Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  I glanced across the room to where Janice was sitting with Simon. He was holding her hand as they spoke to another townie who sat with them. It seemed that Cleta’s awful behavior had strengthened a marriage that I knew had gone though some severe tests lately. But just because flowers will grow in poop, doesn’t make the poop any more fragrant. My anger had gone cold. I stared down at the woman, who I could tell was waiting with glee for my answer. I had a revelation in that moment; she thrived on the fury she created in others, feeding on it, gloating over it. She indeed was of the reptilian/human race that feeds on fear and negativity.

  “It’s really sad that you think you were being honest. You weren’t. There was nothing honest in what you said. It was an opinion, and you’re entitled to that, but it was an opinion born of spite and hate. What you said told every single person here more about you than it did about Janice.” I turned, walked away, and enjoyed the rest of the evening talking to folks who really mattered to me.

  A few days passed. I ignored Cleta and Barbara and the rest, though I made sure they had everything their little hearts desired. In fact, I was considering throwing them all out, except for Lush, but to prevent legal entanglements I figured I’d better let them stay the extra month they had all paid for in advance. Cleta would be just the type to sue me, and I certainly could not afford that, while she had buckets of money to blow on lawyers. They all did, and four lawsuits would break my spirit as well as the bank. I had been careful to carry enough liability insurance to cover any accidents that might befall my guests, and I would be careful to follow every legality for the same reason, fear of rich people’s lawyers.

  Priorities reasserted themselves. Something was bugging Shilo, but she insisted there was nothing wrong between her and Jack.

  “I love him so much,” she said as she helped me with dinner preparations one day. “I just feel like . . . I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? Like when is he going to figure out I’m not right for him?”

  I reassured her that she was perfect for Jack, who adored her, and she seemed a little better.

  I had already planned a cards-and-tea afternoon for my ladies and folks from Gogi’s retirement home. I considered canceling, knowing that the Legion was bound to make some trouble, but when I talked to Gogi about it she urged me to go ahead and not let the Legion spoil the fun. Yes, she said fun. It would be a send-off, I told my friend, because I would only have to deal with them all for another couple of weeks. I wasn’t going to tell them they were leaving until after the cards afternoon; the last thing I needed was the Legion in a snit.

  You may be wondering, by now, what was going on with Lauda. She was still in town, that much I knew, but she had stayed under the radar and hadn’t bothered us. I kind of forgot about her; however, I did hear of one very odd occurrence.

  The day that Cleta offended half the town and tried to have Isadore charged with harassment, Gordy and Zeke, my intrepid handyfellows, were hanging around outside of Binny’s Bakery. They share an apartment upstairs from the bakery, so that isn’t odd itself, but what they saw was.

  Cleta wobbled past them down the street. As polite as Gordy always is, he offered to guide her to wherever she wanted to go. He was worried enough that even though she told him to buzz off—Zeke claimed she said something even ruder—he followed her without her noticing. He said she looked lost, glancing around as if she was looking for something.

  Or someone, as it turned out.

  Not surprisingly everyone in Autumn Vale knew Lauda to see her, and he saw Cleta and her niece in earnest conversation. Given the kerfuffle at the castle, it was such a bewildering sight that he crept closer and hid behind a garbage bin. She apparently was telling Lauda off in no uncertain terms and yelled that as of that moment, Lauda was no longer in her will.

  Cleta then stormed off, stormed being a relative term, I suppose, for an eighty-year-old woman with health issues. Lauda did not follow, as far as Gordy saw. It was after that that Cleta had the run-in with Isadore. Did anything change hands? I asked, remembering the money she had purportedly drawn out of the bank, any envelope or papers? Gordy didn’t see anything like that but couldn’t swear it hadn’t happened. It was none of my business, I figured, and they’d all be out of my hair soon enough.

  In planning the cards-and-tea afternoon, there was one thorny issue that I had to consult Pish about, and that was Isadore. On the one hand, she appeared to depend on our invitations and Pish’s attempts at befriending her for what contact she had with society, apart from Helen Johnson and Hannah. However, there was the matter of her run-in with Cleta to worry about.

