Much Ado About Muffin (22 page)

I returned to the kitchen. Zeke was alone, drinking a coffee and reading the paper Virgil had left open. He ran his finger along the line of print, muttering the lines aloud as he read, sometimes repeating words or phrases. Despite a brilliant mind and great technical prowess with computers and electronics, Zeke has reading difficulties. But Hannah had been helping him for some time, and he now had the tools and awareness to solve reading problems himself as they cropped up. He looked up when I approached.

“Where's Pish?” I asked.

“He's running the tape through and listening alone to Miss Roma's song. She's good, isn't she?”

“Now that Pish has found the right piece, she's brilliant. So you're putting together a video of her singing to upload online?”

He nodded. “I've got a lot of it worked out, but now we need some photos of Miss Roma out in the woods. Pish thought of asking Lizzie's help. She's such a good photographer.”

“I think she would be positively thrilled, and it would be
good experience for her. Tomorrow's Sunday; why don't I call her and ask if she'll come out? She's staying at her grandmother's right now.”

He nodded.

“Zeke, I understand Karl is still staying with you. Did Binny's advice not work out? Or did you change your mind?”

“He worked on Gordy while I wasn't around. He got Gordy to say it was okay if he stayed for a while.”

I sat down opposite him and watched his face. Something was wrong. “Did you and Gordy fight about it?”

He nodded.

“So Karl's bunking on your couch, still?”

He nodded, and his expression became more clouded.

“Zeke, something's wrong. Please tell me what it is?”

He looked furtively toward the door, then craned his head to look down the hall, where the back door was. He hunkered down and muttered, “I don't know if I ought to tell the police something. It's about Ms. Urquhart's murder. Maybe, or maybe not. I don't know!”

“Tell me, and I'll help you decide.”

His expression cleared some. “That morning, the morning Ms. Urquhart was murdered, Karl was sleeping on our couch, right?”

I nodded.

“I came out of my room earlier to go to the bathroom, and he wasn't there. I mean, he wasn't on the couch. I don't know
where
he was.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

He shook his head. “What if he did it? We're just across from the post office; it would be easy. I mean, he had a big fight with Ms. Urquhart just the night before and left, right?”

“Or was kicked out. That's what Brianna and Logan say—that Minnie kicked him out. He was probably pretty mad about that.”

“He was. He came to our place and went on and on. We
were chilling, eating pizza and watching
Dr. Who
. I was like,
Dude, we're not interested
, but he wouldn't shut up. I don't like the guy, but Gordy does.”

“Did he say what they fought about?”

Zeke frowned. “It was kind of a jumble, but I think she said he stole something or took something. I don't know.”

That was interesting. “And he said he walked out?”

Zeke nodded.

I thought about it for a long minute. “You're all staying for dinner; why don't we talk about it then? I'll see if I can bring the topic up.”

He looked uneasy.

“Are you afraid he's dangerous?”

“Maybe. I mean, the stuff he says is weird! Like, he talks about how he beat kids up back in school. Says they deserved it because they were wusses.”

“Where is he from?”

“Ridley Ridge.”

“Did he get along with Brianna and Logan?”

He shrugged.

I had a sudden thought when I remembered Gordy's car from the morning of the murder. “Zeke, where does Gordy keep his car keys?”

“I don't know, maybe his room somewhere?”

“Would Karl have access to them?”

“Not Gordy's, but there's a spare set on a peg by the door in case I need the car anytime.”

I saw the vehicle once again in my mind's eye, a beat-up beige sedan, with lots of damage on the front bumper badly held together with duct tape and Bondo. Would Gordy even notice if it received more front-end damage?

Pish called Zeke away to work on something technical. I got my phone and called Dewayne, leaving a message on his voice mail briefly asking about the paint chip tests, urging him to let me know as soon as possible. Then I called
Hannah. I got her voice mail and left a message, but she called me back immediately. I wandered out to the terrace and watched Karl and Gordy work as we talked first about her day, what she was up to, and then what info she had discovered for me.

“I have so much to tell you!” she said, breathless with excitement. I could practically see her big gray eyes gleaming. “First, what Chrissie told me: Deputy Urquhart and his brother
were
Minnie's heirs, but that changed a couple of months ago. The deputy wouldn't know about the change unless she told him.”

“And the new heir is named Casey Urquhart,” I said. “You told me that in your message. Who is he or she to Minnie? A niece or nephew? She was close to a lot of her nieces and nephews.”

