Death of an English Muffin (17 page)

“Uh, well, no.”

“Why didn’t she tell you?”

“I don’t know.”

I thought for a moment. “Did she ever
tell
you she was changing her will to exclude Lauda?”

“Not in so many words.”

“So no.” But I had a witness’s account that she was thinking of it. I was suddenly overwhelmed by weariness. This had to end. “Have you spoken to Sheriff Virgil Grace?”

“Do you know him? That guy’s a piece of work. Wouldn’t answer my questions; told me he’d have to check me out and get back to me!” His tone was incredulous, as if there was something wrong with a small-town sheriff not giving him whatever he fancied he needed.

Given that the guy was the deceased’s lawyer, I could
understand his exasperation, but taking into consideration the lawyer’s abrasive nature I assumed Virgil had gotten his back up. He could be tough and stubborn when that happened. “Mr. Swan, I want nothing more than to solve this problem. Let me think about what we can do, but in the meantime you can’t probate the will until you find out the status of Cleta’s death investigation, right?”

“Correct.”

“Then we’re okay. Just keep telling Lauda that, if she bugs you. Let me take your number and keep you in the loop.” We ended the call on an agreeable note. I was going to have a discussion with Miss Lauda.

That afternoon the bus pulled in. I helped the ladies out, handed Gordy two tubs of muffins for Golden Acres, and waved good-bye as he drove off. They all toddled upstairs for a nap. In the intervening hours the castle filled up again, with Stoddart and Pish arriving back, Lizzie coming home with Alcina in tow, and Emerald and Juniper present.

Emerald and Juniper helped me with dinner service, then melted away as Pish, Stoddart, and I sat down to chat with the ladies. Time for some tough talk, I decided. But first . . . Chicken Spaghetti à la Merry, served with a green salad and garlic toast points.

We chatted about the ladies’ day first. Lauda was largely silent, plowing through her food with intent, head down, chewing rhythmically. Lush was excited about a wool store they had found, where she’d bought yarn for a project. Stoddart spoke about how Pish had helped him decide where to hang his new art acquisitions. I listened and commented when necessary.

Stoddart then engaged Vanessa about her films. They bantered back and forth, Vanessa flirtatious as always, playing with her necklace, eating little, eyeing the handsome man with interest.

“You were a naughty vixen,” he said with a smile. He then explained to me that she had appeared in such gems as
Kitty with a Crop
, a takeoff on
Kitten with a Whip
in which she played the alcoholic wife of a cop. She was also in
Man Bait
, a takeoff on
Man Trap
, in which she played the alcoholic wife of an alcoholic. Also, she starred as the alcoholic wife of an attorney in
Trial by Terror
, a takeoff on the better-known
Experiment in Terror
. “In fact, you were in so many takeoffs, one reporter said if you were in any more, they’d have had to call you a stripper for all you ‘took off’!”

He laughed at his own joke, but when I eyed Vanessa her smile was strained. Stoddart seemed oblivious to her discomfort, though, and continued, saying, “I heard that your leading man in
Man Bait
died on set. Is that true?”

“Poor Rod,” she said, nodding.

“How did he die? I heard he was murdered.”

She shifted in her seat. “That’s one of those . . . what do you call them? Urbanite myths?”

“Urban legends?” I supplied.

“That’s it. . . .
That’s
what they’re called. He was
not
murdered. There was an electrical mishap.”

Patsy snorted and shared a look with Barbara.

“Mishap?” Stoddart said in a cutting tone. “I heard that someone wired his chair so he’d receive a jolt when he sat down in it. It was supposed to be a joke, but the voltage was too strong and killed him.”

Stiffly, Vanessa said, “I don’t make a habit of commenting on past troubles. If I did, I would certainly correct the misinformation that has grown over the years to absurd levels.” She stood and dropped her napkin by her plate. “However, Mr. Harkin, I did think a man of your knowledge and sophistication would know better than to perpetuate a piece of gossip that is so patently ridiculous it defies imagination.”

“Please, madam, I did not mean to offend you,” Stoddart said, standing as well and taking her elbow. “Please, sit back down. I should know better.”

He sounded sincere, but then he always did.

“I think I’m just tired.” Tears gleamed in the corners of her eyes and she dabbed at them with her napkin, black mascara staining the ivory damask. “Rod was a sweet man and a good friend. His death, even after all this time, is still terrible to me.” She paused and went on, “It wasn’t easy to get work after that.”

“That’s because you never were a great actress except with your
husbands
,” Barbara said with a snide tone.

Vanessa puffed up like an adder. “More filthy gossip. What are you insinuating, Barbara,
dear
?”