  “I’ll take charge of her,” Pish said. “You can seat her with Hannah. They’ll only play Crazy Eights, or something like that, not bridge or cribbage like the other ladies will want.”

  I agreed and issued the invitation. I respected how Isadore helped at the library for no money, and her stalwart refusal to give up. Anyone who stood up for Hannah was aces in my book.

  The luncheon-and-cards day arrived. We had decided on a Sunday afternoon, the timing long enough after church for those who went to services. Zeke was at the castle without his usual partner, Gordy, who was working for his uncle on the farm. Planting season meant a lot of work for locals and imported workers, seven days a week while the fields were dry. Zeke would normally have been working at Gordy’s uncle’s farm, too, but had taken the day to help me. I appreciated it. I think his motivation truly was Hannah; he took excellent care to help her parents get her mobility wheelchair out of the van and into the castle via the pantry hall, the only accessible door. Hannah’s parents drove off to go shopping. They’d be back between three and four to pick up their daughter. Zeke headed back outside to work on some of the gardening I was trying to get done.

  Jack had insisted on attending, and I was afraid it was because he had heard how Cleta had mistreated Shilo. In fact, I now had Juniper taking care of her room, because Cleta, oddly enough, had some respect for Juniper, who had told Barbara where to get off. Also, Juniper was a manic perfectionist when it came to cleaning, so Cleta’s obsessive need to have her towels perfect and bathroom spotless found a soul mate in Juniper’s obsessive need to clean and tidy every surface.

  That was all fine, but I needed Shilo to help serve alongside Emerald. Juniper was just not someone I trusted to serve tables most of the time, since she was grumpy and misanthropic, an interesting blend of combativeness and snarkiness I didn’t mind now that I knew the good heart and hard work beneath it. She just wasn’t suited to serving food to the public.

  I compromised by making sure Emerald would serve Cleta’s table. With Cleta I seated Doc, who would not stand any of her nonsense and could not be insulted; Mabel Thorpe, the sharp-tongued manageress of the Vale Lunch counter, who had demanded an invitation because she heard there was to be bridge-playing; Hubert Dread, who was loopy in a sly-as-a-fox way anyway; and Lush, who had brought the plague down upon us and so needed to be punished.

  Just joking. However, Cleta was her fault, though I still could not figure out who had told Cleta about moving to Wynter Castle, nor who had truly invited her, since every single one of them disavowed that.

  Everyone had arrived. We served a light luncheon of finger sandwiches and salads. I had taken great care setting up the trays of finger sandwiches and had Lizzie take photos in case I wanted to start giving teas. I was also going to have her take more pictures of the afternoon so I’d have a reference as I planned future events. She rolled her eyes a lot, but over the course of the next hour or so she did what I asked. Better taking photos, I reminded her, than serving tea.

  The guests played cards. I drifted among the tables making sure everything was going smoothly. Barbara had eaten quite a bit of lunch. Despite her apparent pickiness at the opera evening, in truth the woman could eat anything without it affecting her, it didn’t matter how spicy, nor sickeningly sweet. This afternoon, though
, her fleshy face was pale, and there was sweat on her brow. She got up and made her way out of the dining room. If she was gone too long, I’d seek her out, but I wasn’t feeling too charitable or concerned about her “delicate” constitution after her performance at the opera after-party.

  Jack was sitting with Hannah, Gogi, and Isadore playing Crazy Eights. I smiled as I watched because the play was silly and high-spirited, each one slapping his or her cards down with gusto. Hannah giggled like a little girl, and Jack laughed out loud, even as he glanced over at Shilo, who was moving around filling teacups. His gaze followed her, then he glanced at me.

  When Shilo came back to the tea table, I moved to stand close to her. “How is it going?”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Shilo, I hope if there was anything wro—”

  “Merry, everything is fine!” she said. Picking up another pot of tea she headed out to make the rounds, filling empty teacups. I was called over to settle a dispute between Janice Grover and Patsy Schwartz.

