Much Ado About Muffin (23 page)

I barely pulled up to the castle when she darted from the Caddy and set out for the woods accompanied by Becket, who thought it was a grand game to leap ahead of her, wait, and then pounce into her path. I returned to the castle and baked muffins, the usual bran, apple, and cheddar, to take to Golden Acres and the coffee shop. I let them cool and went up to shower and change. When I descended, Karl, Zeke, and Gordy had just arrived. The boys were working already. Zeke was helping outdoors, since Roma was dressing for her photography session. Apparently Zeke was virtually done with the video for YouTube; all he had to do was slot in the photos Lizzie would be taking, and since he had a computer set up in the library, they were going to spend the rest of the day finishing it.

I packed up my muffins, leaving some out with a full urn of coffee for the folks, and left them all to it. It was midmorning. I drove into town at a sedate pace, noticing the changing colors of the leaves. Autumn would always be a special time for me at Wynter Castle and in Autumn Vale, and my conversation with Pish the night before had grounded me about my intentions. This was my home now, and I had to find a way both to keep it,
and
to ingratiate myself with the majority of Autumn Vale folks. I accepted that I would always have my detractors, and have learned the hard way that you can't please everyone. I'd settle for making those I care about happy.

I drove along the familiar route, but saw a crew ahead with the crossroad blocked. And then I saw the reason! Something Binny had said came back to me, about Turner Construction moving a house for the county sheriff's department. Sunday was probably chosen as a light traffic day. As another car pulled up behind me, I saw one of Virgil's deputies, directing traffic. She approached and told me that yes, Turner Construction was moving the house to an empty plot of land, where it was going to be renovated for a young family who had bought it for one dollar. It would take ten minutes or so before the building was clear from the intersection.

By the end of the ten minutes I was bored and ready to start eating muffins as a way to pass the time, but finally I was allowed to move on. I dropped off muffins at the coffee shop, leaving them with the weekend manager. I told her I'd be back on a regular schedule, then drove to Golden Acres. I parked in back and came through the kitchen, carrying my muffins in, making sure they had what they needed, and then chatting with the kitchen manager, a woman who I'd befriended when I started supplying them with muffins.

“Is Brianna working today?” I asked, glancing around.

Her expression darkened, and for the next ten minutes I listened to her diatribe on why Brianna was about to get
fired and how late she was. At the end of it the back door opened and Brianna sauntered in.

“You,” the kitchen manager yelled, her face red. “You're a half hour late. I want to see you in the office, right
now
!”

Sullenly, she headed toward the office. I took the kitchen manager aside and asked if I could speak to the girl for a moment. She was hesitant, but said yes, so I followed Brianna into the office, a tiny windowless box about eight feet square, with just a metal desk and a couple of chairs. Boxed goods were stacked along the wall.

The girl was perched on a folding chair opposite the manager's desk. “What do
you
want?” she asked, rifling through her purse and taking out a stick of gum, popping it in her mouth and chewing loudly.

I leaned on the desk and looked down at her. She was so young, just a few years older than Lizzie, despite her world-weary expression. “I want a word with you on Karl Mencken's behalf.”

She looked startled, but masked it quickly and lounged back in the office chair. It screeched and groaned. “What about him?”

“Well, it's more about Zeke and Gordy.”

“What do those two losers have to do with me?”

“Karl is crashing on their couch. They haven't said so, but I know they'd like their apartment back. Can Karl go back and live with you guys? What's the situation there, with Minnie gone?”

She shifted and sat up straight, shaking her head. “I don't think . . . I mean . . . it's up to the lawyer right now, I guess.”

I sat down on the edge of the only other chair nearby, a plastic patio chair. “Brianna, I get the feeling you don't want Karl around. Is there a reason?” I searched her face, the vivid blue eyes and reddish freckles of a girl with natural auburn hair, though hers was dyed a patchy black. “He had
that raging argument with Minnie the night before she died. What was that about?”

“I don't remember.” She didn't meet my eyes.

“And you said he was kicked out, but
he
says he left on his own.” Actually, he said it was possible that both were true, that they had been talking over each other, but I wanted to see what she would say.

“Whatever. Look, what do you want?” she asked, glaring up at me. “Why are you asking
me
?”

“I thought you might be able to say if he could move back in.”

“Like I said,
ask the freakin' lawyer
.”

“You moved here from out of town, right?”

“Sure.”

“Where are you from?”

“A little town . . . Houghton. Even smaller than Autumn Vale.”

“Why did you come here?”

She shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea.”

I watched her as I asked, “Is Minnie's car still parked behind the post office, or has it been moved?”

Startled, she frowned at me. “You're asking
me
? I don't know. Geez, first the freakin' FBI and now you!”

“The FBI asked the same question?”

