Muffin But Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  When Leatrice started stealing and scarfing them down in private, she gained a couple of ounces, which threatened her career as professional stick woman. It was my fault she kept filching them, apparently, and she was horribly angry. Angry Leatrice was volatile, like nitroglycerin in a room full of sugar-hyped toddlers. On rocking horses. With pellet guns. I took a lot of abuse before I figured out she was filching my muffins. I could handle her accusations that I was undermining her out of jealousy, but once she accused me of stealing a valuable necklace that had been loaned to her by Tiffany, I knew I had to leave. The police did not arrest me, but they filed a report in which I was named prominently. I don’t think anyone took it; I think she either lost it or pawned it.

  I was in the middle of all of that when Andrew Silvio called me and told me the news; I was heir to the Wynter Estate, castle and all. It seems odd now, looking back, that I put off coming to Autumn Vale for so long, but I was desperate to right things in my life. I thought that meant staying in the city and dealing with my multitude of problems, among them suspicion from the police, Leatrice’s backstabbing, having no job, dwindling resources, and an industry poisoned against me by gossip and innuendo. I enlisted the help of Jack McGill, Autumn Vale’s only real estate agent, to put the castle on the market.

  It didn’t sell, and finally I gave up trying to clear my name and deal with the crapstorm that was the web of lies Leatrice had woven. I left New York in the middle of the night with my worldly belongings in a rented sedan, leaving what didn’t fit in a storage unit in Manhattan, one that I had since cleared. Now everything I owned was around me in the castle, and it felt good.

  Many of my problems had magically vanished the moment I left New York City. Industry gossip and Leatrice’s backstabbing became moot points once I was no longer confronted by former friends and allies at every event or club. I held fast to the knowledge that gossip dies and everyone would eventually move on to some new scandal.

  “Merry, you home?” came a bright shout.

  I smiled. I had left NYC alone, but I wasn’t on my own for long. In fact, my best friend, a model named Shilo Dinnegan—whose shout now welcomed me back to the castle—had followed, arriving just hours after me. Then, before long, my other best friend, dapper retired financier-to-the-stars Pish Lincoln, had arrived, anxious to see the castle for himself. Both were now staying at the castle with me.

  “I’m ho-ome,” I sang back.

  Cranston, Gordie, and Zeke came in the front door at that moment, loaded down with the rest of the stuff I had bought at the Party Stop, just as Shilo, trailed by a smiling Pish, came down the stairs to greet me. The resulting clash was tumultuous. Shilo threw herself at me with some complaint about something Pish wouldn’t let her do—I think it was paint her room fuchsia—and Cranston preened, telling Zeke and Gordy where to deposit the bags. Becket strolled into the great hall at that moment and began washing his butt; a cat can get away with that in polite society. I smiled happily. I was home.

  Cranston futzed around for a while longer, then headed off to wherever he went when he left. For the first few days of our acquaintance he had hinted that he would love to stay at the castle, but I dug my heels in. Until I knew he was Melvyn’s grandson, I wasn’t going along with that. He was staying at some bed-and-breakfast or boarding house nearby, as far as I knew.

  That evening Pish and Shilo told me some of what they had found up in the attic while I was slithering through Ridley Ridge. There was, according to Pish, an embarras de richesses. Shilo said she wasn’t embarrassed at all, and in fact thought all the riches were cool. There was no point in explaining what that meant to Shilo, and why would we bother? Not everyone needs to get every snobbish literary or classical reference.

  There were oodles of furniture up there, as well as trunks and trunks of random goodies, they told me. While Shilo rhapsodized about the vintage clothing—she was toying with dressing as a flapper girl for the party—Pish was intrigued by what appeared to be boxes of financial records of the family dating back many years. While I couldn’t muster any excitement over those, I was interested to learn that there were old photo albums up there, too.

  We spent the evening planning the party décor and the placement of the casket, which Zeke and Gordy were bringing to Wynter Castle on a flatbed truck that Gordy would borrow from his uncle, the farmer. The coffin, with a mannequin, was going to sit on a low table in the great hall and be the welcome to the castle; Pish was planning to rig up the sound system he was working on so some maniacal laughter would emanate from the half-open oak casket. That was as far as I wanted the décor to go in that direction, I reminded him. I did not want kiddie Halloween party gruesomeness or a funhouse atmosphere.

