Zeke nodded. “We watched an old movie and Gordy fell asleep on the sofa. I had to wake him up and make him go to bed, because I knew I couldn’t leave him there, since Karl would need it.” He looked over at Karl, who still stood, watchful. “You went out that night and came back late.”
“Where did you go, Karl?” I asked. “Did you use Gordy’s car that night?”
“Merry, what is this about?” Pish asked. “Is it to do with—”
I held up my hand, and he stopped abruptly. “Karl?”
“I’ve heard all about your reputation, lady,” Karl said with a sneer. “You think you’re some kind of detective.”
Gordy looked uneasy; I assumed that information came from him. “No, I’m no detective, Karl. But you can’t deflect the question by attacking.”
“I don’t remember what I was doing that night, and I’ve never driven Gordy’s car. Why are you asking?”
“What’s going on, Merry?” Gordy bleated plaintively.
Hopefully Dewayne would have his paint chip results back and would answer my message. I’d definitely ask him the color, and if there was any Bondo in the mix. But until then, I’d shut my mouth. It was enough to know Karl was out of the apartment and wouldn’t explain where he’d been. “It’s nothing.”
Chapter Eighteen
Once Gordy, Karl, and Zeke left, I washed dishes with Pish, and we talked. I told him all I had learned and discovered. He was so happy for Shilo, and felt guilty for not noticing and helping. I asked him his thoughts on Crystal, whether he figured a con artist—which was what I thought her—would be capable of killing someone they feared was onto them.
“It’s possible. Most scammers aren’t violent; they rely on their wits to get out of tight situations. But many violent folks are con artists, if you know what I mean.”
“I get you. There are a lot of loose ends, I suppose.” I told him briefly what Hannah had learned about Minnie having a child. “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the murder, even though Casey is the heir. Nobody’s heard of him or her.” I paused. “I’ve heard that Minnie was romancing some other guy online, though I don’t know who. Online romances sometimes end badly.” I sighed. “I have to think the most logical suspects are Crystal, Karl, Brianna, and/or Logan.”
“But I’m sure the FBI are looking further afield, and most fiercely at Roma.”
“We know she didn’t do it, Pish. It’ll be okay.” I gave him a side hug, keeping my soapy hands off his lovely jacket. To distract him, I said, “I can’t believe the difference in Roma’s voice. What made you think of ‘Sola, Perdutta, Abandonatta’ for her to sing?”
“You did, indirectly, when you asked if there was another piece that would make use of the break in her voice.” He dried a bowl and set it on the counter, staring absently out the window, where the autumn sunset blazed. “It was the feeling of Sola that called to me, the sense of desperate woe; Roma is unhappy, and she’s an emotional singer.”
I was taken aback; unhappy? I hadn’t seen that. Upset, yes, scared, maybe, but unhappy? “I guess you’d know better than I. What makes you say she’s unhappy?”
“She misses her life in New York City. I thought being here would be good for her, but she feels isolated.”
“I guess I can understand that. I may have felt the same if you and Shilo hadn’t followed and stayed here with me.” I glanced at him, then grabbed another bowl out of the soapy water and scrubbed. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You don’t even need to say it, my darling. I know how you feel.”
“Still . . . thank you.”
“Even despite bringing Roma here?”
“I’ve been a jerk about that. I’m sorry. She needed you, and you were there for her. That’s what you do.”
He smiled and took the dripping bowl from my hand, getting to work drying it. “You’d be horrified if you knew my thoughts completely . . . how the castle would be a wonderful summer home for the Lexington Opera Company, and their orchestra. Kind of like the Tanglewood estate is to the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”
I shuddered. “Good lord, Pish, don’t even mention that. We don’t have adequate facilities, anyway.”
“I suppose,” he said, eyeing me speculatively. “Though a philanthropist might chip in.”
I didn’t like when he got that look. But his next words were innocuous enough.
“So what about the party you want to have, the one-year celebration?” he asked.
