Praise for the national bestselling Merry Muffin Mysteries
“Start with a spunky protagonist named Merry, mix in some delicious muffins, add a mysterious castle in upstate New York, and you’ve got the ingredients for a wonderful cozy mystery series.”
—Paige Shelton, New York Times bestselling author of To Helvetica and Back
“Another fun read . . . There were plenty of twists to keep me turning those pages. The story is well-plotted and had me guessing whodunit right until the very end. The author has thoughtfully provided some yummy recipes.”
—MyShelf.com
“[A] real feast for mystery fans.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Mix the crazy cast of characters with humor, mystery, and romance and you have a delightful story that will keep you captivated for hours. It’s a page turner!”
—Socrates’ Book Reviews
“[A] great cozy with varied and interesting characters, a nice plot with a few twists, and a good main character who has some baggage to work through . . . Excellent—Loved it! Buy it now and put this author on your watch list.”
—Mysteries and My Musings
“Victoria Hamilton proves herself again as [a] master plotter . . . Merry Wynter is a delightful protagonist . . . [Hamilton’s] characters are complex and most are likable . . . The plot had enough twists and curves to keep me challenged and entertained.”
—Open Book Society
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton
Vintage Kitchen Mysteries
A DEADLY GRIND
BOWLED OVER
FREEZER I’LL SHOOT
NO MALLETS INTENDED
WHITE COLANDER CRIME
Merry Muffin Mysteries
BRAN NEW DEATH
MUFFIN BUT MURDER
DEATH OF AN ENGLISH MUFFIN
MUCH ADO ABOUT MUFFIN
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
MUCH ADO ABOUT MUFFIN
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by Donna Lea Simpson.
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eBook ISBN: 9780698406070
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2016
Cover art by Ben Perini.
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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To all the English teachers out there; I know your job is difficult. I know some days you feel like you’re not making a difference. Trust me, you are. Somewhere in your class is a shy girl, the introvert who never puts up her hand and who stammers through presentations. But she will “get” your enthusiasm for books; that spark will catch fire, and if you tell her just once that she has done a good job on a book report, or that she is “insightful,” she will remember it for the rest of her life. Thank you. And know this; you may just have created an author.
Contents
Praise for the Merry Muffin Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Recipes
About the Author
Prologue
Home. . . . why am I not home?
I woke up with that thought and crawled out of bed, padding barefoot over to the window that looked out on straight rows of olive trees in the grove on the hillside in the distance, and the cork forest even more distant. Closer to the villa was the vineyard, long, cultivated rows of grapes that would become sweet white wine once harvested. The Paradiso family—my late husband’s older brother, along with his grown-up daughter and son, were now all that was left—was diversifying under the wise guidance of Antonio, whom I call Tony, my late husband Miguel’s older brother.
But in my mind and heart was another landscape, one from which I was separated by thousands of miles of ocean and land: Wynter Castle, my own property, near the tiny town of Autumn Vale, in upstate New York.
I had been gone from it for so long, well over two months now, lost in the magical, wealthy, and cultivated world of the Paradiso family. I was called to Málaga, a part of Andalusia, Spain, by an urgent request from Tony. My former mother-in-law was dying, and he begged me to come and make peace with the woman who had disliked me intensely for the few years I knew her and was married to her favorite son. Tony hoped I would forgive her for her interference in my marriage to Miguel and let her die in harmony with the heavenly Father to whom she was devoted.
I went, we made our peace and talked long hours. I held her hand as she writhed in pain, refusing sedatives or painkillers, following the example of her hero, Pope John Paul II. Peace came with death while I was there. I found a solace in her passing that had evaded me with all the other deaths I had suffered through: my beloved grandmother and mother when I was just twenty-one, and then my husband, Miguel, eight years ago.
But Maria Paradiso had been gone over three weeks already. I had helped Tony through the funeral and various relatives visiting. Maria had a large extended family, most of whom descended upon us for a week. Tony’s supercilious daughter and playboy son, on the other hand, fled as soon as they could after the funeral, leaving me with Tony, who mourned his mother with a depth of feeling I respected, even if I didn’t share it.
But . . . it had been weeks. I had friends at home waiting. Why was I still ensconced in my luxurious room in the palatial Villa Paradiso?
More than one reason, but a biggie was that I had been asked a question, one I had not yet answered. Tony asked me to marry him. He’s a good and generous man, smart, sophisticated, classically trained on the piano, very much like his younger brother, Miguel, but missing some of my late husband’s fire and passion. H
e would be an ideal husband in so many ways. I wouldn’t need to worry for the rest of my life. But I didn’t love him and never would.