“That's the thing; I've talked to friends in Ridley Ridge and no one knows a Casey Urquhart. Even the
Urquharts
I've talked to don't know a Casey Urquhart!”

I was silent, not sure what to make of this information.

“So I found a reason to call Minnie's friend,” Hannah went on. “I told her I was computerizing cardholders' information—which is true—and needed to ask her a few questions. We went through that, and then I said how sorry I was, that I knew she and Minnie were good friends. Well,
that
opened the floodgates!”

“I'll bet.”

She told Hannah a lot about Minnie's parents, both dead, and her brothers, who sired a whole bunch of the Urquharts in Ridley Ridge, and how many were alive, dead, or in jail. “I guess when they were young they hung out together, too, Minnie and this friend,” Hannah continued. “They'd known each other a
long
time. But here's where it gets interesting—Merry, this is huge! Minnie
did
have a baby, back when they were in their teens. She gave it up, and no one has heard
about the child ever since.” She paused, then said, “Guess what the baby's name was?”

I felt my heart drop. There was only one answer. “Casey.” I tried to wrap my mind around what I had heard. If it was true, that explained the Casey Urquhart who'd inherited. But it probably meant nothing, then, to the investigation, nor had anything to do with Minnie's death. “So do we know where this child is? He or she would be . . . what, mid-forties at least, maybe almost fifty?”

“That's just it. As far as I can tell, no one has ever heard of
anyone
by that name, male or female.”

“Maybe Minnie traced her child through the adoption agency and has been in contact with him or her recently. She wouldn't tell anyone about that, not even her best friend. She liked to gossip about other people, but I don't think she liked being gossiped about. It seems like it doesn't have anything to do with her murder, though we can't rule it out.”

“I'll see if I can find out any more and talk to you tomorrow.”

“I'll be in town,” I said. “Bringing muffins to the coffee shop. I'm back in the muffin business, after all. Are you going to be around?”

“I'll be at Golden Acres with my mom and dad for a special memorial service for one of the folks who passed away, a lady who enjoyed my visits a lot.”

I said I'd drop in and talk to her there. Pish and Zeke finished up in the library, which I looked forward to getting back after they were done. Gordy and Karl, tired, dirty, and hungry, were done, too. I got them some towels and had them clean up in one of the spare bedrooms.

We gathered in the breakfast room, my second-favorite place to eat after the kitchen. It's a turret room, lovely and hexagonal, and centered with a beautiful old rosewood table. I have a huge antique Eastlake sideboard that holds the more
elegant pieces of my teapot collection, Limoges, Spode, Crown Derby, and a few others.

I had the fresh bread from Binny's, had baked cheddar biscuits to go with the stew, and had thrown together a tarte tatin for dessert. Roma decided not to come down for dinner, which was just as well. She does tend to dominate any gathering, and with men there, would be in full-on flirt mode. I needed Karl's focus. I let everyone eat for a few minutes. Zeke and Pish chatted quietly about their technical problems while I quizzed Gordy and Karl about the work they had done, lavishing praise on them for their labor.

“Where are you from, Karl?”

“Here and there.”

“You must have been born somewhere.”

He chewed and watched me, then grabbed another biscuit, breaking it open and slathering it with herbed butter. “My folks live in Henrietta.”

That wasn't exactly what I asked, and I had been told by Zeke that he came from Ridley Ridge. Hmm. “You were born in Henrietta?”

He nodded.

Not the chattiest of fellows. “Have you spoken to Brianna and Logan lately?” I asked, after a few minutes of quiet.

“No.”

“They're still living in Minnie's house.”

“Good for them.”

“So the night you fought with Minnie, the night before she died, did you also fight with them?”

Zeke kept his head down, but looked up under his flopping hair while Gordy blithely continued eating, taking his third biscuit and a second helping of stew from the covered tureen.

“No. They kept giving each other these weird looks, and I didn't appreciate it that they didn't stick up for me.”

“Weird looks?”

He shrugged and chewed.

“So the argument with Minnie . . . it truly was about you borrowing her car?”

He got that watchful look again. “That's what I said, right?”

“Nothing else, not that she accused you of stealing?”

He stilled. “Maybe she said something like that. But I didn't! I never took
nothing
from her!”

“You also said that you stormed out, while Brianna and Logan say you were
kicked
out. Which was it?”

“What's it to you?” he asked, standing suddenly, his knee catching on the table and making it jump. Gordy's cup tipped over, spilling milk all over the tablecloth.

“Hey, man, cool it!” Gordy said. “What's up with you?” He blinked and looked from me to Karl and then at Pish and Zeke, who watched.

