Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  The vitriol toward Cleta was poisonous. I shook my head and sighed. “I just don’t get it. Everyone hated Cleta, and yet someone invited her to come with you, and no one will admit doing it. What does it matter now? Just say it if you were the one who invited her.” I watched her face.

  Her chins waggled as she vehemently declared, “It wasn’t me! Cleta was killing our group slowly, insult by insult, but she’s gone now. And hallelujah.” She got up and shuffled back to the door, dragging the quilt behind her.

  I loaded my muffins into the car and headed into Autumn Vale. Binny’s Bakery was doing a brisk business. I like Binny Turner; she’s a good soul, even if she doesn’t have a bit of business sense. Lately she has begun to reconsider her vow to supposedly reeducate the palates of the townies with her European-style breads and pastries, and may offer more homey fare. If it happens, I’ll be happy to make muffins and squares for her, but it’s up to her.

  I passed Binny’s Bakery and parked outside of Vale Variety and Lunch. Picking up the tub of muffins and squares I had labeled for delivery to them, I locked the car and climbed the three steps to the store, walked through it, then ascended the three more steps to the coffee shop.

  I paused when I saw Minnie Urquhart in the variety store section, then averted my gaze. Isadore was drinking her daily morning tea and eating a day-old muffin at one of the café tables. The owner saves the day-old muffins for Isadore, who has little money and no real job yet, and sells them to her at half price. The former bank employee is a town fixture by now. Isadore seems to me to be torn. She has the instincts of a hermit, and yet harbors some bone-deep need to be around people even if she’s shunted off to the sidelines. I feel sorry for her, but pity would offend her deeply. At least she has Hannah and the library. I waved to her and she nodded distantly, like the Queen of England to a commoner, then went back to her book and tea.

  I spoke to Mabel Thorpe as I unloaded, gave her a bill, which they would add to the others and pay me at the end of the week. I then turned to go, empty plastic tub in hand, only to run—literally—into Minnie. I stepped to go around her and she moved to block me.

  “What is wrong with you?” I asked, exasperated. “You need a hobby. Oh, wait, you already have one: bugging me.” I was fed up, I guess, and it showed.

  “How is murder central?” she asked, her tone acidic. She wrinkled her nose and squinted up at me. “Killed any more little old ladies?”

  Pasting a smile on my face I brightly asked, “And how are your relatives, Minnie? You know . . . the ones in prison?”

  There was a stillness around us, the quietude of fifteen people holding their breath and watching, and I knew what was happening would be breathlessly told and retold over coffee right here in the coffee shop, at the Brotherhood of the Falcon Hall, and every other public venue.

  “You mouthy snot!” Minnie roared. She put her head down and butted me in the chest.

  I staggered back, the plastic tub flying out of my hand as I cried out in surprise. But though I wrenched my shoulder about out of its socket as I grabbed hold of a table, I did not fall.

  “That is enough. Minnie, you get your butt out of here!” Mabel, a steely eyed, steely haired woman in her sixties, shouted. There was no saying no to that woman when her dander was up. Minnie whirled and stomped from the place.

  Isadore stood and shouted after her, “Minnie Urquhart, when are you gonna figure out, no one causes your problems but Minnie?”

  A couple of folks clapped and the babble of voices swelled, laughter rippling through the gathered coffee drinkers. Mabel glared at everyone. “That’s just enough. Everyone mind your own beeswax and go back to your gossip!”

  The chatter hushed to its normal volume and Isadore sank back down in her chair, picking up her tea in one shaking hand.

  A calm voice cut through the rustle of papers and clink of coffee cups. “I think it is time this town had a new post office and a new postal worker to run it.”

  I turned. Gogi was standing in the variety store with a big package of Depends in her arms. “Thanks for the support, Gogi,” I said. “But that’s not up to any of us. Is it?”

  “Don’t you worry about it,” she said, determination in her voice, the weird fluorescent lighting glinting off her new bifocals. “You’re not the only one who has problems with her.”