“Not
that
, but they've asked a million other questions, and sometimes the same ones over and over. That guy, the FBI agent, he's been, like, following me.” She shivered. “He scares the crap out of me. I mean, I've heard of them pinning stuff on people. What if they decide to do that with me? I didn't
do
anything!”

I processed that. Did it indicate they were unduly interested in Brianna, or were they dogging everyone involved in the same way? “I understand the argument between Karl and Minnie was about that—him using her car without permission.”

She just stared defiantly, done with questions, it appeared.

“You seem pretty tight with Crystal,” I said. “She paying you to shill for her?” I was being deliberately provocative, and it fired her up.

Her blue eyes blazed, and she said, “I don't know what you're talking about. She's helped me. A
lot
! She showed me I
deserve
stuff out of life, not the crap that's been handed to me. She's been real—”

The kitchen manager came in and gave me a look. Brianna shut up and shut down. She hunched her shoulders, staring into her purse like it held the secrets of the universe. There was nothing more I could do, so I reluctantly departed wondering what, if anything, I had learned.

I headed to the front rooms, where the memorial service was being held, and took a seat, listening to the service. Afterward, most departed, but Hannah stayed in the living area while her parents went to Gogi's office to talk to her about an elderly aunt who was thinking about moving into Golden Acres.

“I don't suppose you have any more news for me,” I said. “Given that we just talked last night.”

“I did a little more research after we hung up,” she said, frowning down at her slim hands clasped together on her lap. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“No, let me look into it first,” she said. “Actually, it's more than one idea, and I want to chase down what threads I can before telling you about it.”

“Tease,” I said affectionately. “At least you could tell me what it's about.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I don't want to, and I can be very stubborn once I make up my mind. I don't want to tell you because it may amount to nothing.”

“I'd still want to know.”

“And so you shall, but not before I investigate. And to do
that, I need a Monday when all government offices are open.”

“Government offices? You
are
a provocative imp and should be shaken until your teeth rattle,” I said.

She chuckled and waggled her finger. “Now, now; don't threaten the invalid.”

I laughed and took my leave as Hannah's parents came back. I drove home and spent the rest of the day providing Roma, Pish, Lizzie, Zeke, Gordy, and Karl with food and drink, while I worked on a business plan for an idea that had occurred to me while driving. It was a bit of a weird plan, could be totally impractical, would take some time, require a lot of work and planning, but I thought there might be others in the town and surrounding areas who would be able to help and make some money off the project. It could do so many things: endear me to Autumn Valers—which I longed for with the pathetic yearning of a teenage girl for a pop star—provide work, and make Wynter Castle a running enterprise.

At the end of a long day the video was uploaded, everyone was weary but happy, and all went home and to bed. But not to sleep, at least not for me. I knew Virgil had met Kelly at her parents' home that day to try to tell Ben Baxter that what his daughter had told him about Virgil was a lie. I sent up a silent prayer and hugged my pillow, hoping it all worked out.

I
slept badly
and rose late, so I was yawning in the kitchen at eight when Pish and Roma came in together. Pish was carrying his laptop and grinning ear to ear. Roma was almost vibrating, her eyes glittering strangely, two dark spots of color on her cheeks, like a doll's rouge.

“What's up?” I asked, arrested by their behavior.

“You're never going to guess!” Pish set the laptop down on the long table and tapped the built-in mouse pad. “Watch this.”

It was the video that Zeke, Lizzie, Pish, and Roma had worked on and uploaded the night before. Lizzie's photos were remarkable; Roma was positively haunting, gazing directly at the viewer in the photos as her beautiful voice keened “Sola, Perdutta, Abbandonata.” There was even a bit of film from Lizzie's camera, with Roma fleeing through the woods, slow motion, her curls bouncing and her Evanescence-like clothing drifting behind her as she looked
back over her shoulder. As the music faded, she dropped to the forest floor, then looked over her shoulder directly into the camera's eye.

“Roma, Pish, that is
truly
remarkable,” I said, my voice catching. I had taken it all so lightly, but Pish, Zeke, Lizzie, and Roma had come up with something extraordinary.

Roma sat down next to me and hugged my arm. “It makes me cry! I'm so marvelous, I almost can't believe it.”

“But, Merry, even better . . .” Pish said. “Look at the number of views!”

I looked where he was pointing . . . more than three thousand overnight. “That's amazing! How did so many people find it?”

“I sent out an e-mail blast to everyone I know,” Pish admitted.

He has hundreds of people on his e-mail list, but still, it was impressive. They must have passed the link on to others.

“And the comments,” Roma said, pointing to comments below the video.

I scanned through them. Words like “radiant,” “astonishing,” “inspiring,” and “haunting” were used with abandon.