  “Merry, she cheated me,” Janice claimed, holding up a poker hand. “She’s dealing from the bottom of the deck!” I had left it to the individual tables what they wished to play. Apparently they were playing poker, and if I was to believe Janice, who I had no cause to doubt, Patsy was a poker shark.

  Patsy, her carefully made-up face painted with coral lipstick and blue eye shadow, looked aghast. “I would never!” she said, hand over her heart as if she were having palpitations.

  “I would never,” Janice mimicked in a thin, exaggerated voice, her double chins wobbling in her indignation and her lucky parrot earrings swinging. She threw down her poker hand and crossed her arms over her colorful muumuu.

  I glanced around, noting the attention we were drawing. Janice was turning red with fury, while Patsy was pale under her one-shade-too-dark foundation. I didn’t want this to blow out of proportion. What to do? “Are you betting real money?” I asked Janice and she nodded. I sighed heavily. I had said no betting.

  Thankfully Vanessa stood and moved from her table to theirs. “Patsy, why don’t you go and sit with the others at my table, and I’ll move here,” she said. “I don’t believe you’re cheating, but you are a lousy poker dealer. I’ll take over, if that’s okay with you, Mrs. Grover?”

  Janice nodded. They dealt a fresh hand and, with the others’ assent—Elwood and Stoddart were at her table—they played on.

  People moved in and out of the dining room, as well as changing tables for games at times. Barbara was gone for a long while. Hannah and Gogi ended up playing War, since Jack had abandoned them and was talking to Shilo. I noticed that Isadore was missing, too. Where the heck had she gone? I strolled around the room, chatting with folks and watching to see that Cleta didn’t behave badly.

  I couldn’t pay attention after a while, though, because I needed to direct the dessert course. Since there were so many different treats I had cut them fairly small. It made sense, with that variety, to let people help themselves. I shooed Jack back to his chair, and Shilo, Emerald, and I lined up the sweets on platters on tables by the window overlooking the lane. We had tarts and squares, minimuffins, coffee cake, as well as scones and real butter, with clotted cream and preserves for the ones who wanted it. That was all Cleta ate: greedy spoonfuls of clotted cream on my homemade scones, with rhubarb-ginger compote.

  Emerald, Shilo, and I kept refilling the dessert table and taking away empty trays. Isadore came back for dessert, then Juniper disappeared at some point. I thought she had likely gone out for a smoke; someone had been smoking in the castle, and it annoyed the crap out of me. I didn’t go looking for her, since I would need her more for the cleanup after the luncheon. Isadore disappeared again. Where the heck was she going when she left? I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know, but I supposed my library was one possible destination. Books held a magnetism for her.

  Lizzie mumbled something about taking a few more pictures and then going to take more photos of the structures in the woods. I waved her off. She did take more photos, then vanished. The card games went on and the merriment seemed to increase exponentially. In fact, it was all so cheerful I grew suspicious. After a month I had become accustomed to a dark cloud over every affair. Where was she? Where was my own personal storm cloud? I scanned the room. No Cleta. Maybe she had gone up to bed. Perhaps the happiness abounding had become too much for her spirit, and she’d gone to lie down and recover.

  I checked in at the table where she had been playing bridge. When I asked, Lush just shrugged, but Mabel Thorpe sourly said that Cleta, who was apparently a very able partner in bridge, was sitting out a hand. Mabel clamped her lips tight, appearing to have taken the absence as betrayal. She might not like the woman, but apparently Cleta was a damn fine bridge partner and was missed.

  “Hope she doesn’t come back, to tell you the truth,” Hubert said with a chuckle. “As long as she kept partnering with Mabel I never won a game! Now I’m doin’ not too bad.” He turned to the others and began one of his tales. As I drifted away, I heard him say, “You know, bridge as a card game was invented by the Chinese, who used it to communicate state secrets to other highly placed folks . . .”

