“Why does it matter? Why is everyone picking on me?” she exclaimed, her voice rising in volume.
Pish’s gaze had not moved from my face. “Merry, what’s this about?”
“Last night someone ran me off the road. Dewayne, fortunately, came to my rescue.”
“And you think Roma had something to do with it?” My friend’s voice held a chill I didn’t like.
“I didn’t say that, Pish. I—”
“Mr. Lincoln, I’m the one who discovered the dent on your bumper and told Merry that it’s exactly the kind of damage whoever shoved her off the road would have sustained,” Dewayne said, his voice inflectionless.
“I’ve heard enough,” Pish said. He was angry, his lightly lined face sporting deep grooves from his mouth being pinched in fury. A nerve twitched in his temple, the blue vein standing out in relief, blood pulsing through it. He stood, and took Roma’s arm. “Merry, I know you and Roma don’t get along, but I never thought you’d stoop to accusing her of trying to kill you.”
Roma screeched. “No, oh! Pishie, is that what she’s saying? Oh!” She “swooned” and Pish caught her, guiding her out of the room with murmurs of support.
They returned to my library as I cradled my head in my hands. Tears welled up and spilled over, dripping down my cheeks. It was too much in twenty-four hours, to be run off the road, and then to have my best friend angry at me. Patricia crouched down by me and touched my hair as Dewayne looked on. Hannah approached, the faint buzz of her motorized wheelchair loud in the now-silent room.
“Merry, it’s okay,” Patricia said gently, searching my face.
“No, it’s not,” I said, choking back a sob. “Pish is my dearest friend. If he’s angry at me, I don’t think I can stand it!”
“Merry, give him time,” Hannah crooned. “It’s a shock to him. He’s trying to help Roma, and yet you’ve told him such a shocking thing. And maybe all that, about the damage to the car, didn’t come across quite how you meant it. He’s torn as to where his loyalties lie.”
“His loyalties should lie with me, not her!”
Dewayne stood, setting down his empty coffee cup with a clatter. “I don’t give a damn about some diva’s hurt feelings. I’m going to take paint flakes off Mr. Lincoln’s car. If we can eliminate it, then you can worry about apologizing for damaging her fragile ego.”
Patricia straightened. “Let’s everyone be calm,” she said. “Mr. Lester, you should indeed check the paint flecks. I’m sure it won’t be the car, but you need to eliminate it. I haven’t known Roma long, but though she’s self-centered, I don’t believe she holds any ill will toward Merry. And as for Pish . . . I believe Hannah is right. I bet if you asked him, he’s feeling doubt, too, and he’s not sure how to process that. He wants to support Roma, but he loves you, Merry,” she said, a serious look in her mild eyes. “To hear about what happened this way has shaken him. It’s easier to be angry than scared.”
Dewayne touched Patricia’s shoulder, and they looked into each other’s eyes. As I watched there seemed to be a spark between them. He smiled and she blushed, her full cheeks going a bright rosy red.
Pish poked his head into the kitchen. “Patricia, Roma would like to see you.” She exited past him, heading to the library. “Merry, can we talk?”
I followed him out to the great hall near the dining room door. I could hear Roma in a storm of weeping, babbling to Patricia about something.
He pulled me into the shadows near the wall of tapestries and hugged me, his whole body trembling. “Merry, my darling, what happened? Why didn’t you tell me you had been run off the road? I’m . . . I’m shattered. Are you all right?”
I sighed as he held me in his arms. “I was so tired last night when I came in, I went right to sleep. I didn’t even call the police, which Virgil yelled at me for. And then this morning there was no time because you were busy with Roma.” I sounded faintly aggrieved, but it was all the truth. “I didn’t have a chance, truly, Pish. And I wasn’t planning on accusing Roma of anything. It was Dewayne who noticed your car bumper.”
“I’m sorry, Merry. I was shocked and I snapped at you.” We kissed and made up nicely, then he looked over his shoulder toward the dining room doors. “Roma is having a meltdown.”
“I’m sorry we contributed.”
