Muffin But Trouble

by Victoria Hamilton

  The sheriff looked troubled, staring down at a map he had laid out on the coffee table. “I’m trying to get Ben to work with me on this problem. Locally we’ve had more than a half dozen missing girls or women in the last four years. Trouble is, from my aspect, most of them have been from his county so I’ve had to keep my hands off the problem. It’s too many. I mean, one would be too many, but . . . you get it.”

  “I do,” I said. “You expect some runaways, but not a half dozen in a short time period. Usually someone knows something, right?”

  He nodded. Urquhart is handsome in a Terminator 2, T1000 way . . . you know, the cyborg from the movie Terminator 2? He is smooth and hard-jawed, tall and broad-shouldered, but I find him cold in a way my handsome husband has never been. I may be wrong, as Virgil has always claimed. He says Urquhart is shy and reticent, a very private person. Maybe he’s right after all.

  “There were a couple of murders a few years ago, and there was another girl found dead too, last year,” he said.

  Virgil nodded. “Yolanda Perkins. That, again, was over the line in Baxter’s territory.”

  Urquhart sighed. “I know you tried to give Baxter a hand, but he wasn’t having any of your help.”

  “We’ve had our differences over the years.” Unspoken was the truth; Baxter has always let his personal feelings interfere in his police work.

  “Is that a map of . . . of where the body was found?” I asked. I slid down next to Virgil.

  “It’s a map of all recent murders. See, here’s Autumn Vale, in the lower area.”

  I saw the cluster of dots representing the murders I was involved with (not involved with committing, just involved with) and sighed. At least ours were all solved.

  “There’s Ridley Ridge; that’s Connaught Line. Four years or so ago there were two girls found buried in a shallow grave along there,” he said, pointing to a side road I had driven past a hundred times on my way in to Ridley Ridge. “The farmer who owns that land found them when he was repairing a fence. It made everyone uptight for a while. I was new on the force, then,” Urquhart said to my husband.

  “It was out of my jurisdiction,” Virgil said. “I wish I could have worked better with Baxter but . . .” He shook his head. His former father-in-law had made trouble for him time and again, waging a constant war, trying to get Virgil removed from his elected position, and all over a misunderstanding among him, Kelly (Virgil’s ex-wife) and Baxter, her father. “I’m glad you have a better relationship with him,” he said to Urquhart.

  The current sheriff of Autumn Vale nodded. “I grew up in Ridley Ridge. I think it helps. Poor Yolanda was found here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the map. “Also along Connaught Line, but not buried, just on the edge of some sumacs and brush.”

  I examined the map. It seemed to be mostly flat farmland, with a few woodsy areas and streams. “Who found her body, this Yolanda Perkins?”

  “It was a guy out walking his dog,” Urquhart said. “He wasn’t even on the land, that’s what’s weird. His dog is a hound and it took off over a field; when it didn’t return to him, he went looking for it and found that poor girl in a pile of brush someone had tried to burn.”

  I shuddered. Such a grim topic. “And her murder has never been solved? Nor the other girls?”

  “There wasn’t much to go on by then, of Yolanda, anyway,” Virgil said. “It took a long while to get an official ID on her, though everyone pretty much knew who it was.”

  Urquhart nodded. “A runaway. Everyone thought she had gone to California.”

  “I do remember hearing about it, but then it faded from the headlines,” I said. “I know there were some ‘Missing’ posters at first, when she disappeared, and then a memorial set up when her dead body was found. We had some stuff going on at the same time; maybe that’s why I don’t remember all the details.”

  “She was a wayward kid from Ridley Ridge,” Urquhart said. “Folks blamed her boyfriend, but I never thought he killed Yolanda. Poor guy still lives under a cloud and will unless we find the real killer.”

  “So what are the other girls’ names, the six who are missing? Did I know any of them? I’ve been here over three years now.”

