Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Hamilton, Victoria

  “That sure doesn’t look natural.” She shivered.

  Doc English had said my grandfather and Uncle Melvyn had planted trees. Could this forest be the results of their labor? “Someday I’d like to take a walk in there.”

  “Someday,” Shilo agreed, “but not tonight.”

  It was getting dark and the moon was rising. The cool breeze had become cold. “Okay,” I said and laughed, linking my arm through hers. “We’ll head back now.”

  I made us cocoa, and we drank it, then headed upstairs. As we got ready for bed, I told her about my day—we kept both ends of the Jack and Jill bathroom open to talk to each other, then closed it at night—and my run-in with Tom Turner. “I don’t know what is up with him. Big galoot.” Uneasy, I looked out my window at the Bobcat excavator, and beyond to the black woods. “I wish McGill wouldn’t leave the excavator here. It’s like an invitation.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Shilo said. “It’s too slow to drive it back and forth from town, and he doesn’t have a trailer to carry it. He’s locked it down. That’s the best he can do.”

  “I know. Good night, sweetie.” I waved to her, grateful beyond words for her companionship, and closed my door, collapsing in bed and burrowing my face in sweet-smelling linen. It was weird living with someone else’s stuff, but in a week or so I’d have all my belongings from the storage locker in Manhattan. The castle, as big and cavernous as it was, was beginning to feel like home, since I had constructed a bedroom “nest” with some of my familiar stuff around me, and was working on the same for the kitchen. I was undecided if my increasing comfort in Wynter Castle was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Despite the peace of falling asleep after a vigorous day, my dreams were tumultuous; in them I confronted various weird folks, asking them about my father as a child. Then I was running across the lawn of the castle, dodging huge holes made by giant badgers. I could feel them underground. It was like a scene from Tremors, a movie that always makes me laugh when I catch it on late-night TV.

  And then I woke up. I could still hear and feel the rumble. I dashed to the window, but didn’t see anything. Was it an earthquake, maybe? It wasn’t loud, just a faint vibration. I flung on a housecoat and slippers, and dashed downstairs, through the kitchen and out the pantry door. It takes a lot longer to do that than it does to say it in such a big place. “Darn it!” I yelled. The Bobcat was in action, and someone was digging another damn hole!

  I raced back into the kitchen, fished around in my purse to find my cell phone, realized it was either dead or not getting a signal, and grabbed the wall phone receiver, dialing nine-one-one. I yelled my location and emergency, and said that Virgil Grace, sheriff of the Autumn Vale police department, was well aware of the problem. I slammed the phone down and dashed back to the door.

  The Bobcat motor was still going, but the operator had stopped digging. Fury was building up in me. Had the coward taken off, leaving the vehicle running? I stood in the open door. No movement. I heard a loud caterwauling a ways off. Maybe that was my feline stalker.

  I waited and watched. Still nothing. Finally fed up, I stormed outside toward the excavator, the scent of newly turned earth strong in the air. “Tom Turner, come on out and fight like a man!” I yelled like an idiot. I stopped a ways away. There was no one in the driver’s seat. What the heck?

  Just then, the sheriff’s car screamed up my drive, emerging from the woods. He parked it facing the Bobcat, and the bright, halogen headlights illuminated the scene, throwing long, weird shadows over it. Virgil Grace, dressed in a uniform jacket, plaid jammie pants, and little else, bolted out of the car leaving the engine running and lights flashing. “Stop, Merry! Don’t move another inch. Let me handle this.”

  “There’s no one in it,” I said, waving my hand toward the machine.

  He threw open his trunk and emerged from it with a big, square flashlight, then trained the light on the scene. “Tom, you there?” he called out.

  Aha! So he did think it was probably Tom Turner! “There’s his red-and-black-plaid jacket, on the edge of the hole!” I said, as we walked toward it.