“I thought of a musical open house rather than a big party. In fact, I thought maybe you could play the piano, and Roma could sing.”
He set the dry bowl down and took the next one from my dripping hands. “Would you consider leaving some planning to me?”
“Pish, you always go overboard,” I said, a little alarmed at the thought of my friend planning things. We’d end up with flame swallowers and jugglers, Renaissance dancers, and that darn opera company to boot, if I didn’t keep a tight rein on him.
“I’ll put ideas together and present them to you before I do anything. I know I tend to be a little extravagant, but my darling, I’d be paying for it.”
“No. Pish, just . . . no. I want this local and homegrown, not New York or Broadway. I don’t mind Roma, since she’s staying here, but we’re not flying in an opera company or ordering food or décor from the city.”
“I am shocked—shocked, I say—that you think so poorly of me,” he said, with a chuckle. “And . . . you caught me. Okay, local and homegrown. And on another topic . . . have you figured out how you’re going to afford to keep the castle?”
I sighed and thrust my hands into the hot, soapy water. “Not really. I’ll put the word out to the film companies again, use any old contacts I can scare up.” A production company had used Wynter Castle last winter to film externals for a historical movie, and maybe other people would be interested. Even our interiors would be suitable, and the pay was good, though it was a lot of trouble and turmoil having a film crew around.
We finished the dishes, Pish took some food up to Roma—another wedge from the huge Brie wheel I had in the fridge, and some water crackers—then we took our tea into the parlor. It’s a cozy room tucked between the dining room and kitchen, furnished with antiques from the castle’s own collection, with the addition of some pieces I had bought from Janice. Wine-colored Victorian curtains drape the windows, and a faded Persian rug warms the floor; an antique settee and two slipper chairs surround a low rosewood table, which holds my silver tea set, a wedding gift from Maria Paradiso. I no longer looked upon it with chagrin, since we had made our peace.
We talked about other schemes for making enough money to keep the castle going, but they mostly involved turning it into a hotel, an inn, or a conference center. I am not, by nature, a hotelier, something reaffirmed for me when I hosted a group of elderly ladies last spring.
“Have you ever thought of asking the locals their opinion?”
“What I should do to keep the castle? I’d be afraid to ask.”
He shrugged. “You’re thick-skinned; you can take some insults. You may be surprised by what they come up with.”
I sipped tea and pondered it. “What about running a What Shall We Do Next? contest?”
He loved the idea, and we discussed prizes, like a stay in the castle during Halloween, or a dinner for two in the dining room. But my mind kept racing around my other entanglements. I had never divulged to Pish what Virgil told me about his ex-wife and his problems with Kelly’s father, and I wasn’t about to. That was private. Pish and Shilo are my best friends, but there are some lines we don’t cross, mostly to do with our personal affairs, love and otherwise.
Minnie’s murder was still on my mind, though, and so was his darling diva. “Pish, you know I don’t think Roma is capable of Minnie’s murder, bu
t nonetheless, we are left with some troubling facts.” I watched his eyes, and noticed how he withdrew the moment I said her name. “She won’t tell us where she was the morning of Minnie’s death, nor the evening I was run off the road. Both times she had your car. And now your car has a dinged front end.”
He nodded, slid a glance over at me, and sipped his tea. But didn’t answer.
I sighed. “Doc tells me that you’ve been kept busy stomping out the fires Roma sets with her behavior toward people. She offends people so easily, it’s second nature to her, and I know sometimes she doesn’t even realize it. But sometimes she does know what she’s doing. She’s a pure narcissist—you have to admit that. She could have angered any number of people that we don’t even know of.”
“True. But none of that says why she’d kill Minnie. She doesn’t have that violence in her.”
“Okay, we’ll leave that for now. I don’t think she did it; maybe whoever killed Minnie intended Roma to take the blame. I think the likeliest motives for Minnie’s murder are money or revenge, given that she doesn’t seem the type to inspire love or lust.”