So I awoke longing for home. I had dreamed of strong arms holding me, but in that dream when I opened my eyes it wasn’t Tony’s face I saw, nor even Miguel’s, but that of Virgil Grace, sheriff of the county law enforcement unit.
I missed him. And I missed my friends, Pish in particular. I missed my daily routine, baking muffins for the villagers, talking to Shilo and Jack, visiting with Gogi and Hannah and Lizzie. I missed home, Wynter Castle and Autumn Vale. I had missed the whole summer, which I had not yet experienced in my inherited castle, hurried away by that urgent phone call the very day after Virgil and I had a romantic, delicious interlude in the long grass near the forest.
As suddenly as I had flown to Spain, I made the decision to leave. Of course I would not marry Tony. Why hadn’t I answered immediately? I had closure with Miguel’s fierce and irascible mother. She confessed that she had resented me taking Miguel away, even as she knew it wasn’t me but his ambition as a fashion photographer that kept him in New York. I, in turn, admitted that I had resented her when Miguel left for six weeks to care for her while Tony was away. It was over, both sides forgiven.
I had been gone so long, but with time and distance comes perspective. I could see how I had struggled and worried about Wynter Castle, my inheritance, for ten long months, wondering whether I could ever make it pay more than a miserly sum. It had taxed me, as had continued battles with some of the folks in Autumn Vale and the bad luck that saw three deaths on my property.
Life at Villa Paradiso was so easy, carefree, pleasant. Tony’s persistent good nature had shown me how trouble-free my life could be. Servants took care of everything, even cooking fabulous meals accompanied by equally fabulous wines. I spent evenings listening to Tony on the piano, or we took short jaunts to the coast to lie on the beach, then dance in a Euro-cool bar. I had been sucked into a vortex of ease.
Then, like a pailful of icy water, came the shock of a life not my own anymore: Tony started making assumptions, plans, arrangements. The day jaunts extended without my knowledge into a few days away here, a couple there. He made plans and then told me what we were doing. And with whom. Miguel had done the same, which wasn’t so bad because I loved him with all my heart and I was young, eager for experience. He made it so much fun.
It was different with Tony, a kind of benevolent control, an assumption of his right to guide my life. It had become irritating, and yet every time I tried to talk to Tony, he changed the subject. So when I awoke thinking of Wynter Castle and Autumn Vale, I knew it was long past time to go home. I hated how lazy I’d become, how accustomed to having everything done for me. Tony laughed when I whined about it one day, and said I was very American to worry about my indolence.
But worst of all, I had, by tiny degrees, drifted away from my friends. During the first couple of weeks in Málaga I had made plans for when I returned, gotten involved even from afar, and missed home like crazy. That changed as Maria lingered halfway between Earth and heaven. Phone calls became shorter and less frequent.
As I stood staring out over the Paradiso olive groves and vineyard, I realized that I hadn’t spoken to Pish for two weeks, and Virgil, not for three. Shilo, my best girlfriend in the world, a sweet, fragile gypsy child, wouldn’t come to the phone last time I called her at her and her husband Jack’s house in town. My cell phone had died a few weeks back, I couldn’t replace it until I got home, and so no one called me at the villa because the serving staff couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak English and so never took messages.
I whirled around from the window, threw on some clothes, and called a travel agent that minute, booking the first flight back to New York, and a commuter flight from JFK to Rochester. Then I told Tony, expecting a big fight or a guilt trip. I got neither. I think he was relieved, and wondered if he’d proposed because he hadn’t known what else to do with me, and had thought we may as well marry if I was going to stay. Tony is a very practical man, and I had been a malleable and content partner.
He kissed me good-bye—on the cheek, all very chaste, as had been all of our interactions—and had his driver take me to Costa del Sol Airport. I got the flight to New York, then caught the commuter flight to the Greater Rochester International Airport, arriving at about ten AM. Pish was to meet me at the baggage claim.
Except he didn’t. When I retrieved my one bag I turned and there, standing with his fists clenched on his hips, arms akimbo, legs astride, was Virgil Grace, a scowl on his face. “Are you ready? Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter One
Hoo boy, I had forgotten how good-looking Virgil Grace is: six feet something of dark-haired, dark-eyed, steel-jawed man. Two-plus months without my muffins—and I don’t mean that as a euphemism; the man loves my baking—had worked off the slight thickening at his waist, and his jawline was now as chiseled as granite, his cheekbones razor sharp, his dark eyes shadowed.
“I’m ready,” I said, hefting my carry-on over my shoulder and grabbing the handle of my one suitcase on wheels.
“Is that all your luggage?” He glared skeptically at it.
