Much Ado About Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  And I wanted to find my cat. I scanned the edge of the woods; no orange flash. No Becket.

  I grabbed my purse, crossed the drive, and entered the coolness of the castle with a sense of relief. Except there seemed to have been a tornado in the great hall. Sheet music drifted over every surface like early snow, and down the stairs was a tumble of clothes, as if they had been thrown from the gallery. A pink lace bra drooped from my stunning chandelier like some trophy from a frat party. I heard someone screaming and started to shake all over.

  I dropped my purse and raced up the stairs. “Pish! Pish? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  Pish dashed from Roma’s room as a pair of silk pajama pants sailed out and landed on his head. He tossed them aside and looked at me, blinking. “Merry, thank God you’re home. Are you all right?”

  “You’ve heard about the murder,” I said flatly, listening to Roma’s shrieking voice, no words, just screams.

  “The FBI have been out here in the person of Agent Esposito, asking some uncomfortable questions, according to Roma. You’ve heard, I’m sure, about the clash between Roma and Minnie.”

  I nodded. Roma was still screaming at the top of her lungs, but Pish studiously ignored that, backing up, grabbing the doorknob, and closing the door on her ranting. I only caught one in five words, but what I heard consisted of complaints about the castle, Pish, Autumn Vale . . . and me.

  We stood staring at each other, and all I could think about was the razor-sharp decorative letter opener stuck in Minnie as she bled her life out on the post office floor. “Didn’t the agent ask to search Roma’s room?”

  “They did, and she refused. She is, uh, surprisingly knowledgeable about her constitutional rights to refuse, after her little trouble in New York, and they didn’t have a warrant.” He took a long, shaky breath. “Yet.”

  Yet. The word chilled me. “We need to talk,” I said. “My room, Pish, right now.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I should go and calm poor Roma—”

  “No. This is important. My room. Or . . .” I listened to her screaming. I needed several feet of stone between us. “The kitchen instead. And put on some Schubert.”

  I marched downstairs, weaving through bras, panties, and gowns that draped artistically over the graceful wood railing and slid down the steps. Balefully eyeing the mess when I got to the bottom, I thought maybe I’d inflict on Roma the rule my grandmother had for me: no food until the mess was cleaned up. Or, in Roma’s case, no wine until she had cleaned up. If she was going to behave like a spoiled teenager, I’d treat her like one. I had lived with Lizzie in the castle for months and never had this kind of drama.

  I stomped to my peaceful kitchen, which Roma only entered for meals and wine. A Schubert sonata came through the wired-in sound system. It was a lilting, tripping, bold piano rendition, and I took in a deep breath. It was blessedly cool in the kitchen, a benefit, in summer, of thick stone walls. I made a pot of tea and put together a tray, carrying it over to the fireplace, which currently held only a vase of dried flowers.

  Soon autumn would come, and then winter. A fire would blaze cheerily in the hearth; my castle would be as cozy as a castle can be. I wanted Roma gone before that. I wanted my winter alone with Pish. And hopefully Virgil. It did occur to me that I was jealous of the attention Roma was getting from Pish, but it was more than that; she was one of those dramatic, self-destructive types who bring chaos to every situation. Heaven knows in my life I had dealt with enough actresses and models with huge dramatic personalities. I didn’t need to live with one now.

  The next movement of the sonata was calmer, quieter, softer. I took a deep breath and sat in one of the wing chairs, where Pish and I had spent many an evening hour. He entered the kitchen, softly padding over to me. He took my hands, bent over, and kissed my cheek.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I know what you’ve been through today, and then to come home to this . . .”

  I was silent as he took the other chair, and poured the tea, wondering how to broach the topic of what I had seen. “Let’s be quiet for a moment, Pish,” I said. “Have some tea with me.”

  He did what I asked, but finally, watching me, he said, “Tell me what happened. Is Gogi okay?”