  The alarm clock woke me the next morning just as a ray of autumn sunshine peeped past the drawn curtains. I rolled out of bed, groaning, “Time to make the muffins!” Mornings dawn early when you’ve promised four dozen muffins to an old-age home and another dozen to the local café. Muffins, my downfall in New York City, had proved to be my saving grace in Autumn Vale, New York. My temporary business, called The Merry Muffin for obvious reasons, was going great guns now that I had the castle kitchen vetted and licensed as a proper place in which to bake food for the masses.

  I showered and snuck downstairs, trying not to awaken my friends, who were still on New York City time, where nothing gets going until ten AM. Or at least not in my circle. I let Becket out the door—he had his own mysterious catty business to take care of, I suppose—donned a hairnet and got to work, baking two dozen spice muffins, two dozen bran, one dozen carrot, and one dozen apple.

  Since my stuff had come from storage, I had made myself comfortable in the kitchen, which boasted, thanks to my uncle’s ambition, an industrial-size oven and stovetop and stainless steel countertops worthy of any inn kitchen. Whatever holes there were in my equipment supply I had been able to fill from Janice’s junk store, so I even had industrial-size baking sheets for cookies and squares, which I had added to my repertoire.

  The kitchen was a long room, and now had a cozy nook at one end where the fireplace was topped by a mantel adorned with oil lamps and the more rustic of my teapot collection. I was using what I could of my own stuff to mingle with all that had been left in the castle when I inherited it, which was a lot. The huge Eastlake-style furnishings—including a marble-topped maple sideboard in the dining room that was eight feet tall, which fit the grand size of the room—along with random samples of furniture from every era in American history, made the castle a warm environment, but it was my decorations that were bringing it to life. When I had time, I was going to work on the dining room, where a long oak dining table and a huge Eastlake china buffet were currently cluttered with the remainder of my rather large teapot collection.

  I was just taking the last of the muffins out of the oven when Pish, looking spiffy and dressed for town, jogged into the kitchen and grabbed a cup of coffee. He was followed by Shilo, still wearing footie pajamas—charming on her: she’s twenty-nine but looks about ten years younger—and carrying Becket.

  How had he gotten back in? “No cat in the kitchen,” I told her sternly, but she didn’t listen to me and set him down in one of the big armchairs near the fireplace.

  “I have to go into town today, my darling dumpling,” Pish said, laying a kiss on my floury cheek. He grabbed an apple cinnamon muffin and perched on a stool by the distressed wood worktable.

  I eyed the sport coat and sweater vest he wore and smiled. Pish can be flamboyant, his dialogue sprinkled with exaggerated emphasis and wild hand movements, but he buttons it down when need be, like while talking to the federal agents who were examining Autumn Vale Community Bank. He was working with them to try to uncover and minimize the damage done to the bank by the scheming Dinah Hooper, who now languished in a federal prison awaiting trial for the murders of Tom Turner and Melvyn Wynter. She had not been granted bail, as she was considered a f
light risk.

  I said she was a flight certainty, but then I had looked down the barrel of her rifle and survived. To say I was happy they were keeping her out of circulation would be a vast understatement. “I’m going in about twenty minutes,” I said. “Is that too early for you?”

  “Not at all my dear. I’m going to see Isadore this morning before the bank.”

  Isadore Openshaw, a former teller at the bank, had not been arrested—yet—and was cooperating with the federal agents. Pish felt sorry for Isadore, and I think she had become something of a pet project of his, the plan being to keep her out of trouble and reform her life. He told me that she reminded him of an aunt who had floated in and out of his life when he was a kid. That poor woman eventually died alone in a house overrun by cats, and he foresaw a future like that for Isadore if someone didn’t intervene. Given how unpleasant she could be, I wasn’t sure Pish was ever going to succeed, but his charm and good nature gave him a better chance at it than most.

