Much Ado About Muffin (8 page)

“We have an agent on his way out there this minute, and I'll follow momentarily.”

Darn. I wished I had thought of phoning Pish, but I hadn't.

“Now, what about you, Ms. Wynter? You interest me. You seem to have discovered a lot of bodies since moving to Autumn Vale . . .” He checked a paper at his elbow. “. . . just over a year ago.”

“That's not pertinent to this,” I said sharply.

“You and Ms. Urquhart had an acrimonious relationship.”

“It wasn't personal. I didn't know a thing about her private life, but she took a disliking to me right away, for some reason—I'm not the only one in town she was like that with, mind you—and insisted on gossiping about me.”

“But you had a fight with her on the phone yesterday, before the post office closed.”

“How do you . . . ? Never mind.” I recalled my sense that there was someone in the post office that she was playing it up for. Was that his source? I told him about that. “She never stopped trying to turn people against me.”

“Must have been annoying.”

“It was nothing to kill anyone over.”

“What do you know about Mrs. Grace's campaign to run Ms. Urquhart out of town?”

“Good grief, it's nothing like that.” I eyed him with distaste. “You have a Machiavellian idea of small-town relationships. There were some questions about Minnie's competency and, quite frankly, her honesty and work ethic. She may always have been to work on time, but some of us thought she might be sneaking a peek into people's mail or even appropriating some of it. That's a federal crime.”

After a couple more questions he let me go and I joined Gogi, who was at the Vale. One thing this town needed, I thought, was another café, or tearoom, or
something
. An alternative to the Vale Variety and Lunch, where a two-course meal was a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Not that there's anything wrong with that; sometimes you just
want
a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. But sometimes you want a cappuccino and biscotti, or a cup of Earl Grey and a cucumber sandwich.

It was packed, and I knew several of the patrons. Bad combo when you've just found the murdered body of a local hero/villain, depending on where your sympathies lay. Though I had yet to meet anyone who considered her a hero.

“Did you
really
find the body?” Helen Johnson, two tables over, asked, whispering it loudly across the table between us, which was occupied by a farmer I didn't recognize.

“Yes, we did,” I said, including Gogi, across the table from me, in my gaze.

Isadore, who was clearing tables, thumped her bus pan down on an empty table and cast a look around. Helen eyed
her nervously and shut up. I confess I did wonder what had happened between the former friends.

“Why don't we get out of here?” Gogi whispered, leaning across the table. “I should get back to Golden Acres, make sure my folks aren't upset by the news. We'll plan our shopping trip for another day, next week maybe.”

Out on the sidewalk I heaved a sigh of relief, even as I eyed the post office with trepidation. “I wonder if Hannah knows yet,” I said.

“Maybe. Probably not, though, unless someone went in to the library and told her.”

I made a sudden decision. “I'm going to go tell her myself, or if she's already heard, make sure she's okay.”

“Hannah is tougher than you seem to think. That girl has had dozens of operations, hundreds of treatments and medications. She's resilient.”

“But tenderhearted,” I said. “I won't rest unless I do this.”

Gogi touched my shoulder, then pulled me into a hug. “You're a good woman, Merry Wynter.”

“Do you want a ride?”

Gogi shook her head. “I think I'll walk. I need some peace before I enter the fray.”

We walked together as far as the library, then she walked on alone. I entered the library, the cool, calm oasis that Hannah had created in the weird little burg that was Autumn Vale.

“Merry, my good friend!” she called out, looking up from a catalog on her desk. “I'm so sorry. I heard what happened, and that you found her.”

And in that moment I knew that I had come to the library not for Hannah's comfort, but for my own, and my eyes watered. I needed to see her sweet face and know there was so much goodness in the world that countered the evil that men do. “Hannah, it was so awful,” I said, circling the desk, hugging her frail little body to me, and sitting in the visitor's
chair next to her wheelchair. “It was terrible. I think it's worse because I didn't like her, and now I feel guilty about that.”