  “Everyone we love is fine,” I said, with a watery smile. I could feel tears welling up, and maybe that wasn’t surprising. I was home; I could relax and let the tears flow. The piano music trilled and burbled, like a brook running through our conversation. “Oh, Pish, it was awful,” I finally said, my voice clogged with unexpected sobs. He knew what had happened, but I didn’t think he knew everything. “Gogi and I found Minnie at the post office, dead, stabbed with . . . stabbed with one of Roma’s letter openers!”

  Chapter Eight

  He was absolutely still for minutes, just sitting there staring at me, holding his cup. It turned more and more sideways until he spilled tea on his tan slacks. He jumped up and took his cup to the sink, then ran some water, dabbing at his slacks with a dampened cloth. He returned and sat, a wet blotch on his pristine pants.

  “I must have heard you incorrectly, my dear. Did you say you found Minnie stabbed with . . . Pardon, but did you say one of Roma’s letter openers?”

  I nodded, one tear finally spilling over and running down my cheek. I wiped at it with the back of my hand. “At least I think it’s one of hers. Where else would it come from?” I took a tissue from the box on the table and blew my nose. “Gogi and I went by the post office to pick up my luggage from Tony, but it wasn’t open, so we went to the back, and the door was open and . . .” I shook my head and wept for a few minutes, finally sniffling my tears back. The tissue was now sodden, so Pish handed me another, his expression unreadable. I blew my nose again and tossed the tissues at the trash can, missing. I leaped up, disposed of them properly, then returned to my chair.

  The music had switched to a Beethoven sonata. Not the Moonlight Sonata; that is not, contrary to what I once thought, the only sonata Beethoven composed. This one is often called The Tempest, or No. 17 in D Minor.

  In a flat tone I described the scene. “The letter opener looked like a little saber, with a silk tassel and everything.” I retched slightly as I recalled it, soaked in her blood. I swallowed some tea, trying to keep myself under control. It was only now, hours later, that I was shaking, crying, and retching. Weird.

  “Merry, that doesn’t mean it’s one of Roma’s.”

  “Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence, that she was killed with a letter opener?” I stared at him, but he remained blank, pensive almost. “Pish, I’ve heard about the run-in those two had. Roma threatened Minnie.” I leaned toward him. “With a letter opener!”

  “What are you saying, Merry?”

  His tone warned me to tread carefully. But I am his friend; she was just a cause. I know I was being harsh, but that’s how I felt. “I’m saying, it is probably hers, and the FBI will figure that out sooner or later. They’ll be back with a warrant.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “Roma was here all morning, so she couldn’t have killed Minnie.”

  “Not necessarily true. When I left this morning, she was coming in from a walk.”

  He smiled. “My darling, she is not a woman to walk. And walking from Autumn Vale would take her . . . oh, an hour or two at least! She’d never make it.”

  That was true. And she was in high-heeled boots. However . . . “Pish, where do you keep your car keys?”

  “On the ebony dresser valet in my room. Why?”

  Pish wears a sleeping mask and earplugs most nights, and he doesn’t lock his bedroom door; neither do I. In fact, I’ve put things in his room while he was sleeping and he didn’t awaken. I recalled the noises as I left in the morning: the crickets, the crows . . . and the tick-tick-tick.

  I got it, in that moment, why the sound was familiar: that was the sound of a car
engine cooling after it had been driven a fair distance. I knew then beyond a shadow of a doubt that Roma Toscano had been somewhere that morning, easily as far away as Autumn Vale. But was it to murder Minnie?

  I bolted up and raced for the stairs, gathering some of her clothes and shoes as I went. Pish followed. As I whirled around the top to the gallery and stomped down to her bedroom door I hesitated only a moment, wondering if I ought to knock. But this was my home, and she hadn’t respected that. Why should I respect her privacy?