He cast me a censorious look.
“Pish, I’m not saying that because she was old or heavy, I’m saying it because she was a thoroughly unpleasant woman to almost everyone.”
“But we know for a fact that she had begun dating. She hooked up with Dewayne—”
“—who was only dating her to investigate her activity at the post office,” I interjected.
“—and by your own words supposedly had another gentlemen on the hook.”
I shook my head, unable to fathom it. I know how people can behave differently when they want to impress someone, but Minnie . . . It was too bizarre for me to imagine because she was so unpleasant to almost everyone. “Be reasonable, Pish; her murder had the hallmarks of something personal, yes, but something motivated by hate. She had enemies and seemed to enjoy taunting them. Take Crystal Rouse: Minnie was peeved that Crystal was taking over Brianna. Brianna and Logan are at every Consciousness Calling meeting, from what I understand, and thus were moving away from Minnie’s sphere of influence. Minnie treated Brianna, Logan, and Karl as kind of a pseudo-family, so I assume she was angry that Brianna was having the wool pulled over her eyes. I’m kind of with Minnie on that; Crystal is a fraud. One of the possibilities I’ve been thinking about is, if Crystal wanted Minnie dead, maybe she wouldn’t do it herself, but she’d talk someone else into doing it.”
“Like one of those three kids.”
I shared what Zeke had told me. “That’s why at dinner I was asking Karl where he was that morning, and wondering about Gordy’s car.”
“Charismatic leadership can have its dark side. Consider Charles Manson and what he got his followers to do. Not that I’m saying Crystal is like Manson, but you get what I mean.”
“I do.”
“A charismatic leader has a hold over his or her followers and could, potentially, convince a follower that it’s in their best interest to get rid of someone threatening them in some way. You’ve met Crystal; do you think she has that kind of charisma?”
I pondered that. “Not to me. At least, not for long.”
“The magnetism of a charismatic leader doesn’t affect everyone. Some are immune.”
“Emerald seems wholly taken with her, and Brianna, too. Why does she leave me cold, and yet others are taken in?”
“A charismatic leader—and I’m lumping suave salesmen and con artists into that group—is one who can swiftly identify what people want and need to hear. They use it to motivate that person or group to do whatever they want, or to buy what they want them to buy. Those vulnerable want something badly, and the leader has to be able to figure out what that is, and sell it to them, whether that’s leadership, money, confidence . . . or snake oil.”
“Crystal focused on her listeners getting what they want out of life in the way of wealth and personal satisfaction.” I was more worried about what else I suspected Crystal was up to, but I didn’t want to get into it. “Well, I ain’t buying what she’s selling. I’m worried that if Crystal is conning people as I believe she is, how that may impact Emerald in the long run. It’s funny, you know—Lizzie is just fifteen, but she sees through Crystal as if the woman is glass.”
He smiled. “I like her sturdy irascibility; it will take her far. Be careful, Merry. Crystal is positioning you as the adversary. She’s gained a foothold with our friend, and that’s hard to break. If you let her sideline you as the enemy, Emerald will be lost.”
I nodded and yawned. “I have a phone call to make, and then it’s sleep for me.” I stood.
He did, too, and hugged me. “I’m so glad you’re back, my dear, despite all this turmoil. I missed you.”
I went up to my room and called Lizzie’s grandmother’s home. Fortunately, I got Lizzie. “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“All right, I guess. I get under Grandma’s skin and on her last nerve, she says.”
“Hang tight and we’ll see what we can do about getting your mom back for you.” I told her that we needed some photos of Roma in the woods, in costume. “Could you do a photo shoot for Pish and Zeke tomorrow?”
“That would be awesome,” she said, her voice rising in excitement. “Ms. Toscano is amazing; it’s like watching a character from a movie, you know, like the snotty girl you hope gets taken down, but you kinda admire her balls.”
