Muffin But Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  I kept my cool. From conversations I overheard I gathered that both Zoey and Les were still in the hospital, but their wounds were not considered life threatening. During breaks in the questioning, I thought things over. I wondered if Juniper Jones had been supplanted in Les Urquhart’s affections by Zoey Channer and had come back to the store to take her revenge. Was that what she had been weeping over in Binny’s Bakery, her broken relationship? I was too tired to think clearly, because some things were staring me in the face and I still didn’t get them.

  Given that I was exhausted and sitting there in blood-stained clothes, I think I was cooperative if not exactly affable, but when they let me go, it was with a warning to stay out of Ridley Ridge unless Baxter specifically asked me back. I would not only comply, I would warn everyone with whom I had contact to stay out of Ridley Ridge.

  He also warned me not to interfere in their investigation into what had happened. As if I would!

  When I finally got back to Shilo’s car—walking, because the police officers were “too busy” to give me a lift for another hour or more—there was a ticket on the car for parking too long, over the two-hour street-parking limit. I considered storming back to the police headquarters. I had only been parked there over two hours because I had been doing my civic duty in talking to them! But the idea of going back to Sheriff Baxter gave me cold shudders, and on a day that was already too long, I couldn’t face it.

  I climbed into the car out of the drizzling, misty rain, longing for a vehicle with an actual working heater. That would not be Jezebel, even on a good day, so I’d need to shiver for heat until I got back to the castle. At least I was confident that this rotten day wouldn’t get any worse. But then, when I tried to start the pathetic wreck, it whined and groaned, refusing to even turn over. Like a creaky senior with rheumatism, it did not like damp weather.

  I sat, head bowed, feeling alone and dejected, but I couldn’t stay that way forever. I pulled my cell phone out of my damp purse and scanned the numbers. I tried the castle, but no one answered. I tried Shilo’s cell and then Pish’s, and then even Cranston’s. Still, no one answered. I couldn’t pull Binny away from her bakeshop, and Gogi had a new tenant moving in that day.

  My only option was Virgil Grace. He answered promptly, was there in ten minutes, and ushered me to his sheriff’s car. I got in, watched by several of the gloating citizens of Ridley Ridge, and put my hands to the heat vent, hoping I would thaw. I truly never wanted to see that town again but would need to, to retrieve Shilo’s broken car. I sighed and laid my head against the passenger window of Virgil’s car as he drove out of the town and onto the highway.

  “Merry, I—”

  “Not a word!” I said, holding up one hand. “I do not want to be chastised as if I am some delinquent teenager who disobeyed direct orders. I do not want to be chided or warned, nor do I want to be scolded or reproached. I’ve had just about enough today.”

  “I was just going to say how sorry I was that you got in the middle of that,” he said mildly enough.

  Suspicious of what sounded like sympathy, I looked over at him. “You’ve already had your revenge by warning the sheriff that I was troublesome.”

  “I didn’t do that,” he claimed.

  His jutting chin, clothed by stubble, was pointed straight forward, hands on the wheel at ten o’clock and two o’clock, so I examined him in the gray light of late afternoon. He seemed sincere. My tone was more conciliatory as I said, “Virgil, I hope you know that I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “Sure,” he said easily, then ruined it by adding, “It just seems to find you.”

  I magnanimously ignored that. “And, despite what you may think, I know for certain that Pish Lincoln is not guilty of murder and could never hurt anyone.”

  He was silent. Me, too, for a while, anyway.

  “Merry, I don’t think he did it,” he finally said. “But I am in a position where I have to keep an open mind. He had a motive, but it’s a weak one, since he doesn’t seem to be hiding anything. That I know of. I’m investigating; let’s leave it at that.”

  Given that I still feared Pish was hiding something, I knew I had to let it go. So I told him all I had learned. That Sonora Silvio may have seen Davey Hooper and Zoey Channer in the same car. I filled him in about Juniper Jones and Les Urquhart and Zoey Channer, especially the fact that Zoey smoked and had been at the party. She may have seen something in the smoking pit or even been a part of something. “The waitress at the café, Susan, told me Urquhart has been hanging around a guy who sounds a lot like Davey Hooper. There could be a connection there, Virgil.”

