Much Ado About Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  Patricia arrived with a box of assorted goodies from the bakery. She was there to lend moral support to Roma, who was nervous about the final recording of “O Mio Babbino Caro” she was doing that day. I was in a charitable mood, despite the frightening episode the previous night, so as Roma warmed up in the library, I sat down for a cup of tea and a Napoleon with Patricia. I told her that I had attended a CC introductory class the previous night, and asked if she had, too, and if so what she thought of Consciousness Calling and Crystal Rouse.

  “I’m not one much for organized anything,” she said. “But I was curious, so I went.”

  “Did you have one of those . . . what does she call them? A Calling Inner Consciousness session?”

  “I did at one of the group sessions.”

  “What did you think of the Chanting the Contexts part? And what happened with the calling?”

  “The chanting bit was interesting; I found myself relaxed, even sleepy. I thought it might be good for me.” She frowned, her double chins tripling as she stared down into her tea mug. “But then, the Calling . . . well, I was lying on that massage table with the group feeling self-conscious.”

  She didn’t need to say why. Big girls usually do feel self-conscious in a social setting, and Patricia is a good deal larger than I. Lying on a table with a bunch of other folks around? Not for me, not on your life.

  “There were three other folks, and we each had a thirty-minute session. They put their hands on me while Crystal talked a bit and felt my head. She was touching what she called ‘Consciousness Centers.’ I’m not sure what I was supposed to get out of it. She said it would trigger memories, associations, and let my mind float. I can confidently tell you that nothing of mine floated.”

  “You didn’t get anything out of it?”

  “Nothing. She said I could talk, say whatever I wanted, sing, moan, whatever. All I could think was that my stomach probably looked even bigger lying on my back. And I worried about rolling off the table, which was not meant for a gal of my proportions. When we did the others, two of them swore they had the sensation of floating, and felt freer at the end of it.”

  “Did they say or do anything?”

  She colored faintly. “The . . . uh . . . the one fellow got an erection.” She giggled with a girlish smirk. Her smile died. “And one woman said some personal, painful stuff, things I don’t think she should have shared with strangers.”

  I was curious about who that was, but knew Patricia well enough to not ask. She is a thoroughly nice person, and doesn’t gossip. As the overweight daughter of a once-wealthy family, she had put up with a lot of mean-girl behavior in social circles and at private school.

  “It almost sounds like hypnosis,” I mused.

  She sipped her tea and put down the china mug on the trestle table. She gazed out the window over the sink, which looks out on the woods. “I don’t understand what the others got out of it that I didn’t. They felt better afterward, lighter, freer. Crystal booked them for private sessions. I felt like I’d missed out on something.”

  “Don’t think there’s something wrong with you. If it was a form of hypnosis, some people are easier to hypnotize than others, and I’ve heard that some report what they think the hypnotist wants or expects to hear. It’s not you, it’s them. Did you go again?”

  She met my gaze and rolled her eyes. “No way. She wanted three hundred dollars for a private session.”

  Three hundred dollars, and she said she could do four a day. That would be twelve hundred in one day, potentially. I chewed on my lip. “I’m worried about Emerald. She has shut me out, and I think I’m being shunned at Crystal’s command.”

  “Emerald is a tough nut,” Patricia said. “She’ll be just fine.”

  I shook my head, not sure she was right. Em had been through a lot in the last year, and perhaps it was all crowding in on her now. Besides, I was more concerned with the effects of it all on Lizzie.

  Patricia was called into the taping session. She was, it seemed, a calming presence to Roma. In truth, many singers do better with a live audience, and I didn’t fault Roma for that.

  I was finishing up some muffins for Patricia to take back to the bakery when I heard a vehicle outside. I went out to greet Hannah and her parents at the door off the butler’s pantry, the only one we could get the motorized wheelchair through. Her parents saw her settled in the kitchen, and Mrs. Moore was kind enough to ask if there was anything I needed. I overwhelmed her with a lengthy list and a fistful of cash. She laughed when I demurred, realizing what an imposition it could be, and said she loved grocery shopping. She bid a fond farewell to her daughter, the light of her life and headed off to shop at the Aldi and Hobby Lobby in Batavia.

  We sat at the table and I made more tea, poured some, and told Hannah about my experience the previous evening. She was horrified and frightened for me, but then said, “See, I told you that you live an exciting life!”

  “That kind of excitement I can do without. Anyway, Watson, what have we discovered?”

  “Some interesting stuff.”

  Becket wandered downstairs, wound around my legs, then leaped up on Hannah, trying to find room to sit on her tiny lap. They managed to find a way to be comfortable, and she stroked his fur, picking at mats with her slim fingers, while indicating her laptop, on the table. “Fire it up, Sherlock, and I’ll show you what I’ve discovered. I’ve made some notes, too, in a document file.”

  First there was information on Consciousness Calling. Hannah had bookmarked their website for me. It was indeed a franchise listed as a therapeutic health-care business. While emphasizing the spiritual nature of their company, they claimed that what they actually did was holistic healing, motivational training, and “teaching people to be happy.” I didn’t know you could teach folks that.