“I'm just curious,” I said as Pish trotted off to get paper towels. I was not going to be distracted from my questions. “Where were you the morning Minnie was murdered?”

“I was asleep on the frickin' couch at these guys' place,” he bellowed, waving toward Gordy and Zeke, his face getting red.

“But you weren't,” Zeke said, his voice shaking slightly. “I came through the living room to go to the can, and you weren't in the apartment.”

“You didn't say that before,” Gordy, his eyes goggling, said to his best friend. “Why didn't you tell me that?”

Zeke shrugged. “I didn't know what to say. You guys seem so close.”

Karl had become watchful and withdrawn.

“Where were you, Karl?” I asked.

“I was probably out on the fire escape having a smoke.”

“We don't like smoking in the apartment,” Gordy said helpfully. “Karl's been real good about it.”

“Where were you Thursday evening?” I asked, not letting my attention waver.

“How am I supposed to remember?”

“It wasn't that long ago,” I replied, watching him, trying to figure out what was going on behind those eyes. I turned to Gordy. “You remember that night, don't you? Did you guys go anywhere?”

He shook his head. “I think we watched a movie or something. I was beat. It's harvest, and I've been working extra hours for my uncle.”

Zeke nodded. “We watched an old movie and Gordy fell asleep on the sofa. I had to wake him up and make him go to bed, because I knew I couldn't leave him there, since Karl would need it.” He looked over at Karl, who still stood, watchful. “You went out that night and came back late.”

“Where did you go, Karl?” I asked. “Did you use Gordy's car that night?”

“Merry, what is this about?” Pish asked. “Is it to do with—”

I held up my hand, and he stopped abruptly. “Karl?”

“I've heard all about your reputation, lady,” Karl said with a sneer. “You think you're some kind of detective.”

Gordy looked uneasy; I assumed that information came from him. “No, I'm no detective, Karl. But you can't deflect the question by attacking.”

“I don't remember what I was doing that night, and I've never driven Gordy's car. Why are you asking?”

“What's going on, Merry?” Gordy bleated plaintively.

Hopefully Dewayne would have his paint chip results back and would answer my message. I'd definitely ask him the color, and if there was any Bondo in the mix. But until then, I'd shut my mouth. It was enough to know Karl was out of the apartment and wouldn't explain where he'd been. “It's nothing.”

O
nce Gordy, Karl,
and Zeke left, I washed dishes with Pish, and we talked. I told him all I had learned and discovered. He was so happy for Shilo, and felt guilty for not noticing and helping. I asked him his thoughts on Crystal, whether he figured a con artist—which was what I thought her—would be capable of killing someone they feared was onto them.

“It's possible. Most scammers aren't violent; they rely on their wits to get out of tight situations. But many violent folks are con artists, if you know what I mean.”

“I get you. There are a lot of loose ends, I suppose.” I told him briefly what Hannah had learned about Minnie having a child. “It doesn't seem to have anything to do with the murder, even though Casey is the heir. Nobody's heard of him or her.” I paused. “I've heard that Minnie was romancing some other guy online, though I don't know who. Online romances sometimes end badly.” I sighed. “I have to think the most logical suspects are Crystal, Karl, Brianna, and/or Logan.”

“But I'm sure the FBI are looking further afield, and most fiercely at Roma.”

“We know she didn't do it, Pish. It'll be okay.” I gave him a side hug, keeping my soapy hands off his lovely jacket. To distract him, I said, “I can't believe the difference in Roma's voice. What made you think of ‘Sola, Perdutta, Abandonatta' for her to sing?”

“You did, indirectly, when you asked if there was another piece that would make use of the break in her voice.” He dried a bowl and set it on the counter, staring absently out the window, where the autumn sunset blazed. “It was the
feeling
of
Sola
that called to me, the sense of desperate woe; Roma is unhappy, and she's an emotional singer.”

I was taken aback; unhappy? I hadn't seen that. Upset, yes, scared, maybe, but
unhappy
? “I guess you'd know better than I. What makes you say she's unhappy?”

“She misses her life in New York City. I thought being here would be good for her, but she feels isolated.”

“I guess I can understand that. I may have felt the same if you and Shilo hadn't followed and stayed here with me.” I glanced at him, then grabbed another bowl out of the soapy water and scrubbed. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You don't even need to say it, my darling. I know how you feel.”

“Still . . . thank you.”

“Even despite bringing Roma here?”

“I've been a jerk about that. I'm sorry. She needed you, and you were there for her. That's what you do.”

