Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  “And just who do you think you are?” she snarled. Her cheeks were puffed and her face red, a furious expression twisting her mouth.

  “I am her hostess until she decides otherwise,” I said, staring her down. I used the voice I developed from dealing with designers who asked for impossible things when I would style their models. You would not believe the torture they’re willing to inflict on women in the name of fashion. Whispers and murmurs broke out among the clustered groups of onlookers. This would be fodder for the gossips at both Golden Acres and Vale Variety and Lunch in the days to come. Just what I needed: more negative chatter.

  “I don’t believe it!” She snatched at the older woman’s arm, but Cleta shrank away from her again.

  “Zeke, Gordy, please help this woman to leave,” I said.

  Gordy looked abashed, but Zeke swept his old-school Bieber bangs out of his eyes, strode forward, and cupped the woman’s elbow. “Ma’am, you’ll have to come with us.”

  Flapping her hands at her niece, Cleta said, “She’s attempted to murder me!”

  The crowd gasped. Pish had leaped up from the piano and ushered Lush, who was making squeaky noises of terror, away from the conflict, while Stoddart, arms folded over his chest, watched, his gaze flicking back and forth between Lauda, with Zeke tugging at her elbow, and Cleta, gripping the arms of her chair.

  “Hey, now, let’s all calm down,” Elwood said, his gaze slewing uneasily from Lauda to Cleta to me. He was clearly flummoxed as to what to do when ladies got out of hand.

  This was going to end, I decided. As much as I disliked Cleta, she was my guest and I would not see her assaulted. With my lovely chiffon floral dress fluttering around me, I put my hands on Lauda’s meaty shoulders; with Zeke and Gordy tugging and pulling, we got her out of the dining room, through the great hall, and outside, squawking all the way. The woman had apparently come from Ridley Ridge in a taxi, which she had then dismissed, according to the boys, and so had no means of transport. What were we going to do with her?

  If she had just stopped struggling I would have reasoned with her, but you have to imagine the scene, with an unkempt woman gobbling like an angry turkey the whole time, telling us we were mistaken, that she was the only one who cared about her aunt, that we were illegally holding her, that she would have the police come down on our heads, that Cleta was showing signs of “Oldtimer’s disease,” etcetera. She just wouldn’t stop! Verbiage like a babbling brook spewing at us, trickling over our heads, winding through our conversation: complaints, threats, endless whining.

  Gogi followed us out. “Put her in my car,” she said over the woman’s chatter, using the remote to unlock it. She had driven her luxury sedan while Gordy had been employed to drive the new Golden Acres van, which she didn’t feel completely comfortable piloting up my winding lane just yet.

  I hated the thought of locking someone in a car. “Lauda, please stop! Can we just talk about this?” I pleaded, pinning the woman’s flailing elbows behind her. I was taller and considerably younger and stronger than she and tried to be gentle yet firm. If she would have stopped flailing and struggling and talking incessantly I could have let her go, but I would not have her storming back into the castle and upsetting our guests and residents. They were my first priority, and Cleta’s assertion that her niece was trying to kill her rang in my ears. While I did not buy it, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Doc, who had followed our struggling group outside, was cackling wildly on the flagstone terrace, clapping, as we stuffed Lauda into Gogi’s lovely car. He jumped up and down and pointed to a pile of luggage dumped by the parking area; clearly Lauda had come intending to stay. Gordy took the remote and locked her in, but she, shrieking silently behind the glass, unlocked the lock from the inside, at which point Gordy, with fast reflexes, locked the door again, with a beep-beep of the horn, and so on and so forth until the woman was exhausted and panting. She gave up, collapsing back on the seat.

  Gogi had phoned the police. Within minutes a cruiser pulled up the drive and a tall, handsome deputy climbed out, heading toward us. I was relieved and couldn’t figure out why Gogi appeared so dismayed. I explained the problem to him as Lauda pitifully wailed in the confines of Gogi’s car, revitalized by the appearance of the police cruiser.