“Yes, this is all my luggage!” I didn’t mention that Tony was sending the rest after me. I had beat a hasty retreat from Villa Paradiso, but while in Spain I had done a lot of shopping. Gucci and Bulgari shops litter the Costa del Sol like Dollar Tree stores in Buffalo, and both Tony and Maria insisted on funding me in my extravagance. Where would I wear Euro fashion in upstate New York? I hadn’t a clue. Truth was, I had relapsed into old spendthrift ways, shopping out of habit and boredom.
“I’ll take it,” he said, and jerked the suitcase handle out of my hand. He grabbed my carry-on for good measure—all I was left with was my sizable Balenciaga handbag—and strode off toward the sliding glass doors.
I trotted after him, my face flushing with heat. “What happened to Pish?” I called after him, trying to keep up with his lengthy strides. I was wearing heels, darn it. “He was supposed to be picking me up.”
“Your houseguest needed him,” he growled over his shoulder.
“My houseguest?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
That sounded ominous, but then I was back in the nutty world of Autumn Vale, where odd people descend on Wynter Castle like falling leaves in the vale in autumn.
He led me to his official sheriff’s department vehicle, which he had parked wherever he damned well pleased, as cops do around the world. He expertly got us onto the 490, then the 90, driving all that way in virtual silence, other than the conversational feints I thrust, which he parried with grunts and then more silence. Finally, I twisted around in the seat, the belt straining at my shoulder, and said, “Virgil, I think we need to pull off somewhere and have a chat. You’re clearly angry.”
He slowly swiveled his jutting jaw and stared at me before returning his attention to the highway. “Why would I be angry?”
“Because, well, it would be understandable. I mean, we . . .” I trailed off, shook my head, and turned back in my seat to stare straight out the front window at the countryside as we headed down the 90 for a short jaunt before we would thread through Batavia to catch the 98. It was a boring stretch along the 90—or the Governor Thomas E. Dewey Thruway—ditch to the left of us, beyond which was the other lane, and ditch to the right of us, with a view of fields, broken only by an occasional line of scrubby, dry-looking trees, soared over by hawks hunting for mice. We drove on in even deeper silence, other than squawks and shrieks from the police radio, until we threaded through Batavia and turned onto 98. He reduced his speed accordingly as we drove through the green landscape, rural patches broken by small towns along the way.
“Virgil, I care about you a great deal,” I said, carefully tiptoeing around the edges of his angry silence. “I love my life in Autumn Vale; that’s what’s bringing me
back.”
He was silent. When I stole a glace, I saw his dark, thick brows knit in a frown over his chocolaty eyes. His grip on the steering wheel, at ten and two, was white-knuckled. Finally, he growled, “So this isn’t just a pit stop to pick up your stuff so you can move to Málaga, or wherever the hell that Tony character lives?”
I got it, finally, the reason behind his mysterious fury. I recalled our last phone conversation, when I had talked about Tony, how good he was to me, how sophisticated, how learned. His fluency in four languages, his kindness to his mother, his love of the arts. Virgil Grace was jealous! And jealous, in this case, was good; when a relationship is new and fragile, it’s natural to feel jealousy, and really, I had given him plenty to feel jealous and insecure about. My stomach jittered. How could I reassure him? I half turned in the seat again and watched his profile. “Virgil, it’s not a pit stop. I’m coming home.”
His stern look relaxed a smidge.
“I missed you all like crazy,” I continued, my tone soft. “I missed Autumn Vale. I missed Becket; I’ve never had a cat before, and didn’t realize how much a part of my life he is! And I missed Gogi, and Pish, and Shilo . . . and . . . Virgil, I missed you.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but he focused back on the road. He shook his head, stared out the window, and brooded for a while. “Did you honestly miss . . . us?”
I wasn’t going to go into the various emotional stages I experienced, missing them all like crazy for weeks, and then the gradual Novocain numbness as I let Tony take over my life. I didn’t want to talk about that just then, though I needed to, at some point, to let him know how I now had a different perspective on my marriage to Miguel after having been in his family home for two months.
“I figured a lot of stuff out while I was gone,” I said. “Maybe we can talk about it, but not right now. I did miss you all in so many different ways. Autumn Vale and you all fill in the holes in my life.” I sighed and played with the strap of my purse. “This is going to sound sappy. Gogi is the mom I miss so much, the mom I never really had. Binny is the sarcastic little sister. Janice is the kooky aunt. And you . . .” I looked over at him. I couldn’t go on; I wasn’t sure where we stood. But I reached out and rested my hand on his arm, where the dark hairs lay across his forearm like silk, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His muscles flexed under my fingers. “You most of all.”
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