“What are you doing home from work so early, Mom?” Lizzie asked, hope in her voice.
“I hated leaving Crystal to manage this all on her own,” she said, her gaze slewing uncertainly from me to Lizzie to Brianna and then into the shop, where Crystal was still dealing with potential clients. “I knew you wouldn’t be much help,” she said to her daughter. “What are you doing out here gabbing?”
Lizzie whirled and headed off down the street. “I’m going home!” she yelled over her shoulder. “You can help Crystal put away the stinking snacks. I’ve got homework.”
“Lizzie, you get back here!” Emerald shouted, then sighed and shook her head.
Brianna, looking disgusted, headed in and Emerald turned to go, too, but I caught her arm. “Em, is everything okay? Maybe we can have a cup of tea back at your place and talk. I haven’t even seen your new home yet.”
Crystal came to the door and opened it, gazing out silently.
“Lizzie went home, Crystal,” Emerald said, pulling her arm from my grasp. “I’ll come and help in a sec.” She turned to me and opened her mouth to speak.
Crystal called out, “Deety pee, Emerald, dear . . . deety pee.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, wondering if it was some weird signal that she needed a bathroom break.
“Nothing. I have to go.” She turned and trotted up the steps into her shop.
And then I got it: not deety pee, DTP. In Crystal-speak I was clearly a downward-trending person. I walked away in a funk, feeling like I had a communicable disease.
It was almost dark. Despite there being a murderer in our midst I still felt safe in Autumn Vale; maybe I was delusional. I strode down the sidewalk into the gloom, and turned the corner. Were those footsteps behind me? I paused; silence. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to walk off alone. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, and chills raced down my back.
Perhaps I should have stayed with the others for a while. I turned and waited, but no one came around the corner. I got my keys out, splaying them between my fingers like I always did in the city, clutched my bag to my chest, and walked on.
Who had so brutally murdered Minnie Urquhart? Someone who knew her, I assumed, because she had apparently let them into her postal station. How, though, did the killer get the letter opener? I needed to confront Roma and ask her. Footsteps behind me echoed again as I trotted down the shadowy side street where the Caddy was parked. I turned, but there was still no one there. “Hello?” I called out.
A garbage can clattered nearby, a dog barked, and a cat screeched, the trifecta of woman-in-peril scenes in movies. Maybe it was normal to be unnerved when someone I knew had been murdered. I took a deep breath and relaxed, though I did not let down my guard. I got to my car, looked around, checked the backseat, then got in, started the Caddy, and cruised out of town, heaving a sigh of relief.
Safe at last!
I opened the window. As night fell the air got noticeably cooler, now that we were past the halfway mark in September. I hadn’t forgotten about the one-year anniversary party I wanted to throw. I started to compile guest lists in my mind, and plan the food; maybe I could rope in Binny for baked treats and Patricia for a cake. Pish could do some show tunes on the piano. If Roma was still at the castle, she could sing. She’d love that, and it would be both good practice and advertisement for their opera.
I could see the headlights of a car bobbing in my rearview mirror. Well, that happened on occasion, even on my way down the lonely road back to the castle. We had come to a stretch that was enclosed by forest and had a sharp decline on the right, though if you weren’t familiar with that section of the road you wouldn’t know that because in the dark it was masked by the tall trees. I didn’t see the headlights behind me anymore, and relaxed.
Then I felt a jolt and experienced that shock, the sick feeling in the core of your stomach when you know that your vehicle is no longer in your control. I shrieked as the car moved seemingly on its own, as if sliding on ice, even though I gripped the steering wheel so tight my fingers spasmed, freezing in place, pain shooting through them. Weirdly out of body, I caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror. There were no headlights, but a vehicle nudged me ever closer to that sharp drop-off, even though I wrenched the steering wheel with all my might in the direction I wanted to go.