  He had a notebook out, but his gaze drifted everywhere but my eyes. He looked over the castle and then stared for a moment at Doc, who waved enthusiastically from the terrace, backed by a cluster of the guests. Pish crossed the drive toward us, Stoddart following at a distance, and the officer examined him, too.

  Getting frustrated by the young deputy’s lack of engagement, I motioned toward Gogi’s car and said, “My guest Miss Cleta Sanson claims that her niece—that woman in the car—has tried to kill her.” His lean, tanned face was virtually expressionless, but at that he gave me a skeptical look. I shrugged and said, “I’m just relaying what Miss Sanson told me. When her niece showed up in the dining room, my guest appeared genuinely frightened.” I glanced over at the group, but Cleta was the only one who hadn’t come out to stand on the flagstone terrace. “You can go in and ask her if you’d like.”

  Pish heard that last, as he reached us, and said, “I can attest to that, Deputy. Miss Sanson didn’t even want to come out with the group, she’s that alarmed. I know the lady well, and she is not one to be easily intimidated.”

  “Have you ever met Lauda?” I asked my friend.

  He shook his head. “Cleta has talked about her, though. Her full name is Lauda Sanson Nastase. There was an incident of food poisoning that Cleta blames on Lauda. Patsy Schwartz just hinted at something else, too, something more serious, but I didn’t have time to ask what she was talking about.”

  The deputy nodded, his expression impassive, though his jaw firmed. “I suppose I’ll have to take her down to the station to straighten this out. Looks like the Wynter curse has struck again,” he said with a look I couldn’t identify.

  I caught Gogi’s compressed lips and narrowed eyes; there was a story there about the deputy’s uncalled-for remark, but I certainly didn’t want to lengthen this process any more than necessary. Gordy hit the Unlock button on Gogi’s remote and the officer calmly opened the door and gently helped Lauda out. She seemed cowed by the tall young man and went meekly enough, probably making me look like the overreactor of the century. He walked her to his car, emblazoned with the county sheriff’s office crest, and helped her into the backseat, loaded her luggage into the trunk of the cruiser, then returned to us.

  “Someone will be in contact,” he said. “Maybe even Sheriff Grace. I hear he comes out this way often.”

  This was said with some kind of insinuating undertone I didn’t understand but didn’t like. Just then my gaze strayed to his ID patch, sewn above his blue shirt pocket; Deputy Urquhart, it read. A queasy sensation squeezed my stomach. I caught Gogi’s eye and she nodded. How fortunate for me. I managed to snag the only officer on the force who probably thought I was more trouble than Virgil did. He must be related to the tribe of Urquhart kin who resided in Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge. Minnie Urquhart, who ran the only local postal outlet, had for some unfathomable reason decided I was the devil’s handmaiden. She spread gossip and lies through the village like a stream of poison.

  That explained Deputy Urquhart’s “Wynter curse” remark. As he drove away, Lauda staring pitifully out the back window at us, tears streaming down her pudgy cheeks, I had a sense that my life was about to become more complicated once again. Just what I needed.

  Chapter Four

  “I THINK I can guess why you looked concerned,” I said, turning to Gogi and wrapping my arms around myself. The day had gotten sharply colder, the brilliant April sun tucking itself behind gathering clouds. “He’s part of the Urquhart clan.”

  “A nephew of Minnie’s; she seems to have an army of nephews and nieces. Virgil told me about it when he made the hire two months
ago. The boy is a good deputy, he says, nothing like the rest of his family. But he did seem to have a bit of an attitude, didn’t he?”

  “Why has that whole family decided I’m trouble? I just don’t understand.”

  Stoddart had joined us. “It’s like the herd circling,” Stoddart said.

  “It all started with Minnie,” I griped, leading the way back to the castle. “She decided I was bad news and there was no going back from there.”

  The interruption broke up our afternoon tea and the folks from the village and Golden Acres left. It was always something, but this time at least it had nothing to do with me. However, it was becoming evident that Cleta was the center of some family drama, not something I was pleased about given how much drama I had suffered through in my own life in the last year.