“Look at this,” Roma said, then read aloud one in particular. “‘I had the untrammeled pleasure of witnessing Ms. Toscano's principle soprano debut at the LSO; she was brilliant, like a Maria Callas for the modern age. Brava, Ms. Toscano. So happy to see you back! The opera world awaits, breathless with anticipation.'”

I complimented her warmly, but it wasn't enough; of course, she must compliment herself even more vividly, and then demand more compliments from Pish, who was indulgent, smiling, and nodding, though he was gray with weariness. Once Roma had flitted from the room, I made my friend sit and got him a cup of coffee, plunking it down in front of him.

“And now
you
are going to rest and take care of yourself, my friend,” I said firmly, hand on his shoulder. “You've done it; she's a big hit. Maybe now she'll go back to the city, I hope.”

He smiled wryly. “My darling, I hesitate to say it, but I hope so, too.”

Intermittently I worked on my business plan, doing Internet research to see if what I wanted to do was even possible. It had never been done, that I could see, but I didn't see why not. I'd need to discuss it with Pish, and maybe Gogi and others whose opinion I respected. Roma flitted about and dashed into my room every hour or so, telling me about the mounting views and comments. By late afternoon they were approaching a hundred thousand views and it had been shared on Facebook and Twitter, a viral success. The opera community seemed ready to welcome her back.

I called Lizzie after school and congratulated her on her work, certain Roma never would. My young friend was over the moon, happy to be back at school. Pish had e-mailed her the link, of course, and her media arts teacher was duly impressed. It would become part of her portfolio when she applied to arts college. I was relieved; no matter what happened between her and her mother, she would live her life and follow her muse.

Even as I did all that, I waited for a phone call or visit from Virgil. Surely if there was good news after his weekend visit with his ex he would have called me last night. Or this morning. I fretted nonstop but got through the day. I didn't have to worry about dinner; Pish, knowing he had to do
something
to celebrate the video victory, had called Roma's best Autumn Vale friend, Patricia, to ask her to come out to the castle for dinner. Since she was going out (again!) with Dewayne, Patricia instead invited them to go with the couple to dinner. That gave Roma a focus and she spent the next couple of hours bathing, doing her hair, and choosing her wardrobe.

As a former stylist you might think she would consult me, but Roma seemed to have forgotten that I was ever a professional and consulted only Pish, who mildly vetted everything and agreed to her choices. Therefore she descended the stairs one costume change away from a ball gown, I was convinced. She wore a cocktail dress that was very fetching, a red number with an impressive décolletage, and long gloves. It would have worked for the opera, or a cocktail party at the Lincoln Center. Knowing the restaurant they were going to, I thought a sleek pencil skirt or trousers and silk blouse would have been more suitable, but I am no longer a stylist, I reminded myself, and that was okay.

Roma and Pish drove off into the early autumn twilight to meet Patricia and Dewayne. I carried a steaming cup of chai tea and walked through the castle wishing Virgil were with me. What we could do all alone in the place! I shivered to think about it, but he had finally texted me that he was coaching another team, girls' hockey, this evening. Absolutely no mention of Kelly or what had happened at the Baxter residence in Ridley Ridge. He said he'd talk to me tomorrow.

The people of Autumn Vale would miss Virgil so much when he made it into the FBI training program and headed off to Quantico. The whole county would miss him as sheriff; they wouldn't know how much until he was gone. But he gave even more as an individual, not in his official capacity. Who would take over his multitude of coaching duties? I was mildly curious as to which of his deputies he had in mind to run for sheriff, but he'd tell me in his own time.

I paused in the great hall to examine by the dim illumination of the sconce light the huge tapestries that lined the walls, turning in a complete circle. I stopped and eyed the staircase; all I could think of was making love with Virgil, like the couple in some insanely romantic movie, too delirious with desire to even wait until we were upstairs. It had
not eluded me that I was completely and utterly head over heels in love with the man now that I had let go of my long-lasting grief. I was mind, body, and soul committed to Virgil, just when he had decided to go do something dashing with his life.

Would things have been different if I had come back when Maria died? I sighed, the sound like a ghostly echo in the upper reaches of the great hall as I climbed the stairs. Becket brushed past me and trotted toward my room; I was happy he had decided he was an indoor-at-night cat again.

I drifted down the gallery toward my room, sipping my spicy chai, inhaling the fragrance. It suddenly occurred to me that not only was I alone, Roma would not be back for hours. A devilish plan crept into my mind. I tried to resist, but I had never wholly escaped suspicion of her. She would tell neither Pish nor I where she was the morning Minnie was murdered, nor even the night I was run off the road. She loathed Minnie, and I suspected she disliked me intensely for many reasons, not the least of which being that Pish was devoted to me. There was something going on with that woman. I couldn't see her murdering Minnie, but if not that, then what was she hiding?