“That’s just her latest excuse. There’s something going on with her voice, but I’m not sure what. She’s blaming everything else, but she’s scared. If she can’t sing, she doesn’t know who she is. I’d better go back. Can’t leave poor Patricia to bear the whole weight of Roma’s emotional breakdown.”
He scurried back in and closed the door behind him. None of this explained where Roma was the evening before and the morning Minnie was murdered. I went out the front door, approaching Pish’s car, which Dewayne knelt by. I watched as he used a box cutter–style knife to cut a section of paint from the damaged area, being very careful, as he told me, to get right down to the metal. He had a glassine envelope, and he dropped the paint chip in, folded the flap, wrote a label, and affixed it over the flap. “For comparison,” he said. “In case that woman did try to kill you.”
I didn’t comment. “So the work you’re doing at Shilo’s and Jack’s, that’s a cover for why you’re in town, right?”
“Sure, but I’ve done construction in my day. And I fixed up a couple of old houses in downtown Detroit, trying to improve the neighborhood I grew up in. I love old houses. They have soul.”
I sat down on the edge of the terrace and watched him pack his identification kit away. “I appreciate all the trouble you’re going through for me. If I can do anything for you, let me know.”
“We’ll work out a trade,” he said, and winked. “Maybe you can set me and your friend up.”
“My friend?”
“Patricia. My kind of woman. She married?”
“She’s not.” I had a feeling he was the hunky fellow she was describing when she told me Rusty had hired a couple of new guys. “I don’t think you need me to set you up,” I said. “She works at the bakeshop most days starting midmorning and bakes the best cakes and cupcakes I’ve ever eaten. And I’ve eaten a lot of cupcakes in my day.”
“Thanks for the intel.” He strode back to his car whistling a cheery tune, tossed his tool kit in, and took off.
I returned to the kitchen and washed up the mugs and plates. Hannah dried as we chatted about the mystery surrounding Minnie’s murder, Shilo’s behavior of late, and everything else.
“You’ll be at the library tomorrow morning, right?” I said. “What day does Brianna usually come in?”
The thing I love about Hannah is I never need to explain anything to the girl. She’s so quick on the uptake, it’s frightening sometimes.
“She’ll come any time I tell her I’ve got a new batch of entertainment magazines. Mom is getting me some in Batavia today. I could text Brianna to come on in tomorrow morning. What do you want me to find out?”
I chuckled. “I’m going to have to find a new nickname for you. You’re far too clever to be a Watson or Hastings.” I sobered and took the dried dishes, stowing them in the cupboards, then sat down at the table. “I need as much as I can get about Brianna, Logan, and Karl. It seems to me that Karl is as likely a suspect as anyone, but I’m getting conflicting stories. The boys told me that Karl said he walked out after a quarrel with Minnie the night before she was murdered, but though I didn’t have time to follow up with Brianna last night, she told me that Minnie kicked the guy out. It can’t be both. I would like to know what was said, what they argued about, that kind of thing. Do you feel comfortable finding out? I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”
“I’ll see what I can find out without tipping her off.”
“Perfect.”
Hannah’s parents arrived. We unloaded all the groceries they bought me, then settled up finan
cially, since I owed them a bit more than I had given her. I insisted on giving them gas money, too; it only seemed fair given the huge favor they had done. I hugged Hannah good-bye and they drove away.
This had all gone on long enough, this multidirectional turmoil in my life. Shilo was upset and no one knew why. I was going to get to the bottom of that. Emerald was angry at me, and the rift between Lizzie and her had reappeared, and all because of some fake wannabe swami. Someone had killed Minnie for whatever reason, and someone appeared to be trying to kill me, too; they might—or might not—be the same person.
I had enough. If I was a catalyst, as Doc claimed, I was darn well going to be a catalyst in all directions.