  The chug of the motor and the smell of the raw earth he had just opened will forever haunt me and take me back to that moment. Together, Virgil and I looked over the edge of the hole, where Tom’s jacket lay, and the sheriff shone his flashlight down into it. At the bottom was the still form of Tom Turner, dressed as I had seen him earlier that day. Shilo, in her robe and slippers, was loping toward us asking what was going on.

  “Oh, no!” I cried, hands over my mouth.

  “Damn it!” Virgil shouted. “Tom? Tom, you okay?” He whirled and handed me the flashlight. “Shine this down in the hole and don’t waver.” He grabbed a handful of weeds at the top of the hole and gingerly lowered himself near the guy, kneeling at his side as I tried to angle the flashlight beam as best as I could so Virgil could see what he was doing. I couldn’t get close enough, and picked up a long piece of metal, which threatened to spill down on the cop and Turner, tossed it aside, then shone the light on the guy’s face.

  There was blood, I could see that, as Shilo picked her way close and grabbed my arm, trembling. Virgil tried to rouse Turner, but then looked up. He shook his head. “He’s dead. Murdered.”

  I was shocked, and stammered, “M-maybe he just fell and hit his head.”

  Virgil grabbed a hank of roots and clambered up out of the hole. “No,” he said tersely, dusting the dirt off his hands. “You two, come with me,” he said, and headed toward his car.

  We followed, holding onto each other like frightened bunnies.

  “What’s going on?” Shilo whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I muttered.

  “Sit in the back for a few minutes,” he said, opening up the back of his sheriff’s car and motioning us to slide in. “You’ll stay warmer.”

  “We could just go back to the castle.” I said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t let you go until I get your statement, check your hands for defensive wounds, and fingerprint you.”

  “Defensive . . . fingerprint . . . what?” I was stunned. “What’s this all about?” I was not going to be cowed into acquiescence.

  Virgil faced me, his expression grim in the shadowy flash of the roof lights. “Look, Merry, everybody in town has been talking about how you threatened Tom Turner in Binny’s Bakery today. She called me to complain.”

  “But Merry was just telling him to keep off the castle property, or else!” Shilo cried, clinging to my arm.

  “Exactly,” Virgil said, over the thrum of the excavator engine. “And tonight he came back. And now he’s dead.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE NEXT HOURS were a nightmare, and I pretty much mean that literally. Virgil ordered backup, and they taped off the “scene of the crime.” I say that guardedly because from what I could tell it just looked like Tom had climbed down from the Bobcat, looked into the hole, lost his balance, and fell in. Maybe he hit his head on a rock or something, but why was that murder?

  I thought Virgil was being ridiculous until I caught sight of one of the investigators picking up a long, iron rod with plastic-gloved hands from the grass near the hole. He held it up to the light and called Virgil over, pointing to something on it. Like a movie replaying in my mind, I remembered picking it up from the edge of the hole, a long iron rod that was in my way. I had tossed it aside, leaving, no doubt, a nice copy of my finger-and handprints on the thing.

  Sugar.

  A chill crept down my spine. These people didn’t know me, didn’t know that violence is not in my nature. All they knew was that I had threatened Tom Turner, and now he was dead.

  We waited for hours in the police car. One of the police technicians had already photographed our hands, and examined them. I had a couple of scrapes on my palms, probably from clearing weeds away from the garage windows earlier that evening; what would they make of those? Should I explain them, or would
that seem suspicious? I stayed quiet. Being examined so closely would make anyone nervous, I say.

  Virgil came over at one point and asked for permission to search the castle. If I said no, they’d keep me out until they had a warrant, which, given the circumstances, they would have no trouble getting. I told them to go ahead, but to mind Magic. I had to explain that I meant to be careful that Magic, the bunny rabbit in Shilo’s room, didn’t escape. Finally the sheriff opened the police car door and told us they had bagged some things for evidence, but we could go back in. He was stomping away when I caught up with him and grabbed his arm. I could see the weariness on his stubble-lined face, but he looked at me with grim resignation. Gone was the flirtatious, young guy I had met that first day. I didn’t think I’d see that flirtatious fellow ever again.

