Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Victoria Hamilton

  Virgil nodded. “It’s on record.”

  My friend shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the tension I could feel radiating from him. “All right, so I interviewed him.”

  The deputy, who sat just beyond Virgil, jotted down some notes.

  “Did you recognize him? Was he here to met you?” Virgil asked. He leaned forward and continued, “Did you talk to him, Mr. Lincoln?”

  “No, no, and no,” Pish said, a hard note in his voice. I only ever heard that when he was angry and being very blunt. “Sheriff, I interviewed over two hundred scammers for the book as well as hundreds of their victims. I may have notes on my conversation with Mr. Hooper, and I can find them for you if you want—in my New York condo, of course, not here—but I did not see him nor did I speak with him last night.”

  “Is that the story you’re going with?” Virgil said.

  I was astounded at his insinuation that my friend was lying and leaped to my feet, startling Becket. “That is enough, Virgil Grace. This interview is over. Pish, you are going to call your lawyer and you’re not going to say another word until you speak with him.”

  “Merry, sit down,” Pish said, that hint of steel still in his voice. “I do not need you to mother me like you do Shilo.”

  I looked over at him, hurt.

  “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said more gently, reaching out and touching my arm. “I know this frightens you; it does me, too. But you need to calm down. I can take care of myself.”

  I did as he said.

  “I do not take Sheriff Grace for a fool,” Pish continued, eyeing the man. “And only a fool would think I would kill the fellow when I had no motive. I don’t even remember him. Something about his face—the jawline or his mouth—looked vaguely familiar, but that’s all.”

  “Does it happen so often, then?” Virgil said, watching Pish.

  “Does what happen so often?” I asked, frowning across the table at the sheriff.

  Virgil glanced at me, but his gaze returned to Pish. “Mr. Lincoln, do you get sued for sexual harassment so often that you don’t even remember the men who sue you?”

  I gasped.

  Pish’s eyes widened and there was a subtle change in them. Now he remembered Davey. I could tell that, but Virgil wouldn’t understand his expression as I did.

  “Ah, so that’s who he is. Was. His last name wasn’t listed as Hooper, though, was it?”

  Virgil said, “No, he was David Isaac Smith. Hooper is Dinah’s last name by her second husband, but Dinty and David had their father’s last name, Smith. They used Hooper, but it wasn’t their legal surname.”

  “That’s why I didn’t make the connection when you said his name,” Pish said. “You must realize that a dead body, with his throat slashed and wearing a Lone Ranger mask . . . well, it doesn’t make a good visual cue for the living man.”

  The young police officer was scribbling madly, his whole face red.

  Virgil’s expression was blank, and I couldn’t tell anything from it, not if he believed my friend or didn’t believe him. “So, I repeat . . . do you get sued so often you don’t even remember who sued you?”

  “You have no right to speak to him like that,” I said, my voice controlled but trembling.

  “Merry!” Pish’s tone held warning. He gave me a speaking look, and his expression assumed a professional blankness, very much like Virgil’s. “Remind me of the details, Sheriff, if you please.”

  Virgil looked down at his own notebook, now open flat on the table in front of him. “The complainant said that during the interview you attempted to touch him inappropriately. He claimed that you suggested that when he got out of prison, he might like to come to New York and stay in a fancy condo in Manhattan.”

  My friend’s expression hardened into distaste. I was reeling from the information, but he calmly said, “I remember now. It was ridiculous, as there was a guard present the entire interview. The fellow filed the complaint after attempting to blackmail me with his spurious claims.”

  “I didn’t know about this.” I watched his expressive face, his mouth twisted in a grimace from the memory.

  He turned to gaze at me fondly. “I don’t tell you about sordid details, my dear. You’ve had enough to deal with in the last eight years or so. This has happened twice in my life.” He turned back to Virgil, a subtle change in his demeanor that troubled me, though I couldn’t pinpoint why. “I have nothing to hide, Sheriff. I’m open about my life, and I’m relatively wealthy. Some see that as an invitation for chicanery. I reported him for the blackmail attempt, which is why he tried to sue me. I say ‘tried’ because the suit was dismissed, and the fellow was warned that another nuisance suit would land him in trouble or delay his release. I had the impression he had been a thorn in the prison warden’s side for some time.”

