Muffin But Trouble

by Victoria Hamilton

  “I don’t know what to think, Doc. Gordy looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

  He shifted uneasily. “I don’t know, Merry. Gordy’s living in a fool’s paradise, and I have to think it’ll end badly for him.”

  “So what do you think I should do, Doc? He’s an adult. I can’t just march in and haul Gordy out by his ear.”

  “I know, I know,” he griped. “Ain’t nothing to be done, I suppose. I seen those fellas . . . those Light and the Way fellas . . . in Ridley Ridge. Why do you think they ain’t in Autumn Vale?”

  “I never thought of that. Why?”

  “I know you don’t like him, but Sheriff Urquhart caught one of ’em in front of the coffee shop harassin’ women, callin’ ’em jezebels and harlots and the like. He told the guy that if he ever caught him in Autumn Vale again, he’d tie his nads in a knot.”

  I coughed and laughed. That seemed so incredibly un-Urquhart-like that I had to think Doc had put his own colorful spin on the sheriff’s words. I wondered briefly which of the Light and Wayers it was, Barney, or maybe Nathan? “I’m making my peace with the sheriff, Doc. He’s growing on me. In fact, he and his new girlfriend are coming over Friday for steak. Do you want to come out?”

  “I wish. Last time I tried to chew steak I had indigestion for a week.” He grimaced. His teeth had been giving him a lot of trouble.

  “Virgil would gladly grill you a sirloin burger.”

  He smiled and patted my hand. “That’s okay, honey. Nowadays it’s kinda too much to go out to eat. At least here if I fall asleep at the dinner table nobody minds. As long as I don’t wake ’em up with my snoring.”

  I laughed, but left the room with some worry, pausing at the doorway to look back. He seemed so tired, and though he picked up his book again, he closed his eyes and nodded off. I felt my eyes prickle; I had just found him, and I wasn’t ready to lose Doc yet. He was my only tenuous tie to the family I never knew.

  Chapter Eleven

  I delivered my muffins to the kitchen at Golden Acres, then headed back downtown, stopping at Binny’s bakery for a moment.

  Binny Turner is the very first person I met in Autumn Vale, that misty September morning a few years back. She is also Lizzie’s aunt. Her brother, Tom, was Lizzie’s father but was murdered before they ever had a chance to get to know each other. Binny tries to make it up to Lizzie, and the aunt and niece are fairly close, or as close as two explosive, sometimes tetchy women can be.

  But there is no way around it . . . Binny is a bit of an odd duck, insisting on selling European delicacies only, whipped up in her custom-designed bakery, to the exclusion of other treats. You can buy profiteroles and baklava, cannoli and charlottes, croissants and éclairs, vol-au-vents and strudels, but you can’t buy muffins or cookies. It’s the way she runs things, and there is no point in complaining, though many still did. As a result, most of her sales are of her amazing breads, buns and biscuits instead of sweets. She’s generous to a fault locally; the retirement home and local shelter get the best European day-old pastries anyone has ever tasted. Binny is a good person.

  As I bought some of my guilty pleasures, her biscotti, which rivaled any I bought when I lived in New York City, and she boxed them up, we chatted over the hinged counter centered between two glass cases. I told her about seeing Gordy, to whom she had rented an apartment upstairs when he lived with Zeke. “I worry about him. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s weird,” I reflected. “He seems happier and more confident than I’ve ever seen him, and yet I’m worried.”

  She shrugged. “He’s an adult, Merry. He’s got a right to do whatever he wants.”

  “So people keep saying, even the ones who are as worried as I. Of course you’re right. But he’s such a lost lamb, you know?” I paused as she put a sticker over the flap of the bakery box. “There was a guy hanging around him. Zeke said there was some dude living with Gordy upstairs before he moved out, some guy from the Light and the Way Ministry. He worked for Turner Construction for a while.”

  “Sure. This was last June, right? Nathan was crashing on their couch, then Zeke and Gordy had an argument and Zeke left to move in with Hannah’s folks.”