  “There could be,” he said, nodding. “I’ll look into it. And I mean I’ll look into it, Merry. Stay out of it.”

  I wouldn’t promise, not while Pish was a suspect. Instead, I said, “Well, I’m sure your buddy counterpart in Ridley Ridge will help you out.”

  “Not likely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t get along with Sheriff Baxter.”

  I waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. “Okay, Virgil, why don’t you get along with Sheriff Baxter?”

  He shifted in his seat and wheeled off the road and up my drive. “I divorced his daughter,” he replied and gunned it.

  “What? Your ex-wife is the next town’s sheriff’s daughter?” I gabbled, hanging on to the hand rest at the sudden acceleration. “Who was she? What was her name? Why did you divorce?”

  He parked, looked over at me, and said, “I don’t talk about it. Ever.” Then he got out of the car.

  I would have pursued it, but I didn’t have the opportunity—I was distracted by the scene in front of the castle. There had been no rain at the castle, but the sky was still gloomy. The parking space in front of the castle held, besides Jack’s Smart car, a tow truck and two Cadillacs; one was the old one that had been in the garage out back, and the other was brand new and familiar to me. Caddy one had a mechanic bent over the hood, with Gordy and Zeke clustered around, and Caddy two had Percy Channer and the driver standing outside of it talking to Pish, Shilo, and McGill. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I emerged from the car and circled to stand next to Virgil.

  “Does that bozo worry you? The fireplug guy?” Virgil muttered.

  Surprised by his perspicacity, I said, “Not really, but he’s Zoey Channer’s multimillionaire father. I think we ought to tell him about his daughter, if he doesn’t already know.”

  “Let me handle it.”

  As I stood by the police car, I looked over at Pish, Shilo, and Jack and shook my head at them, putting one finger to my mouth. We needed to let this play out without interference. Of course, at this point, I had completely forgotten about the blood on my clothes, so I didn’t get why my friends looked so alarmed. I followed as Virgil strode toward Channer, who whirled, his pudgy face suffused with dark red. The multimillionaire was about to duck around Virgil to come at me, bellyaching about his daughter, but the sheriff put out one arm and halted him in his tracks.

  The driver/bodyguard made a move to intervene, but Channer held up his hand. “It’s okay,” he said to his edgy employee. He adjusted his expression to one more conciliatory, even though his face was still red. He looked me over, then asked, “Has my daughter, Zoey, been here?”

  “That’s a good question,” I replied. “You should ask her that.”

  His lip trembled into a sneer and his chin lowered, making him look even more like a bulldog. “I keep hearing she’s been to your place, and been around that town, that Autumn Valley or whatever the eff it’s called, but no one will talk to me.” His anxiety was ratcheting up as he spoke, and he moved jerkily, fists on his hips, his feet apart. “What gives? You hiding her? If you are, I’ll have your tail in court so fast it’ll make—”

  “Stop right there,” Virgil growled, gripping the man’s shoulder as my friends tro
oped toward us. “I wouldn’t advise threats toward Miss Wynter.”

  “What do you expect?” he griped, wresting himself from Virgil’s hold as his chauffeur/bodyguard trembled in anxious abeyance. “My daughter has been hanging around some lowlife jail scum, and I want her back where she’s supposed to be, in New York.”

  “Lowlife jail scum?” I said. “Do you know what this guy looks like?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” he admitted, squinting over at me. “Hear he’s got long hair. Can’t stand long hair on a guy. Didn’t like it when I was a kid, don’t like it now. When I came here to find her . . .” He paused. “I mean, I’m looking for her everywhere. Need to keep her out of trouble.”

  I noticed the mistake, and I didn’t think he meant the first time he barged into my castle. “You did come to my party, didn’t you?” How had he gotten in? How had he been dressed? And why hadn’t he checked in at the door? I had invited him, for goodness sake. Of course, if he’d had evil intentions, he would not have wanted to make himself known. He struck me as a guy who liked to do things his own way.