I watched and listened, interested to know exactly what Barbara did mean, but darn Lush had to intervene and say, “Now, girls, don’t let’s quarrel at the dinner table! I’m reminded of a time back, oh, twenty years or so, when Pish’s mother and I . . .” She talked for a few moments until all the tension had been eased from the group.

But I wasn’t ready to give up all hope of finding out some things. I glanced around at the ladies. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I still can’t understand why you all put up with Cleta’s bullying for so long. She spoke so nastily to you all.”

Patsy glanced around the table. “She had a way of making you knuckle under.”

“How is that?” Pish asked.

The woman shrugged, then said, “She had her ways. She never left anything alone. God forbid if she loaned you money. She’d never let you forget it. Isn’t that so, Lushie?” She cast a glance over at Pish’s aunt. “You and she had a big blowup over some money you owed her, from what I remember.”

Pish looked alarmed.

“I hardly think that was a major blowup, and you have it all wrong, Patsy, dear.” Lush’s voice held an unusual note of censure. “As a matter of fact, we had a little tiff over money
she
owed
me
. When we were in Autumn Vale one day at the variety store she had no cash, so I loaned her a
small amount, just ten dollars or so, and I later asked her for it back.” She paused, dabbed at her mouth with the linen napkin and set it aside, thankfully devoid of lipstick, which she rarely wore. “Typical Cleta; she said I was making it up and that she didn’t owe me any money. She did that kind of thing all the time.”

“Speaking of money,” I said, glancing around the table, “does anyone know why Cleta would go to the bank and take out a large sum?”

Patsy stared at me. “Did she really do that?”

“Why? Does that seem unlikely?”

She looked troubled and just shook her head, going back to her meal and not meeting anyone’s eyes. I stored away that information, wondering if I should approach her about it without the others present.

No one else offered anything. Still fishing for information, I said, “So, now that Cleta is gone, how are you ladies getting along?”

Vanessa looked at me, eyebrows arched. “What a pointed question, Merry, dear. Whatever do you mean?”

“It felt to me like Cleta was the fly in your ointment, the irritant that kept many of you at odds. I’m wondering if the dynamic has changed now.”

Lauda huffed and glared at me, a wisp of frizzy hair dangling over her forehead. “I don’t think that’s appropriate to say,” she said. “In fact, it’s disrespectful.”

Barbara threw down her fork with a clatter on the china plate. “I, for one, am tired of the whole nonsense. In fact, I have a confession to make, right here and right now.”

E
NTHRALLED, I HELD
my breath. Had the tension between the two queen-bee wannabes ended in violence? I had already decided that Barbara was strong enough to have smothered Cleta, and I knew from the photo evidence that she was missing for a part of the afternoon. I let my breath out as the silence prolonged and exchanged a look with Pish, but he seemed puzzled. “Your confession?” I finally prompted.

She rose to her feet and took a deep breath. “I, for one, am not in the least bit sorry Cleta Sanson is dead, and I defy each and every one of you,” she said, pointing and sweeping her finger around the table, “to tell me truthfully that you
are
sorry. Even you, Lauda!”

There was silence but a sense of discomfort, as if something had been said that should not have been said. For me it was certainly anticlimactic, though. As Barbara sank back down in her seat, I said, “Why on earth did you all stay friends, when not
one
of you is sorry she’s gone?”

Lauda pushed herself away from the table and stood. “This is crap. I’m going up to my room.”

“Lauda, may I speak to you later?” I asked.

She looked at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Why?”

“Does it matter why?”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” she growled.

I glanced around the table and sighed. Fine. “You’ve been calling Miss Sanson’s lawyer in New York. For one thing, I didn’t know you were making long-distance calls using the castle line. Please ask before you do so. Also, we need to discuss the parameters of your stay here.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

It was like talking to a sullen teenager.

“In fact, I’d like to talk to each of you about the coming weeks and your stay at Wynter Castle,” I said while I had the courage, my glance raking them all.

There was no objection, just blank stares. Lauda flounced from the room, and her exit broke up the group. Since they all seemed exhausted I promised them dessert and tea in their rooms in an hour, instead of in the parlor, as usual.

“Well, I don’t know what to say,” I commented after they had all trooped out of the breakfast room.

“I’m not sure any of them want to admit they put up with Cleta Sanson because they were afraid of her,” Stoddart said with an indulgent chuckle. “They’re like kids afraid of the bully, trying to curry favor with her.”

I remained silent. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Stoddart, who seemed at times patronizing toward me and at other times resentful of the time Pish and I spent together. The two gentlemen went up to Pish’s suite and I cleared the table, stacking the dishes by the sink to do later or in the morning. I then prepared trays and took the ladies their tea and dessert, ending with Lauda, who I intended to talk to first.