But I knew the road after a year of driving it, and I knew the Caddy. I jerked the wheel the other way, using the full power of the ’67 V8 engine and rear-wheel drive to get me off my assailant’s front bumper. My heavy, lumbering, wonderfully sturdy American-made tank lurched to the left. Gravel skidded out from under me, pinging on the underbody, and the Caddy settled up on the opposite shoulder as the other vehicle roared past and down the road.
Silence settled with the dust. I started shaking and whimpering, quivering like a kicked puppy, my shoulders aching and my hands cramped on the wheel. I had to consciously flex my fingers to release the steering wheel. I was off-kilter, the seat belt digging into my shoulder.
Who had done this? And why? As I calmed I realized why I felt pressure and was on a slant; in wrenching the car so far away from the edge of the slope, I had gotten myself away from the jerk who was trying to wreck me, but had ended up on the opposite side with the car stuck up on something.
It was a moonless night. Just sitting there all evening wasn’t an option. I took some deep yoga breaths, letting my heart rate decline. First step, I had to ascertain the damage. The car started but did not want to move, even though the rear wheels seemed to be in contact with the road or shoulder surface. I undid the seat belt and awkwardly climbed out of the car, rolled my aching shoulders, and peered into the dark, but couldn’t see a bloody thing. I picked my way around the car to the trunk, where I kept a tool kit with a flashlight. Using my cell phone flashlight app—barely bright enough to find the keyhole and wrench open the trunk—I got it out. My car flashlight was big, the beam nice and wide. Hoping the car or truck that had run me off the road wasn’t coming back, I checked out the bumper damage. It was crumpled, and my taillight was broken. Good old Detroit sturdiness had prevented more damage. Then I circled to the front.
“Well, that sucks!” I said. The Caddy was jammed up on a thick log from a tree that had fallen in the spring. County workers had shoved it off to the side of the road. It had saved me, I supposed, from hitting the rocky outcropping, which would have done a lot more damage to the car, and perhaps me.
A heavy motor rumbled, and I saw headlights coming down the road. My stomach lurched. I scrambled to get into the car, probably the best protection I could get, but awkward because of the angle it was on. The vehicle slowed as it got closer, and then stopped, facing the Caddy. The driver cut the headlights. Someone big emerged, and I saw the beam of a flashlight bob around, slicing through the darkness, circling the car. I whimpered and started, with shaking fingers, to dial Virgil’s number.
When someone tapped on the window I jumped and screamed.
“Merry, are you okay?”
It was Dewayne Lester. He shone the flashlight away, angling it so there was enough light that I could see his face, his dark, intelligent eyes, his stubbly round chin. I nodded and took a deep breath, trying to calm my shaking. “I’m okay!” I asserted. What was he doing here? I had last seen him in the CC meeting, and he was still there, I thought, when I left. If he was my assailant, he would have zoomed past me, and if he circled back . . . I quivered, my nerves making me shudder. He would have come from that exact direction. “I’m fine. Really.”
“No, you’re not. You’re in trouble here,” he said, his voice muffled through the glass. He motioned to the front of the car. “Can I give you a hand?”
I paused. If I called Virgil he might not even get the message right away. “What are you doing along here?” I asked, rolling down the window an inch. “Last I saw you were at the meeting.”
“I left right after you
, but somehow I got turned around on my way out to Turner Construction, so I was backtracking,” he said, watching my eyes. His expression was mild as he said, “Look, if you’re freaked out I’ll leave you alone. Pete drives a tow truck; I can call him. He’d be here in ten minutes. What can I do that will make you comfortable?”
That’s exactly what a helpful man would and should say. I took a deep shaky breath and looked out at him, rolling the window down farther. “Someone tried to run me off the road—I don’t know who. I managed to wrench the car in the other direction, but now I’m kind of wedged on that tree.”
“Is your car still working?”
“It seems to be fine.”
