Death of an English Muffin (21 page)

That probably explained why she had been so rude to me in the coffee shop; she felt she was being hounded. I wondered about the other things Gogi had mentioned about Minnie, but my mind returned to the mystery at hand. “Also, Virgil, I never considered this a possibility, but it has come to my attention that the gold cigarette butt may have been Cleta’s own, and the one I vacuumed up in the dining room, too. It’s entirely possible that she smoked the occasional cigarette, and that’s why she disappeared after a meal, to feed the habit.”

He nodded. “That confirms something the pathologist mentioned. She had the lungs of an occasional smoker. There were two packages of odd cigarettes among her belongings.” He took my hand in his and squeezed. “I wish to hell you could just send the whole lot of them packing! I don’t like having you here with them, as unlikely a murderer as each and every one of them is.”

I looked down at our joined hands, my long fingers enclosed in his, his thumb rubbing mine. He released my hand and briskly said, “Anyway, like I said, I’ve got a deputy
coming to take notes. If you could, wait half an hour then send each one in. I’m going to ask them to just go to their rooms after talking to me, because I don’t want any chat about what questions I’m asking and what we talked about.”

“Will you tell me what happens?”

He sighed and compressed his lips, looking at me with an exasperated expression. “No.”

“I had to try,” I said with a shrug. I stood. “I’ll go and serve dessert to the ladies. Can I bring you a coffee cake muffin and coffee?”

“Sure.” He held up two fingers.

“Two muffins?”

He nodded. I brought him his coffee and muffins and met the deputy, a serious-looking young woman in uniform, then waited half an hour, sitting and having coffee with the ladies in the parlor. I sent along the first one, and so on, keeping an eye on them in between. It was an uneventful, boring evening, and after a couple of hours they were done. The deputy had already left, and Virgil and I stood in the great hall near the doorway.

“Was it a productive evening?” I asked.

“You never stop trying, do you?” He smiled down at me. He put his big hands on my shoulders, rubbing and squeezing.

“I’m very persistent,” I said. My voice was unexpectedly husky, and the feeling was extremely intimate, even in the cavernous reaches of the great hall. I felt like we were wrapped in darkness, alone in the world, and I was waiting, face tilted up to him.

“God, kiss her already, will ya?” Lizzie’s voice echoed in the great hall. “Guys are so weird.”

“Lizzie, what are you doing here?” I turned and peered into the darkness as Virgil dropped his hands from my shoulders.

“Getting a can of soda,” she said, approaching us and looking between us. She was shorter than both of us and
dressed in pajamas, so we made a very strange trio. She popped the top on her Dr Pepper and took a slurp.

“Okay, I gotta go,” Virgil said.

Lizzie cheerfully waved good-bye to the sheriff and waited while I locked up. Sheesh . . . didn’t the kid have any tact? We were
thisclose
to kissing good night, I thought, and she spoiled it. “Okay, chaperone, you can go back up to bed now,” I griped.

“What’s up with you?” she asked.

I stared at her, and her cheeks tinted—rare for the brash teenager. “Oh. You really
were
hoping he’d kiss you, right? And I spoiled it?”

I put my arm over her shoulders and walked with her toward the stairs. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. If he hasn’t kissed me yet, it’s not likely that it would have happened tonight. He was in investigator mode.”

“I wanted him to leave so I could talk to you,” she said. She sat down on the bottom step of the sweeping staircase, so I sat down next to her. Becket trotted down the stairs and sat between us.

“What’s up?”

“Well, first . . . I was sneaking . . . uh, going past the library and the door was open a crack. That Mrs. Schwartz . . . She’s got a soft voice, you know, but it’s kinda carrying? And I heard what she was telling Sheriff Grace.”

I shouldn’t ask, I shouldn’t ask . . . I was going to ask. Or . . . I didn’t have to.

Lizzie went on, “She was telling Sheriff Grace that during the card party she went upstairs to go to the washroom, and said she didn’t use the one downstairs because it was
occupado
, you know? But when she was upstairs she
wasn’t
in her own room. I was getting ready to go out to the woods to shoot and ran up to get a filter out of my room. I saw Mrs. Schwartz sneaking into Miss Sanson’s room, real shiftylike.”

