She must have seen something like despair in my eyes. “I’ll clean it up, I promise!” she said, scrambling to her feet and beginning to stack boxes on top of each other. “Really, I will. And especially Juniper’s part.”
“It’s a little much that the poor girl doesn’t even have a real room. We’ll tidy this together, and I want to do something more for Juniper up here. She really works harder than I deserve and for not much money.”
As we cleaned up the mess she had created we talked, but Binny didn’t seem to have any specific idea where the mythical “treasure” would be other than what the note said about the “upper reaches of wynter.” I could have told her where it was: in the deceased and perhaps diseased brain of my late great-uncle Melvyn Wynter. He was a puzzle maker, an epic weirdo who near the end of his life was using a rifle to protect his property. I had already found his vaunted fortune, and it was a crumbling bag of worthless stock certificates.
As we moved stuff around I picked out the best of the furniture and pulled it over, tugging it into place to make a more elegant nest for Juniper. Turkish rugs, Eastlake furnishings, a china washing bowl and pitcher: all the neat antiques made it like a dream spot, somewhere I’d have loved to curl up in at Juniper’s age, just twenty. No candles or oil lanterns, though!
We had been working for two hours when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Lizzie’s tousled frizzy mane of hair peeked above the steps as she ascended. She looked up over the edge, squinting behind her new glasses.
“What’re you guys doing?”
“Us guys are cleaning. Want to help?”
She made a face but hopped up the remaining steps. “I’ve done my job for the day, school. Hate it. Had a rotten day. Chicks are weird, especially around guys. This one dude told me he liked me and this girl got all squirrely in my face, told me he was her man.” She rolled her eyes as she used dramatic emphasis on her words. “Her man! She can keep him, ’cause he’s a creep. Anyway . . . enough with the Pretty Little Gossip Girl Liars drama.” As usual with her, she switched gears swiftly. “Hey, remember I told you I had something to show you?” she said to me.
I tugged a rug into place by Juniper’s bed. “Sure.” I retrieved the ashtray and emptied the butts into a can, which I set by the stairs with the ashtray—which Juniper would no longer use—to take out to the garbage.
“It’s up here, but I want to take it downstairs to show you.” She grabbed something she had stowed behind a dresser, and scooted past me and down the stairs.
“Hey, wait, what is it?”
“Come to the library and I’ll show you,” she shouted, her voice floating up like a balloon.
“Dang that girl!” I said.
“That’s my niece for you!” Binny said, gurgling with laughter.
It was good to hear her laughing. “Come down for a cup of tea,” I said, grabbing the can of butts. “Use the bathroom in my room to clean up, if you want. I’ll go first, then you, if you don’t mind, so I can start the tea.”
When Binny and I finally entered the library, me with a full tray, Lizzie, sitting cross-legged on a small love seat, looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. She was hiding something beneath a blanket, and I was a little worried. Lizzie is an unusual teenage girl. When I was her age I was obsessed with boys and makeup, much to my hippie mother’s horror, but Lizzie is obsessed with her camera and photos and figuring out what to shoot next.
Binny teased her about her new glasses—Lizzie had been squinting a lot and having headaches, which Emerald found out were caused by an astigmatism in one eye—and Lizzie teased her back about some obscure British boy band Binny was currently listening to nonstop in the bakery . . . family stuff. They chatted about plans for Lizzie and Emerald to go out to the Turner house for dinner on Sunday, which was now the one day a week the bakery closed.
I poured tea for Binny and myself and popped the tab on a can of Dr Pepper for Lizzie. “So, what is this mysterious thing you have to show me?”
Lizzie drew a photo album out from under the blanket; it was the kind of photo album from many years ago, with plastic film overlays that cling to the sticky ridged pages between the photos. She flipped open to a spot where she had a piece of paper holding her place and laid the book on the coffee table in front of me. She pointed to a picture of the woods and what appeared to be one of the fairy-tale structures in the middle of construction. It was the Hansel and Gretel house, just then being hung with candy cane shutters bracketing the windows, one still leaning against the building.