  I had changed into comfortable attire and was in the kitchen. Pish and Stoddart followed Janice back to her warehouse to look at some set décor items she had stashed away for their production of The Magic Flute. Lizzie had hitched a ride into town with the gentlemen and would return with them. Emerald finished tidying the dining room, while Juniper and Shilo were doing laundry and cleaning bathrooms. They seemed to have worked out their own schedule and way of dividing the chores, and I was happy with that.

  I needed to start dinner, a much more involved process now that I had guests, so I was alone in the kitchen, peeling potatoes then plunging them in cold water, occasionally staring out the window overlooking the woods that lined the far end of the property. The fairy-tale wood haunted me. What did my great-uncle intend? It was such an odd thing for him to do.

  I had a crown rib pork roast and was going to rub it with crushed garlic, stuff it, and roast root vegetables around it. It was a showy-looking dinner, but not difficult. The ladies had all gone upstairs for a nap after the excitement, or at least I thought they had all gone up.

  “Merry, may I speak with you?”

  The voice made me jump and I put one starchy hand over my heart. “Vanessa!” I exclaimed, turning toward the door. “Is everything all right?”

  She appeared worried but hesitant and frowned, shaking her head.

  “Want to take a seat and chat?”

  “If you don’t mind,” she said and entered, taking one of the chairs at the long wooden table that centered the work area of the kitchen. She had changed out of her tea dress into a bejeweled grape-colored velour pantsuit.

  I went back to peeling but when no confidence issued forth, I asked, over my shoulder, “You did wish to speak with me?”

  “I feel I must. It’s about Lauda.”

  “That woman is quite a trip. What did she mean by all of that squalling? She acted like we had kidnapped Cleta and were holding her for ransom.”

  “There is a long story behind it, but you mustn’t judge Lauda by her behavior today.”

  I turned and eyed her, wary of the apologetic tone she was taking. “She was completely off her rocker. Even Cleta seemed afraid of her; I wouldn’t have expected that woman to be afraid of anyone. She said Lauda tried to kill her.”

  Vanessa fiddled with her hair, patting at some stray strands that had escaped her elaborate hairstyle. “Cleta has no children, as you know,” she said. “Lauda is her late sister’s daughter. Did you know that Cleta’s name means ‘glory’?”

  I shook my head, dried my hands and sat down opposite Vanessa. “Inappropriate, in my opinion.”

  “Lauda was named in her honor. Lauda means ‘praise.’ Kind of like glory, I suppose, if you look at it that way.”

  I waited. Vanessa was not usually so roundabout, but I would be patient. She met my gaze; her eyes were remarkable, very green. In conversations over the past weeks I had heard about how she was hired the first time as a gypsy extra in a Hollywood extravaganza because of those mesmerizing eyes, then her part was cut. The casting director had just wanted to sleep with her, she said. She had wanted to be a serious actress, but it wasn’t easy. In an effort to stand out she dyed her hair black, arched her eyebrows, painted her lips bright red, and positioned herself as a vixen, a popular female character in 1950s movies. She had been aiming for films like Blackboard Jungle, but had ended up in B-grade fetish roles and cheap noir films.

  From there she landed a European count who lived in England and retired from the business, a bad-girl version of Grace Kelly, she had said in a moment of candid self-mockery. After her divorce, she went back to acting. I remembered seeing some of her later movies on late-night TV. She played the aging vamp or the dangerous woman, archetypal roles in which she was rather good, if a little over-the-top. After a pause, I prompted her. “You were going to tell me something about Lauda?”

  “Lauda is Cleta’s sole heir. I feel rather bad for the girl. After her mother died she followed Cleta around like a puppy, and I’m afraid my vindictive friend took advantage. She had Lauda doing all of her errands, cleaning her condo, fetching her dry cleaning . . . everything!”

  I had my own issues with Cleta, and I was certain that Cleta took advantage in every way she could, but Lauda was a grown-up. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want.

  Vanessa went on, “The deal between them was worth it, I suppose. Cleta is a very rich woman. When she dies Lauda will be wealthy.”

  I murmured an acknowledgment.