He smiled and took the dripping bowl from my hand, getting to work drying it. “You'd be horrified if you knew my thoughts completely . . . how the castle would be a wonderful summer home for the Lexington Opera Company, and their orchestra. Kind of like the Tanglewood estate is to the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

I shuddered. “Good lord, Pish, don't even mention that. We don't have adequate facilities, anyway.”

“I suppose,” he said, eyeing me speculatively. “Though a philanthropist might chip in.”

I didn't like when he got that look. But his next words were innocuous enough.

“So what about the party you want to have, the one-year celebration?” he asked.

“I thought of a musical open house rather than a big party. In fact, I thought maybe you could play the piano, and Roma could sing.”

He set the dry bowl down and took the next one from my dripping hands. “Would you consider leaving some planning to me?”

“Pish, you always go overboard,” I said, a little alarmed at the thought of my friend planning things. We'd end up with flame swallowers and jugglers, Renaissance dancers, and that darn opera company to boot, if I didn't keep a tight rein on him.

“I'll put ideas together and present them to you before I do anything. I know I tend to be a little extravagant, but my darling, I'd be paying for it.”

“No. Pish, just . . . no. I want this local and homegrown, not New York or Broadway. I don't mind Roma, since she's staying here, but we're not flying in an opera company or ordering food or décor from the city.”

“I am shocked—
shocked
, I say—that you think so poorly of me,” he said, with a chuckle. “And . . . you caught me. Okay, local and homegrown. And on another topic . . . have you figured out how you're going to afford to keep the castle?”

I sighed and thrust my hands into the hot, soapy water. “Not really. I'll put the word out to the film companies again, use any old contacts I can scare up.” A production company had used Wynter Castle last winter to film externals for a historical movie, and maybe other people would be interested. Even our
interiors would be suitable, and the pay was good, though it was a lot of trouble and turmoil having a film crew around.

We finished the dishes, Pish took some food up to Roma—another wedge from the huge Brie wheel I had in the fridge, and some water crackers—then we took our tea into the parlor. It's a cozy room tucked between the dining room and kitchen, furnished with antiques from the castle's own collection, with the addition of some pieces I had bought from Janice. Wine-colored Victorian curtains drape the windows, and a faded Persian rug warms the floor; an antique settee and two slipper chairs surround a low rosewood table, which holds my silver tea set, a wedding gift from Maria Paradiso. I no longer looked upon it with chagrin, since we had made our peace.

We talked about other schemes for making enough money to keep the castle going, but they mostly involved turning it into a hotel, an inn, or a conference center. I am not, by nature, a hotelier, something reaffirmed for me when I hosted a group of elderly ladies last spring.

“Have you ever thought of asking the locals their opinion?”

“What I should do to keep the castle? I'd be
afraid
to ask.”

He shrugged. “You're thick-skinned; you can take some insults. You may be surprised by what they come up with.”

I sipped tea and pondered it. “What about running a What Shall We Do Next? contest?”

He loved the idea, and we discussed prizes, like a stay in the castle during Halloween, or a dinner for two in the dining room. But my mind kept racing around my other entanglements. I had never divulged to Pish what Virgil told me about his ex-wife and his problems with Kelly's father, and I wasn't about to. That was private. Pish and Shilo are my best friends, but there are some lines we don't cross, mostly to do with our personal affairs, love and otherwise.

Minnie's murder was still on my mind, though, and so was his darling diva. “Pish, you know I don't think Roma is capable of Minnie's murder, but nonetheless, we are left with some troubling facts.” I watched his eyes, and noticed how he withdrew the moment I said her name. “She won't tell us where she was the morning of Minnie's death, nor the evening I was run off the road. Both times she had your car. And now your car has a dinged front end.”

He nodded, slid a glance over at me, and sipped his tea. But didn't answer.

I sighed. “Doc tells me that you've been kept busy stomping out the fires Roma sets with her behavior toward people. She offends people so easily, it's second nature to her, and I know sometimes she doesn't even realize it. But sometimes she
does
know what she's doing. She's a pure narcissist—you have to admit that. She could have angered any number of people that we don't even know of.”

“True. But none of that says why she'd kill Minnie. She doesn't have that violence in her.”

“Okay, we'll leave that for now. I don't think she did it; maybe whoever killed Minnie intended Roma to take the blame. I think the likeliest motives for Minnie's murder are money or revenge, given that she doesn't seem the type to inspire love or lust.”

He cast me a censorious look.

“Pish, I'm not saying that because she was old or heavy, I'm saying it because she was a thoroughly unpleasant woman to almost everyone.”