  That was too true. The first week I was in Autumn Vale Minnie informed me that Gogi Grace had murdered both her husbands, thereby inheriting her “wealth.” That was so extremely silly it was a wonder the woman could keep a straight face while saying it.

  “As a matter of fact, I did an informal poll of folks I know,” she said, scanning some in the café, who nodded and smiled. “And a lot of others have problems with Minnie, things I won’t go into right now. But I’m writing a letter and starting a petition. I think we should move the post office to a new wheelchair-accessible municipal building along with town offices, the zoning commission, and other locally important things. Anyone with me on this?”

  A couple of the townies, who were all listening, raised their hands, and even as they went back to their conversations and newspapers, I felt like a corner had been turned. I hated going into the post office because of Minnie, and yet I still needed to pick up packages, buy stamps, and all the rest. In a few months I would be there a whole year, a startling thought—a whole year of vindictiveness from Minnie. But it appeared I wasn’t the only one she targeted, and it made me feel better.

  I picked up my scattered plastic tub and lid. Gogi paid for her Depends and we left together, walking out into the fresh cool air, a sweet breeze blowing in from the forest that surrounded the valley town. “Can you really make that happen? A new post office without Minnie?”

  Her expression had become grave. “I can’t tell you why, but there is something very wrong going on with Minnie’s handling of the mail, and it has become a criminal matter. Virgil is investigating, but it may even be a federal problem.”

  I was startled but realized that there were a lot of possibilities. Mail theft, tampering, mail fraud: all of those would fall in the federal purview, and I wouldn’t put any of them past Minnie. I walked down the street with Gogi, anxious to have a gander at the storefront Emerald was talking about renting. I told Gogi about our friend’s plans and she was surprisingly upbeat.

  “You know, you’d be surprised how folks around here would take advantage of a professional massage studio, not like that disgusting version Ridley Ridge hosts. Sonora would certainly be the first customer, and I’d be the second. I’d be happy to spread the word through my book club, and Sonora belongs to a school group of parents. There may be enough people interested to sustain a business if she got the place cheap enough and maybe offered a few other services.”

  “Other services? Like?”

  Gogi stared up at the storefront and cocked her head to one side. “Maybe a cosmetician, or nail salon?” Gogi, like myself and the ladies of the Legion, had found our own local hairdresser a marvel and were happy with her dyeing and cutting abilities, but she didn’t do mani-pedis or anything else like that. “Right now we all have to go to Batavia or even Henrietta for nails. Or if that’s a no-go, she could offer some boutique accessory items.”

  I thought of Emerald, whose taste went more toward leather boots and fringed suede slouch bags than Louboutins and Prada pocketbooks, but if she had a mentor like Gogi—she and I share a love of fashionable clothes and nice shoes—she might just be able to figure it out. Besides, Autumn Vale doesn’t run to Louboutin tastes. We could do with some shopping options, if the local economy would sustain it.

  I was surprised by how invested I was in Autumn Vale, Emerald, and all the rest of it. “Emerald is heavily involved in this Consciousness Calling thing, and she’s doing her reflexology or whatever it is through them. She was talking about massage, but she’d have to do a proper course for that. Have you heard about thi
s Consciousness Calling company, or group?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t say I have. I’ll look into it.”

  “It seems to be doing her good; that’s all I care about.” We strolled on. “Gogi, I’m really worried about the murder investigation and I’m grasping at straws. That day, did you see anything at all that gave you any clues? Any idea where the ladies were at different times?”

  She shook her head. “Everyone moved around a lot. More than I had realized when I tried to reconstruct the afternoon for Virgil. Cleta was gone for a while, I know that. She went out once early on, right after lunch, then again later.”

  Where had she gone? I wondered. As a matter of fact, now that I thought of it, that fit the pattern I had noticed in the month she had been at the castle. She usually did toddle off for ten or fifteen minutes after a meal. Who did that?