  I flung the door open and found her lying on the bed, snoring. I tossed the clothes to the floor, took two giant steps, grabbed her shoulder, and shook her as Pish entered the room behind me, pleading with me to be gentle. I was in no mood for gentle, and in fact I was lathered up into a fury I have rarely felt. This was the woman who tried to steal my husband. This was the woman who was making my home a wreck. This was the woman who was trying to steal my best friend from me.

  “Wake up!” I shouted as I shook.

  She scrambled up in the bed, her long auburn hair streaming over her shoulder, wearing a peignoir—honest to God, half-naked in a filmy peignoir in the middle of the day, like some François Boucher painting—and shrieked, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  I stood back and glared down at her, my hands balling into fists. Was she a killer? I couldn’t imagine it, but I’d been surprised before. I no longer thought in “types” when I considered who could commit murder. “Where were you coming from this morning, when you snuck in as I was leaving?”

  “I told you, I went for a walk in the woods,” she said sulkily, drawing the covers up over her. She cast a beseeching look toward Pish.

  “No, you didn’t say that. You said you walked around the edge of the field.”

  “I didn’t say that. Exactly.”

  “Did, didn’t—that’s beside the point. Where were you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I happen to know that you slipped into Pish’s room, got his car keys, and took his car. You were coming home from somewhere as I left.”

  “Pishie, darling, what is wrong with her?” Roma’s beautiful eyes filled with tears as she looked past me.

  “Did you take my car, Roma?” Pish asked, his tone gentle. “You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”

  She nodded and murmured, “Yes.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just . . . for a drive. Please, Pishie, don’t let her bully me anymore. I’ve had a dreadful day.”

  A dreadful day? Was that because she had killed Minnie? I turned and left the room, giving Pish a look.

  Agent Esposito arrived minutes later, but he still did not have a warrant. They take time to get, apparently. I sent Esposito to the breakfast room, since the library was taken up with recording equipment, and summoned Roma using the intercom. Let her tell them whatever she wanted, lies or the truth; as for me, I would tell them what I knew.

  I retreated to the kitchen and started rummaging through my pantry. I was out of a lot of stuff, which would mean a shopping trip, likely out of town. Autumn Vale didn’t have much in the way of groceries, just the variety store. Ridley Ridge did have a sad, dim grocery store, but their produce looked like it had come out of a compost bin, and the meat like it had been ravaged by wolves. The people there seemed not to know or care about that, and shopped there more often than not. I’d rather forage in the Dumpster behind a Whole Foods.

  But I had cereal, and so made bran date muffins.

  Esposito found me in the kitchen. He looked around and nodded. “This is quite the place. So you inherited the castle from a relative you didn’t even know existed?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, taking the finished muffins out and setting the double pan on a cooling rack. I briefly explained about having met Uncle Melvyn when I was a kid, before the estrangement between him and my mother. “Now I have to figure out how I can afford to keep it.”

  “I’ve heard about your various enterprises,” he said dryly. “Sheriff Grace has filled me in.”

  I glanced over at him, but he wasn’t taking a shot at me, I decided; he was surprised at what I’d been through in the last year. I turned and leaned back against the counter. “So what do you want? Or need?”

  “We need to search Ms. Roma Toscano’s room. I’m expecting the warrant any minute. All she’s doing is delaying the inevitable by not cooperating. Does she rent that room from you?”

  “No, she’s visiting. My friend is recording her.”

  “Then you can give us permission to search her room.”

  I eyed him warily, and thought about it. “Until you have the warrant I won’t give you permission to search a guest’s room.” No matter how much I dislike her, I thought.

  “That’s disappointing. Do you often shelter suspected killers?”

  I had been unsure at first, but now I was starting to actively dislike Agent Esposito. “On occasion. For kicks I leave my door unlocked at night and a loaded AK-47 on the hall table.”

  I’d love to say he went away then, but he didn’t. I gave them permission to search the rest of the castle, and let them go about their business. Pish called his ex Stoddart Harkner, but I don’t know if it was for advice or help. Esposito and the others stuck around for hours, then finally left. Something was holding up the warrant.