I quickened my pace to my room where Becket sat, waiting, in the middle of my bed, the only male who had done so in quite a while. I set down my tea and retrieved from my bedside table the ring of skeleton keys that opened almost everything. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was going to search Roma's room.

Becket leaped down from the bed and followed me, loving the new game of dash around the castle. I sped down the gallery to Roma's room, bending and fitting the key in the lock with trembling hands. Maybe it was idiotic, especially since the FBI had already searched. I didn't know what I was looking for, but if there was anything that pointed to a secret life, I'd see it when they, perhaps, focused on the
murder and looking for blood, would not. I'm a woman, and I know how other women think and behave. We are an odd lot, at times, saving things that have no meaning except to ourselves. Receipts, tickets, news clippings . . . I didn't know what I might find, or what it would indicate, but my curiosity would be soothed.

Her room smelled of Roma, a mixture of her fragrance—Dior's Hypnotic Poison, redolent of sandalwood—and the peppermint Thayers Dry Mouth Spray she used before performing. Becket prowled, snooping everywhere; as Roma did not like cats and wouldn't allow him anywhere near her, he had never explored her stuff. Despite my determination, it still felt crappy to be searching her belongings. But a woman had died, and I had come too close; this was for the greater good, and yes, I'm aware that is how the authorities in a police state think when they trample people's rights to privacy.

She was messy, her clothes flung all around, and her attached washroom adrift in lingerie, makeup, powder, and pills. She took sedatives, sleep aids, and birth control pills. She also took fiber diet capsules guaranteed to make you feel full with just a glass of water. I was familiar with all of that, having dealt with models for so long. Even plus-size models fall prey to it, since plus-size in the modeling industry is about a size eight or ten.

Once upon a time opera singers, at least, were celebrated no matter their size; it was their talent that was important. But lately it seems that they, too, need to be model thin and gorgeous to get the parts, and more than one celebrated (female) singer has been fired for being too fat. That doesn't apply so much to male singers, of course.

I was losing heart, sad at what Roma's stuff said about her state of mind: sleepless, obsessed with her weight, having trouble with her voice. The room was like her life: chaotic, messy, with no order or method. Becket sniffed all her
stuff but headed out of the room, tail high in the air flicking back and forth, likely sent away by that pervasive peppermint smell.

I certainly wasn't finding anything incriminating. There was one last place to search: her closet. I opened it and checked through her clothes, the sensible stuff she wore most days—slacks and skirts, sweaters, light blouses—and even went through the clothing bags protecting her fancier dresses and gowns. On the floor was a zippered bag shoved back behind her shoes and suitcases, something moderately heavy for its size. I pulled it out and sat on the floor, angling myself so the room light shone on the plain canvas tote, totally unlike her other luggage. I unzipped it and pulled out a portable tape recorder. Maybe she used it to practice and listen back, I thought. She wouldn't be the first, though most singers now use a laptop or other device to rehearse, recording and listening back so they can correct mistakes. There was a tape inside; I pressed Play.

It was not singing, but a muffled conversation. A man was talking, and his tone was intimate, sexy. I was riveted, while feeling faintly dirty. Was this a boyfriend of Roma's? It sounded like a recorded phone conversation.

“. . . you have a sexy voice. Real sexy. Makes me wonder what it would be like whispering in my ear.”

I felt a shiver down my back, and not in a good way. He sounded like the kind of creep who would call a phone sex line, or the guy who blind dials you to ask what you're wearing.

A woman's giggle filled the next section, then her voice saying, “You're so bad! Don't misbehave or I'll have to cut you off!”

I yelped out loud in surprise and hit the Pause button. This required serious contemplation; it was not at all what I expected . . . not
who
I expected. I released the pause and listened on as he spouted some more nonsense and so did
she. I was half listening, half reeling and processing who the woman was, and wondering why Roma had this tape. They had gone from sex talk to some more serious conversation, and she said, “Yeah, I had a kid a long time ago, but gave it up for adoption. My biggest regret.”

Again, I was stunned and began to do rapid calculations. What did this mean? I clicked the machine off, clambered to my feet, put Roma's room back together as best I could, but took the machine and tape back to my room. I was going to wait up and confront Roma, ask her why she had a taped recording of a phone conversation between some strange man and Minnie Urquhart. Did this have anything to do with the postmistress's murder?

I spent the rest of the evening doing online research and taking notes. I was planning for the future, but with so many things up in the air (Lookin' at you, Virgil, I thought) I was unsettled and kept peering out windows, waiting, pacing to the door downstairs and looking out. Finally, at about eleven thirty, I was rewarded when I spotted headlights blinking through the trees that lined my lane.