In front of it were three men and a baby. Yes, I said that; three men and a baby. There were two fellows probably in their sixties. One was most definitely Melvyn, and the other looked very much like him, enough to be his brother, my grandfather Murgatroyd Wynter. There was also a younger man, tall and handsome, probably in his thirties. He had a toddler on his shoulder. He was laughing up at her, tugging on her foot, as the camera froze forever the adorable scene. The child was a little girl, judging from the pink sundress she wore, and she cradled a stuffed toy in her arms. I stopped and stared. It was a white bunny, one with pink ears, a pink nose, and nylon whiskers that I used to chew on at night when Mommy and Daddy were arguing and I was anxious.
That was me, and the man holding me and laughing up at me was my father. My mother must have been taking the photo. I didn’t have many pictures of my father because he was usually the one taking the photo, and that all ended when I was five and he died. I stared at the picture as Binny asked questions I did not understand. Lizzie was silent, watching me anxiously.
“Merry, is it okay? Is that who I think it is?” Lizzie finally asked.
I nodded, tears blurring my vision, unable to speak, tracing the figure of my daddy holding me, his baby girl, and smiling up at me. Loving me. Less than two years later he would be dead, but at that moment, in the Wynter woods, he and my uncle and grandfather were planning a fairy-tale forest, and it was all for me, the Wynter heir.
At that very moment the knocker banged on the big oak double doors, echoing through the castle.
Chapter Eighteen
WIPING TEARS FROM my cheeks, I raced to the front door and yanked it open. Virgil, in beige slacks and a navy sport coat, stood on the flagstone terrace looking out over the front drive, but he turned when he heard the door open. He approached and gazed at me steadily as I sniffed and rubbed my eyes. “Are you okay? Did I come at a bad time?”
I shook my head mutely, regaining control with deep breaths. “Lizzie found a picture of me with my father. I’ve only seen a couple of photos of my father and me. It took me by surprise.”
His expression softened. Unexpectedly, he pulled me to him. I took in a deep, shuddering breath and relaxed against his broad chest, laying my head on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of clean laundry and freshly showered man. “Wynter Castle is full of surprises,” I muttered. Not the least of them my being in his arms. When he released me I stepped out of his gravitational pull, worried I’d throw myself back at him. “What brings you to the castle?”
“I’d like to speak with your guests all together, if I may, and without the others, meaning no Emerald or Lizzie.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you stay for dinner? You’ll have them trapped in one place.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I just want to figure this out.”
I tucked him in with Lizzie and Binny for a while, imagining the way Lizzie would grill him on all the ghoulish aspects of his job, which in her teenage yuckiness phase she seemed to relish, and went to the kitchen to check on dinner. I had a bevy of hens drenched in lemon, garlic, herbs, and butter roasting in the oven—I always make lots so I have leftover chicken—and slid in a pan of Parisienne potatoes while I muttered to myself, trying to figure out what just happened between Virgil and me. I was discombobulated by his tenderness.
> I plopped a bunch of long, slim carrots in one pot and filled it with water, and put trimmed fresh green beans in another. When the veggies were done—they take different times for cooking, thus separate pots—they would be mingled and rolled in butter and parsley. Everything tastes better with real butter and looks better flecked with fresh parsley.
Em got home from a Consciousness Calling meeting and helped me get dinner ready, then scooted upstairs, telling Lizzie, who was lounging in the corner of the kitchen watching me, to follow. Once her mom was gone, Lizzie strolled over to the kitchen counter, where I was stacking plates and cutlery. She pushed her glasses up on her head and they tangled with her thick hair. “Merry, did I freak you out with that photo? I just thought it was cool, and . . .” She shrugged.
