Death of an English Muffin (18 page)

“That’s dear Rod,” she said softly.

“The one who died?”

She nodded.

“What about this one?” I said, of her with an older woman
who gazed at her with obvious affection. Vanessa was very,
very
young in the photo, barely out of her teens. “Is that your mother?”

“No, just a friend. The one to the right of it is on the set of my very first movie!” She pointed to a photo where she wasn’t much older than in the one to the left.

“And who is he?” I pointed to one with a man who had his arm slung over her shoulder.

“My husband,” she said with a chuckle. “Nigel. He was English-born but had a very old title from some small European country.”

“How did you meet him?”

“That’s rather a funny story with a not-so-funny end,” she said, with a rueful frankness in her tone. “I very nearly was accused of the murder of his valet, poor
fellow!”

I
ALMOST FELL
backward. Murder? I made a startled sound, and she eyed me as she chuckled a throaty, wickedly lovely sound. She still had it, the vixenish sex appeal, even at eighty.

“Yes, I said murder! Fortunately it was
not
murder, and the police figured it out. I was having a bit of a tumble with the fellow and was sleeping.” Her smile had died. “The silly lad was cleaning a gun, it went off, and he was badly wounded. He died on the operating table.” Her voice had a sad tone.

That was two unfortunate men in her vicinity, I thought.

She glanced over at me. “And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t murder either one of them, neither Rod nor . . . what
was
the valet’s name? Peter, I think; yes, Peter something or other.” She sighed. “Wrong place, wrong time, as the kids say. Nigel felt badly for what I was going through, rescued me, and married me. I was so grateful to him. All he wanted was a wife for show, and I played my part exquisitely.”

She straightened and went back to her dressing table. “I
staged the most
wonderful
confrontation scene at a society party. Accused him of bedding two models at once! It was a fabulous scene, if I do say so myself. I could have done Tennessee Williams.” She smiled into the mirror. “And then I divorced him! He went on to a life of handsome young fellows and I became fabulously wealthy and went on to a life with my
own
handsome young fellows.”

“Do you keep in contact with any of those people now?”

“Good lord, Merry, what kind of fossil do you think me? They were
all
older than me. I’m a mere seventy-eight. Or so.” She winked at me. “They’re all gone. I now live a nunlike existence and need my beauty sleep.” She turned and took my hand, squeezing. “I wouldn’t worry about it all, dear. We’ll be going back to New York soon, I should think.”

That was good news. “Who do
you
think killed Cleta? Who has the nerve to do it?”

“That is two separate questions, dear. Who has the nerve? Well, I do, I suppose. But who do I think
did
it?” Her manner changed subtly, from playful to more serious. “In all honesty, I’m a nervous wreck.” She shuddered. “I lock my door every night now. I really do think it was Lauda, you know. I have a feeling Cleta was serious about writing a new will. She was truly terrified of Lauda, fair or not, and I think intended to rewrite her will leaving everything to charity. I just can’t see anyone else doing it.”

It was a plausible theory. I may have unwittingly helped Lauda dispose of a handwritten will just by letting her stay in Cleta’s room before it was searched; however, we had done our best after the fact. If I was afraid of someone like Lauda, I’d be sure to write out a new will, have it witnessed, post it to my lawyer, and make sure
everyone
knew about it, but Cleta was a whole ’nother kind of person.

Followed by Becket, who had been waiting for me in the gallery, I took the dishes downstairs in a thoughtful mood, disposed of the contents of the teapots and plates, and
stacked them with the dinner dishes to be washed the next morning. I fed Becket. After he ate, I wearily ascended to my room with him as he grumbled all the way up.

I sat down by the empty fireplace in my partially redecorated bedroom. The atmosphere of peeling wallpaper and decrepitude was finally getting to me, I glumly concluded, looking around. But more, I was down in the mouth because it seemed that just as I was making headway in the community, appealing to the commonsense individuals that there was no Wynter curse, this happened.

Who killed Cleta Sanson? Everyone wanted to. Many had the opportunity. I would have done it myself if I’d have thought of it.