  The answer popped into my head: smokers did that. The simple explanation for the cigarette butt in her purse and the smell of smoke in her room was because she herself smoked. Duh, I thought, mentally smacking myself upside the head. I remembered, too, the lighter among the spilled contents of her purse. That is why she had retreated to the main floor bathroom after eating; she went there for a cigarette.

  So the killer was either familiar with her pattern or watching her closely enough that they could follow her out. I’d never seen Cleta smoke, but some folks hid their addiction well. I had been blaming Juniper for the smell of cigarette smoke in Cleta’s room, when all along I should have just asked Cleta.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I OFFERED GOGI a lift back to the senior home, as I wanted to say hi to Doc English, my great-uncle’s best friend. Doc was sitting in a sunny spot on the walk in front of the ranch-style home modified with an addition on the back that securely housed seniors of all needs.

  I sat down beside him and he cast me a sly glance. “Still tryin’ to solve the latest crime?” he asked, his voice gravelly as always.

  “I’m letting Virgil and his officers do that.” I let a moment pass, then added, “But I would like to know if you remember anything about the day, like . . . whatever you already told the police.”

  He grinned, his gappy, yellowing teeth showing, then looked thoughtful. “I was at the table playin’ bridge. Not many folks know how to play, you know. Old-fashioned game. Needs partners.”

  “Who were you with?”

  He gave me a look. “You oughta remember; you’re the one who decided where to put me! There was the witchy one who got herself killed.”

  “Cleta,” I supplied.

  “Yup. And Hubert, Mabel from down at the Lunch, and that dizzy cutie pie, Pish’s aunt.”

  “Lush Lincoln.”

  He nodded. “I was glad you didn’t stick me with that church woman Helen Johnson. Nice girl, but too happy.”

  “Too happy?”

  He grunted. “Too happy! Everything is lovely on God’s green earth, blah, blah, blah. She must fart rainbows.”

  I snorted with laughter.

  “Anyway, the dead woman was up and down half the time. Ants in her pants. Hate that. Lose my track of thinking. What is up with women, anyway? Seems like half the women in the room were up and out and back and forth. I was lucky, I guess, ’cause Mabel don’t move once she starts playin’ bridge. God, that woman is good. Sharp as a needle!”

  “You say half the women were up and down. Did you notice if any were gone at the same time as Cleta?”

  He shook his head. “Concentrated on the game. Haven’t played bridge since my wife died, so I needed to brush up. I did look around when I was waitin’ for one of the ladies. Pish’s aunt is a sweetheart, but she sure does take a long time deciding what she’s doing. That Beakman woman was gone for a while, but then she came back with a plate full of food. I like a gal who likes to eat.”

  He gave me a leering look and I swatted his hand. “Lech!” I said with a laugh.

  “She’s a handsome woman, that Barbara,” he said.

  To each his own, I thought, given what I knew about Barbara’s woe-is-me attitude. “Was that at the same time Cleta was missing?”

  He grimaced and grunted, “Mebbe. Hard to remember. I think it was, but that was earlier, when Cleta took off the first time. Don’t know about the next time, ’cause we were in the middle of a hand.”

  “What about Patsy Schwartz?”

  “Which one is she?”

  “The thin little woman, nicely dressed.”

  He tugged on his hairy earlobe. “Can’t recall. I’ll think on it.”

  “Changing the subject, I came across something the other day. Do you know anything about little buildings in the woods on the north edge of Wynter Castle property?”

  He frowned. “Not sure.”

  “They’re crumbling and decrepit, probably thirty or forty years old. They look like fairy-tale structures, a Hansel and Gretel house, a stone tower.”

  “Sounds like one o’ Melvyn’s harebrained schemes.”

  I stood and stretched. “I’d better get back. It’s been an eventful few weeks.”

  “It’s been eventful ever since you came to town, Merry,” he said, looking up at me with a chuckle. “Glad you came.”

  “Some people seem to think all I’ve brought to Autumn Vale are troubles and turmoil.”