“You need a good cup of tea,” she said, and set about her task, the wheelchair moving smoothly and quietly to the table behind, where she plugged in the kettle and got down the teapot. She set out a tray and some cups. “I tried my hand at
montecados
, a kind of Spanish cookie,” she said over her shoulder. “While you were gone I tried to do a few Spanish things, so I'd feel close to you. I made these and they turned out, so I made some more last night, hoping you'd be in.”

My breath caught in my throat, and I was happy that she was still turned away, reaching for a plastic container of treats, so she didn't see my grimace. All the time I had been gone, though I thought of her, I didn't consider that she was missing me, that I was important to her. I'd
never
make that mistake again.

I carried the laden tray to one of the library tables that marched down the center of the long cement block room. Isadore, with the instincts of someone always hungry, entered, and Hannah silently poured us all some tea—I noticed she'd already had three cups on the tray—and set the little cookies, pale circles with an almond pressed into the center of each one, on a pretty antique plate.

After a moment of imbibing, I tried one of the cookies. They were good: tender, not too sweet, with a faint licorice flavor. Isadore didn't seem too fond of them and drew out a bag of peanut butter cookies, took her tea, got a book from a shelf, and began reading.

“I don't often talk about Minnie because I know she was difficult, and I know you two didn't get along,” Hannah said. “Minnie didn't get along with many people. But she came in here sometimes, and we talked on occasion.”

“She was a reader?” I said.

Hannah nodded, her gray eyes thoughtful. “She liked—this is going to sound strange now, but she read a lot of true
crime books. Especially Ann Rule; I always saved new Ann Rules for her when we got any in.”

“Minnie seemed so gossipy and judgmental.” I shared how Minnie had told me, before she decided I was the devil, that Gogi Grace had murdered her two husbands for the inheritance and insurance.

Hannah smiled sadly. “I told her that was nonsense, but she was stubborn once she got something in her head. I always had a sense that Minnie craved drama, and never got it. She moved here from Ridley Ridge, but that was as far as she ever went in life. I think . . .” She hesitated and watched me. “I
think
that's why she didn't like you. She saw how . . . how interesting you are, and how worldly. You represented everything she craved, but couldn't have.”

I felt my cheeks flush.

“That's not your fault,” Hannah said, reaching out and touching my hand. “But you've been places and seen things. You were married to a fashion photographer, and inherited the castle. You've had a dramatic life.”

I frowned down into my teacup. I've always considered myself the most prosaic of women. I've
met
dramatic people, folks like Roma, and my friend Zee, also known by the name she chose for herself, Zimbabwe Lesotho, an internationally acclaimed artist. Even Shilo is more mysterious than I. “I'm just a woman things happen to,” I said, and Isadore, over in the corner, snorted.

“I felt sorry for her,” Hannah said softly. “She took in boarders not just to make money, but also because she was lonely, and I think she liked to help young people.”

“What do you know about her current boarders?” I asked.

She eyed me, but then looked thoughtful. “Well, there's Karl Mencken.”

Isadore growled. “Jerk,” she muttered.

“He's not a nice boy,” Hannah said. “He teases Isadore when he sees her.”

“What does he say?” I asked the woman.

She reddened and shook her head, but then said, in her creaky, seldom-used voice, “Calls me the weird old cat lady and holds his nose, like I smell.”

“Wow. That's dumb.” Isadore always smells pleasantly of talcum powder and Jergens. So that was the little crud who was couch surfing at Zeke and Gordy's. I was glad, now, that Binny was helping them get rid of him.

“Brianna's a nice enough girl,” Hannah said. “She's twenty-three and moved here from Houghton, a small town about fifty miles away. She comes in once in a while looking for romance novels and fashion magazines, and we talk about celebrities.” My young friend pinkened and her nose went up, as if daring me to criticize her occasionally plebeian tastes.

But, hey, I'm not much of a reader, and I
love
a good romance story. Gossip about celebrities used to be my stock in trade, so no criticism from me. People seem to think that because I hang out with Pish I'm hoity-toity. Most of what I know about opera, classical music, and art I learned from him. “She works part-time at the retirement home. I saw her there,” I said, but didn't mention the drug deal I suspected I'd witnessed. “And there's one more.”