Patsy Schwartz looking shifty going into Cleta’s room. And she claimed the downstairs bathroom was occupied? But that would have been before Cleta was killed, I thought, because Lizzie left before the kerfuffle between Patsy and Janice Grover, and that was just when I noticed Cleta missing and went looking for her myself. Although I still wasn’t sure about the timeline. Cleta could have been dead, and Patsy may have known that if she killed the woman herself. Could someone that tiny smother a larger woman, though? “She was sneaking into Cleta’s room. You’re
sure
it was Cleta’s?”

Lizzie nodded and took a slurp of pop. Becket batted at her hand, pulling the pop can toward him and sniffing it. “I’m sure. I’ve helped Juniper clean it before.”

I looked over at her. “Is Juniper using you as an undermaid?” I asked sharply. “You’re not supposed to be doing that, you know.”

She shrugged. “It’s cool. I don’t mind once in a while. Juniper is all right. She taught me how to flatten a guy with one punch to the nuts.”

I choked on my spit and ended up in a coughing fit. “Really?
Really?
Lizzie, I . . .” I shook my head. There weren’t words, and I didn’t think I could protest without ending up in a giggling fit anyway. Poor guy she dated first! However, it wasn’t the
worst
life skill, I thought. Most women have had at least one occasion when they could have used the ability. “I wonder what she wanted in Cleta’s room?”

“I don’t know,” Lizzie said. “I went to my room and got the filter, but I think she was still in the room when I left.”

“Have you told Virgil this?”

She was silent.

“Lizzie!”

“I’ll tell him tomorrow. Jeez, they’re all like a
hundred
. I don’t think any of ’em killed her. Anyway, at first I didn’t
remember it, and the cops didn’t ask me much, since I was gone from the castle when it happened.”

“I’m phoning Virgil in the morning and you are talking to him directly. Tell him exactly what you told me.”

“All right, okay! Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Where on earth did you learn that phrase?”

“Miss Sanson said it once to Juniper. She used a lot of phrases with
knickers
in them. She said once that Mrs. Schwartz was ‘all fur coat, no knickers.’” She giggled.

I was silent. I could think of no legitimate reason why Patsy would sneak into Cleta Sanson’s room, and the timing . . . that day, the
very
day Cleta was murdered, seemed too much of a coincidence.

“Off to bed, Lizzie. First thing tomorrow you’re going to talk to the sheriff. Why didn’t you do that tonight, while he was here?”

“I wanted to talk to you about it first,” she said.

I smiled in the dimness; she was a good kid, even if her outlook was a little skewed by past problems with the police. “Virgil’s one of the good guys, you know,” I said.

She nodded. “I know. He gave me a hard time when I . . . when I caused all that trouble, but he’s been okay since.”

“Lizzie, why
did
you do what you did—the damage in the cemetery? Do you mind telling me now?”

She was quiet for a minute, and bent over at the waist, petting Becket. “I guess it’s okay,” she said, her voice oddly strained. “That was so long ago.”

Almost a year; I guess that
is
a long time when you’re fifteen.

“Mom had just brought me back to Autumn Vale, and Grandma was always giving me a hard time and fighting with Mom. I thought . . . I felt like I’d break something or . . . or
hit
someone, even though I didn’t want to, not really. I didn’t have anyone to talk to.” She paused. “Except . . . except Dad . . . Tom. I wish I’d known he was my father. We were talking and
I told him how I felt. He told me I needed to take out my aggression somewhere. Said he had a problem with that. too. So I went to the cemetery and . . . God, it sounds so stupid now!”

“Dumb stuff we do always seems more stupid in retrospect. What happened?”

“I don’t even remember my grandfather . . . you know, Mom’s dad. But I found his grave and I sat there for a while and drank a can of beer I stole out of the fridge. I had some spray paint ’cause . . .” She shifted. “Just because. I read what his gravestone said. ‘To those who knew and loved him, his memory will never grow old
.
’ And I just . . .” She shrugged. “I was so freaking
mad
. I never knew
or
loved him. I didn’t even remember him. So I spray-painted the tombstone with a pretty awful word.”

“What happened then?”

“Groundskeeper caught me and hauled me to the police. I had to do some community service. Mrs. Grace was the one who came in and talked to them. She said if I talked to the old folks, I’d understand.”

I would bet my favorite Prada bag that Virgil was the one who’d involved his mother. “Did you? Understand, I mean?”

“Why it was wrong? Well, sure; I knew
that
when I did it. I went back and cleaned the paint off, you know. And I told my grandma I was sorry.” She sighed deeply. “It was okay, working at Golden Acres. I really like Mr. Dread; he’s hilarious. He tells the most
awesome
stories. Too bad Gordy believes ’em all.”