  It was beginning to wind down, games finishing, folks yawning and stretching, and I was happy about that. Maybe we could make a go of these things, the luncheons and teas. I might even consider tour groups who wanted to stop somewhere interesting for lunch, if I could get licensing for it. But Cleta’s absence nagged at me. She had been gone too long for simply sitting out a hand or two. I dashed out and ran upstairs. A door opened down the hall and Eleanor, Elwood Fitzhugh’s ditzy sister, tiptoed out, closing the door behind her.

  “Ma’am, can I help you?” I asked.

  She jumped and turned, bridling slightly, her thin frame quivering with indignation. “You might not want to startle a body,” she said, clutching her pocketbook to her bosom.

  “Were you looking for something?”

  “It’s quite all right. I found it.”

  “What did you find?” I asked, noting that she had been in Patsy Schwartz’s room.

  “The lavatory, if you must know! Wouldn’t think it mattered. There was another lady up here when I came up, one of those New York women.” She trotted past me and down the stairs.

  “There’s a bathroom on the main floor, you know,” I called down over the gallery railing, but there was no answer.

  I headed to Cleta’s room but had a momentary qualm as I stood before the oak door, staring at it. She had the best room in the house, in my opinion, one of the turret rooms, the one that had a lovely trompe l’oeil ceiling that I had uncovered last autumn. It was furnished with sturdy Eastlake furniture—a double bed, highboy dresser, and vanity suite, as well as an overstuffed love seat near the fireplace. Would she be lying on her bed, shoes off, reading a book? I tried the knob and the door swung open.

  I stepped inside. “Miss Sanson?” I called out. I peeked into the small cream tiled ensuite bathroom, but she wasn’t there. I looked around the room, puzzled, inhaling the faint odor of tobacco smoke. Had Juniper been there? Just because she cleaned the woman’s room didn’t mean she could use it as her personal smoking pit.

  I stomped out and down the stairs intending to upbraid Juniper and almost ran into Emerald, who was racing to the kitchen to get paper towels after Janice Grover spilled an entire jug of cream. Over Patsy Schwartz’s head.

  Luckily, Janice had awful aim, so though she had intended for the cream to go all over Patsy’s head, it was actually all over the table. It took me fifteen minutes to clean up the mess and half an hour to get everyone calmed down. I was finally at the long buffet table clearing some of the crumbs and stacking empty trays when Hannah came to me, her wheelchair gliding quietly across the hardwood floor.

  “Hey, sweetie, have you enjoyed yourself?” I asked, smiling over at her as I kept cleaning. She was young, just late t
wenties, but she had an affinity for seniors. I worried sometimes that she spent too much time with older folks and not enough with people her own age, but she always assured me she liked it that way.

  She smiled back. “I have. I wasn’t sure I would, with . . . with certain people here.”

  She meant Cleta, of course. I sympathized.

  “I’ve been trying to use the, uh . . . the facilities for over half an hour,” Hannah said, “but the door is locked.”

  Wheelchair bound as she was, the only washroom she could access was the main-floor half bath on the hall to the back door. “I’ll see what’s up,” I said, dusting off my hands and tossing the cloth aside. “I hope no one is ill.”

  “I called out, but there was no answer.”

  “I hope the lock didn’t malfunction or something.” I paused, a bad feeling roiling in the pit of my stomach. “I’d better get my keys.” I zipped through the great hall and snagged my keys from my handbag, which I had hidden. I sped through the kitchen, followed by Hannah, and headed down the back hall. I knocked on the bathroom door. “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone there?” No answer.

  I shrugged as I tried the doorknob. Just then Zeke came in the back door. “What’s going on?” he asked, seeing Hannah and me by the bathroom. I knew Hannah wouldn’t want me blurting out her needs—she’s a very private young lady—so I just said, “Door seems to be locked, but there’s no one in there.”

  “Last I saw, Mrs. Beakman was using the can. She didn’t look so good.”

  Gogi came into the hallway just then. “Hannah, your parents are here to pick you up. What’s going on?”

  I explained again, then stuck the key in the lock, wiggling it to make it work, and opened the door.