Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Hamilton, Victoria

  “My friend Gregory got fresh with Merry,” Shi said, giggling. “She decked him, and at the same time my bunny—his name is Magic—had gotten loose and hopped up onto the table, turned the candle over, and sent my neighbor shrieking out of the room and down to the superintendent to tell him my apartment was possessed.”

  “And the candle set fire to the tablecloth and we had to put it out with the wine I’d brought,” I finished.

  “But you had enough left to throw some in Gregory’s face,” Shi finished, still giggling.

  “And your neighbor was really scared because you kept yelling ‘Magic! Magic!’ like a maniac, and she thought you were out of your gourd, when you were just yelling at your rabbit.”

  Gogi Grace laughed heartily, but then finally said, with a sigh, “I have to get going. It’s getting toward supper, and some of the oldsters need help getting to the dining room. I’m always there at dinner.”

  “I’ll bag these muffins for you,” I said. “And maybe pop them in a box; it might make them easier to carry. Four dozen muffins are kind of heavy. We’ll bring them out to the car for you.”

  She graciously accepted our help, and Shilo and I followed her out to her car, parked by my rental in the weedy driveway. She put the muffins on the passenger seat and slammed the door. She surveyed the potholed land with her hand shading her eyes from the slanting sun, then her gaze settled on me. “You didn’t answer my question. Will you at least think about looking into Melvyn’s death?”

  I felt uneasy, and I wasn’t sure why. An old man had died going off a slippery highway. There didn’t seem to be much of a mystery there, but then, Gogi Grace knew my uncle, and I didn’t. “Your son is professional law enforcement; if there was something there, I’d think he’d know.”

  “He thinks I’m imagining things, but there were so many people who didn’t like Melvyn. And with his dealings with Rusty . . .” She shook her head. “The whole thing has upset me.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise me you’ll really think about it, not just let some time lapse then say no.”

  I shifted from one foot to another. She had certainly caught me at what I was planning. “I will seriously think about it, I promise,” I said, meeting her gaze.

  She came around the car to me and enfolded me in a warm hug. “Thank you, Merry. And you, too, Shilo. You know, you’re right about Jack McGill,” she said, winking at my friend. “He is cute, and he’s a very smart fellow. A good catch!” She waved, popped into her car, and drove away.

  As I watched her go, I had the troubling thought that maybe I would have to look into my uncle’s death. If it had anything to do with the Turners’ obsession with my property, and even, perhaps, their father’s disappearance, I might need to know so I could protect myself and my inheritance.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING I left Shilo to “supervise” McGill’s hole filling. I was going to need to take back my rental car eventually, but not yet. Once I did, I would be relegated to borrowing Shilo’s rattletrap ancient vehicle, which I didn’t relish, or buying a car, which suited me even less, so for the next little while I’d stay with the rental.

  I drove into Autumn Vale, intent on a few errands. Ingratiating myself to the locals was on my list, but first I was going to visit the lawyer. I had talked to Andrew Silvio many times over the last few months as he probated the will, but I had never met him. Gogi had given me directions to his office, and I found it with relatively little trouble. It was on the first floor of a beautiful, old house that had been converted to offices.

  The central foyer, from which an impressive staircase wound up to a second floor, had a brass plate announcing whose offices were in the Autumn Vale Professional Suites. There was a doctor, a dentist, a chiropodist, and a licensed private investigator, among other professionals. I entered the glass door that had “Andrew Silvio” etched on it in gold, and as I did, a buzzer sounded somewhere close; a short, stocky man barreled out of an inner office. He looked around and saw me standing by the door.

  “Miss Wynter, right?” he said, his voice gruff. “C’mon in. Nice day, huh? Take off your sweater. Want a coffee?”

  I followed him into his inner sanctum, but didn’t take off my sweater. I slung my bag over the back of a chair and took a seat across the mahogany desk from him as he sat, donned close-up glasses, and shuffled through papers on his desk. “No coffee for me, Mr. Silvio. I came just to introduce myself in person, and ask for some advice.”

