Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  Arms crossed, cell phone up to my ear, I was silent for a long moment, staring out at the woods. Spring was fully sprung and the trees glowed with new life, a green froth crowning the browns and grays of the Wynter forest. I had fought such a hard battle over the last months to make enough money to let me stay at Wynter Castle for long enough to fix it up, bringing back its faded and tarnished glory so it would glow again like the jewel it was.

  “Merry? You there?”

  “I have an idea,” I said and told him what it was. He didn’t like it, but I said I was going ahead anyway, and he could participate or not. He threatened me, but I pleaded, “Virgil, please, just hear me out. I can’t go on like this, living with a murderer under my roof. I’ll send them all back to the city. Just try making a case against her if she’s not even here.”

  I can be very persuasive when I want. By the time I clicked my phone off I had planned a dinner, with Virgil and Gogi as guests. We were going to stage an impromptu re-creation of the tea party, and use the witness statements and the ladies’ recollections as to where everyone was, but I was not to intimate or imply I knew who had done it. If I was correct, the right person would lie about where they were and what they were doing. If one of us could poke holes in her story, the killer would be stuck and maybe admit it.

  Or it could all go to hell in a handbag, as my grandmother often said, and we’d be in the same position as we had been, except the murderer would now be alerted and lawyer up. I stuck my head into Lush’s room. Pish was sitting reading and Lush appeared to be sleeping. I motioned him to follow me and led him to my room, also known as The Wreck. With the peeling wallpaper, mismatched paint splotches on the walls, and uncarpeted floor, I felt like I was living in a run-down tenement flat. It just wasn’t easy trying to fix it up while living in it. I sat down on the bed and drew up my knee. First things first. “Did you talk to Lush about what happened when you were a kid between her and Cleta?”

  He nodded. “Poor darling Lushie. It was a broken heart, that’s all. Scandalous at the time, but long forgotten now. She was in her thirties and having a romance with a younger man, in his twenties. Shocking, right?” He smiled, just the barest lift of the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, Cleta ‘let slip’ how old Lush really was. The young fellow skedaddled, as Lushie put it. Broke her heart, but looking back now, she says he was not right for her anyway. He was a drinker and took drugs; he was an acting hopeful trying to get closer to Vanessa, it is said, for her contacts in the industry. Vanessa was already involved with someone, or he would have tried to seduce her.”

  “So he was using Lush?”

  He shrugged. “She was a means to an end, or that’s what Cleta claimed. She was just protecting Lush, she said.”

  “Cleta Sanson as an angel of mercy? I doubt it, but look, Pish, it’s all immaterial anyway. I think I know who killed Cleta and who pushed Patsy down the stairs.”

  His eyes widened and he clutched my hand as I showed him the letter and told him what I thought happened, and how I knew who wrote it.

  He was struck and saddened. “I always liked her,” he said. “When darling Lush would take me to the theater, we all went together, and she always sat next to me and helped me understand what was going on. She had a good eye for drama.”

  “You have to be strong, Pish. We have to finish this, because she’s dangerous; Patsy is proof of that. This ends tonight. Virgil and Gogi are coming, and we’re going to stage a reenactment.”

  He nodded. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “If you want to spare Lush the scene, I’ll understand if you tell her to stay in her room and rest.”

  “I won’t make her decisions for her. Can I tell her the truth?”

  I shook my head. “No one knows but you, me, and Virgil. That’s the only way I can be sure this works out how it’s supposed to. You know Lush; she doesn’t have a poker face, and we are dealing with one crafty killer.”

  “Can I tell her we’re going to get at the truth?”

  “If you have to, but no more. She’d know that much anyway when we start the reenactment. And now,” I said, getting up and offering him my hand. “I need to start cooking. Dinner theater, if you will.”