  “Nathan Garrison, right?” She nodded. “What is he like?” I asked, without going into how I knew him, as the creep who followed Shilo home from the castle and stalked her for a while.

  “Quiet. Until he was outside on the street. He had a run-in with Urquhart when he started calling women things.”

  So it was him, not Barney! “Things like ‘jezebel’?”

  “Yeah. Urquhart threatened him, I heard. Garrison got snarky but backed down when some local roughneck threatened to clothesline him.”

  Maybe that explained Nathan’s retreat to the Light and the Way Ministry compound. Autumn Vale was too tough a nut to crack, so they focused on RiRi. And like some cultish Pied Piper, Garrison led Gordy Shute out of Autumn Vale and to that Armageddon cult. “I can’t figure out why our gentle Gordy likes him. I don’t get it.”

  “Gordy always had trouble making friends, so he was never picky. He was lucky with Zeke, but other than that . . .” She grimaced. “I could tell you tales. Poor guy got beaten up and robbed more than once by ‘friends’ he made.”

  “What’s your opinion of this Light and the Way Ministry group?”

  “Bunch of weirdos. You won’t catch me going out there. I stay clear away.”

  I headed back to the castle. Pish was done with his videoconference. I found him in his study, which he had furnished like a nineteenth-century gentleman’s library, with lots of wood, leather, globes, books, and a set of cut-glass decanters that held the tipple he prefers, Maker’s Mark bourbon. Becket was snoozing in his place of honor, a special pillow Pish had put in the deep sill of his study window, and my friend was at his desk, frowning at his computer screen.

  “What’s up?” I said, plopping down in the guest chair he keeps beside his green-leather-topped Sheraton desk.

  After the videoconference he had a chat with Anokhi, making doubly sure she was okay after her shocking discovery. I could tell he was still worried that the awful experience she had would make it easier for her to reject our offer. “She’s deeply concerned. I tried to reassure her about our area being safe and peaceful but she’s rattled, for lack of a better description. And her treatment at the sheriff’s office, while it did not reach what she considered offensive, was not reassuring.”

  “And her son-in-law called in an attorney, and not just any lawyer; I’ve heard the guy is a specialist in civil rights cases. Why is that?”

  He tapped a pencil on the edge of the desk, his gaze clouded. “Grant is a problem. I have the feeling that Anokhi is not overly fond of him, but of course she didn’t say that. She said that he is Sebastienne’s husband, and as such she will not criticize him.”

  “That attorney stayed on, you know . . . he’s involving himself in whatever men were held by Sheriff Baxter’s deputies in the raid of the compound.”

  “Lucky for them.”

  “Did she describe what happened on the highway?”

  He nodded and met my gaze. His eyes were watering. “It’s so much worse than we heard, Merry! The poor child . . . they found her along the side of the road. She was beaten badly, but still alive!”

  My heart thumped. “I heard that. But no one could save her. That’s . . . awful. What did they do? What happened next?”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath and told me all that Anokhi had said. They were on the highway heading toward the airport. Sebastienne was driving, her mother was in the passenger seat and her husband was in the back, working on his laptop. She saw what she thought was a pile of clothes in the ditch along the road, but something about it didn’t seem right. Sebastienne had driven past, but at her mother’s urging turned around and came back.

  Anokhi was the first to get out, and discovered it was a young woman, and that she was breathing. While she tried to help
the girl, Sebastienne made the 911 call. A female deputy from the Ridley Ridge sheriff’s office was first on the scene and began to administer lifesaving measures. It’s what Anokhi overheard that had upset Pish so much. Another officer arrived and the first thing he said was “Another one?” apparently referring to the beaten and dying girl.

  I remembered what Urquhart had said about another girl found along the highway dead last year. Was this a serial killer case? I told Pish about it, then asked, “Did the officers say anything else?”

  “They caught snatches of the conversation as they waited for the ambulance to arrive, but Grant claimed he overheard the police plotting to hide the murder.”

  “No! Pish, was he . . . was he certain?”

  My friend drew in a long breath. “Anokhi sounded unsure.”

  I watched his face; he was troubled. “Pish, what is it?”