  All the photos on the website showed shops with a teal banner that proudly proclaimed them to be Consciousness Calling businesses. There was nothing like that on Emerald and Crystal’s shop, not even a sign in the window. I shared what I was thinking with Hannah. “I wonder if Crystal even has a legitimate franchise, without that branding.”

  “Maybe you can take that up with Aimee Jollenbeck.”

  “Do you happen to have an address?”

  “I do,” Hannah replied. “And I also know where she works. She’s a cleaner at the Methodist church, and she’s Helen Johnson’s stepsister.”

  “Wow, that’s a surprise. Helen was at the meeting last night.”

  Hannah ruffled Becket’s fur and he took exception, jumping down. “Maybe she was gathering intel, spying for Aimee.”

  I smiled at my Watson’s vivid imagination. However, she had been right more than once about things, and perhaps she was now, too. “I’ll pay a visit to Ms. Jollenbeck,” I said, and wrote down her address, which was in an unfamiliar section of town.

  The huge knocker on the front door banged, and I excused myself and scooted out to answer it. There was my knight in shining armor. “Dewayne! Virgil said you’d be stopping by.” I looked over my shoulder, closed the door behind me, grabbed his wrist, and led him to the edge of the terrace. “He told me who you are, too,” I said, searching his dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry if I seemed hesitant last night.”

  He touched my shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “You had just been run off the road, and I charged up in a big old truck. You were right to be wary.”

  His round face was split by a ready grin, teeth slightly yellow, eyes a bit bloodshot; it was the face of an honest man. “Thank you. I did appreciate the help last night, and you were so calm. It made everything easier.” I paused a beat, then asked, “What was Virgil like when you first met him?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Aw, no. No way. You’ll have to discover Virgil Grace for yourself. I have the four-one-one on you two; he’s nuts over you. Never seen him like this, not even when he first got eng
aged to Kelly.”

  I stayed silent; any mention of Virgil’s ex-wife was dangerous ground for me. I never mentioned her by name, and tried not to criticize her. That was between them.

  He eyed me with a slight smile and a nod. “Some folks in town are a little afraid of you, you know. You’re a strong, smart woman; lots of folks can’t handle that. And you are a stone-cold fox, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Coming from some men I’d bristle at the last comment; women are too often considered primarily on physical appearance. But his first comment had been about my strength, intelligence, and ability to intimidate, so I didn’t mind. “Your friend the sheriff is not always the easiest guy to talk to.”

  “He’s like a classic novel: tough to get into, but once you start, you realize how worth the effort it is.”

  “Dewayne, were you following me last night? Is that how you came across me?” I thought maybe he’d seen who ran me off the road. He must have driven past the car or truck, since he was coming from that direction.

  “No, Merry. If I were following you because I suspected someone, or had seen who did this, the driver would already be in lockup. I really did get lost on a back road. No one came past me, either; I think he or she must have turned down a side road.”

  “Darn. Thought it might be an easy solution. Anyway, I know you’re here to look at the car, and I want to be here when you do, but I have a friend in the kitchen. I’d better go and tell her I’ll be a minute.”

  “Why doesn’t she come out and join us?”

  “She’s in a motorized wheelchair. It might be a little tough.”

  He examined the castle. “She came out in a vehicle equipped for her wheelchair and was dropped off at that door, right?” He pointed toward the far end of the castle wall where the door to the butler’s pantry hall was. “I’d bet if she came out that way, her wheelchair could make it over the ground. If not I can always help her. Would she be interested, though, in me looking your car over?”

  “Hannah is the town librarian,” I said over my shoulder as I headed to the front door. “She’s interested in everything!”

  Hannah’s wheelchair made it across the grassy area all right, but I decided then and there to work on making the front door wheelchair accessible. It actually wouldn’t be that difficult. Since Turner Construction was back up and running, maybe they could do it.

  Dewayne was not, however, at my car. “Dewayne?” I called out.

  He looked up from what he was studying and said, “Whose car is this?”

  “That’s my friend Pish’s,” I said.

  “Come here,” he said, crooking his finger.

  I circled the car. The front right bumper was crumpled and the headlight was busted. I looked up at the castle in shock. Roma had been out in Pish’s car last evening, but got home before me. Was she my assailant?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hannah was intensely interested in everything Dewayne had to say and show us. I was distracted and troubled by Pish’s crumpled bumper, but for all I knew, as I pointed out to Dewayne, it may have happened before I even got home from Spain. We’d have to find out from Pish and Roma.

  He examined my car and took pictures. For good measure (and without comment) he photographed Pish’s bumper. As the sun rose, the day began to heat up. Virgil was busy with Esposito and his agents, so he sent Deputy Urquhart, Minnie’s nephew, to collect the evidence from my close call. He and Dewayne gathered minute flakes of paint from the bumper, and the deputy took an official statement from me about the incident. He was thoroughly professional through the whole episode, despite past conflict between us.

  As Dewayne explained his investigation kit to Hannah, I took the opportunity to speak with the tall young deputy. “I’m so sorry about Minnie. It was a horrid thing, and I hope we find who did it.”

  He nodded, his jaw tightening.