  “Will you invite her to the party?” I asked.

  Shilo snorted. I turned to where she sat, curled up in a chair by the fire with Becket in her lap. “What’s up?” I asked her.

  “I was trying to imagine what costume she’d come up with.”

  I smiled, knowing that her laughter didn’t hold any malice. Isadore was peculiar in her dress. She tended toward homemade shifts sewn from fabric featuring frolicking cats or enthusiastic, bleary-eyed bunnies. She wore jewelry to match, dangling kitties or bunnies with carrots. “Maybe she’ll come wearing a Donna Karan skirt suit.”

  Pish and I headed out twenty minutes later with six tubs of assorted muffins, most for Golden Acres and a few for the café. I dropped him off near Isadore’s home, the house she had inherited from her cousin. It was a gloomy little bungalow with a dark front porch that loomed on the house like a beetle brow. He had never yet been in the house, but I knew he would keep trying to befriend her. He’d find his own way on to the bank, then back to the castle, he told me, likely with Jack McGill, who would be making one of his daily trips out to see Shilo.

  I then pulled up to Golden Acres and delivered the muffins to the back kitchen, where I had made fast friends with the sole, overworked cook. It was morning snack time in the parlor, so I joined the group and sat with Doc, who was drinking a cup of premium coffee he had filched from Gogi Grace’s private stock.

  “It’s gonna close, you know it’s going to!” one old guy was stating loudly, shaking his cane at no one in particular.

  “What are we complaining about today?” I asked Doc.

  “Everyone’s afraid the bank is going under. That’s what happened in Ridley Ridge a few years back—to the community bank, that is . . . used to be the Ridley Ridge Savings and Loan—and look at that town now. Folks in Ridley Ridge, their mortgages have been sold to some big bank and they can’t get ahold of no one when they need to talk. Damned shame.”

  I shuddered. “Was that town ever anything but a gloomy hole in the wall?”

  “Sure was,” Doc said. “Used to be a happening place. When I was young we went there for the church dances. That’s where I met my wife in ’47. Since the main bank closed up, the whole town has gone into decline. Only thing there now is a couple of ATMs and a teenie branch office of Wells Fargo.”

  “Pish is doing his best to keep the Feds from closing AVCB down. Maybe Wynter Castle will be the happening place now,” I said, handing him his official invitation to the party. “Gogi will bring you, or Virgil will.”

  He grinned, yellow teeth exposed. I was curious, given his penchant for weird headwear, what he would decide to come as—a vintage scuba diver was my first thought; he would love an antique diving helmet, no doubt—but I looked forward to it.

  I had other locals coming, too. Hannah, the local librarian, was coming as Clara from the kid’s book Heidi. She is a tiny young woman confined to a wheelchair, and though she has some physical disabilities, they are overcome by her huge heart, deep intelligence, and sunshiny personality. Her parents were coming as Heidi’s grandfather and Clara’s housekeeper, Fräulein Rottenmeier.

  So far, Hannah had not been able to convince our young teenage friend Lizzie Proctor to come as Heidi herself. Lizzie would die rather than be seen in braids and a dirndl. She would be there, though, along with her new friend, Alcina, an oddly fascinating child who flitted through my forest wearing faery wings. I assumed she would be coming to the party in her normal garb. The teenagers were not guests; I had promised to pay them if they would empty ashtrays in the smoking court, take coats, and report back to me any weird goings-on. It was Autumn Vale; I expected weird goings-on but wanted to know about them anyway. Gordy and Zeke would be my doorman and unofficial parking valet, respectively.

  “Doc, have you thought any more about Melvyn and Violet, what you remember about their courtship?”

  He nodded, slowly. “Seems to me Vi might still have some family in these parts. She left and moved to New England, but her family might have kept in contact with her and be able to tell you what’s what.”

  “Can you write down whatever you remember?”

  “I sure will.”

  “Good. Thanks.” I finished my coffee. “I’ll check in with Hannah. If anyone can track them down, she can.”