  Roma was subdued when I next saw her. She ate her dinner in silence, and then retreated to her room. To sharpen the rest of her letter openers, maybe? I didn’t know what to think.

  Pish thanked me for standing up to the FBI. I told him the truth; I did what I’d want someone else to do for me. He took my hand, kissed my cheek, and then went up to check on Roma.

  I was cleaning up the kitchen when I heard a tap on the window. It was Virgil. I pointed to the butler’s pantry door, which was on the long hallway off the kitchen, and met him there. I invited him in. He asked what went down, and I told him all we’d been through that day. As a police officer he was concerned that I was supporting Roma’s right against search, but he understood. He wouldn’t slam Esposito, though his granite jaw tightened when I spoke about the man.

  I made some coffee and invited him to sit by the empty fireplace with me, but he said, “Why don’t we go outside instead?”

  I agreed and followed him out to sit on the flagstone terrace by the front door, where I had a white wrought iron table-and-chairs set. It was almost sunset, and the sky was golden, the air clearer and cooling. We set our cups on the table and took chairs across from each other. It wasn’t where I wanted to be, but I was feeling my way through our relationship, now that I was back from being gone so long.

  “You know if I could, I’d make Esposito leave you alone, right?” he said, glancing over at me as he cradled his coffee in his hands, his forearms on his knees.

  “I know.” We sat in silence for a while again. In the distance I heard a howl. Coyotes. I felt a shiver down my back and sent up a silent prayer that Becket would come home. I knew the orange blur I saw on the edge of the woods was him. I would look for him again the very next morning.

  I glanced over at Virgil, deep in thought. How could I raise the subject of the time we spent together in the long grass near the woods, the day before I headed to Spain? We talked and experienced much that sunny afternoon; I could still feel his lips against mine, his hands, his weight against me in the tall grass. But absence had shattered the sense of closeness.

  “Merry, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  I sighed with relief. Maybe he’d bring up the topic himself. “What’s up?”

  “It’s something that’s been on my mind for a while. I’ve talked to my mother about it.”

  His mother? I’m close friends with Gogi, but I wouldn’t share the details of my love life with her, especially not when it concerned her son. “Okay.”

  He stared off toward the woods. “The
sheriff’s election is coming up, and I’m running unopposed right now. There is another officer who would like to run,” Virgil said. “He’d do a good job for this county. I’m thinking of withdrawing from the ballot.”

  “This doesn’t have to do with Kelly, does it?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Truth is, I’m thirty-six in a week. I have a year left of eligibility if . . .” He glanced over at me. “If I want to try out again to join the FBI.”

  I was stunned. Years ago, Virgil was to go for training to the FBI academy, Quantico. But his mom was diagnosed with a serious form of breast cancer, and he, the youngest, was the only of her children still in Autumn Vale. He gave up his dream so he could nurse his mom through the mastectomy, the chemo, and the rest of it, while joining the local sheriff’s department as a deputy. She had an especially bad bout and was bedridden, she told me. But he never complained. Once she recovered, he ran for sheriff and won. He’d been sheriff ever since.

  “If I’m chosen, it would mean going to Quantico, and after that I could be transferred anywhere.”

  I didn’t want him to go away, but this was his lifelong dream. And then something else hit me: he’d come to me to talk about it. That told me so much about where his head and heart were. He’s a man of few words, but actions speak louder anyway, right? I watched him. He had drained and set his coffee cup aside, and squinted off into the distance, sitting still with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.

  He’d come to me.

  I went to him and knelt on the hard flagstone between his knees. I looked up at him and took his face in my hands. His eyes are a delicious chocolate brown, but were somewhat shadowed by his thick dark brows as the sun set, glowing golden against my lovely castle. He searched my gaze, his expression intense, unreadable.