  I took a deep breath and faced him. “I know she didn’t like me, Deputy. We had our differences, but I’m being sincere. I’m so very sorry this happened. Were you close?”

  He took off his mirrored sunglasses. “Not lately. But when I was a kid, things were kind of crazy in my house. My parents . . .” He paused and glanced over at me. “You don’t want to hear about this.”

  “Yes, Deputy, I do,” I said, and touched his arm. Words sometimes fail us; sincerity can often be more effectively transmitted with a touch.

  He took a deep breath. “My parents fought all the time. Aunt Minnie used to take me and my brother out for a drive when it got bad. The only normal things I remember from being a kid, I did with her. She took us to the county fair. We went camping, even though she hated it, and fishing, too. She made sure we had scouts’ uniforms and sports equipment.”

  She had done all that? And yet she would gossip and name call and be petty with the worst of them. How mixed and flawed we all are, I thought. If only I could start over again with Minnie. But death robs us of any opportunity for a second chance. He looked like he was going to ugly-cry for a split second, but he regained his composure.

  “It’s got to be hard, then, to be shunted aside in the investigation,” I said. “You must wish Virgil was in charge and you could help.”

  “Yeah.”

  He must know that the sheriff had been investigating his aunt for postal improprieties. But Virgil would have kept him out of the investigation; no matter how much he liked and trusted the younger man it would have been a conflict of interest, as well as putting the deputy in an untenable position.

  “Was she still close to anyone in your family?”

  He shook his head. “My brother moved overseas to teach, and she kinda thought I was a traitor; she thought the police were suspect.”

  “So there was no one she’d confide in?”

  He shook his head again. “She’d broken off with most of us in the last few years.”

  “Do you know the kids she had boarding with her?”

  He met my gaze. His eyes were light gray, and set deep in the sockets, with shadows under them. He was not handsome like Virgil, but there was an openness in his expression that I hadn’t noticed before. I thought that had more to do with his changing perception of me than my perception of him.

  “They don’t seem to be bad kids, but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I heard Karl Mencken had a fight with her and stormed off. Or they had a fight and Minnie threw him out. I’ve heard it both ways.”

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

  I sighed. My curiosity had met a stone wall named Deputy Urquhart. “I drove by her house,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “I wonder who inherits it now?”

  He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I do. Partly, anyway. My brother and I are her heirs.”

  I had questions but no opportunity to ask them. Urquhart walked away, spoke to Dewayne for a few minutes, then got in his sheriff’s department car and took off down the lane, the heavy motor throbbing in the increasingly humid air. I invited the PI back into the kitchen to have a cup of coffee and some of the baked goods Binny had sent. As I made coffee, Hannah plied him with questions. Her curiosity knows no bounds, and though she has the mind of a librarian, I think she has the heart and soul of a writer.

  Pish, Roma, and Patricia took a break and joined us. As I introduced them all to Dewayne, I wondered how to raise the topic of the damage to Pish’s car. Roma flitted about as Pish sat down with Dewayne, Hannah, and me to drink coffee; she sang snatches of the song, her voice breaking in the same spot until she was almost in tears. I actually felt sorry for her.

  “How is it going?” I asked Pish.

  He shook his head. But all he said was, “I wish Zeke were here. His technical skills are so much better than mine for the sound recording. We may have to wait until I can get him out here for a short time.”

  “I have the boys coming tomorrow
to do some groundskeeping,” I said. “If you need Zeke for the sound recording, maybe . . .” I had a sudden brilliant idea. “Maybe I can get them to bring another guy to work with Gordy, so Zeke can help you.”

  “That would be a relief.” He passed one slim-fingered hand over his thinning hair. I swear he had aged five years since the morning. “It’s not coming out how we want it.”

  I watched him for a moment as Dewayne eyed us both, probably getting the tension, but not sure of the source. Patricia had not yet sat down. She seemed flighty and distracted; I wasn’t sure why.

  Dewayne cleared his throat and said to Pish, “I have a rather direct question. How long has the front end of your car been bashed in?”

  The room stilled. Roma had paused in midtwirl. I watched her; she looked guilty, a rare thing for the self-involved diva.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Pish said. He looked to me. “Merry, what is he talking about?”

  “Your car’s front end is crunched, Pish. The front right bumper. Your headlight is smashed. When did it happen?”

  I was hoping he’d say it happened last week in Autumn Vale, or the week before while negotiating a tricky spot in the Walgreens parking lot in Buffalo. But he looked mystified. Patricia was eyeing us all, her brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

  “Roma, you’re the only other person who has driven his car. Maybe you know something about this?” I asked.

  “Oh, Pishie, darling, I’m so sorry!” she said, throwing her arms around his neck from behind and crooning in his ear. “I so didn’t want to bother you about it! I had a teensy accident and wrinkled the bumper.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “You don’t need to badger me. It’s not your car,” she said with a pout, her full lips pursed.

  “Roma, when did it happen?” I insisted.

  She sighed and huffed, straightening when Pish didn’t leap in to defend her from my questioning. “Last night. I was out for a drive and I kind of . . . dented it a little.”

  “Where? On what?”