  Juniper was in the kitchen cleaning out the fridge, wiping every shelf with slightly bleachy water. She told me she planned to work upstairs with Binny all evening searching for the mythological Wynter fortune. I asked if they could stay out of the way and Juniper looked at me strange, but nodded. “I’m going to help Binny search, and then we’re going to talk. She wants to figure out what to do with the empty apartment upstairs from the bakery.” Binny’s father, Rusty Turner, owned the building that Binny’s Bakery was in. There were two apartment s above. One was tenanted by Zeke and Gordy, but the other was now empty, with Binny back living with her father in the family house and Juniper, who had resided there briefly, living at the castle.

  I watched her for a long moment. “You know you can leave here anytime, right? You don’t owe me anything. I know this isn’t a great job, and you’re a very smart girl. I want you to be happy and do what you want.”

  She nodded and cleared her throat. “I don’t know what I want yet. But Binny says . . . she thinks I might be good at redecorating and shi . . . stuff like that.”

  Redecorating? Okay, who was I to stomp on anyone’s dreams? “You take your time and figure it out. No hurry, okay?”

  She nodded and came close to smiling, her gaze intent. Then she did something unexpected and hugged me. She finished up the fridge and skipped upstairs. I turned my attention to the meal, though my stomach was in turmoil and I just knew I wouldn’t be able to eat. We were going to confront a murderer and I had no idea how it would go. The most likely outcome was that the killer would not confess, we would be no further ahead, and I would have to kick her out of my house knowing that she knew that I knew, if that makes any sense at all. I would not sleep until she was out of my home.

  * * *

  The hour approached. Once Virgil and Gogi arrived I led them to the dining room and got them to help me move the tables around to make it more comfortable for just the eight of us at one large round table. I dressed it with fresh flowers and a white damask tablecloth from castle storage, then Gogi and I set that table with my Juliet china, best silver, and crystal as Virgil paced the room, staring out one of the arched windows into the gathering twilight. Gogi kept sending me little looks, and then glancing over at Virgil. I was sure she knew something was up, but I was too nervous to talk.

  I ran upstairs, slipped into a nice dress, did my long dark hair up in a chignon, tapped on each bedroom door, and led the parade downstairs: Pish, Lush, Barbara, Lauda, and Vanessa followed me, all very solemn. When I had everyone seated I said I’d fetch dinner.

  Virgil stood and politely said, “I’ll help you, Merry.” He followed me into the kitchen and grabbed my arm, swinging me around to face him. “Are you okay?”

  “I hate when people ask me that!” I snapped. Taking a deep breath, realizing he’d only asked because he was concerned, I said, “I’m sorry, Virgil. Yes, I’m okay for someone who is about to try to trap a killer into revealing herself. Does your mother know the drill? I thought by the way she was acting she knew something.”

  “I didn’t tell her outright, but she knows me too well and I think she’s figured it out. She doesn’t know what I know, though. What about Pish?”

  “He knows everything. I had to tell him; he’s another pair of eyes, and no one is better at social interaction than he is. I made sure he wouldn’t tell Lush, but it wasn’t fair to keep him out of the loop.”

  He nodded. “Okay, but let me lead the way. I have to be careful here, because this could all go horribly awry if she can point just once to me misusing my position as an officer of the law. This needs to be crystal clear and witnessed.”

  “And that is why I need to do all the talk . . .” I s
aw his look. “Okay, most of the talking. You can’t be the one to lead her into a confession, or admission, or anything else.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This could all go very right, or very wrong, and if it goes wrong it’ll go down as the worst error in judgment by a sheriff in the history of American law.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me just how dangerous this was for him. I touched his shoulder and held his gaze. “I appreciate this. I know that if it were up to you, you’d have a solid case before approaching her, and then you’d do it in the sheriff’s station. I just don’t think I can spend one more night under the same roof as a murderer.”

  “And I don’t want you sleeping under the same roof as a murderer. I think we know what we have to do, now let’s do it.”