  “So you never gave him money or any other gift?”

  Pish stayed silent for a long moment. “I don’t like the tone of this conversation. I think I am done talking, Sheriff.”

  It did not escape me that he didn’t actually answer the question, and I was afraid it didn’t escape Virgil, either. His next words confirmed that. “Mr. Lincoln, if you could take my deputy to fetch the costume you wore to the party, I would appreciate it greatly.” He then turned to me and added, “Merry, we’ll be taking your gown, too.”

  His face didn’t give away anything, and I complied, tight-lipped. They were going to test our clothes for blood.

  After, Pish stayed up in his room (which had already been searched as part of the investigation, as had mine and Shilo’s) to work on his current book, as Virgil and his minions spent more time investigating the scene. Eventually the sheriff returned to the kitchen, where I was doing prep work for the next morning’s muffins. As he entered, I kept chopping nuts, my knife flashing in the bright light of the halogen bulb I had put in the pendant over the stainless steel countertop.

  Virgil stood near the door. I felt his steady gaze on me. It made me want to shrug my shoulders, anything to get rid of the weird feeling of being watched, but I didn’t.

  After a long moment, he said, “Merry, I know you’re mad that I’m investigating Pish.”

  I whirled and shook my fist in his direction. “You’re darn right I’m angry! Pish Lincoln is the sweetest, gentlest man you will ever meet, and he is no more capable of slashing someone’s throat than I am!”

  His thick eyebrows climbed his forehead, and he looked pointedly at the knife in my fist. “I have no opinion on this, Merry, believe me. But when I come across a piece of evidence like that, I can’t and won’t ignore it. Someone killed Davey Hooper, slashed his throat in a brutal manner. Until I figure out who, everyone is a suspect.”

  I didn’t much like all the grunt work associated with getting the castle ready. I cleaned when I had to, but it didn’t make my day. Unfortunately Pish and Shilo were pretty much the same. We were gradually getting through all the dusting, washing, laundering and scrubbing associated with bringing the castle up to snuff. There was so much else to do, it was slow going. I was just grateful for the inexpensive and enthusiastic outdoor help of Zeke and Gordy, but Pish and Shilo . . . they pitched in for nothing. I had no idea how I was going to repay my wonderful friends for all their help, but I was going to have to come up with something substantial.

  Fortunately, I do enjoy decorating, and that includes painting: walls, trim, cutting in, everything! There was a lot of it to do if we were going to hold another soiree to try to market the castle. Some of the advice I received from friends who had visited was that any buyer would want to see more finished rooms, so that their imaginations would be sparked by the potential displayed. To that end I was fixing up some of the bedrooms.

  My great uncle Melvyn had done work, but it must have been decades ago, and he’d had atrocious taste. Jack McGill insisted that my uncle had had a vision for the castle, but if
that was so, it was the vision of a color-blind hippie squatter. One of the rooms was done up in seventies turquoise and yellow with cheap rattan furnishings spray-painted white. It looked like the sunroom in a Florida retirement home. Another was a hideous eighties mishmash of dusty rose and ruffles, and chrome and glass; and a couple of others were all hunter green, burgundy, and faux wood finishes. Horrible!

  At least he hadn’t touched the bones of the rooms, though, so we could work from there. Of course, in twenty years someone would likely be complaining about my design esthetic, but I was starting over with some of the best rooms, meaning the turret bedrooms and the luxury suites, particularly the ones that had already been fitted out with private bathrooms. At least Uncle Melvyn hadn’t installed the bane of any decorator’s existence, colored bathtubs and toilets.