  “Don’t let that Higgins fellow take the castle away from you, Merry,” Doc said, taking my hand in his gnarled fingers. “You’re a good girl,” he went on, patting my hand, “and Melvyn always regretted not having contact with you over the years. But your mom . . . she just wasn’t having it.”

  “I know. I wish I knew why.”

  Chapter Three

  I HATED SHILO’S CAR. It was decrepit, held together by duct tape and hope and fueled by desperation. I needed another one but couldn’t bring myself to spend any of my quickly dwindling resources on something that was only going to cost me more and more as I went. When I had time, I was going to have someone come out to the castle to look at the two cars my uncle had stored in the garage—the 1940s car I remembered riding in at the age of five was still there and might be worth something to a collector—and I did hope that his 1970s Cadillac could be rescued. Until then, I had to use Shilo’s beater.

  I tootled along to Binny’s Bakery and parked in front. This wasn’t a delivery; Binny would die before she would sell something as prosaic as muffins in her shop. The girl was capital-S stubborn. Autumn Vale would have devoured cookies and muffins, but instead she gave them brioche and mille-feuille at cut-rate costs to try to educate their palates. I kept trying to tell her that it wasn’t education they needed; they liked her stuff once in a while, especially since she was selling mille-feuille at oatmeal cookie prices. But the citizens of Autumn Vale, or Valers, as I had taken to calling them, wanted the foods they were familiar with most of the time. Don’t we all? It was no use; Binny was a stubborn as her father, Rusty, and that was saying a lot. The old goat had survived for months living off the land and running from imaginary Russian mobsters, with only a shed and then a tent as shelter. That takes a lot of stubborn for a seventy-something man.

  So I made muffins for anyone who wanted them, with Binny’s blessing. We had gotten over the hump of our early relationship when she thought my uncle had killed her father and that I may have killed her brother. Now that she had her dad back and Dinah Hooper was in jail awaiting trial in Binny’s brother’s murder, we were actually on friendly terms. Having found out that Lizzie Proctor, my prickly teenage protégé, was her brother’s daughter had given her a boost in spirits, though Binny was never going to be a smiley girl.

  I entered the bakery, which had been my first stop when I entered Autumn Vale almost two months before, since Binny lives for baking. She opens at insanely early hours; she figures she’s there anyway, so she may as well be open. Although I was there today for green tea powder, which I could not find in any store in Autumn Vale, I was also curious about Bi
nny’s new employee. I approached the counter. “Hi there. You must be Juniper!” I said.

  The girl looked up, and at first I thought she hadn’t slept much until I realized that it was makeup; her eyes were ringed with dark eye shadow. It was a terrible look. I used to be a stylist to models for photo shoots—that’s how I met my late darling husband, Miguel Paradiso—and for a while the “heroin chic” look was the style, but thank heavens that was over. This girl had not gotten the memo.

  “What can I get you?” She indicated the glass bakery case with a lethargic gesture.

  “My name is Merry Wynter,” I said, sticking my hand across the counter and examining the girl. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and under the obligatory baker’s apron she wore a Def Leppard tee and black jeans. Her black hair was restrained by a jaunty baker’s cap that said Binny’s Bakery on it, but her dark eyes, with the kohl shadows, appeared listless and dead. She did not shake my hand.

  I dropped it and said, “I’m a friend of Binny’s. Is she here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you get her, please?”

  “Okay.” She turned away and ambled back to the bakery.

  As I waited, I examined the teapots as usual. Binny’s collection was almost as extensive as mine, but she had some unusual pieces that I coveted. She had already given me an adorable Capodimonte with a raised relief of a girl and donkey that was given to her by Dinah. Oddly enough, it had proven to hold a note my uncle had written—actually just a snatch of Joyce Kilmer’s poem “Trees”—along with some scrawls in different handwriting, presumably Dinah’s. When I discovered a series of tree names in Becket’s collar, I thought the poem might have been pointing to some kind of mystery my uncle had planned out. We surmised that Dinah Hooper was working on finding the legendary Wynter treasure, and had stolen the piece of paper from my uncle on one of her visits, then tucked the clue in the teapot as a way of hiding it in plain sight, kind of like in “The Purloined Letter.”