I turned and hugged her. “You didn’t freak me out. You’re helping me find my identity, in a way. I’ve been putting off going through the old photos. Just afraid of what I’d find, I guess. Or not find. You understand that, don’t you?”
She nodded. Losing her father before she even knew he was her father had given her some regrets she would carry into adulthood, no doubt. It was a credit to her intelligence that she hadn’t (yet) learned to blame her mother for all that had gone wrong. Emerald had done the best she could over the years, and taking Lizzie away from Autumn Vale for the first thirteen years of her life had been a part of that, but bringing her back was a part of it, too.
“Go on up and do your homework. Remember the goal: get out of high school with a good enough grade that you can get into a photography art course in college.”
She nodded sharply. “Hey, Merry? Alcina wants to do a horror film out at the fairy-tale buildings. Do you mind?”
A horror film, in what had been meant as a kids’ playground? I thought of the crumbling decrepitude and got it; the cobbled tower especially would be great. “Do what you want but don’t damage anything. You’re using your own camera for filming?”
“If I can get a higher-volume memory card for it,” she said, eyeing me. “I need one that’s, like, double what I have. But it costs moolah,” she said, rubbing her thumb and fingers together in the universal symbol for cash.
“Help Zeke and Gordy with the gardening on the weekend and we’ll see.”
“Okay.” She headed up to their suite, where Emerald had fashioned a makeshift kitchen, with a slow cooker and toaster. She had vegetarian chili cooking; I had smelled it as I was upstairs getting dressed.
Pish was joining us for dinner (Stoddart had left early to drive back to his country house) but Virgil was the one who insisted on helping me bring dinner into the breakfast room. I sat on one side of the round table and passed the platter of roasted chicken and bowls of potatoes and vegetables around, while he sat across from me. He winked and smiled. I almost dropped the bowl, setting it down by Lush instead. Pish glanced at me with raised eyebrows and I shrugged.
“So, Sheriff, what are you doing visiting us? Still detecting?” That was Vanessa, being arch and flirtatious as always, her crimson lips pouted into a slightly wrinkled bow.
“Don’t you think even a simple sheriff might enjoy the company of ladies and some interesting conversation?”
She smiled, a Mona Lisa expression, and watched him through heavy lidded eyes.
“I invited the sheriff to dinner as a friend, nothing more,” I said, hoping that put the matter to rest.
If Vanessa was enjoying a handsome man being at the dinner table, others were not. Barbara still looked depressed to me, and I wondered if a guilty conscience was taking its toll. Was she strong enough to smother Cleta? I thought so; the angle would have been from slightly above, and Barbara was a heavy woman. If she stood above her, Cleta would not have been able to push her away in the tight confines of the powder room.
But was Barbara Beakman ruthless enough? She did seem supremely self-involved, and that could indicate a ruthless streak. She seemed so depressed and like she had given up on life, but I would bet that anyone who interfered with or threatened her safety would suffer. Could Cleta have held something over her, some fact or clue that definitely pointed to Barbara’s involvement in the death of her husband all those years ago?
There was no statute of limitations on murder.
Lauda seemed just plain terrified. She had the only motive that was clear-cut: money, pure and simple. It occurred to me suddenly that she had been staying at Minnie’s home. Did she know the postal worker’s pattern enough to know when the postal truck would be free, and where the keys were? Could she have lifted the key, driven up to Wynter Castle, snuck in . . . But how would she have known Cleta was in the bathroom?
Then my eyes widened. If, as I suspected, Cleta was indeed in the habit of sneaking off to have a smoke after a meal, then Lauda, above all people, would have known it was just a matter of time. All she had to do was slip in and wait, reasoning that Cleta would not go all the way upstairs to have a cigarette if she was just going to return to the card game. But had Lauda known about the powder room off the back hall? The layout of the castle was no secret. Many villagers had been in the castle and toured it during the open houses I had held over the winter.