  “Grant has been against Anokhi’s wish to work with us on our center. He’s been trying to get Sebastienne to talk her mother out of it.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have a young friend who knows Grant well. He doesn’t like the guy, but it’s not beneficial to his position in the theater community to let his distaste be known. Grant gets in the way of his mother-in-law’s work. He interferes, as I understand it. No one in the industry trusts him.”

  “When did you learn about that?”

  “Some time ago. I was hoping it wasn’t true.”

  “How do you think that applies to this?”

  He paused, frowning. “I don’t think we can trust what Grant says he overheard.” He looked up and met my eyes. “He has too much motive to lie. Anokhi is upset about the whole thing, and I can feel her pulling away. Even if she doesn’t believe Grant, it may seem too . . . complicated. A bad feeling. She believes in vibrations and auras, that kind of thing, and if this place seems doomed to her, she will decide against it.”

  I put my hand over his. I could feel how worried he was. I have begun second-guessing our decisions of late; this project is overwhelmingly complicated and scary. Was it too much stress for my friend? Was it putting his health in jeopardy? “Dear heart, if she does decide against our invitation to be our first guest composer-conductor, then we will find someone else. We have time. The grand opening isn’t even planned until this time next year.”

  “You know as well as I do that planning is in place already for the next year or more of orchestra bookings. The LSO is fine—they trust me—but Anokhi is well regarded in the community and many people know she is considering our offer. If she says no, there will be gossip about why.”

  I took a deep breath. “Let’s not borrow trouble. Let’s find out what happened. I’ll talk to Virgil; he may know more.”

  “I feel bad even thinking about this when a young woman is . . . is dead.”

  I understood completely. I felt the same, hating myself for worrying about the mundane when a life had been snuffed out. “The victim is one of the missing girls Virgil and Urquhart are helping Baxter investigate. Her name is Glynnis Johnson, and she was a member out at the Light and Way place. I may have even seen her while I was there.”

  He covered his face with his hands, sighed deeply, then raised his face again. “It’s so awful. Who would hurt a girl so badly?”

  I thought for a moment. “Did Anokhi say anything about what the young woman looked like? What had been done to her? Did the victim say anything?”

  “The girl was in frightful shape: bruised all over, bloody, cuts, gashes. She had one sparkly barrette in her long hair, but it looked like the other had been torn out, along with a clump of hair. Her scalp was bleeding. Someone beat her badly. Anokhi said the only time she has ever seen anything like that was when she volunteered at a shelter and a young woman came in who had been beaten almost to death by her husband. She said it looked personal.”

  “Oh.” I blinked.

  “She said it sounded like the girl was saying . . . am I safe?”

  That was heartbreaking. Am I safe? And then she died. “It sounds like she was trying to escape someone, or a situation.” Once again I felt a suffocating wave of regret; if only I had spent more time at the compound, looked around, poked my head into buildings. Glynnis may have come away with Lizzie and me . . . if she was even still there. “You know, Glynnis was reported as missing by her parents, and all along she was out at that compound. But I wonder . . . I mean, when did she leave the Light and the Way? Had she left sometime before this happened? Was she sheltering somewhere else? I wish I could ask someone. Maybe I can contact Cecily. I hope this tragedy is solved quickly, for her family’s sake.” I stood. “I’m worried about Gordy, but in light of this, I’m even more concerned for Alcina and her mom. It’s a hideous situation.” I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “However, as banal as it sounds, I need to make more muffins.” I bent over and kissed my dear friend on the forehead. “Come down and have a cup of tea with me. Please don’t brood. If we can help, we will.”

  “When I’m done with this, I’ll come,” he said, waving his hand at his screen. “I’m typing up notes from the videoconference with the LSO chairmen.”

  I descended and Becket followed me, hoping, no doubt, for third breakfast, or first lunch, or something like that. I know I’m not supposed to have him in the kitchen; it’s where I bake the muffins I sell to local businesses. But I tried keeping him out and it didn’t work. If an inspector ever caught him in the kitchen I could lose my commercial kitchen license, but I’d handle that if it happened. Life is too short to worry over every single thing.