“They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” he said, nodding. “My dad worked in the plant that built them. Probably worked on this very car. My truck’s a Ford F-150 and I have towing straps in the back, so I can pull you free, if you like. I don’t think there’ll be any damage.” He shone his flashlight toward the front of the Caddy and squatted, looking under it. “You’re not up on there far enough to have punctured anything, so if I can free you, you can at least get home. You don’t have far to go now. Take the car to your mechanic tomorrow for a look-see.”
“I’d appreciate the help,” I said and took another deep breath. His matter-of-fact manner and helpfulness were restoring my nerves to their normally calm state. If I trusted my instincts, he was not my attacker.
It would take too long to describe how we managed it, but we did. He checked underneath the car again, and said I didn’t appear to be leaking anything. I thanked him. In the city I would have offered a good Samaritan money, but we don’t do that in the country. We’re all in this together, and someday he might need a lift or some help. I clutched his strong, warm hand through the car window and he smiled.
He followed me back to the castle to make sure the car worked, then tooted his horn and turned in the driveway, heading back wherever he came from. I did have a fleeting thought; he seemed to know exactly where the castle was, despite never having been to it . . . to my knowledge.
Pish’s car was in its spot, so Roma must be back from wherever she went. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I was so drained and unnerved. After locking up securely I retreated to my room, flung my clothes off, and climbed into bed naked, something I hadn’t done in a long time. Becket seemed to sense my mood. He leaped up on the bed, butted my chin, then turned once on the cover, tucked his tail in over his eyes, and drifted to sleep, purring. Despite the fear I had felt—or maybe because of it and the consequent adrenaline rush depleting me—I, too, fell fast asleep, my hand resting on the purring cat.
* * *
The next morning I made a cup of coffee and headed out, dressed in my silk robe over shortie pajamas hastily thrown on, to sit on the terrace. I had just settled when a sheriff’s department car screamed up the lane and screeched to a halt, spraying gravel. Virgil, his face red, erupted from the car, tore up to the terrace and grabbed me up from my chair, kissing me so hard my coffee spilled everywhere and I would have fallen if he hadn’t had a very firm hold on me.
I spluttered and wrenched myself away from him, shocked by his vehemence when I wasn’t even awake all the way. “Steady, Sheriff!” I spluttered.
He pulled me back into his arms and held me against him; his heart was thudding like a jackhammer. “What the hell were you thinking, not calling me last night after you were run off the road by some lunatic?”
I pulled away again, looking up into his worried brown eyes. “I should have called the police, but I was so tired when I got home that I never thought of it. I’m sorry.” Of course, he was right: if someone that crazy was out on the roads, they were a danger to others.
“Screw the sheriff’s office,” he said, his voice gruff. “You should have called me, your . . . your boyfriend. Or whatever you want to call me.”
I was taken aback, thrilled, and then puzzled. “Wait, how did you even hear about it?”
“Dewayne Lester. He stopped by the station this morning on his way to work and asked if we’d found the guy who ran you off the road.”
“That probably eliminates him as a suspect,” I said with relief. “Being Johnny-on-the-spot as he was, I thought he might be the one who . . .” His gaze had become shifty, and I cocked my head to one side, watching him. “Virgil, what aren’t you telling me?”
“You don’t need to worry about Dewayne.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared over my head. “I know him.”
Trying to keep from being distracted by bulging biceps in a short-sleeved sheriff’s department shirt, I said, “You know him? I thought he was new in town.”
“He is.”
“Then how do you know him?” I righted my spilled coffee mug but didn’t take my gaze from Virgil.
He didn’t answer, his jaw flexing as it does when he’s agitated. He rolled his shoulders. I put my hands on those shoulders and kneaded, feeling the tension knotted there. He’d called himself my boyfriend; that was an interesting development, since we’d never yet had that discussion. Adult dating is awkward sometimes.
A throaty growl murmured though his body, and he took me in his arms, kissing me again, more gently. It was nice—very, very nice. Our relationship seemed to be leaping around in all directions, and I was confused.