“Have you talked with your mom about it, why you were so mad?”

She shrugged. “No, but we’re cool. It’s okay.”

“Lizzie, that is what it is
not
.” I reached out and pulled her into a hug. “It is
not
okay. It’s never okay until you say how you feel, especially at your age. Life’s tough, but it’s easier when you talk about stuff.” I released her and looked into her eyes, as best I could in the dim light. “Talk to your
mother. And talk to your grandmother! I know you’ve apologized, but ask her questions. She can tell you about your grandpa, and maybe you’ll get to know him. Better late than never. I wish my mom had told me stuff about my Wynter family. I’m having to explore it in history books and photo albums. Thanks to you, I now know . . .” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. “I know that my dad loved me. I can see it in his face in that photo.”

We parted, after she promised to talk to her mom right away and tell her how she felt. I returned to the kitchen and dumped the dregs of the tea and cleaned the coffeemaker. I popped the leftover muffins into a plastic bag, labeled it, and stuck it in the freezer. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the sink, leaving the china dishes beside it to wash the next day, and retrieved the coffee can of cigarette butts from under the sink, where I’d stashed it when I brought it down from the attic. I decided to dump the butts in the trash and rinse the coffee can out so it could be recycled.

I turned on the task lighting over the stove, dragged the trash can out and opened it, and dumped the cigarette butts into it. I was stopped dead by something and bent over to look, holding my breath against the awful odor of cigarettes. There, among the other plain white butts, were two gold-tipped ones, the tiny crest on the gold filter wrapper a dead giveaway.

What was Juniper doing with two Treasurer Gold cigarettes, Cleta’s exclusive brand?

I
N THE MORNING,
before school, I made Lizzie talk to Virgil. She told him what she had seen upstairs—Patsy going into Cleta’s room during the party. It was an odd thing, and he was appreciative, though he was miffed that she hadn’t told him earlier because he could have used it when talking to Patsy. I didn’t tell him about Juniper having Cleta’s cigarettes. It didn’t have anything to do with the investigation, as far as I knew; it was just something I had to talk to her about.

I was trying to decide what to do with my day, dreading another round of stripping wallpaper in my own room. It was a glorious spring morning—a light fragrant breeze wafted from the woods and blue sky arced above my head. The ladies were all upstairs performing their morning toilettes, whatever they consisted of, and I was outside sweeping the flagstone terrace. The castle was beginning to lose its forbidding look since I had planted some lilac trees and filled quickly dug gardens with tulips and daffodils for
spring color. Flowers always help, I figure, but still, the scale was all wrong and I knew I needed advice. This was not a pretty Cape Cod cottage or woodsy cabin; it was a grand castle and I didn’t have a clue how to landscape it.

As I was sweeping and thinking, a car came up the lane and ground to a halt in the gravel parking area with a shush and spray of grit. I stood with my broom, waiting, and a heavyset woman eased herself from the driver’s seat. I recognized her and was ready when she ambled to the terrace and eyed me.

“Are you Mrs. Wynter?” she asked, her voice a sweet and husky tenor.

“Just Merry,” I said, and put out my hand. Despite the fact that she couldn’t have looked less like her mother if she had sprouted antennae and multiple eyes, I knew who she was and said, “You’re Pattycakes, Patsy Schwartz’s daughter. I’m so glad you’ve come. Your mother has been missing you so much.”

She was a big woman, nicely dressed in a colorful tunic top and pale blue slacks. She had a ready smile, sparkling eyes, and full lips. Her face was round and chubby, and she swayed when she walked. She took my hand but pulled me into a bear hug, squeezing me hard. Breathless when she released me, I rocked back on my heels as she stepped back and looked up at the castle.

“Wow! Mama tried to describe it, and I looked online but I couldn’t find any photos. I didn’t imagine it being anything like this!”

I smiled. “Do you have bags? Let me help you, and I’ll take you up to your mother.” I guided her through the great hall and upstairs. It was a lovely reunion. Patsy burst into tears as her daughter enveloped her in one of her strong hugs.

I descended and heard a commotion in the library. I headed there but Lauda charged out of the room, her face red and her hands balled into fists. She shoved me aside. “Hey. Hey!” I
yelled. “Lauda, what’s wrong?” She didn’t turn, just bolted up the stairs, thudding heavily up the wooden steps.