  He sighed and glanced down at his notebook. “Ashley Walker; she’s been missing two years, a Ridley Ridge girl, fifteen when she disappeared. Madison Pinker, sixteen when she disappeared, missing over a year now. Delonda Henson, twenty, missing ten months. Glynnis Johnson and Cecily Smith, missing three months.”

  “Cecily,” I exclaimed. “That’s not a common name. One of Lizzie’s friends from school was named Cecily. Is it the same girl?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you checked out that cult encampment? Maybe some of them are out there.”

  Urquhart frowned and chewed on his lip. “Yeah, we thought of that. It’s right here, on the map,” he said, pointing to a green farmland area near Connaught and another road, gravel, it looked like. “That’s Marker Road, between Connaught and Silver Creek Line. But it’s private property and I don’t have enough info to charge in there and take names. It’s in Ben Baxter’s county.”

  “But I interrupted you, Urquhart, when I asked about Cecily. That’s five; there’s one more. Who is that?”

  He nodded, staring stonily at the sheet. “There’s Cara Urquhart. She’s been missing a few weeks now.”

  “Cara Urquhart . . . oh! She was a waitress at the coffee shop in Ridley Ridge. The current waitress told me she’d taken off. A relative?” I watched his face. It was twisted with emotion and he swiped at his eyes.

  He nodded. “Niece. My oldest sister’s oldest daughter.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “We don’t know where she is. It’s not like her to not communicate with her mom. They’ve had some problems lately, and they had a big fight before she disappeared, but still . . .” He took a deep breath, stuffing down the emotion. I rose, knowing they would get no work done with me there. “I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it,” I said. “Good night, Urquhart. I hope you find your niece.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I hope so too.”

  Chapter Three

  We’re working on big plans for my Wynter Woods property, but it goes beyond moving rescued homes and renovating them. We have a bigger goal; the working name is the Wynter Woods Performing Arts Center, though that is not official. It’s going to be a home away from home for the Lexington Symphony Orchestra, which has a venue in New York City, of course, but either takes the summer off or tours. We will be their summer quarters, like Tanglewood is for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and will include the Lexington Opera Company, which is Pish’s real love. It’s a grand scheme, all right, something that will make our area over into an arts hub and will, I hope, bring investment, jobs and eventually prosperity to Autumn Vale and beyond.

  I worked all Tuesday with Pish on plans. We had already done much in the way of installing services for the performing arts center, and now had funding to start building, with the promise of enough to finish. Also, we had quite a few artists lined up to start. With the Lexington Symphony Orchestra and the Lexington Opera Company, including the opera singers Roma Toscano, Liliana Bartholomew and a few others, we had a good start at special events that we would be able to schedule once we had firm dates for building. This is a long-term project; it is not going to happen overnight. If we can do all the construction in one year that will be fortunate indeed.

  Pish and I talked over my worries about alienating the local citizenry and agreed to discuss our fears with people like Gogi, who is both cultured and aware of local feelings, and Janice Grover, our offbeat opera-loving friend, who has been supremely helpful sourcing antiques and vintage items large and small for the castle renovation and my home. I felt like we were inching forward, but I was still worried. It was a big undertaking. After an exhausting day worrying about financial obligations, it is lovely to return home to my husband and our spacious but cozy home by the dark and mysterious woods
at the end of my property.

  I have become a homebody and love spending time with just Virgil in the evening, either watching TV or reading while he has the hockey game on. My husband is a true sports nut, but even more than watching sports he loves both playing and coaching, many sports but especially hockey. He played college and semipro growing up, and now plays recreational hockey in a men’s league. I don’t go to every game, but I was going this Tuesday night to support him against a difficult opponent. He’s sexy, suited up for hockey, and it’s worth it to sit in a cold arena for two hours to watch him play. He’s good: strong, fast, strategic. And he’s so in his element. He’s a man of action, and never more so than when he’s on the ice, winding up for a slapshot.