  Shilo was a willing and energetic participant, so we were beginning that morning in the west turret bedroom, the one that had been painted dusty rose. We were using a glossy white for the trim. Perhaps painting trim doesn’t sound like much work, but picture an octagonal turret room with many windows soaring to ten feet or so, and all the trim that entails. It was a daunting task. Melvyn’s dusty rose mess just ate up all the sunlight in the afternoon, so I had to figure out another color for the walls once we were done with the trim. I had called a designer friend in Manhattan, and he’d asked for photos, for which I had enlisted Lizzie’s help. We had sent him a ton of pictures, not just of the turret room but others as well. He was fascinated, but I explained that I had little money and didn’t want to decorate everything in sight; I just wanted a few choice rooms in which to use the antiques already available to me and needed to paint or wallpaper them on a strict budget.

  The result was that when Pish went back to the city for a couple of days at the end of September to retrieve some belongings from the condo he shared with his mother, he helped our mutual designer friend box up some samples and paints suitable for the space and brought them back with him. The designer had come through so magnificently that I had paint and fabric enough for at least a couple of rooms. I had stroked several different colors on the wall in bars to see how the light affected it, and the winner for the turret room was a pale yellow called “straw,” a delicate but rich tone that accepted the afternoon light and filled the room with a gorgeous glow. I would have loved to pair it with natural wood trim, but it would take forever to strip the baseboards and other woodwork, and I didn’t have that kind of time. We were taking the easy road.

  Shilo and I spent the rest of the afternoon painting trim and finished late that night. The next morning was going to be busy, so no more painting for the day. I tumbled into bed exhausted but had trouble sleeping for worrying. Was Pish in trouble? He had avoided me for the rest of the day by working first on his book, then on the bank’s problems. He then went with his federal agent friend to the Grovers’ home for dinner and an evening of talking opera with Janice. He wasn’t home when I went to bed.

  The next day was going to be a busy one. They were having a Halloween party at Golden Acres, and I was supplying treats for it, as was Binny. I was also supplying some cookie-and-square platters to a meeting at the Brotherhood of the Falcon meeting hall, which was going to be a new client for me. I awoke early and baked a few dozen muffins as well as several batches of cookies, chocolate chip and peanut butter. I made lemon squares, too, a simple and delicious addition for those strange beasts who don’t like chocolate or peanut butter.

  I actually had a new muffin recipe that was so good, it was sinful. I worked it out to honor Hubert Dread, one of the old guys at Golden Acres who had told me a long story about his meeting with “the King” in some kind of undercover operation. He claimed that Elvis was actually an undercover agent for the FBI. It was clearly one of Hubert’s highly embroidered and fanciful tales, but fun. My own knowledge of Elvis, which was sketchy, related mostly to his food preferences; I knew he loved peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. So I baked a couple dozen Fit for the King muffins, which were peanut butter, banana, and chocolate chip. Delectable! I also made a batch of Pecan Pie muffins and, while I was at it, a couple of batches of bran and carrot.

  That took a couple of hours, but it was still only midmorning when I arranged a few baskets of muffins and platters of cookies and squares, then loaded the rest in plasticware. I had a couple of stops to make, and the first one was going to be interesting. The Brotherhood of the Falcon Hall was on the outskirts of town, but the meeting was not a Falcon meeting. It was kind of a town hall deal, with a few local politicians and interested townsfolk. I piled the stuff in Shilo’s rust bucket—she was still sleeping and would be for the foreseeable future, given how much and how late we had worked the day before—and headed down the lane.

  I had driven past Brotherhood of the Falcon Hall, as the Falcons’ boy fort was called, so I knew where it was, on a side road off Butler Lane/Wynter Line, whichever you wanted to call it, or depending on the day of the week and which local body of government had the upper hand. The Brotherhood members may as well have posted a sign that said No Gurlz Aloud, because they were a very cliquey bunch, every last one of them frightened to death of his wife, I’d be willing to bet, judging from the couple of members I knew. Simon Grover, bank manager and brotherhood member, was completely cowed by Janice, and I suspected that lawyer Silvio was the same. Mrs. Silvio was a Latina with exotic looks, long red fingernails, and ferocious clothing tastes. I had only seen her in passing, and I didn’t want to stereotype her based on her heritage or appearance, but she certainly interested me.