  “Legal?” he asked, looking over the rims of his glasses at me.

  “Not exactly.” I put both hands on the surface of the desk and composed my thoughts. Wow, I needed a manicure. That’s the first thought I had. Then I thought some more. “You knew my uncle.”

  “I did. I was his legal representative in estate matters.”

  “Why did he leave the castle to me?”

  Silvio shrugged. “You’re his niece.”

  “I know, but my mom had been estranged from him for well over thirty years. I’m just surprised that he still wanted me to have it.” I watched his face as his gaze shifted away.

  He leaned back in his chair and plaited his fingers over his paunch. “One thing you may not know about Melvyn: the family name was important to him. He had me do research. He was pleased that despite your marriage, you kept the name Wynter.”

  “But I didn’t. Not really. I took my husband’s name, but when he died I went back to Wynter.” I would have kept his name—I had loved being Mrs. Merry Paradiso—but I went back to my maiden name at the request of his family, who had never been fond of me. His mother blamed me for his staying in the States and dying here.

  He shrugged. “Same thing.”

  “If he had you do research on me, why didn’t he contact me? I don’t get it.”

  The lawyer gazed at me for a long minute. “You know, death catches us all unaware, even an eighty-something-year-old man. I think he planned to contact you once he got a few things sorted out.”

  “A few . . . what, like the lawsuits between him and Rusty Turner?”

  “You’ve heard about that, huh?”

  “Did you represent one of the men? Which one?”

  “I was not able to represent either gentleman, since it would have been a conflict of interest in this particular case,” he said, threading his fingers together, the heavy ring on his wedding finger tripping up the action.

  “Why?”

  “I drew up the partnership papers, so it would have been deemed that I had special knowledge of Rusty’s business that would not necessarily be the case in the general run of things.”

  “Who did my uncle use?”

  “He retained a lawyer from Ridley Ridge, a very competent fellow . . . can’t recall his name right now.”

  “Okay,” I said, disappointed. I had hoped for some information on the state of the lawsuits. Well, I had yet to go through my uncle’s papers; maybe I’d find more information there. “What was the nature of my uncle and Rusty Turner’s partnership?”

  “Pretty simple, kind of an exploratory company to figure out if it was worthwhile to develop your uncle’s land for a condo neighborhood. That’s all I know,” he said firmly.

  Given his desperate plans to try to monetize the Wynter estate, probably so he could keep the castle running, I wondered how Uncle Melvyn would feel about my plan to sell it. Nothing I could do about that, though. I couldn’t keep it. “I’m curious about Wynter Castle. If I’m going to sell it, it might help to write up a little history, you know, of anything important or interesting that happened there. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Not a thing. I married into Autumn Vale; my wife is from around here, but I’m not. If you want to know more, maybe you should go to the library. The girl who runs it is a local.”

  Now to broach a more delicate subject. “Mr. Silvio, I have heard some local talk that Melvyn was responsible for Rusty Turner’s death, or at least his disappearance.”


  “Pfah!” he said, with a wave of one broad, ringed hand. “Gossip. People like to speculate, you know? Melvyn would never have done something like that.”

  Okay, now for the even touchier part. “It has been suggested, too, that maybe Melvyn was murdered by the same person responsible for Mr. Turner’s disappearance.”

  He sat up straight and glared at me across the desk. “Miss Wynter, I think you’ve been listening to a lot of small-town folk who are bored and find that speculating about murder makes their day more interesting. End of story. Poor old Melvyn was heading to Rochester. He told me he was going to go one day, and I told him to wait until the weather got better, but he was a stubborn old bird and his eyesight wasn’t so good.”

  He could be right about bored locals speculating. Even Gogi Grace, as levelheaded as she seemed, could just be in it for the titillation. How much did I truly know about anyone in Autumn Vale? I stood and stuck my hand out. “Thank you for your time today, Mr. Silvio. May I come back if I have further questions about the estate?”