Chapter Fourteen
It was as good a time as any to take my banged-up car to the fellow who looks after it for me, a lackadaisical and oddball mechanic named Ford (short for Rutherford) Hayes. He considers cars the greatest invention of mankind, behind only the wheel and fire. On the way I would drop in on Aimee Jollenbeck, who could tell me more about Crystal Rouse, and why she had brought Consciousness Calling to little old Autumn Vale, rather than a larger city.
I sat outside Aimee Jollenbeck’s home, a slightly ragged-looking bungalow on a street of other ragged-looking bungalows on the outskirts of town, and wondered how to approach her. I had no right to bother the woman. She might be ill, she might be sleeping, she might wish she’d never heard of Crystal Rouse, or she might in secret be her best friend and behind what felt like a scam, to me: the whole three-hundred-dollar consciousness-clearing exercise.
But I’d never know if I didn’t ask.
Feeling like a hapless vacuum cleaner saleslady, I hoisted my purse like a shield, locked the car, and marched up the weedy walk to the house. I tapped on the aluminum door and waited. I was about to tap again when the inside door creaked open and a woman peeked out.
“Aimee Jollenbeck?” I said, staring through the screen.
“Yeah.” She yawned, scratching her stomach and tugging down her top, a striped multicolored T-shirt she had paired with pajama pants that were patterned with images of hot air balloons. “Can I help you?”
“You don’t know me, but we have mutual acquaintances. I believe you’re friends with Crystal Rouse?”
She stilled in midscratch. “Who are you? Did Crystal send you?”
Gauging her alarmed reaction, I swiftly said, “Not at all. I barely know the woman, though I am friends with Emerald.”
“So what do you want? I don’t have anything to say about Crystal.”
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m so sorry; I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Merry Wynter.”
“I’ve heard about you. You inherited Wynter Castle, right?”
“Yes, I did. I know your stepsister Helen Johnson. She’s been out to the castle for tea a few times.”
“Okay. Yeah, Helen.” She yawned. “I don’t sleep well, so I was napping, and you woke me up.” She retreated from the door.
Taking that as all the invitation I was going to get, I stepped into the dim interior, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed through the front door. I closed it behind me and turned the lock, then followed her past closed doors down a dark hall to a sunny back kitchen in what was probably an addition to the tiny bungalow. The cooking area was U-shaped, with a breakfast bar on one end near a tiny dining area.
She entered the cooking space and plugged in an electric kettle. “You drink tea?”
“I do.” I looked up and noticed teapots lining the top of her eighties-style cupboards. My own collection was more elegant, but hers was whimsical. She had a Mother Goose, a mama cat in an apron, a Noah’s Ark, an old-style stove, and many more figural teapots. I chatted her up about them, pointing out the ones I liked as the kettle came to a boil and she threw two teabags in a big old Brown Betty, probably the best teapot ever made for actually brewing tea.
She seemed more relaxed. Bonding over teapots will do that to a gal. I examined her as she fixed our mugs, hers a chipped one that said, There’s a Chance This Is Vodka. I got a plain pink one. She perched on the other bar stool, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from under an ashtray, and lit one, letting out a long puff of smoke with a satisfied sigh. She glanced over at me as she tapped some ash off her cigarette into the ashtray with a practiced move. “So, what do you want from me?”
“I understand you’re involved in the Consciousness Calling, uh . . . group?”
“Was,” she said taking a long drag, and then a big gulp of hot tea.
“I’m not sure I understand anything about it, but I’m concerned about Emerald’s involvement, and I’m looking for information. Their website didn’t tell me a whole lot.”
“You think she’s making a mistake?”
I watched her eyes. She had settled into amused detachment.
“What business is it of yours anyway?” she asked, when I didn’t answer.
I thought about that. What business was it of mine to interfere if Emerald was happy with what she was doing? None, maybe. But of all the regrets I had lately, the most poignant were for the things I had not said or done. I couldn’t explain that without explaining a hundred other things about me, my life, and coming to Autumn Vale. “Emerald and her daughter are my friends. I’ve met Crystal and I’m not sure how I feel about her. I’m worried about Em and Lizzie, especially since Crystal is living in their house.”