  I see it as positive payback. He’s been so good about all of the symphony orchestra and opera things I have going. He attends fund-raisers wearing a tuxedo when he must, he sometimes goes to New York City with me, and endlessly listens to me fret over it all. In return I hope my enjoyment of his games and even his coaching—watching him coach six-year-olds playing hockey is adorable—gives him back a little of the love and support he gives me every day.

  We headed out into the coolish evening air and drove together in my car to the Johnson Memorial Arena, a big curved-roof building, like a glorified Quonset hut, part of a larger sports complex attached to a college two towns over, near Batavia. It is used for hockey most of the year, even in summer, but is occasionally repurposed for other things, like dirt bike competitions, monster truck shows and even horse shows and competitions. But from about September to May it is all hockey, all of the time, and is Virgil’s team’s home ice.

  He grabbed his enormous hockey bag out of the trunk and we walked across the well-lit parking lot, parting at the doors with a kiss as he went off to the change rooms to suit up. There was a noisy game in progress, so I got a cup of the horrible coffee from the snack bar (when will I learn to bring my own?) and wandered along the bench seating area looking for a friendly face as the game was played. I spotted Graciela Maitland, the wife of the local Methodist reverend, and waved. She beckoned me, then returned her gaze to the rink.

  I climbed the concrete bank of seating. Sound echoes in that building; the noise of shots, blades, shouts and cheering fills the space, reverberating off the high metal roof and ricocheting, amplifying. Some teams hire an organist to play the usual crowd-amping music. Between periods there is heavy rock music blasted through the sound system, a weird mix of metal and rock and modern pop, with a soupçon of rap and country thrown in. There is a particular smell and feel to a hockey rink, a pungent odor of popcorn, bad coffee, beer, sweaty men and women (there are plenty of women’s leagues in Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge, too, and those women do sweat hard!), ice and wood.

  When I got up to Graciela’s level I made my way toward her, slinking along the bench-style seating in the odd shuffle step common to all hockey wives, coffee in one hand, purse slung over my shoulder. “One of your kids playing?” I asked as I sat down beside her, plunking my purse (I didn’t bring my good Birkin, but a disreputable khaki bag I use for many other occasions) on the floor between my feet. The Maitlands have two sons and three daughters, any one of whom could be on the ice.

  “No, it’s John who is playing!” she said of her husband. She leaped to her feet. “Go, John!” she screeched. “That’s him,” she said, pointing out a figure in a maroon and black uniform with the number 33 on his back and Maitland emblazoned above it. “He plays with an old-timers’ league.”

  “Old-timers?”

  “Yeah. I kid him about that. But he hates ‘senior’s league,’ so old-timers it is!” Her gaze never left the ice as she talked.

  I glanced up at the big square scoreboard that hung over center ice. It showed the two teams as Autumn Vale Valiants and the Ridley Ridge Rebels, so I knew who to cheer for. “I didn’t know Reverend Maitland played!” I said, raising my voice over the ruckus.

  “Between you and me he’s not very good, but he’s enthusiastic!” She jumped up again, cheering and shouting his name as he got a breakaway and raced down the ice, but then fanned on a shot.

  I’m impressed I know the terminology and that “fanning” on the puck is when you go to hit it with your stick but miss. The game ended with the Rebels trouncing the Valiants seven to three. “Can’t win ’em all,” I said soothingly, expecting her to go to meet her husband at the door.

  Instead she turned to me. “So, how is everything going?” she asked.

  “Not terrible, I guess,” I shouted over the sudden blare of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The Zamboni machine chugged out to the ice from the far end and made its way around the surface. We had at least ten minutes between games.

  She bit her lip and eyed me contemplatively. Graciela, dressed that night in a navy wool peacoat with a colorful scarf around her neck, is a lovely woman, the child of an African-American soldier and his Filipino bride. She was born in the Philippines but brought to America as a baby, in the sixties. She perennially has a smile on her round face, and her dark eyes are alight with good humor and kindness. She and John are a powerful force for good in Autumn Vale. Though I don’t attend church, we have gotten to know each other fairly well at town meetings and events, and I always invite them to parties at the castle. After observing me for a long moment, she cocked her head to one side and said, “Sounds like things could be better.”