But no, I wouldn’t have. I sat back in my wing chair, drew my legs up under me, and invited Becket up onto my lap. He hopped up, lounging on my knee and staring up into my eyes with golden, unblinking serenity. “You don’t murder someone because they annoy you,” I said to Becket. “You murder someone if they’re a danger to your life or peace of mind.” That was true. You killed them if they threatened someone you loved. Or you killed them if in doing so, you would gain something you wanted very much, or avoid losing something just as dear.

“Find the motive and find the killer,” I mused.

After serving breakfast the next morning, I decided to make something a little different than the usual banana, carrot, or bran muffins. I would invent a new recipe for muffins, based on the decadent flavors of Bananas Foster, one of my favorite desserts. Along with the usual ingredients I assembled butter, vanilla, bananas, brown sugar, cinnamon, and rum flavoring and started. I was just finishing and popping them into the oven when Patsy Schwartz crept into the kitchen, wringing her hands anxiously.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “You know you can help yourself to coffee or tea any time. I want you all to feel
at home,” I reminded her, the same thing I had said over and over since they had all arrived. None had taken me up on it, preferring to be served as if they were living in some understaffed hotel.

She nervously looked around and shook her head. “No, that’s all right. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble for me.”

I sighed, refraining from commenting that the more they helped themselves the less trouble it would be for me. “Is anything worrying you?”

“Actually, I need a favor.” She stopped and waited.

“Yes?”

“I was talking to my daughter Pattycakes this morning—”

“The one you were writing to last night?” I interjected.

“I miss hearing my girl’s voice, so I called her on my cell phone. She’s Patricia as well, so we got in the habit of calling her Pattycakes when she was little and it just stuck! She’s concerned about what has happened. She would like to come here to visit for a few days, to be sure I’m all right.”

I watched her, noting the pallor of her wrinkled skin under the too-dark foundation, and how her hands shook as she wrung them. “Patsy, you know you can go back to the city anytime, right? Like I said, I’ll refund you any amount left from the month.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” she said plaintively. “She only lives in Rochester, you know. She’ll pay extra and stay in my room,” she assured me, cracking her knuckles with an irritating
crunch
. She circled the long table and came over to stand by my elbow.

I was so darned grateful that she’d come and asked me rather than the woman just showing up unannounced—given the way the Legion had descended upon me, it was a distinct possibility—I was happy to oblige. “Sure, Mrs. Schwartz. Will the bed you have be good to share, or would you like a roll-away bed? I do have one.”

“I’d appreciate that, dear,” she said, one cold hand on my floury arm.

I looked down. “How did you get that bruise?” I asked, noting a welt the size of a handprint on her skinny arm.

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all,” she said, and quickly removed her hand. “I . . . I hit it against my dresser, I think.”

Or got the bruise in a struggle with Cleta? I watched her, noting the agitation on her gaunt face. What was going on with her? Like picking a scab, I just couldn’t let go of the question that plagued me. “You’re all nervous about what happened to Miss Sanson. I know I keep asking, but I never get an answer. Who among you told Cleta about coming to Wynter Castle and invited her to come along?”

“It was
not me
!” She was trembling, her coral lips actually quivering. “What does it matter now, anyway?”

“It seems so odd, I guess. You all despised her, and yet
someone
invited her to come here and stay together in a much more intimate setting than your separate apartments.” As I said it, that struck me forcibly; was that the solution?
One
of them wanted her close enough to murder?

“I’m not the one who had trouble with Cleta. But ask darling Lushie,” she said, bite still in her tone. “I’d wager any amount that
she
was the one to ask her.” She whirled and stalked to the door. “I’ll phone Pattycakes and tell her she can come.”

I stood there for a long moment; Patsy claimed she had no problem with Cleta, but I well remembered how several times the woman bullied the frail little lady. Why was that not a problem? Or rather, why would she not
admit
that that was a problem?

I baked more, then let it all cool as I showered and dressed for town in slacks and a tunic top. Finally the plastic tubs were all packed and Emerald was good to go on lunch. I carried the tubs out the front door, pushing it closed behind
me with my butt. But as I twisted to watch my step on the flagstone I noticed Barbara Beakman again, sitting in one of the wrought iron chairs wrapped in a quilt, staring moodily out at the forest.