However . . . “Virgil, I won’t be distracted,” I murmured as he nuzzled my neck. I sighed. His hand wandered down, cupping my bottom, pulling me to him. Oh dear. I moved his hand back up to the small of my back. “Virgil, how do you know Dewayne Lester?”
“He’s a PI.”
I jumped back like a scalded cat. “A what?”
He grimaced at my reaction. “A private detective from Buffalo.”
I digested that. “But why . . . who . . . ? I don’t get it. Who is he working for?”
“Me, indirectly. The county, actually.”
“You’ve got some explaining to do, mister,” I said, hands on my hips.
“I’m at your command.”
I felt at a distinct disadvantage with him in his uniform and me in a shortie robe. “Wait here.” I went in, got dressed, and made us both coffee and him some breakfast, bringing it out on a tray.
It was a secret for now. Gogi knew, but no one else, he told me between bites of leftover quiche and crisp bacon. About a month ago he’d decided that if the postal service wasn’t going to send anyone to investigate Minnie, he’d try to get a line on what she was up to. It was his jurisdiction since it involved his citizens, he figured, and there may be crimes apart from those involving the post office that he could nab her on. Because of his thrifty management there was money in the department budget, so he allocated some to pay a private detective. It’s not a common route to take, he admitted, but well within the law.
He had met Dewayne years before, when the man was a part-time firearms instructor at the police academy Virgil went to, as well as being a cop. In the years since then Dewayne had retired from police work and set up as a private investigator. When Virgil heard through the grapevine that Minnie was on one of the online dating sites, he had Dewayne contact her. His intent was to get information on what she was up to so Virgil knew what direction to pursue. On the strength of their “relationship”—which consisted of chatting online and talking on the phone—Dewayne thought there was enough justification to move temporarily to Autumn Vale to gather evidence.
The sweetheart ruse worked; Minnie had bragged about petty thefts, trying, in some absurd way, to impress her new beau. The woman was sly, Virgil told me. She had left very little actual evidence except for a string of complaints from citizens to the post office about missing mail. So far there hadn’t been any evidence of check theft; it was mostly magazines, small packages, and cash. She never stole anything with a tracking number. Dewayne had discovered enough that the U.S. Postal Inspectors were about to raid her postal station and home.
But her murder got in the way. Her death seemed terribly coincidental, but coincidence is a part of life. Dewayne had given what information he had to the FBI, trying to help them in the murder case.
We then discussed whomever had run me off the road. It could have been reckless kids joyriding, some other random and possibly drunken jerk, or someone targeting me for something, who knew what? I had my fans, locally, and I had my haters.
“Dewayne is coming out to have a look at your car,” Virgil said. “Can you stay put for the day?”
“Part of it. Hannah is coming out to visit this morning.”
“I want to know if Dewayne can find any bits of paint from the other car. It’s a specialty of his. Do you have any idea who it was?”
I thought, but shook my head. “If I think of anyone, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ll be checking out every car with front-end damage; you can bet on that,” he said, his tone grim.
“In Autumn Vale, that could well be every other car.”
Virgil was finishing his breakfast when Roma came out dressed in only a red silk–and-lace peignoir set, stretching in an unconvincingly casual way. She practically purred when she saw Virgil, though her expression of delight faded when he got up, took my arm, and led me over to his sheriff’s department car. He leaned me back against the car, kissed me thoroughly until my cheeks and chin were slightly sore from his constant stubble—the man could shave and an hour later he’d have stubble—and declared his intention to find the bastard who’d run me off the road if it took all his time and that of his department. He then departed on a call, promising to follow up with Dewayne.
I was smiling as I swayed past Roma, picked up my man’s dishes, and sashayed into my castle, of which I was the queen. Then, being the adult I am, I washed the dishes, put them away, and considered that Virgil and I were going to have to have a talk, since we had apparently started “going steady” when I wasn’t looking. Or something.
Much Ado About Muffin Page 15