  I sighed and agreed. I unburdened myself of my worries about how the town was going to react to the performing arts center and the influx of people I hoped it would bring.

  “Merry, you can’t control everything. If I have learned anything as the wife of a reverend, you can only do what you want to do, with a good heart and good intentions, and adjust as things happen. If locals put up a fuss, I have faith that you’ll find a way to bring them together. In fact . . .” She bit her lip again as she paused.

  “Yes?”

  In a rush, she leaned toward me and said, “I was talking about this to John the other day, but I never would have brought it up to you, except that this might help. Our church has a wonderful choir, which you would know if you attended. Your facility sounds like it’s going to be magnificent. Maybe you could host our choir—and others of course, like the high school band and choir—for a night, a charity event to help the school arts program and the church choir fund. That would bring many locals to the center.”

  I sat, open-mouthed, as the idea took shape. The church choir. School choirs. Maybe . . . maybe a festival of choirs, to celebrate spring, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas. It was brilliant because it would bring locals to the facility to see that it would be their center too, not just for hoity-toity out-of-towners. “I love it. Let me run it past Pish.”

  “What are you saying about Pish?” John said as he approached, freshly showered, his sparse hair damp and slicked back. “Where is my favorite friend?” he asked.

  I smiled up at the reverend, a slim, friendly-faced bespectacled gentleman, his kind face perpetually wreathed in a smile. Over warmed snifters of brandy he and Pish tend to have long abstract conversations about theology and church history, esoteric chats that leave me behind. Pish was raised in the Methodist church but left years ago when it became apparent that it was never going to be compatible with his life truth. John, like many Methodist reverends, was at odds with his church’s exclusionary stand on sexual orientation, and it was a nonissue locally. Their conversations would be fascinating if I was smarter, or they were dumber. Pish occasionally comes to Virgil’s games with me.

  “He’s home tonight. Reverend, do you have a moment?” I said.

  His wife scooted over and he sat down between us. “Certainly, Merry.”

  “I’ve been hearing some stuff about this religious sect or cult or whatever out of town . . . you’ve heard of it, haven’t you? I understand a group of them marched into your church a week ago Sunday and handed out pamphlets after service.”

  He exchanged a worried look with his wif
e. “The Light and the Way Ministry. Yes.”

  “What happened? How did you get them to leave?”

  “I called the police. Sheriff Urquhart was most persuasive.”

  “Was it women and men?”

  “Mostly men. There was one woman, an older lady in long skirts with a kerchief over her hair,” Graciela interjected.

  Likely the woman in the van, I thought. “I don’t get the attraction of it to people. Why do you think folks join a group like that?”

  “Some people want to be told what to believe and think. They don’t want to have to do the work . . . think about their faith. That’s what I believe, anyway. I’ve done some research. I also feel it gives the disenfranchised a sense of belonging.” He told me what he had learned about how to tell a religious group from a cult, and then he said, “I’ve been worried about them for some time myself. I know several locals, even a few former congregants of mine, who have joined. I suppose I should say if they’re adults, it’s up to them what they do and believe, but I’m troubled.”

  “I’m a little worried too. Sheriff Urquhart and Virgil are consulting with Sheriff Baxter to try to solve the cases of missing girls locally. I asked if some of them could be at that encampment, but he says he doesn’t have any evidence indicating that, and without some evidence he can’t go on the property without permission. So far they’ve turned away the police, Virgil told me after, and warned them to stay off their property.” The Light and the Way members apparently took their privacy very seriously.

  Graciela put her hand on her husband’s knee. “John has been out there a few times to take food and clothes for the children, but there is often a man who won’t let him come into the camp. He says it’s private property and they don’t want any false prophets.”

  “I got into the camp once, and spoke to a couple of children,” John said, “but I didn’t want to cause a ruckus, so I left when some men headed toward me.”