  “What could you possibly have taken from the castle?” I asked.

  “Mostly paperwork. We’ll give you an official receipt. You can get it when you come to the station to sign your statement and give us your fingerprints. That goes for your friend, too.”

  In my statement I had already told him about tossing aside the iron bar, which, it turns out, was a crowbar and possibly the murder weapon. My fingerprints were going to be on it, guaranteed, and may well have irrevocably smudged the actual murderer’s prints. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me, Virgil,” I said, tension tightening my voice. “You know Tom Turner was the kind of guy who made enemies wherever he went. I can’t be the only person who was at odds with him.”

  He glared down at me. I’m a fairly tall woman, but he was taller. “Look, Merry, I can’t discuss this. I know in the TV shows the cop always speculates on what is going on and shares his feelings with every civilian who’ll listen, but in real life, that would damage the case. It’s for your protection.”

  Great. I was being kept in the dark for my own protection. Moodily, I watched him walk away, back to the scene, as the sun climbed and peeped over the top of the forest. Shilo came up and put her arm through mine.

  “I’m tired and hungry, Merry. Can we go in and get coffee and food? Poor Magic is probably freaked right out by all the people stomping around.”

  And so my day started.

  By now, the kitchen almost felt like home, despite its size. Shi and I had dragged some overstuffed wing chairs in and created a cozy nook by the fireplace, which would be lovely on cool, autumn evenings if I ever had the nerve to try to light a fire. New York apartments with real, working fireplaces were well beyond my standard of living, though if you want me to bleed a radiator, I can do that. But the working end of the kitchen was just as it had been. I couldn’t wait until I got all my old baking stuff out of storage and could liven the dull place up a bit.

  I mixed up the carrot and apple muffin batters, then began baking. Soon enough I had my four dozen muffins ready to go in the cheap plastic wear I had bought in town, and Shi and I munched a couple of the extras. They were so good; surprising, since I was just estimating the ingredients.

  Shilo was going to go into Autumn Vale with me later in the day, but first, despite the tragedy we had witnessed in the night, I wanted to begin evaluating the castle, and figure out what needed to be done. My warm feeling the day before about getting to know my lost family had dissipated; I suppose a dead body in a hole on your property has a tendency to dampen enthusiasm. I now just wanted to sell the darn place and move back to civilization. I know that sounds snobby, but you try being woken up at three am by a lunatic on an excavator who then has the bad sense and worse taste to get murdered.

  I felt horrible about Tom Turner, but I hadn’t done anything to him, nor did I know who did. I was nervous, frightened, and worried. And all of that emotion was punctuated by anger. I hadn’t asked for any of this. All I knew was, I needed to get on with the business of getting rid of Wynter Castle.

  We stood in the main hall, our voices echoing in the cavernous space as we talked about how to best show the place off to make it saleable. It needed to be warmed up considerably, but I didn’t want to get in the way of its natural beauty. We fell silent as the sun ascended and beamed through the rose window, sending blades of colored light streaming, piercing the gray shadows of the hall.

  “Wow,” Shilo said.

  I wanted to weep, because that simple ray of light had reminded me of how amazing an experience this was turning out to be. So much beauty and I couldn’t keep it, could never afford to live in this gorgeous place. “I guess I should enjoy it while it lasts,” I said quietly. “It’ll be even better once the rose window is cleaned up.” I made a note to find someone to do that task—there was no way I was going to try cleaning a window twenty feet off the floor—and also to see if I could hire someone cheap to do the yard work. I wondered how much this was all going to cost. Gogi, had been right: if I was going to stay any length of time at all, I needed to get a flow of income going.