  As we gathered the food, a rare roast beef with roasted potatoes and other root vegetables, we briefly talked about strategy and agreed to let it all ride until after the meal. We carried the food and condiments into the dining room. Virgil carved the roast as I poured the wine. A little alcoholic lubrication would not hurt. I watched Virgil, oddly riveted by the strangely domestic activity that occupied him. Gogi’s gaze slewed back and forth between us until I had to look away, aware that my cheeks were flaming.

  He was the one, the man I didn’t think I would find at this point in my life, someone who I wanted to know better, who I wanted to kiss, and more. It didn’t surprise me that he was so different from Miguel, it made me happy. My husband was a one-of-a-kind force of nature, and to look for another such man . . . He didn’t exist. But Virgil was a force of nature in his own unique way. One question remained: was he interested, or was I making it up out of thin air? Everyone close to me—even his mother—said he was interested, that he watched me when I wasn’t aware. I thought I was always aware when he was around, but apparently that was not so.

  After pouring the wine, I sat and we ate, chatting about inconsequential things. Virgil was surprisingly good at small talk. He managed to draw Barbara out by returning to the only topic that interested her, the theater. Vanessa, to my right, smiled and put her hand over mine. “You like him, don’t you? The sheriff, I mean. You watch him a lot. He’s a very handsome man. You two would make a beautiful couple.”

  I smiled over at her and let out a trembling sigh. “I don’t know where I stand with him,” I murmured.

  “He’s interested or I don’t know men, and I do know men. Don’t waste time. Go after him! It all goes so swiftly, the days, the months, the years.” Her look was melancholy.

  “Is that what happened to you?” I asked, watching her face. “Why did you never remarry? You’re such a vibrant woman.”

  “Just because I never remarried after my divorce doesn’t mean I didn’t have lovers, my dear child.” She smiled at me. “But there never was one who appealed to me more than my career. I worked right up into the eighties, and after my career was over . . .” She shrugged. “Then it was too late in many ways.”

  “It’s never too late,” I said brightly and stood. I picked up my wineglass and raised it, looking around the table. They all gave me their attention. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am that your party has been diminished by two, one permanently and one hopefully temporarily. I’d like to make a toast to Cleta and Patsy, two very different ladies.”

  They all obediently raised their glasses, watching me. I scanned their expressions. The killer was one calm, cool cucumber. “To Cleta; I didn’t know her long, but though she was not the easiest person with whom to get along, she did not deserve her fate. May she rest in peace.”

  Lauda sniffed and touched her eye with a tissue that seemed permanently affixed to her hand now.

  “And to poor Patsy,” I said, scanning the gathering.

  As I had prearranged, Pish asked, “Do we know what happened to Patsy?”

  “Yes, actually we do.” I looked around at the others. “We know exactly what happened to Patsy.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “OF COURSE WE know what happened,” Barbara snapped. “The poor old gal got dizzy and fell. That’s what happened.”

  Vanessa narrowed her eyes and looked from me to Barbara. “I don’t think that’s what Merry is saying, Babs.”

  “We always said Patsy was a dizzy blonde,” Barbara said.

  Time for the punch. “She wasn’t dizzy, and she didn’t fall; she was pushed.”

  “No!” Tears welled in Vanessa’s eyes and one hand covered her mouth. “How could that be? Patsy Schwartz never did anything to anyone in her whole life.”

  Lauda half stood and pushed back her chair. “I’m going up to my room. I don’t feel well.”

  I watched her with interest. “Lauda, please stay,” I said calmly. “I’d like to try a little experiment this evening. This is my home, and I don’t like what happened here. We have conflicting accounts of where everyone was when Cleta went off to the bathroom the day of her murder, and I’d love to straighten that out, with all of your cooperation.” If I was right, the killer would not dare object.

  So far so good. No one actually said anything, they all just watched me, much the same as a bunny rabbit watches a snake. Fear, mistrust, worry: all were present around my dining room table. “It’s like a board game,” I said. I slipped from my chair and went over to the sideboard, opened a drawer, and removed my mock-up of the dining room, what I normally use to plan seating arrangements. I set it down on the table and sat, flattening the chart.