She nodded, pursed her lips, and blew out a stream of smoke as she stubbed her cigarette out. “Let’s go and sit in the garden. I want to see if my cats are around.”
The garden turned out to be a weedy patch of grass surrounding by tall cedars that blocked the view of every other yard, though I could hear things: a Weed eater somewhere, a dog barking, a baby crying, someone hammering on something metal. We sat in PVC chairs on a patio stone square at the back of the yard, our tea mugs on a glass-topped table stained with mug rings.
A big tabby male wandered in and sat at the edge of the patio licking himself, one foot pointing up to the sky, as a dainty calico stepped toward him, rubbed her body along him, then headed straight for Aimee and jumped on her lap with no warning.
“So, you and Helen are stepsisters?” I eyed Aimee, who had frizzy blonde dyed hair pulled back in a ragged ponytail and wore outlandish color combinations. Helen was always obsessively neat, her short gray hair groomed, clad in tweed and pearls. Probably slept in a skirt suit. “You don’t seem to have much in common.”
“She’s my half sister, actually, the result of my dad marrying after my mom died, and having a second family. I don’t have a lot in common with them, but Helen and I get along all right. She got me a job at the church, and I appreciate that. It’s nice and quiet. I clean, do repairs, and help in the office. When my ex took off, he left everything a mess financially, and the ratfink doesn’t pay me a cent. So . . .” She shrugged.
“From what I understand, Consciousness Calling is a franchise business. Did you go to San Diego to look into that?”
“You have done your homework, haven’t you? Busy little nosy bee.” She had carried her smokes and ashtray out and fired up another from a psychedelic-patterned Bic lighter. The calico took offense, wrinkling her little nose and jumping down, running off into the cedars, from which she glared out at us. “I heard about it from a friend online, so we met at the conference, but I knew damn well I couldn’t afford a franchise.”
I thought about my next question. Her expression seemed wary and watchful. “So you met Crystal there, at the conference, and she came back here with you?”
“Not quite. My friend flaked off early—said it sounded like a bunch of hooey, so she went home. I spent the money to go, so I decided I may as well see it through. I met Crystal the first day, and we hit it off; she can be a real hoot when she’s had a couple of margaritas. I came home thinking we
’d stay in touch on Facebook, through e-mail, you know. A week later she showed up on my doorstep.”
“Why didn’t you tell her to take off? Didn’t that seem kind of pushy to show up uninvited?”
Her expression was shuttered as she drained her tea mug and set it down with a bang. “Hey, she was fun in San Diego, so I figured why not?” She stubbed out her cigarette, crushing it until it shredded and the filter wrinkled into a wad of stuffing.
I wasn’t buying it; there seemed to be an undercurrent of anger in what she said and did. I thought about what she’d said so far. “I went to the information meeting last night. Helen was there. I thought maybe she was checking it out for you.”
Aimee nodded. “I wondered what was going down. Crystal’s making a pretty penny off of it, from what Helen tells me.”
“She is. But what happens when she’s made everything she can?” Aimee just looked blank. “I don’t like how she’s treating my friend,” I said. “And I don’t like what I’ve heard about how she is laughing behind people’s backs about the information she gets from them while they’re experiencing her . . . one of those sessions. Sounds like a form of hypnosis to me. Does she actually have a franchise? If she’s using Consciousness Calling materials and their name and techniques, she must, right?”
Her plain pale face betrayed some internal struggle. Her gaze flicked away, and she took out another cigarette, lighting it with slightly shaky hands. “Okay, you did not hear this from me, but no, she doesn’t have a franchise. They wanted ten thousand before you could set up and use the techniques we learned during the conference.”
“Techniques?”
She blinked, took a long drag, and got up, saying, “I need another cup of tea.”
“Aimee, please . . . Can you tell me anything about these techniques? I don’t understand why Emerald has turned against me. There’s something called a DTP, a downwardtrending person, and Crystal called me that. What makes a Consciousness Calling devotee label someone that? Can you tell me anything?”
Much Ado About Muffin Page 17