Cleta’s room, as I have said, was the room I loved best
in the whole house. It was one of the two turret bedrooms, expansive, gracious, with high ceilings and a border of fluffy clouds against a celestial blue background, mischievous putti cavorting around the sky. I suspected some talented painter of the nineteenth century had been commissioned by a Wynter who had traveled the continent and knew what he or she wanted.

I had intended it to be my room until the Queen B of the Legion announced it was just right for her needs, but I did make her pay extra for kicking me out of my bedroom. So Lauda now dwelled within. She liked it stygian, so the curtains had not been drawn open in two days. I carried in the tray with one of my individual teapots, a china cup, and a couple of lemon tassies. Lauda slumped in a chair by the empty fireplace, so I set the tray down on the small table beside her and took the other chair.

“I’m sorry I spoke as I did in front of the others,” I said. “When you asked why I wanted to speak with you, I felt compelled.”

She gazed at me steadily, surprise on her face, and for the first time I felt the pain in her, the abandonment, the lack of self-worth. I understood in a flash that probably no one in her entire life had ever apologized for having hurt her.

I poured her tea and motioned to the dessert. “Eat up!” I searched for the right way to ask her what I wanted to know. “Lauda, it must have frightened you when your aunt left New York without a word to you, after having sent you away deliberately.”

She nodded, her mouth full, pastry crumbs falling on her shapeless dun-colored top. “Scared the crap out of me,” she said, scattering more crumbs as she spoke. “No one could tell me where she was except Pish’s mom.”

“Cleta was frightened,” I said, watching her still. “She experienced a couple of incidents in the city that she thought were murder attempts. Did you know that?”

She nodded and swallowed, taking a long drink of tea and sighing as she sat back in her chair. Becket nosed into the half-open door and strolled over to us. He looked up at Lauda with interest, and she hesitantly patted her lap. He leaped up, and there was a look of sunshine on her face, honestly the happiest I had ever seen the woman. You would think she had been granted a great favor. She crumbled some of the delicate tassie pastry in her palm and flattened it in front of Becket; he lapped it up, then turned in a circle and curled up on her lap.

“I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t me,” she said. “I would
never
have hurt Auntie. She was all I had. I kinda hoped she’d invite me to live in her condo with her; woulda been easier than taking the subway from Queens to Manhattan every day.”

I would need to tread carefully, or I’d risk harming the détente we had reached—a cessation, I hoped, of hostilities. “I know you were crushed when you heard that she had died. Who told you?”

“Cop.”

“Someone from the sheriff’s department?”

She nodded. “Minnie’s nephew.”

Okay, that made sense. “When you came that night you seemed anxious to get into her room quickly. Why?”

She shrugged, retreating again into her sullen demeanor.

“Lauda, help me out here! Cleta’s lawyer called, furious that you’ve been bugging him to probate the will. He can’t do that until we know what actually happened to Cleta! You
have
to realize that.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she said, standing and dumping a startled Becket on his butt. He yowled and stalked out of the room with one long, reproachful look over his shoulder at her. “I’m tired,” she stated baldly. “I’m going to bed.”

All the thawing feelings I had toward her hit a snap
freeze. “Fine. You have two weeks left here, what Cleta paid on the room,” I said, standing and picking up the tray. “Then you can return to New York or bunk with Minnie in town. One thing I’ve been wondering, Lauda; I know for a fact that Cleta took out two thousand dollars before she was murdered, but I don’t know where it went. I also know she fought with you in town and told you she was cutting you out of her will.”

She said not a word, just grimacing at me, her hands clenched at her side.

“If you have anything to say about all that, I’d say it quickly, and to the sheriff. I wonder, how solid is your alibi for the day she died?” I turned and left, furious with myself for letting her get under my skin.

I set the tray on a hall table in a dark recess of the gallery and headed to Patsy’s room. I tapped on the door and heard a ghostly “Come on in.” The room was dim, but I could see Patsy was sitting at the little table in the corner of the room, writing something.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, Patsy. May I speak with you? Then I’ll leave you alone to your writing.”

She turned. “I’m just jotting a note to my daughter Pattycakes,” she said. She turned a framed photo of a heavyset middle-aged woman toward me. “I don’t think I realized how much I’d miss her.”

I glanced at the picture and thought the mother and daughter did not share much in looks. But her comment was an entrée I couldn’t miss. “You can go back to the city anytime, you know. I would refund your extra weeks.”

“Oh no, dear. I’ve sublet my place, you know. Making a tidy profit for it.” She eyed me warily. “You must think us an awful bunch.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sitting on the end of the bed near the table.