“Barbara, are you all right?” I asked.

No answer. I set down the stack of muffin tubs on one of the other chairs and crouched down beside her. I touched her arm, but she didn’t move. “Barbara, are you all right?” I repeated.

“I’m just fine,” she growled.

“I don’t believe that.” I pulled over another of the white wrought iron chairs, grimacing at the noise it made on the stone, and sat facing her. “This must have hit you hard,” I said, feeling my way. “Even if you didn’t care for Cleta, she was still a part of your life for so long.”

Silence. Then she said something, and I couldn’t hear, so I asked her to repeat it.

She turned her head, looked at me, and said, “Getting old sucks.”

I couldn’t argue, and didn’t feel inclined to offer my usual response, which is,
Sure, but look at the alternative
.

“I have more money than I’ll ever be able to use, and no kids or grandkids to leave it to. I’m eighty-one, I’m fat and miserable and can’t breathe too good, and it all sucks. That’s a word the kids use, but it sure does fit. I hate my friends. I hate my
life
.”

I took a deep breath, willing away the negativity. “You have no family at all?”

“I have a niece and a nephew, my brother’s kids, and they’re brats. All they care about is my money, and if it’s going to be left to them.”

“Kind of like Lauda was to Cleta?” I asked.

She gave me a look and huddled deeper into the quilt, wrapping herself in patchwork and misery. “Everyone says Lauda was in it for the money, but the poor fool did more
for that old battle-ax than you can imagine. She worked her fingers to the bone. My niece and nephew come see me once a year and ask me about my health. They’d check my pulse, if they dared. Harrison, my nephew, keeps trying to convince me to let him have power of attorney. As if I’d ever do that! Next step, conservatorship and I end up in a home. Least Lauda worked for her inheritance, even though Cleta complained all the time that she didn’t do enough. The old crab apple was always putting Lauda down.”

The vitriol toward Cleta was poisonous. I shook my head and sighed. “I just don’t get it. Everyone hated Cleta, and yet someone invited her to come with you, and no one will admit doing it. What does it matter now? Just
say
it if you were the one who invited her.” I watched her face.

Her chins waggled as she vehemently declared, “It wasn’t me! Cleta was killing our group slowly, insult by insult, but she’s gone now. And hallelujah.” She got up and shuffled back to the door, dragging the quilt behind her.

I loaded my muffins into the car and headed into Autumn Vale. Binny’s Bakery was doing a brisk business. I like Binny Turner; she’s a good soul, even if she doesn’t have a bit of business sense. Lately she has begun to reconsider her vow to supposedly reeducate the palates of the townies with her European-style breads and pastries, and may offer more homey fare. If it happens, I’ll be happy to make muffins and squares for her, but it’s up to her.

I passed Binny’s Bakery and parked outside of Vale Variety and Lunch. Picking up the tub of muffins and squares I had labeled for delivery to them, I locked the car and climbed the three steps to the store, walked through it, then ascended the three more steps to the coffee shop.

I paused when I saw Minnie Urquhart in the variety store section, then averted my gaze. Isadore was drinking her daily morning tea and eating a day-old muffin at one of the café tables. The owner saves the day-old muffins for Isadore,
who has little money and no real job yet, and sells them to her at half price. The former bank employee is a town fixture by now. Isadore seems to me to be torn. She has the instincts of a hermit, and yet harbors some bone-deep need to be around people even if she’s shunted off to the sidelines. I feel sorry for her, but pity would offend her deeply. At least she has Hannah and the library. I waved to her and she nodded distantly, like the Queen of England to a commoner, then went back to her book and tea.

I spoke to Mabel Thorpe as I unloaded, gave her a bill, which they would add to the others and pay me at the end of the week. I then turned to go, empty plastic tub in hand, only to run—literally—into Minnie. I stepped to go around her and she moved to block me.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked, exasperated. “You need a hobby. Oh, wait, you already have one: bugging me.” I was fed up, I guess, and it showed.