I headed to the library. Vanessa was there, and she was pale and looked frightened. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

She shook her head, quivering. I crossed the room and sat on the sofa next to her. “Vanessa, please tell me what’s wrong. Lauda seemed very angry. She shoved me. She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

“No, no, of course not.” She hugged herself, rubbing her shoulder.

“You have to tell me what happened.”

“It was nothing, Merry, really! I just . . . She’s been acting so oddly, and we’ve all been looking at one another with suspicion. I so wish it was over! I just asked her if she had
anything
to do with her aunt’s death. I asked if there was an accident. She went a little crazy.”

“Are you absolutely sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Merry, I’m just fine. Please . . . don’t make a big deal out of this,” Vanessa said and took my hand, squeezing. “She was just upset. I didn’t mean to accuse her. That’s probably what she thought I was doing.”

I had to let it go. An hour or two later I was in the kitchen starting lunch when Pattycakes appeared, tapping on the doorframe hesitantly before entering.

I looked over my shoulder. “Come on in! I’ve tried to tell the ladies this is not a hotel, it’s a home, no matter what it looks like. You don’t have to tap on doors before you come in. Feel free to come into the kitchen for tea or coffee or a snack anytime.”

“I just wanted to know if I could help in any way,” she asked.

“No helping for guests.”

“Oh.”

I glanced back at her and saw how downcast she seemed. “Is everything okay?”

She nodded. But I could tell that wasn’t true.

“Did you
want
to cook? Is that it?”

Her eyes lit up and she entered, waving chubby ring-laden hands. “This kitchen is like a wonderland! You have no idea. I had to move to Rochester for a job, and then I was canned and left sitting in a lousy little furnished apartment with no real place to cook or bake.” Her eyes wide, she turned in a complete circle. “This kitchen is like a dream come true! I’d love to make my mama’s favorite cake for dessert, if it wouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes.”

The hope on her face was almost heartbreaking. I had been in her shoes, stuck in a tiny little apartment just trying to survive and stay afloat. She seemed a nice person, and I had a sense that she was going to be a friend. “You’re welcome to bake whatever you want,” I said with as much warmth as I could express. “What kind of cake?”

“German chocolate, my oma’s recipe.”

“Did it have to be chocolate?” I said with an exaggerated groan. “One of my many weaknesses. Along with caramel. And lemon. And cinnamon. And . . . well, anything sweet, I guess.”

She chuckled, a warm sound, like velvet. “My mama never cooked or baked, but Oma did. I inherited the baking gene, I guess. I was called Pattycakes from a really young age, and as soon as I found out what
cake
was, I wanted to learn how to make it. I can bake any cake on God’s green earth.”

I had all the ingredients, and she got down to it while I made soup and assembled sandwiches. It was nice, having company in the kitchen. Emerald cooked, but it was more a cooking-to-survive feat than a real love of cooking. We chatted about a lot of things, our lives and what we did. She was fifty-three, a mortgage analyst who had trouble fitting in in corporate America.

“How many mortgage analysts have you met who look like me?” she asked, waving down at her ample body.

“I hear you, sister,” I said, as I shared my own trouble in the fashionable world inhabited by rake-thin models.

She started out wanting to be a professional singer, but as her waistline expanded, her chances at singing shrank, she told me. “I thought I was going to be the next Sade, but I couldn’t even get producers to listen to my tape.” She pulled her chocolate layers out of the oven.

I tossed a salad, then covered it and stuck it back into the fridge. “Can you take a break and have a coffee while your cake cools?” She nodded, so I made us both a cup, set them on the table, and took the chair at the end. “You’ve known your mother’s friends for a long time.”

“My whole life,” she said. She set the layers to cool on wire racks, got a saucepan off the stove, then assembled all the necessities to make the frosting: coconut, pecans, vanilla, evaporated milk, butter, sugar, and eggs. She then sat down with me at the long table.

“Why did everyone put up with Cleta?” I asked bluntly.

She picked up her mug, cradling it in her hands, then adjusted a ring so it didn’t dig into her finger. Frowning, she took a sip, then set the steaming mug down. “Believe me, as the butt—pardon the expression—of many of Cleta’s jokes over the years, I’ve asked my mother that before. She said they’d been friends for so long, and every time she tried to pull away, one of them would invite Cleta to something. Then there were those weekly bridge games!” She rolled her eyes. “When my oma was alive and lived with us, she would say, in German,
Speak of the devil and she does appear
, whenever Cleta arrived.”

“Everyone’s been so evasive about why she was tolerated.”

The woman frowned down into her mug, then met my gaze. “I’ve always felt that Cleta was a collector.”