“The way we let Cleta talk to everyone. I felt so awful
for that young handicapped girl when Cleta made those insensitive remarks. It was terribly wrong.”

I almost bit my tongue to keep from retorting that Hannah was certainly not the handicapped one among everyone gathered, and that my friend didn’t need
anyone
to feel awful because she was whole of heart and soul, not like the broken bits of women that made up the Legion. But I refrained.

My tongue hurt, though.

“It’s been a puzzle why you all let her get away with such cruelty. I was curious; you talked about secrets. What did you mean by that?”

She shook her head and patted at her fluffy blonde hair. It was a new color for her, done by an Autumn Vale hairdresser I had found over the winter who had a marvelous sense of style. Patsy had taken to a color called Desert Sunrise. I was embarrassed to find out afterward that her cheapness extended to tips; she had stiffed the young woman, a mother with three young kids, giving a paltry dollar on a thirty-dollar dye and cut. Thirty bucks was a tiny fraction of what it would have cost her in the city. Slightly humiliated at the tackiness displayed, I gave the stylist ten dollars extra on the tip for my hair to make up for it.

“I was just . . . talking,” she said, her gaze slipping back to her letter. “I don’t know what I meant.”

“What about what was said at dinner, about the fellow dying on the set of one of Vanessa’s movies? Was that a secret? Did Cleta have anything to say about that?”

Patsy’s expression had blanked, and she simply shook her head and grimaced. “I really don’t know, dear. Now, if I could get back to this? I know your young worker fellow Zeke is coming tomorrow, and I want to give him this letter to mail.”

I sighed. There was no point in arguing. I picked up the tray that had held her dessert and left.

My next stop was Barbara’s room, but she didn’t answer. I’d have to get her tray the next morning. From there I headed to Vanessa’s room and tapped on the door.

“Enter!” she sang out.

One of her requests for her room had been a dressing table, and she was making use of it, slathering cream on her neck in rapid upward motions. She spotted me over her shoulder and said, “The tray is over there, dear, on the table by the fireplace. I didn’t eat the dessert. Never did care for lemon anything.”

I felt a little like one of the hired help rather than her hostess. I ignored the tray and crossed the carpeted floor, sitting down on a hassock by her dressing table.

She glanced over at me, one brow arched higher than the other. “You want to talk to me about something?”

I thought I’d start with something simple. “How long do you think you and the ladies would like to stay here?”

“Are we wearing out our welcome?” she asked with a smile and side glance.

One of Vanessa’s most attractive qualities was her ability to get it when she was the butt of a joke. That was what had surprised me about her reaction to Stoddart’s heavy-handed jest about her being called a stripper for all the takeoffs she had been in. Perhaps it was just that she hadn’t expected the slightly bawdy joke coming from him.

“Not at all,” I said. “But it seems to me that your stay here has not been all that you expected.”

“You’re talking about Barbara’s whining? Don’t worry about that. She always complains.”

“Not specifically about that, but I’m a New Yorker. I appreciate that living here has slowed the pace of your lives. It can be inconvenient.”

“Don’t worry, dear, we’ll be out of your hair before long, I should think. Patsy is missing her darling Pattycakes—the girl really is a sweetheart—and Barbara is missing . . . well,
who knows what she’s missing. Though I’m certain she’ll want to get back to the city now that Cleta is gone.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Vanessa stopped in the act of swiping cold cream over her cheeks. “I . . . well, I didn’t mean anything.”

“Come on, Vanessa, I don’t believe that. You must have meant something.”

She primmed her full lips and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. We’re old friends, and I won’t talk about them behind their backs.”

“Now I’m going to think the worst!” I declared, regarding her carefully. “I know some of her past. There certainly are secrets there.”

She shook her head abruptly. I could see indecision, but I also felt she wasn’t going to budge on her silence for the time being.

“It’s not fair, what folks have said about her,” Vanessa complained. “She’s had a difficult life in so many ways, and that is all I’m going to say about that.” She stood, one hand to her back. “Ooh . . . sat too long in that position.”

I stood back up, intending to leave, but I saw a collage photo frame on the wall. She had simply hung it where a painting once was, no new nail, and I appreciated her forbearance. Drywalling is time-consuming, and patching is a pain. There were a lot of pictures of her leading men. One of the photos was from a movie set, and I approached, staring at it. “It’s neat that you have pictures from your career.” In one a handsome fellow was talking to her, bending over with an appreciative eye. Vanessa looked very glamorous, one leg crossed over the other, showing a seductive length of stocking and the top of one of her black garters.