  Virgil went still beside me, and I could feel tension radiating from him. Percy Channer was an unknown factor, one of the unaccounted-for guests. This could be very important.

  Percy sneered. “Maybe I did get in, and maybe I didn’t; you don’t need to know. But you oughta ask yourself: how much were you paying the waitresses? Right? You weren’t paying the serving staff much, I’d bet. Money talks.”

  Virgil was listening and watching, as were Shilo, Pish, and McGill, while the gearheads still piddled around with the old caddy. For once, the sheriff stayed silent. I could ask and say things he, as a police official, could not, and I was willing to take advantage of that. I thought for a moment, as Percy eyed me with suspicion, then said, “You paid off Juniper Jones, I’ll bet. I’ll let you in on a little secret; she was only trying to get rid of your daughter and would have let you in for free. Didn’t you see Zoey? She was here, all right, at the party. Did you miss her? Again?”

  “Damn it!” Percy exploded, shaking his fist in the air, his face getting red down to his thick neck. “How the (expletive) does she keep getting away from me?”

  Virgil was restive, and I knew I had not taken the investigative route he would have preferred. He was right, if that’s what he was thinking. I had blown my chance just so I could take a cheap shot at the guy; I guess I’m not much of a Watson.

  “Mr. Channer, we have some things to talk about, but not here,” Virgil said. “If you would have your driver follow me to the police station—” He took the shorter man’s elbow, ready to lead him back to his car, but Channer surprised him by yelping and cringing.

  “Get away from me. Police brutality!” He whirled toward his chauffeur. “You dingbat, what am I paying you for?” As the chauffeur leaped to get between his employer and the sheriff, Percy sneered at Virgil, “I don’t need your crap; I’m just looking for my daughter.”

  I was horrified by his swift and weird changes in personality. The chauffeur had now leaped over to the car and was opening the back door. I did not envy that guy his job, looking after someone like Percy Channer.

  Virgil didn’t rise to the bait, but did say, through gritted teeth, “If you truly want to know where your daughter is, you’ll need to talk to me. She’s in the hospital right now.”

  “Hospital? What happened to her?” He glared over at me, and his eyes traveled my body, pausing on my sweater. “Did you hurt her? If you did, I’ll have you locked up so fast you’ll spin like a top.”

  “I did not hurt her,” I exclaimed, shocked at the suggestion. “Why would you even think . . . ?” I stopped as Shilo, eyes wide, glanced up and down at my bloodstained sweater and slacks. “Oh. That. This is her blood, actually, but I didn’t—”

  “What is going on?” Channer shouted, stamping his foot and balling his fists, punching them in the air. His face and thick neck were completely suffused with red. “Where is my daughter?” he screamed.

  I backed away toward my friends, alarmed.

  “She’s in Ridley Ridge,” Virgil said. “Mr. Channer, I can take—”

  “Then I don’t (expletive) need you at all, do I? You try to manhandle me again, cop,” he said, jabbing his finger at Virgil, “and I will have a lawyer on the phone suing your ass so fast, you’ll have to ask my permission to fart.” He stalked away to his car, shouting at his chauffeur to find out where the hospital was and drive him to it. He got in and slammed the door as the chauffeur hopped in and gunned the motor, and they took off down my drive.

  “What a jerk!” McGill said, and I think every person in earshot would have agreed with him.

  Virgil was furious; I could tell by the way his jaw twitched. But his tone was even as he turned to me and said, “I’ll bet I know now the identity of a short, stocky Dracula seen arguing with Hooper. One of your out-of-town guests witnessed it and told me, but we didn’t have an ID on the man.” He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. He glanced over at me and said, “I shouldn’t have said that; I’m just guessing.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll keep it under my wig.”

  He smiled. “I have to go.” He cupped my shoulder and moved closer, staring down into my eyes. “Merry, please stay out of this. It’s a vicious murder, and I don’t want you mixed up in it.”

  My breath caught at his warm tone of voice. “I’ll be careful.”

  “That’s not what I told you to do,” he murmured. “Stay out of it, Merry; I mean it. Let me do my job. I’ve got to go.” He jumped in his car and zoomed off after Channer.

