnified by her glasses, held an unmistakable look of fear. “I don’t wish to speak with her.”

  Lauda stopped abruptly. She looked around at the faces turned toward her, the crowd riveted by the drama being acted out before them. You’d have thought it was a sketch from a play, the way the townies and Golden Acres folks gaped. Doc English’s eyes goggled behind his glasses, and Helen Johnson was avidly staring, her gaze slewing back and forth between the two women. She whispered something to her tablemate Eleanor.

  “Auntie, please don’t be mean this once,” Lauda whimpered. Tears welled in her pale eyes and she pressed her fists to her cheeks. “How can you say that to me, who has only ever had your best interests at heart?” She surged forward once again and grabbed Cleta’s shoulder. “Come with me now, out of this nest of . . . of vipers,” she said, shooting a glance at the other Legion women.

  “No!” Cleta cried, recoiling from the woman’s grip as the other Legion ladies fell back, away from her and her niece.

  I stepped up to the group, put one hand out to Cleta and confronted the other woman. “Miss Sanson is here of her own free will. You’ll have to leave.”