I laughed and agreed. “Most of us call that confidence, and sometimes people fake it, even when they don’t feel it.”
“Fake it ’til you make it,” she said.
“Exactly. I’ll come out and pick you up tomorrow.”
* * *
The next morning was one of those fall days that start out misty. Lizzie called me at the crack of dawn and said to pick her up right away because she wanted shots of the forest in the mist, to use for a photography contest she had found in a photo magazine. I stumbled out to the car in my pajamas and sleepily drove, yawning and complaining, even though in truth, I was happy to oblige. For a kid like Lizzie, who hadn’t had it easy, encouraging her passion for photography was the best thing I could do. I had known a lot of artists over the years, and every single one of them was sustained through times of trouble by their art; tormented, tortured occasionally, but sustained and carried, buoyed by their love of it. I saw that in Lizzie.
I barely pulled up to the castle when she darted from the Caddy and set out for the woods accompanied by Becket, who thought it was a grand game to leap ahead of her, wait, and then pounce into her path. I returned to the castle and baked muffins, the usual bran, apple, and cheddar, to take to Golden Acres and the coffee shop. I let them cool and went up to shower and change. When I descended, Karl, Zeke, and Gordy had just arrived. The boys were working already. Zeke was helping outdoors, since Roma was dressing for her photography session. Apparently Zeke was virtually done with the video for YouTube; all he had to do was slot in the photos Lizzie would be taking, and since he had a computer set up in the library, they were going to spend the rest of the day finishing it.
I packed up my muffins, leaving some out with a full urn of coffee for the folks, and left them all to it. It was midmorning. I drove into town at a sedate pace, noticing the changing colors of the leaves. Autumn would always be a special time for me at Wynter Castle and in Autumn Vale, and my conversation with Pish the night before had grounded me about my intentions. This was my home now, and I had to find a way both to keep it, and to ingratiate myself with the majority of Autumn Vale folks. I accepted that I would always have my detractors, and have learned the hard way that you can’t please everyone. I’d settle for making those I care about happy.
I drove along the familiar route, but saw a crew ahead with the crossroad blocked. And then I saw the reason! Something Binny had said came back to me, about Turner Construction moving a house for the county sheriff’s depar
tment. Sunday was probably chosen as a light traffic day. As another car pulled up behind me, I saw one of Virgil’s deputies, directing traffic. She approached and told me that yes, Turner Construction was moving the house to an empty plot of land, where it was going to be renovated for a young family who had bought it for one dollar. It would take ten minutes or so before the building was clear from the intersection.
By the end of the ten minutes I was bored and ready to start eating muffins as a way to pass the time, but finally I was allowed to move on. I dropped off muffins at the coffee shop, leaving them with the weekend manager. I told her I’d be back on a regular schedule, then drove to Golden Acres. I parked in back and came through the kitchen, carrying my muffins in, making sure they had what they needed, and then chatting with the kitchen manager, a woman who I’d befriended when I started supplying them with muffins.
“Is Brianna working today?” I asked, glancing around.
Her expression darkened, and for the next ten minutes I listened to her diatribe on why Brianna was about to get fired and how late she was. At the end of it the back door opened and Brianna sauntered in.
“You,” the kitchen manager yelled, her face red. “You’re a half hour late. I want to see you in the office, right now!”
Sullenly, she headed toward the office. I took the kitchen manager aside and asked if I could speak to the girl for a moment. She was hesitant, but said yes, so I followed Brianna into the office, a tiny windowless box about eight feet square, with just a metal desk and a couple of chairs. Boxed goods were stacked along the wall.
The girl was perched on a folding chair opposite the manager’s desk. “What do you want?” she asked, rifling through her purse and taking out a stick of gum, popping it in her mouth and chewing loudly.
I leaned on the desk and looked down at her. She was so young, just a few years older than Lizzie, despite her world-weary expression. “I want a word with you on Karl Mencken’s behalf.”
Much Ado About Muffin Page 23