  “Sure!” he said, reaching across and taking my hand. “Come back any time. I always like to see a pretty face.”

  I smiled automatically at the intended compliment and showed myself to the door. I walked out of the house slash office building and looked up and down the street. I was just steps away from Abenaki Avenue, so I strolled toward it, getting my bearings as I went. Autumn Vale was indeed a “vale,” located in a valley between two rocky prominences. Maybe that was why cell phones did not seem to work, nor did the GPS in my rental.

  Or maybe it was just that Autumn Vale is a truly weird little place. I stood at the corner of Abenaki and Wallace and watched the locals go by. There was an assortment of colorful individuals. One elderly fellow wearing an obvious yellowish wig came out of a variety store with a pack of cigarettes. He lifted the wig, balanced a few dollar bills on his bald pate, and plopped the toupee back down. Cool wallet.

  I also recognized the old guy I had frightened the first morning in the village, when I mentioned Wynter Castle. He shuffled along, this time wearing a woman’s straw sun bonnet and a pink plaid sweater. I wondered if he was one of Gogi’s folks.

  As I stood observing, I saw a big guy in a red-and-black-plaid jacket and unlaced boots strolling down the street. I was close enough that I had a good look at his face, and could see some long, angry-looking scratches from his temple down across his cheek. Interested in anyone showing such wounds, I sprinted to the sidewalk and followed him right up to Binny’s Bakery and inside.

  “Binny!” he yelled, and hammered on the counter.

  I turned my back and examined the wall of teapots as a group of elderly ladies, all bundled up in woolen coats and hats—overkill on a coolish but still mild September day, but then, I wasn’t eighty years old—entered and crowded around the pastry counter, oohing and aahing over the selection. Maybe Binny had something there about refining the locals’ palates, one pfeffernusse at a time.

  The baker came out from the back, politely greeted the group of ladies, and then said, “Tom, do you have to yell and beat on the counter? What do you want?”

  “Dinah left me a message; she said to tell you that she lost her key to the office, and could you lend her yours?”

  “Why?” Binny asked. “She’s not even working there anymore.”

  I half turned around and watched.

  “Don’t ask me why she needs it. She just told me to get it.” He put out his hand, palm up, and waggling his fingers. “Hand it over!”

  “No! Tell her she can ask me herself if it’s that important.” She turned to her customers and began to help them choose their treats.

  The penny dropped and I got who this was. I said, “You’re Tom Turner!”

  He looked me over, with a frown. He was a big enough fellow, dressed in stained work pants and dirt-encrusted boots. “Yeah, who are you?”

  “Merry Wynter; I own Wynter Castle. Let me guess,” I said eyeing the long, red scratches down his face. “You got those lovely marks when you started up an excavator on my property to dig some more huge holes, and got attacked by a cat!”

  His face got red enough to match the scratches and he loomed over me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tom, don’t talk to her!” Binny said, her voice shaking. She watched me, her dark eyes wide with fear. “Don’t say anything.”

  “Why not? Afraid he’ll incriminate himself?” I said, trying to egg him on into a confession. “What are you guys looking for on my property? You don’t honestly think my ancient uncle Melvyn did away with your dad and buried him there?”

  “You better shut up,” Tom bellowed.

  The old ladies clustered together and watched, breathless, clutching each other’s arms in ghoulish delight.

  “You going to make me?” I asked, in my best New York voice.

  Binny had the phone in her hand and was dialing a number.

  “I wouldn’t push me, if I was you, lady.”

  “I’m not,” I said, backing down a bit and making my tone reasonable, as common sense prevailed. No real point in goading him to violence. I took a deep breath. “But I know for a fact that you’re the one damaging my property. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but I suggest you stop, now, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing next time.”

  “Tom, you keep your big mouth shut!” Binny warned, her hand over the phone receiver.

  “Or just tell me the truth,” I said. “Why are you doing it?”

  “You can’t prove nothing!” he said, his hands clenching into fists.