Pish was his usual helpful self and followed the conversation wherever it drifted. I just let Virgil lead the way. He was running for reelection in the fall and the ladies questioned him about that. He then asked Patsy about her children, Vanessa about her movies, Lauda about her old job working in a bank, and with Barbara he talked about her past work with the theater in Harlem. He seemed genuinely interested in their lives.
With indirect questions he managed to prompt them into revelations of their character. Barbara’s recitations of the wrongs done to her in her life, Patsy’s lack of self-confidence, Vanessa’s vanity, and Lush’s sometimes surprising acumen all came to light. Inevitably they spoke of Cleta, recalling her vindictiveness and the way she clutched unsavory secrets to her chest, exploiting them by dropping hints and sometimes making bold, insinuating statements in public. It was a dangerous hobby, I thought, and had perhaps led to her death.
Dinner was finally over, and it was time for the ladies to repair to the parlor for dessert and tea or coffee. Pish had gone silent, watchful and careful where his beloved aunt was concerned. He knew something was up, and nodded when Virgil stood with a formal bow and cleared his throat. The sheriff looked around at the ladies, gathering their collective gaze.
Here it comes, I thought. Here comes the real reason he was at the castle.
“I know you all must be anxious to find out who murdered your friend so brutally, so that you can properly grieve and get on with your life.”
Lauda sniffed, and the other ladies nodded.
“I’ve done a good deal of investigating,” he went on, “and I firmly believe that her murder is directly the result of something or someone from her life before she came to Wynter Castle.” He cast me a warm look. “Miss Wynter has been especially hurt. This is her home, but in sharing it with you, I know she feels responsible for your well-being. I believe that one or more of you have information that would help us in our investigation. It’s difficult for you at the sheriff’s station; I’d have to put you in an uncomfortable room and ask more questions, so for the next couple of hours I am going to be in the library here at the castle.
“A female deputy will be joining me to take notes.” He swept his gaze around the table, taking them all in. “You may go about your normal business, which I understand is coffee, dessert, and chatting in the parlor. I would like each of you to come see me and talk to me. In those conversations if you have anything—anything at all—that you think may help, I want to hear it. Cleta Sanson’s death will not go unsolved.” He paused and again looked around at each lady; all, spellbound, stared up at him. “Just to be clear, this is official police business and I am acting in my role as sheriff. You will come in this order: Miss Lush first; then Mrs. Beakman, then Madam LaDuchess
e, and finally Miss Nastase.”
“Why me last?” Lauda asked, her voice tinged with panic. She half stood. “What does that mean, that you want to see me last?”
Virgil watched her. She asked the same question again, then spouted that she was being persecuted, and on and on. As she wound down, he said, “It’s simply that as the youngest, I thought you would be best left to last so the other ladies can retire if they wish.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Dessert tonight was sour cream coffee cake muffins, perfectly paired with cinnamon pastry coffee, a special blend I’d found in the city and ordered online. I led Virgil to the library and opened the door. “Where do you want to sit?” I asked.
He paced toward the leather couch as I turned on the Tiffany lamp I had rescued from the attic, still in working condition, but he didn’t sit down. “I don’t mean to take up your time, Merry. I know how much you have to do.”
I tidied the side table, where some newspapers cluttered the surface. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him questioning my guests in my home, and yet I really did want to find out who’d done such a despicable thing, in my home!
“There’s a method to my madness,” he said as he watched me, his tone coaxing. “This is their home right now; sometimes people are more comfortable talking in familiar surroundings. I don’t expect any big revelation, but I’m hoping for some hints, and maybe I can disarm them enough to get them chatting. I felt like they were guarded when I talked to them last.”
“Okay, Hercule,” I said.
He smiled, a sexy grin that made him even more handsome. “I know it feels like an Agatha Christie novel, and yes, I’ve read a couple. I may like Lawrence Block better, but Agatha is more suited to these ladies.”
Death of an English Muffin Page 20