“But we know for a fact that she had begun dating. She hooked up with Dewayne—”

“—who was only dating her to investigate her activity at the post office,” I interjected.

“—and by your own words supposedly had another gentlemen on the hook.”

I shook my head, unable to fathom it. I know how people
can behave differently when they want to impress someone, but Minnie . . . It was too bizarre for me to imagine because she was so unpleasant to almost everyone. “Be reasonable, Pish; her murder had the hallmarks of something personal, yes, but something motivated by hate. She had enemies and seemed to enjoy taunting them. Take Crystal Rouse: Minnie was peeved that Crystal was taking over Brianna. Brianna and Logan are at every Consciousness Calling meeting, from what I understand, and thus were moving away from Minnie's sphere of influence. Minnie treated Brianna, Logan, and Karl as kind of a pseudo-family, so I assume she was angry that Brianna was having the wool pulled over her eyes. I'm kind of with Minnie on that; Crystal is a fraud. One of the possibilities I've been thinking about is, if Crystal wanted Minnie dead, maybe she wouldn't do it herself, but she'd talk someone else into doing it.”

“Like one of those three kids.”

I shared what Zeke had told me. “That's why at dinner I was asking Karl where he was that morning, and wondering about Gordy's car.”

“Charismatic leadership can have its dark side. Consider Charles Manson and what he got his followers to do. Not that I'm saying Crystal is like Manson, but you get what I mean.”

“I do.”

“A charismatic leader has a hold over his or her followers and could, potentially, convince a follower that it's in their best interest to get rid of someone threatening them in some way. You've met Crystal; do you think she has that kind of charisma?”

I pondered that. “Not to me. At least, not for long.”

“The magnetism of a charismatic leader doesn't affect everyone. Some are immune.”

“Emerald seems wholly taken with her, and Brianna, too. Why does she leave me cold, and yet others are taken in?”

“A charismatic leader—and I'm lumping suave salesmen and con artists into that group—is one who can swiftly identify what people want and need to hear. They use it to motivate that person or group to do whatever they want, or to buy what they want them to buy. Those vulnerable want something badly, and the leader has to be able to figure out what that is, and sell it to them, whether that's leadership, money, confidence . . . or snake oil.”

“Crystal focused on her listeners getting what they want out of life in the way of wealth and personal satisfaction.” I was more worried about what else I suspected Crystal was up to, but I didn't want to get into it. “Well, I ain't buying what she's selling. I'm worried that if Crystal is conning people as I believe she is, how that may impact Emerald in the long run. It's funny, you know—Lizzie is just fifteen, but she sees through Crystal as if the woman is glass.”

He smiled. “I like her sturdy irascibility; it will take her far. Be careful, Merry. Crystal is positioning you as the adversary. She's gained a foothold with our friend, and that's hard to break. If you let her sideline you as the enemy, Emerald will be lost.”

I nodded and yawned. “I have a phone call to make, and then it's sleep for me.” I stood.

He did, too, and hugged me. “I'm so glad you're back, my dear, despite all this turmoil. I missed you.”

I went up to my room and called Lizzie's grandmother's home. Fortunately, I got Lizzie. “How are you doing, kiddo?”

“All right, I guess. I get under Grandma's skin and on her last nerve, she says.”

“Hang tight and we'll see what we can do about getting your mom back for you.” I told her that we needed some photos of Roma in the woods, in costume. “Could you do a photo shoot for Pish and Zeke tomorrow?”

“That would be
awesome
,” she said, her voice rising in excitement. “Ms. Toscano is amazing; it's like watching a
character from a movie, you know, like the snotty girl you hope gets taken down, but you kinda admire her balls.”

I laughed and agreed. “Most of us call that confidence, and sometimes people fake it, even when they don't feel it.”

“Fake it 'til you make it,” she said.

“Exactly. I'll come out and pick you up tomorrow.”

*   *   *

The next morning was one of those fall days that start out misty. Lizzie called me at the crack of dawn and said to pick her up right away because she wanted shots of the forest in the mist, to use for a photography contest she had found in a photo magazine. I stumbled out to the car in my pajamas and sleepily drove, yawning and complaining, even though in truth, I was happy to oblige. For a kid like Lizzie, who hadn't had it easy, encouraging her passion for photography was the best thing I could do. I had known a lot of artists over the years, and every single one of them was sustained through times of trouble by their art; tormented, tortured occasionally, but sustained and carried, buoyed by their love of it. I saw that in Lizzie.