  He flapped his hand. “Whiners. Don’t listen to ’em. Lot of that crap was happening anyway—stuff at the bank, and with poor old Rusty Turner and Melvyn being killed—but folks just let it fester under the surface. You’re like a good laxative, cleaning out the poop.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said wryly.

  “You’ve never tried to live without a laxative when you really need it. It’s a compliment.” He winked. “Do you prefer to hear that you’re like a pinch of salt in my life?”

  “Just call me Cordelia,” I said. I gave him a hug, and walked back to my car and chuckled all the way back to the castle. Doc was an odd duck, but a widely read, very intelligent one. His vague reference to the origins of King Lear didn’t surprise me, coming from him, but it explained why a lot of people considered him afflicted with senility: he spoke in riddles and references that unless you paid attention, you easily missed. He and my great-uncle must have been quite the pair.

  I wasn’t sure what to think when I got back to the castle and saw Binny’s bakery truck in the drive. I suspected she would be treasure hunting. As soon as I got into the kitchen and stacked the plastic tubs in the sink to be washed, I heard the door behind me open. I turned and there was the group—all the ladies.

  “Merry, we are not pleased!” Barbara griped in her most put-upon tone. “That bakery girl is up in the attic banging around. I was taking a nap when I was startled out of a deep sleep by the loudest sound. I thought I was back in New York and a truck had backfired. Or someone had been shot. Frightened me to death.”

  “Now, Barbara, it isn’t that bad,” said Lush, always the softening influence.

  “Wasn’t above your room,” Patsy sniffed.

  I turned to Vanessa, who seemed to be the moderate voice, neither apologetic nor too complaining. “Is it that bad?”

  She shrugged. “It is a little noisy. It seems to have died down now, but good grief, what on earth is she doing up there?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. I was afraid to find out what Binny was doing that made so much noise it disturbed the ladies on the second floor, when there was a heavy layer of oak and stone walls between them. “I’ll go up and talk to her.”

  They retreated to the library while I went through the great hall, up the sweeping staircase, along the gallery to the almost hidden stairs to the third level, and up again, emerging into the attic. The door at the bottom of the stairs was open, explaining the noise, which would have echoed and magnified down. The attic is an enormous space with high ceilings and windows along the
back wall that bring in a modicum of natural light in pools. I had offered Juniper a small room on the second floor, but she preferred solitude, and so she resided in the attic.

  I could hear the sound of rustling beyond a barricade of boxes and scanned in dismay the mess Binny had made. Juniper, clean freak that she is, had created a neat island near one wall just beyond the last window. Her niche utilized some of the furniture left from two centuries of Wynter families, a bed and side tables, enclosed by a high wardrobe and long dresser. She also had created, with a low table and overstuffed settee, a nook near the last window, which let in enough light to read. She had never done much reading in her life but had now started, with Hannah’s skillful direction, so there was a stack of Sherlock Holmes books on the table.

  What had been a tidy corner was now heaped with discarded boxes and suitcases, dust motes drifting in the sun that pierced the gloom. “Binny!” I shouted sharply.

  She poked her head out from behind a stack of boxes, where she was apparently sitting going through stuff. “Hey, Merry. How are you?”

  “I’d be better if my attic wasn’t being pulled to hell by a crazy girl on some wild-goose treasure hunt.”

  Her smile faded and she looked around. “I guess I kind of made a mess, right?”

  “You’re not just whistling Dixie,” I growled. But my anger shifted when I checked out Juniper’s makeshift bedroom and found an ashtray shoved under the bed with some crushed cigarette butts in it. I had told the girl not to smoke in the castle! I couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen if a fire started up in the attic. “Where is Juniper?”

  “She said she was going down to clean up the laundry room.”

  “Ugh. Have you seen it?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s a dingy room in the basement,” I said. “No windows, little ventilation, and she’s cleaning it voluntarily? She’s too good for me.” Regardless of the smoking, she was valuable. I’d still have to talk to her about it again, though. I looked around at the mess Binny had created and sighed.