  We worked for a few hours removing Holland covers, rearranging furniture and assessing the castle’s strong and weak points. The biggest task was finding a way to get the Holland cover off the chandelier, but at long last we managed it with minimal damage to ourselves and the long-handled pruning shears I discovered in the pantry. As the fabric cover floated down to the hall below, we stood for a long moment, looking down on the chandelier from the gallery. It was amazing, hundreds of crystal shards dangling from gilt-coated brass. I’d have loved to turn it on, but thought I should get an electrician to look it over first.

  Then I went to my uncle’s desk, which was in the smallest extra room on the second floor. He had a cluttered, dusty, old rolltop desk with an array of nubby pencils, inkless pens, stained erasers, and rulers from a variety of commercial sources, including “Autumn Vale Community Bank; Where Your Hard-Earned Dollar is Safe and Secure!” It looked to me as if someone had rustled through it lately, and I thought that this was probably one spot the police had checked.

  I was going to have to go through all the junk piece by piece, but not today. I idly sifted through, noticing Autumn Vale Community Bank check records and account books, bills from local utilities, an unopened envelope addressed to Turner Wynter Global Enterprise, and one curious little torn memo in scrawled handwriting . . . someone had written “Call Rusty about mobi . . .” and the rest was illegible. It had to be my uncle’s handwriting . . . who else would leave a handwritten note in his desk?

  I couldn’t do any more though. Time was flying.

  Shilo and I got into her rattletrap—the miles were adding up too quickly on my rental, especially for someone who didn’t have an income—with the four dozen muffins for Golden Acres. As Shilo drove, I pointed out the by now well-known way into town. The castle was above the town, to some extent, and when we rounded a curve I told her to pull off to the side for a minute.

  I got out and walked to the edge of the road, where there was a break in the tree cover. Shilo joined me. The town was laid out like a little animated map, the main street, Abenaki Avenue, pretty much a straight shot through town, and the streets off it curving along rising elevations. This was the place I had stopped the morning I arrived; I had been just a couple of miles from the castle and hadn’t known it. A distance away along the valley, I could see some kind of industrial business: an office trailer, a big warehouse, a machine yard with lots of heavy machinery lined up, and stacks of construction materials. I wondered if that was Turner Construction, or Turner Wynter, whatever it was called. What was going to become of that business now? It must already be in tatters, with my uncle gone, Rusty missing, presumed dead, and now Tom gone, too.

  I shared my thoughts with Shilo, and then said, “Poor Binny. She lost her dad, and now she’s lost her brother.” I got back in the car and we made our way into town. I directed her to Golden Acres, and dashed in to give the muffins to the kitchen staff to disperse. I’d visit with Gogi and Doc another day. As we then drove down Abenaki Avenue, I saw that the bakery was actually open.

  “Should I go in and say how sorry I am to Binny?”


  Shilo guided the car to the curb and parked. “I’ll go in with you.”

  I felt trepidation as I entered. There were a half-dozen people already in there. Given what had happened to her brother, I was surprised Binny was there and open for business as usual. Her relationship with her brother was something I knew little about. The baker was serving customers and she didn’t seem any more or any less grumpy than she had the last time I was in there. I waited my turn, and, with Shilo by my side, came up to the counter. “Binny, I just . . . I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about what happened to your brother.”

  She swallowed, and tears welled in her eyes. She simply nodded. I was relieved. I’d been afraid, after the confrontation I had with her brother, that she’d think I did it. Her face was white, though, and it looked like she was just holding herself together by a thread.

  A hunched-over fellow of indeterminate age, thin as a rail, and with a sparse, fine covering of hair on his head, said, “I bet it was them two guys who showed up last year asking all kind of questions. That was just before your dad disappeared, Bin.”

  I watched him with interest; he was young, probably about Shilo’s age, but had the stature of a little old man, and I wondered if his hunched look was a congenital condition or just a mannerism.

  “Gordy, that was a year ago,” Binny said. “You can’t possibly think they did something to Tom.”

  “But they were real suspicious, asking all kind of questions about your dad’s business, and even about Tom.”