  I took a moment to compose myself before turning back to my friends, who were watching, wide-eyed. Just then I heard the roar of an engine and a celebratory hoot from Gordy and Zeke. “What’s going on?” I asked, heading that way.

  Pish smiled slightly, creases bracketing his mobile mouth. “I think we could ask the same of you, but given that I’m assuming—thank heavens—that is not your blood smeared all over you, I will wait for my explanation until after our little surprise.” Shilo skipped over to me as Pish took my arm and started me strolling toward the old car. “Darling, I know you’ve been looking around for a mechanic, but I found Mr. Hayes, the best one in a fifty-mile radius, and invited him out to fix the Caddy. He came, hauled it out of the garage, and took a look at the engine. It needed a bit of work, but look . . . he’s got it going!”

  “What is it?” I asked with trepidation, listening to the engine, which sounded pretty darn good, actually, given that it must not have been started for a long time. I circled it, which was a looong walk. “I mean, I know it’s a Cadillac, but . . . what is it?”

  The mechanic, a skinny older fellow with gappy teeth and grease-covered hands, said, “Ma’am, she’s a beauty, that’s what she is.” He wiped his hands on a rag and caressed the smooth, dust-covered line of the cream-colored body. “A 1967 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, good body, low mileage, gorgeous ride. Like a well-built woman,” he went on, looking me over with a grin and waggling straggly eyebrows.

  I didn’t mind being compared to the Cadillac, except that it looked like it could use a good scrub. Actually, that described me at that moment, too, after the dustup with Juniper and Zoey. Did I have a lot to tell my friends!

  “Mr. Lincoln, I’m gonna take it back to the shop and give it a good once-over. Gordy here is gonna drive it for me, since, miracle of miracles, it seems to be running all right. It’ll do it good to get out on the highway and have a run. Work all the kinks out. Just like a woman,” Hayes said, with a wink in my direction. “She gets a little rusty without good hands on her.”

  “This is the surprise you guys were working on!” I exclaimed. For a week they had been whispering together and laughing, and yet wouldn’t tell me what it was about. I was relieved it was just this.

  Pish turned to me and took my skinned and bloodied hands, the remnant
of my scuffle with Juniper, in his own. “My gift, darling,” he said. “It’ll save us all from having to rent vehicles, or use Shilo’s . . .” He paused and looked around, a puzzled frown twisting his lips.

  My friend also perked up and looked around, then down the lane, as if she expected her heap to materialize out of the woods. “Where’s my car, Merry?” Shilo asked. “Where’s Jezebel?”

  “That is a long story,” I said. “Short version: the jalopy is broken down and still sitting in the town that decency forgot.”

  “What were you doing in Ridley Ridge?” Pish asked. “And does it have anything to do with the blood on your clothes?”

  “Like I said, long story. Mr. Hayes, could you do me a huge favor?” I asked him to help us out with Shilo’s car, and he agreed to go take a look. I handed him the keys.

  “Anything for you,” he said with a slow wink and a toothy smile. “I live out that way anyway. Can take a look as I’m taking the girl home.” He patted the fender again.

  “My poor baby!” Shilo mourned, and McGill pulled her to him and whispered that he’d take her to see her Jezebel the next day. She would probably take the car flowers and sing to it. Kumbaya, my car, kumbaya.

  Zeke and Gordy got into the Caddy and pulled slowly down the lane, followed by Mr. Hayes in his tow truck. I had a car—or I would if the Caddy worked out; it was a strange feeling. I hadn’t owned a car in years.

  I was exhausted and still had a lot to tell my friends, but a hot shower and food would come first.

  As it turned out, Pish was the only one left by the time I got out of the shower and into yoga pants and a long T-shirt. He and I settled by the fireplace in the kitchen with a pot of tea on the low table between us, and a selection of Chopin nocturnes lilting through the castle from the sound system. Becket snoozed on the hearth, two inches from having his whiskers singed. I was breaking my own rules about a cat in the kitchen, but we were nowhere near the work area. I pondered what I had learned and experienced that day.

  “So . . . how did you come to be covered in blood?” he asked, pouring me a cup.