  Vanessa frowned over at me. “Merry, are you expecting us to help you accuse one of us?” she asked. “I don’t know if I can approve.”

  Lush spoke up for the first time. “If it will help figure out who killed Cleta and who pushed poor Patsy, then I am willing to try.”

  “I’m not saying I won’t help, Lushie, dear,” Vanessa said. “It just seems so . . . gruesome, somehow.”

  “I think it’s disgusting,” Barbara said, her voice trembling. “There is poor Patsy lying in a hospital bed, and we’re to play some kind of . . . of parlor game?”

  “I should think you’d all want to help Merry,” Gogi said. “If there is a murderer in your midst, you should want to flush her out.”

  “If this was your plan all along, then why is she here?” Lauda complained, hooking a thumb over her shoulder, indicating Gogi.

  “She’s my friend and she was at the luncheon. Why shouldn’t she be here?”

  “Well, I wasn’t invited to your precious luncheon,” Lauda said, standing and pushing her chair back, “so I’m going upstairs.”

  “Sit down, Lauda,” Pish said.

  “You say you weren’t here,” I said, raising my voice, “but I think you were.”

  Her face had gone pale, and she tugged at her frizzy locks nervously, not sitting down, but not leaving, either. “How could that be true?”

  I watched her. “Please sit down, Lauda. You and I both know you were here. All that is in question is, why? What did you do here? What did you see?”

  “I wasn’t here,” she stubbornly said.

  “We’ll let it go for now,” I said, then paused and added, “but I know you were here.” I looked around. “Everyone who was at the party gave a statement, and they’ve been cross-referenced, so the sheriff knows where they say they were and when. I think you can see where I’m going with this.” I would not meet Virgil’s eye because I was about to lie, and I didn’t want him to interrupt. “Some discrepancies have come to light. I’d like a couple of you to explain them.”

  I knew as soon as I said it that I’d stepped wrong and put the killer’s back up. Her eyes went stony. I was right, I could tell, but it was going to be a tough task to expose her, because she was smart and bold. If she just continued to deny involvement there may never be a way to charge her with the crime, and I couldn’t stand that, because she had proved to me that she would strike again if she felt threatened. Unlea
shing her on the world felt wrong, but she couldn’t stay at Wynter Castle.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” I said, though I didn’t intend to go through the whole event minute by minute. There were a couple of key spots. I decided to ignore the long faces and sour looks coming at me from Lauda, Barbara, and Vanessa. One way or another, the murderess was leaving, either in handcuffs, or I would drive her all the way to Rochester that very night and stick her on a train back to the city.

  I lightly passed over the early part of the tea, lunch, the dessert buffet, setting up the tables for cards. That was where the oddities happened. I glanced at Lauda, and she looked like she was snoozing, eyes closed, breathing rhythmic. Lush looked worried, her glance skipping around the table to each person. Pish was watchful, as was Gogi. Virgil was observing; it was weird, but it was like he made himself invisible. He just withdrew and seemed not to be present, when I know very well he was aware of everything.

  We chatted about the card games in progress. “What game were you and the others at your table playing, Pish?”

  “Euchre. I would have preferred bridge, but Helen Johnson didn’t know how to play.”

  “And Lush, you were sitting with Cleta, Doc, Hubert, and Mabel Thorpe.” I already knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. “What game were you playing?”

  “We were playing bridge, dearest,” Lush answered. “I taught Pish how to play when he was just a wee lad.”

  I nodded. “So, about two thirty in the afternoon, after dessert, did Cleta leave the table for some reason?”

  Lush nodded. “We were five at the table, so we took turns sitting out a hand. It was her turn to sit out, and she excused herself.”

  The room was deadly quiet; all eyes were on me. I was sure of my next move, but as in chess, it was smart to be careful and step warily against a canny opponent. “Why would she do that?” I asked.