“What do you mean?”

Pattycakes glanced over at me, then back down at her
mug. “I’m so grateful for you, you know. Mama was drowning in New York. Coming here has given her a new lease on life. She tells me I can trust you.”

It delighted me to hear it, even as I was surprised. “I hope that’s true. I have only the ladies’ best interests at heart, but I have to say, the sheriff believes one of them killed Cleta.”

She shuddered. “It’s awful. I can’t believe Aunt Barbara or Auntie Vanessa would do such a thing, but I know darn well it wasn’t my mother!”

“You said that Cleta was a collector. Of what? And . . . pardon me for asking, but why is that important?”

She sighed, glanced up at me, back down to the cup and sighed again. “Okay. I’ll tell you my personal experience. When I was sixteen there was a young guy who used to work in the apartment building where we spent some time in the city. I liked him, and he liked me. When . . . when our relationship became sexual, I hid it from my mother. Mama would never have understood. Somehow, Cleta figured it out. Now, this shows the lengths she would go to, to find things out. My boyfriend and I would get together whenever we could, so one night, when Mama and Daddy were out, Miss Sanson bribed the building super to let her into our apartment. She caught us in bed.” Her full cheeks became rosy.

“You didn’t have to tell me this,” I said gently, putting one hand over hers.

“I’m not ashamed. I was young; I was in love. But that woman made me feel dirty.”

“Did she threaten to tell your mother and father?”

Pattycakes regarded me with puzzlement. “That’s what she didn’t do. Ever. But every time she came over, she would look at me with this . . . this
sly
expression, and I would wait for her to tell Mama. She never did; she just made jokes, ones only I would understand.”

“She never told your mother?”

She shook her head.

I thought about that. “So you waited and waited, in fear, in guilt. What did you ultimately do?”

“I told my mother.” She smiled. “And then I told Cleta that I told my mother.”

I laughed out loud. “Good for you. What happened?”

“With Cleta? I stopped dreading her coming over and started seeing how she worked. I’ve never forgotten. She collects missteps, scandals, mistakes. Embarrassing things, hurtful things . . . sometimes she saves them, and sometimes she uses them, brings them out in public.”

“Do you think that’s what she did with her friends?”

“I
know
it is. My mother was afraid of her, and I never understood why.”

“She had something on your mother?”

Pattycakes watched my eyes. “Yes, she did.”

“Would you tell me what it is or was?”

She shook her head. “It’s her secret, not mine. But I will tell you, though she is ashamed of it, it isn’t something she did that hurt someone else outside of our family. And that’s all I can say. My mother has her faults, but she’s not evil. Cleta was evil.”

I watched her for a moment. Pattycakes was a good woman. I didn’t think, the way she spoke of it, that what Patsy was ashamed of could be something violent. However, just because what she was hiding wasn’t violent did not mean she hadn’t killed to conceal it, or to end the persecution she was suffering. A daughter would never think her mother capable of it, but humans were frail, and driven too hard, who knew? Also, it didn’t rule out that there could be some other secret worth killing for to keep hidden.

“I’m glad you came to stay,” I said simply.

As I finished making lunch and she frosted her cake, we spoke of Lauda, who Pattycakes did know, though not very well.

“I keep coming back to her,” I admitted, thinking of her confrontation with Vanessa from earlier. With Pattycakes I
found myself speaking frankly, maybe more than I ought. “She was here that afternoon; I feel it. Virgil hasn’t said so, but I’m sure she borrowed the mail truck and came here for some reason, whether it was to do the deed,” I said, looking over my shoulder to be sure I wasn’t being overheard, “or just search for a new will.”

“I’ve always felt sorry for her. Knowing she was here, I brought some of my old clothes for her. The woman needs to know how to dress for her size. Just because you’re a big gal does not mean you need to dress like you’re trying to camouflage yourself as a mud pit.”

I laughed out loud and we high-fived.

Lunch was the first relaxed meal I had endured for some time. Pish and Pattycakes knew each other, and he was happy to see her. Pish put on some soothing music, and we all ate and chatted. Patsy was much happier with her daughter there, and Lush was animated, chattering at Pattycakes, too. Lauda put her head down, plowing through her meal. Barbara was still gloomy, but Vanessa was her charming self. It seemed like she and Pattycakes had a special bond.

If there hadn’t been a murder, and if I hadn’t suspected that one of the four women who were my guests had committed it, I would have thought we were having a nice time.