  The aging actress played with her bangle bracelet and frowned. “Cleta began to notice things, like little traps set for her, items in her way in her condo that weren’t there before, as if to trip her.”

  “You’re saying Lauda was trying to kill Cleta.”

  Vanessa shook her head. “I’m not saying it, but that’s Cleta’s take on it. I say the old gal is just getting forgetful and doesn’t want to admit it. Or her vision is getting worse. Of course, Cleta being who she is, she would put the worst construct on it. She says I’m a drama queen, but she has me beat.”

  “What are you saying, Vanessa? Lauda didn’t give me much choice but to have her carted away.”

  “I know that, my dear. I’m not blaming you.”

  So why did her tone sound full of reproach? “Really, Vanessa, you have to admit, Lauda’s behavior was not that of a reasonable person.”

  Vanessa leaned forward and stared into my eyes. “How would you feel if someone you loved was accusing you of trying to kill them? Even with all the abuse she’s taken, I do think Lauda loves her aunt.”

  “So there’s nothing to Cleta’s accusations?”

  Vanessa was silent, her forehead furrowed in thought. “I just don’t know what to think. Lauda is counting on that inheritance. She doesn’t have any savings, and she’s getting close to retirement age.”

  All the more motive to poison her aunt, besides the obvious, which was Cleta seemed like a woman who needed poisoning. “Does Lauda work?”

  “She was on the custodial staff at a bank but was let go for some reason.” Vanessa sighed and stood, tugging her gaudy sweatshirt down over her hips. “I think I’ll go have a little nap. That awful scene wore me out. I feel so sorry for Lauda. Cleta has been making wild accusations against her, and it just got worse after that incident of food poisoning. She swears Lauda tried to poison her, but there was no way she could have.”

  “Were they alone when it happened?”

  “No, not at all. It was at a charity function that we were all invited to.”

  “Did anyone else get sick?”

  “Well, no. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “So you were all there?”

  She thought for a moment. “I believe we were, even Lush. It was a Valentine’s Day dinner and dance given by one of Patsy Schwartz’s daughters. The girl is named Patricia as well, so even though she’s well into her fifties, we still all call her Pattycakes. She was trying to launch some kind of catering business, and paired with a charity that needed a fund-raiser.”

  “And was Lauda there
as well?”

  She looked uncomfortable. “Patsy got her daughter to hire Lauda as serving staff. The poor woman is desperate for money, as I said, not having a steady job anymore.”

  I went back to the sink to finish the potatoes and start on the carrots and parsnips.

  “I feel sorry for Lauda,” Vanessa said. “Cleta is not an easy person to deal with.”

  “Hopefully Lauda will go back to the city,” I said, looking back over my shoulder at her.

  “I’m sure she will. Thanks for listening, dear. I know we’ve been a sore trial to you this last month, but I’ll try to get the others to behave.” She smiled and winked. “Not that that is going to work with Cleta.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll call you all when dinner is ready.”

  “Thank you again for listening to me.”

  “Anytime,” I said.

  As I finished up paring and peeling all the root vegetables Shilo came into the kitchen and perched on a stool. She was headed home but wanted to talk first, so I fed her tea and muffins as we chatted about what was going on in her life. She loved Jack, adored his mother, and though she wasn’t crazy about their sixties split-level ranch home, it was comfortable. I had been to their house many times over the winter, and she appeared to settle in to his world nicely enough. Sometimes I felt a little like she was a caged bird, though; her wings clipped, her cage gilded, her owner doting, but still . . . not free.

  She insisted she was happy with Jack, and that was all I could ask. She didn’t seem quite her normal self, and I wondered if the adjustment was, after all, more difficult than she had anticipated. All I could do was trust her when she said nothing was wrong, and hope she would come to me if she needed me.

  “That was something, what happened this afternoon,” I said.

  “I don’t get that woman, Miss Sanson,” Shilo said, softly, twirling her long dark hair around one finger and staring out the window. “Why is she so mean? And then she turned into a big ’fraidy cat when her niece barged in.”