  Five minutes later I heard hallooing and went from the kitchen to the grand front entrance; there I found Shilo taking off her jacket and slinging it over the carved end of the staircase banister. She had brought Lizzie with her. Lizzie’s mother, Emerald, had gone to Batavia for a job interview of some sort with their car, Lizzie said, with rolled eyes and a snort of disapproval. And her grandmother was doing some shopping, and so needed her car.

  “You didn’t bring my goddaughter!” I said to my beautiful friend Shilo about her baby girl, Autumn, as I led them back to the kitchen.

  “She’s at home with Savannah,” she said of her younger sister, who was staying with her for a while.

  Shilo has a complicated family history, and had recently reanimated her relationship with her siblings. I had known her for twelve years, and the first ten of those she had never intimated that she had a huge family, but she did, more sisters and brothers than I could enumerate. This move to AV, marriage to a wonderful man, and motherhood had given her newfound courage, strength and surety. She had confronted her abusive past and was on speaking terms with her father again, though barely.

  She was always gorgeous, in a dark, wild, Gypsy way, and she’s still so beautiful, but in a different illuminated-from-within sense, since having Autumn. Even tired, with her messy dark hair in a bun on top of her head and baby goop on her shoulder, she was stunning.

  I glanced over at Lizzie. “So . . . have you heard the latest?” I said, testing out her knowledge of the tragic recent events.

  “About Glynnis? Yeah, I heard.” She plopped down on one of the stools by the breakfast bar.

  “Did you know her?”

  She nodded, staring down at the counter, her eyes watering. “She was in my same grade but she quit school and disappeared around when Cecily took off, like, two weeks before grad. She was always talking about running away to New York. She was into fashion . . . always wore sparkly jewelry and clothes. She wanted to be a star.” Lizzie looked up, one tear tracing a delicate path down her freckled, tanned cheek. “When she left town I joked about it. I said, So maybe we’ll see her in an acne commercial on TV. Ha-ha-ha! I feel like such a jerk,” she whispered, her voice broken and thick.

  I circled the breakfast bar and hugged her, hard, feeling her sob, catching her breath. “Lizzie, you didn’t do an
ything wrong,” I murmured against her mop of frizzy hair. “We all make jokes. You couldn’t know.” I let her go and returned to my side of the breakfast bar. “How long ago was that?”

  “June.”

  “Right; two weeks before graduation, so early June. If she was running away, she didn’t get far.” I sat down. Something was teasing my brain, something my mother used to talk about. She traveled a lot when she was young, and she told me about getting off a bus in San Francisco and being met by what she called Moonies—members of the Unification church, called Moonies because they followed Sun Myung Moon—who invited her to a seminar. She was pretty much isolated for two days and fed endless information about how joining the Moonies was the way to salvation. She bolted in the middle of the night, though she told me there was no real bar to leaving, just heavy pressure.

  I wondered . . . had Glynnis intended to leave Ridley Ridge? Was she met at the bus station before leaving and convinced to go to the Light and the Way compound? I texted Virgil with the idea while Shilo comforted Lizzie.

  “Anyway, I brought the photos out to you,” Lizzie said, fishing around in her camera bag. “I transferred them to a flash drive for you, though, ’cause I figured you’d want to look at them on a bigger screen.” She put a small flash drive on the countertop and slid it across to me.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said, and grabbed my huge Birkin bag; it’s a lovely taupe and dark gray, bookbag style, and (don’t tell anyone) is pre-owned, bought in a New York consignment shop on our last trip. I took out my tablet, one of those two-in-ones that are like a mini notebook computer, plugged the flash drive into it and sat down between my two friends.

  Shilo’s lovely face was shadowed by sadness. She’s a highly emotional person and absorbs feelings, from joy to anguish, from anyone she is comforting or celebrating with. She had felt Lizzie’s despair and mirrored it. But she also had additional insight from her new identity as a mother. “I can’t imagine what that poor mother is going through right now . . . Glynnis Johnson’s mother.”