  Only guilty people say that, and it made me mad. He was costing me a bunch, when all I wanted to do was sell the darned castle and scoot on back to New York. I got real close to him and looked up into his pouchy, red-veined eyes. Anger won out over common sense this time. “Look, you big goon,” I said, jabbing his chest with my pointed finger. “You come out to my property one more time and I will not be responsible for what happens!”

  He sputtered and made inarticulate noises in the back of his throat, but nothing else.

  “I’m calling the cops!” Binny said, watching us both.

  “Good,” I said, moving toward the door. “Then I can tell Sheriff Grace exactly what I just told your brother, and he can look at those scratches.”

  She slammed the phone down and glared at me, saying, “Maybe you had better go.”

  Tom moved toward me slightly with a kind of growl in his throat, and I bolted outside. Heart pounding, I leaned against the brick wall. I hadn’t meant to get so worked up, but when I thought of how scared I was in the night, and how much it was going to cost to fix up the damage he was doing, I just lost it. When Tom stomped out the door, I don’t mind saying I hightailed it down the street, not wanting another confrontation. It was stupid to anger a guy who was that big and that short-tempered.

  I strode down the sidewalk, heading who knew where, and dashed down a side street when I saw the sheriff’s car cruising toward the bakery. I didn’t know how to defend what I’d said, and didn’t want to deal with Virgil Grace at that moment. I walked along for a short way, leaving behind the clustered stores and buildings of downtown Autumn Vale, such as it was. I was fuming mad, at first, and didn’t much notice my surroundings, but the fog of fury began to dissipate.

  I stopped and looked around; I was in a residential area now. The sign in front of me read Golden Acres. It was a lovely old manor, but didn’t look big enough to be a rest home until I started to walk up the angled drive. As I got past some of the century trees that shaded the grounds, I could see that a small, modern addition had been built behind the house. The drive sloped up to a prominence, where several park benches were set in the shade of a grove of maples along a smooth pathway. Some of Gogi Grace’s ‘oldsters’ were basking in the autumn sunshine, their faces turned upward like sunflowers, as the sound of warbling birds filled the air.

  I nodded to them as I passed, and felt their eyes on me as I approached the door
. I entered into a wide hallway, where a set of stairs ascended ahead of me and to the left. There was a reception desk, and the phone was ringing nonstop as the young woman who appeared to be the receptionist blocked the hallway.

  “Mrs. Levitz, you can’t go out right now,” she said to an elderly woman. “It’s almost lunch. Don’t you want to stay and have lunch?”

  The woman, wheeling along using a walker for support, had an angry look on her wrinkled face. She tried to dodge the girl, bellowing, “I’m going to see my mother. She’s waiting for me. School is over, and she always walks me home.”

  “No, Mrs. Levitz, school’s not over yet,” the girl said, glancing to the left and right, probably looking for help.

  “Yes, it is. You’re lying. If there’s anything I can’t abide, it’s a liar!” The woman plucked a stuffed animal out of the basket of her walker and chucked it. When the young girl dodged aside to pick it up out of the path of another resident, Mrs. Levitz rolled her walker around her and headed to the door.

  I got in her way. “Ma’am, can you help me?”

  The receptionist dashed behind her desk and hit a buzzer and another button. I could hear the lock on the front door snick into place.

  “Who are you?” the old woman asked, glaring at me. “Are you one of the teachers?”

  Just then, a big fellow in scrubs dashed down the hallway, and gently took Mrs. Levitz by the arm. “Dotty, your son is coming to see you this afternoon. Don’t you want to stay in? He’s going to come visit, and then he’ll take you for a long walk.” He gave the receptionist an apologetic shrug, and muttered, “She got away from Angie and we didn’t notice. Sorry, Jen.”

  He got Mrs. Levitz turned around, confusion now wrinkling her brow as she plaintively asked, “I have a son?”

  The receptionist swiftly answered the phone, transferred the caller, unlocked the door, and then smiled at me. “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “Does she really think she was going to meet her mother? She must be about ninety!”