  I had learned that on the agenda that day was a discussion of the mess left by Junior Bradley, the former zoning commissioner, and what was to be done about every single bit of business he had conducted in the two and a half years since he had taken over the job from the retiring zoning commissioner. This concerned me, since some of those zoning decisions had been made about my uncle’s plans for the Wynter Castle property.

  However, I knew I was barking up the wrong tree if I thought to bust in on the meeting that day. There was a strict “no girls allowed” policy at the Brotherhood Hall, clearly unconstitutional and certainly out of bounds if they were holding town council meetings there. Normally I’d be up to fight that, but I wasn’t going to be in Autumn Vale long enough to worry about it, and if they didn’t want to be dragged kicking and screaming into the current century, or even past the middle of the last one, that was not my business. It was a job for other local ladies.

  If I was completely honest, I hoped that the zoning problems with the castle were not a worry, because past zoning was not an issue. Melvyn and Rusty Turner had been working on zoning for creating a development of homes on the Wynter property, but I didn’t see that as a viable option. I felt we had a strong case for asking them to clean the slate of past requests and to propose rezoning the castle to include its possible future use as a hotel or resort. I could handle that by speaking to whomever took over Junior Bradley’s position or possibly to someone at the town clerk’s office.

  I pulled up at the Brotherhood of the Falcon Hall, where several cars were already parked in haphazard disarray in the gravel parking area. The hall was a bland box of a building on a parcel of land set in the middle of the woods. As I already noted, it was located on the Wynter Line, now Butler Lane. I was beginning to get used to the dual nature of road naming in Abenaki County, since the county, the township, and the town were constantly at war and made changes whenever they felt like it. If they ever hoped to have any kind of tourism industry, that could become a problem, but they seemed blithely unconcerned that they were shooting themselves in multiple feet while they do-si-doed among themselves.

  I eased into a spot next to a big black car I recognized as the Grovers’ vehicle and grabbed the platters of treats and tubs of muffins from the seat next to me. I found the back door and entered, balancing the food awkwardly in my arms, to find Janice arguing with another woman.

&nbs
p; “You and I need to get together and put those men in their places, Sonora, or they’ll keep running things in the same boneheaded way they’ve been doing for the twenty years I’ve lived here!” She was talking to the woman I recognized as Mrs. Silvio, Andrew’s wife. Janice turned and said, “Back me up on this, Merry. Town Council should not be meeting at the Brotherhood Hall, not when they have a discriminatory policy against women!”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to pull the door closed behind me with my foot. “So, burning bras at dawn? Or we march on the hall with salad forks and brûlée torches?” I had imagined Janice was the kind of woman who didn’t give a rat’s patootie about such stuff, and here she was advocating social action. She was my mother redux.

  Janice gave me a look, but Sonora laughed gaily, her head thrown back, her dark, glossy hair a wild tumble of curls. She was dressed, however, in a sober skirt suit of taupe, with plain black pumps . . . very conservative as befit, I supposed, a lawyer’s wife. The bank manager’s wife, on the other hand, was gowned in a fuchsia muumuu, one of her hundred or so such dresses. Janice grabbed a platter from me and slammed it down on the counter as I set another beside it. I put the stack of muffin tubs and the other platters down, too, and glanced around the room. We were in a barren-looking kitchen fitted with commercial-grade ovens, two refrigerators, and little else. Pitiful.

  I refocused on my friend. “Don’t look at me like that, Janice,” I protested. “As a matter of fact, on my way here I was just thinking it was extremely weird that Town Council would be meeting here, where women are not welcome. Why is that?”

  “The Town Council building was condemned; black mold. Had to be torn down, it was so bad,” Janice said, rolling her eyes. “And nobody since has had the cojones to make a decision on a new town hall.”