“Logan Katsaros. But he only comes into the library looking for Brianna, so I don't know much about him. I think Brianna is going out with him.”

Isadore went back to work, and some library patrons came in, so I hugged Hannah good-bye and left, walking back toward my car. It was one of those September days that feel dusty and yet damp at the same time, the yellowing grass and dying plants a reminder that autumn couldn't arrive fast enough for many of us. Autumn Vale is in a valley, so the breeze is limited and the heat lingers, radiating off brick and shimmering off of asphalt in mirages that look like puddles but aren't. I prepare ahead on days I know are
going to be like that, so my long hair was up in a chignon, off my neck, but still . . . the back of my neck was moist and there was a trickle of sweat down the middle of my back.

But I was alive, and poor Minnie wasn't. That knowledge clouded the day, closing in over me like waves over the drowning. And somewhere among the townies, likely, was a killer who was hugging to themselves the knowledge of what he or she did, congratulating themselves on getting away with murder.

As I walked toward my car, I saw Emerald outside her shop sweeping the stoop. “Em,” I called out. “Emerald, it's so good to see you!”

She turned and smiled, but it was a frosty smile that didn't reach her eyes. I felt a chill, even in the heat. “Hello, Merry. How was your trip?”

I approached cautiously, like you might an unknown cat you weren't sure you should reach your hand out to. “It had a purpose, and it went well. I made peace with my late mother-in-law before she passed away.”

She nodded and turned away.

“I'm excited for you and your new endeavor. Emerald Illusions . . . nice name. It's a massage therapy shop, right?”

“Not really.”

I followed her in. “Emerald, is anything wrong?”

She turned and eyed me. “No, of course not. What could be wrong?”

It certainly looked like a space for massage therapy; there was what appeared to be a massage table in the center, and peaceful harp music played over the sound system. The place had been scrubbed clean: blond hardwood floors, pine shelving along the walls with books, flowers, shells, and giant geode crystals. Everywhere on the walls above the shelves were signs:
Ask What You Want of the Universe
,
Stop What's Blocking You
,
Give Yourself Freedom
,
Align with the Divine
, and other vague sayings.

There was a beach glass bead curtain across the door that led to the back. It was pushed aside by a middle-aged woman, who came to the front of the shop and joined Emerald. “Who do we have here,” she asked, her voice light and breezy, “Emerald?”

“This is Merry Wynter,” my friend said with heavy emphasis. She and the woman exchanged meaningful (to them—I had no clue of the meaning) glances. “Merry, this is Crystal Rouse.”

Aha! I examined her frankly while she examined me. She was in her forties or fifties, with sun-spotted skin and clear blue eyes. Her hair was frizzy and blonde, with some dark graying roots showing. Her clothes were pretty normal; no shamanistic robes or anything, just shorts and a T-shirt that said
Ask Me About CC!
which I assumed meant Consciousness Calling. She reminded me of the typical weight-loss coaches of the nineties, the ones who wore T-shirts screaming,
Ask me how I lost fifty pounds!

“So I hear you found another dead body,” Emerald said.

I was taken aback by her tone. “Along with Gogi, yes.”

She exchanged another of those knowing looks with Crystal. The bells over the door chimed, and Lizzie stomped in, head down, frizzy hair wildly tangled, and threw down her purse.

“Lizzie!” I cried with relief.

She looked up, blinked once, and surged forward, throwing her arms around me. As we babbled our hellos, she dragged me outside and hugged me again. We exchanged our “missed yous,” etc., and then I looked down into her eyes. “Why are you home from school so early?”

She shook her head in disgust, cast a look into the shop, where her mother was watching us, and turned away. “Why were you gone so long, Merry? That bitch has her tentacles wrapped around Mom so hard I can't even break through.”

I was taken aback by her vehemence. “You mean Crystal
Rouse? Lizzie, your mom is an adult; she can do what she wants. What's important is she's still your mom and she loves you.”