Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery)

by Hamilton, Victoria

  “Zeke, back to Dinah Hooper . . . I understand her son, Dinty, lived here with her for a while. When did he leave? And why?”

  Gordy sniffed and crossed his arms, while Zeke ruminated for a long moment, then said, “You had to know Dinty. He was a troublesome sort. Him and Tom . . . they didn’t get along at all. Not at all.”

  “Okay, so they didn’t get along. Is that why Dinty left town?”

  “You could say that. I heard it all,” Gordy said. “Tom, in front of everyone, told Dinty he better keep his shifty eyes off Binny, or he’d give him what for. Dinty called her a name, Tom lit into him, and the next day Dinty packed up his Jeep and headed out of town. Dinah said he had talked about heading out west to Denver to get a job in construction. Autumn Vale didn’t have the right kind of opportunities for a guy like him.”

  Zeke rolled his eyes. “Otisville is the only place with opportunities for a guy like that.”

  “Otisville?”

  “Federal prison,” Gordy filled in.

  As Shilo chased down the last scraps of her pancakes, spearing them with little grunts of satisfaction, I rose, strolling over to Junior Bradley. I had no idea how to approach him, but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. “Hi,” I said, then had a brainstorm. I’d ask about my uncle’s desire to create a condo community, and whether zoning had been approved! It seemed like a great conversation starter. “I understand that you’re the local zoning commissioner. My name is Merry Wynter, the new owner of Wynter Castle. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment.” I was about to slide into the empty seat opposite him when he abruptly stood up, folding his newspaper and tucking it under his arm.

  “I don’t talk business in public. Call and make an appointment,” he said, towering over me. He was a big guy. He thrust a card at me just before striding off, weaving through the variety-store section at the front.

  Business card in hand, I stared off after him. What a grouch! I had hoped to start with the zoning, then slide in a couple of questions about his relationship with Tom Turner, but maybe it would be better if I did so in private. Hannah had presented him as a possible killer, though, so I sure wasn’t going alone. I’d drag someone with me, preferably male; maybe Jack McGill.

  Junior Bradley didn’t look like someone I wanted to mess with, but I could understand why he didn’t want to talk in the local luncheonette. Talking business in the open in a small town was probably not a good policy unless you wanted that business spread through the gossip mill. Anyway, I was sure that Virgil would have heard about the fight between him and Tom, and questioned him about it. But it still would be worth my while to talk to Junior. I returned to my table but just shook my head when Shilo asked me what happened.

  Gordy and Zeke ambled off, stopping at our table to say an awkward good-bye, as Gordy ogled a final eyeful of Shilo. Zeke angled for an invitation to the castle, and I brushed off his hints by saying that once I had some of the changes made and the cleanup accomplished, I’d be inviting the whole town to come have a look.

  After lunch we headed back to Wynter Castle. Virgil and the team were still there, and I didn’t even want to think about what they were doing, or if they had removed Tom Turner’s poor, broken body. It was like this sore spot that I was avoiding touching or acknowledging, too awful to even think about. But as Shilo turned off the car—it always stuttered and yammered and banged before it actually shut down—Virgil headed toward us. We got out and waited, leaning on the hood.

  “Your car is still hammering away,” I commented to Shilo. “You ought to have that thing looked at.”

  She frowned and squinted at the car. “It’s getting worse. Oh well, if it breaks down, it breaks down.” Her insouciance was part of her charm.

  “Ladies,” Virgil said, striding up to us. “I need to ask you a few questions.” He frowned and looked over at Shilo’s car. “You realize your car is making a funny noise?”

  “Ignore it,” I said airily. “It always makes funny noises.”

  He cocked his head. “Does it always yell ‘Help, help, help’?” He raced around to the trunk. “Open this up!” he yelled.

  Shilo, eyes wide, got out her key, dashed to the rear of the car, and jiggled it in the lock. I joined them just as the trunk lid sprang open and we found a girl curled up in the trunk, gasping for air.

  She clambered out and blasted us with an icy look. “I almost died in there!” she yelled.

  Fists on his hips, Virgil glared at us. “You want to explain this?”

  “I know you!” I said, pointing at the girl. “You’re Lizzie; I met you at Golden Acres. Shilo, why did you have Lizzie locked in your trunk?” I know I shouldn’t have said that; it made Shi look bad. But it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing she’s ever had in her trunk. I’m just saying . . . you never know with Shilo.

  “I didn’t put her in there,” she said pointedly, and switched her glare to the girl. “Why were you in my trunk?”

  Note she did not ask her how she got in there, she asked why. I told you about her car being a rattletrap, and that extended to the anti-theft system; a teething two-year-old could pop that lock.

  “How should I know you didn’t have one of those lock-release thingies that are supposed to prevent people from dying in freaking car trunks,” Lizzie grumbled, brushing off her plaid skirt and black leggings. “You should clean it out, you know,” she said, pulling a wad of old gum out of her frizzy, dark hair. She tugged her hair back into an elastic. “It’s like a landfill site in there, and smells like a petting zoo.”

  “Well, pardon me! I didn’t know anyone was moving in.”

  Virgil had been monitoring the exchange with a wary look, which had now turned weary. “Lizzie, why did you climb in the trunk?”

  The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, duh . . . so I could come out here and get a good look at the castle. I’ve been out walking in these woods a lot,” she said, waving her hand around to take in the whole of the Wynter Woods, “but I’ve never been able to break into . . . uh . . .” She trailed off, and shifted gears, finishing with, “That is, I’ve never gotten to see the inside of the castle.”

  She had a camera around her neck, a really good camera. I squinted at her with, I’ll admit it, some suspicion. I was remembering Gogi’s story about the girl having to do community service because she spray-painted on gravestones. “Why didn’t you just ask me if you could come out and have a look?”

  She shrugged. Virgil’s puzzled gaze shifted from one of us to the next.

  “Shi, why don’t you take her inside and feed her muffins,” I suggested, “while I talk to the sheriff.”

  “Sure. Want to meet my bunny?” Shilo said, leading the girl away.

  “As long as that’s not code for something weird,” Lizzie said, trudging after her.

  “I’ll be in soon,” I yelled after them. Shilo waved without looking back. “And don’t let her out of your sight.”

  “I won’t,” Lizzie shot back.

  I chuckled and shook my head. “I know a bit about her story,” I said, turning to Virgil. “Gogi told me she was caught spray-painting gravestones.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, not good, I know; her mom is a piece of work. Just showed back up in Autumn Vale a year or so ago with Lizzie in tow, after being gone for years. Lizzie will not say why she was vandalizing tombstones.”

  I turned and watched Shilo and Lizzie as they entered the castle. “I heard that she’s living with her grandmother?”

  “Yeah, her mom’s mom. No one knows who Lizzie’s dad is, or even if he’s local. The dad could be some dude her mother picked up wherever she took off to after high school.”

  One more mystery in a town that seemed to offer them by the gross. “What do you want to know, Sheriff?”

  He took me back through my interaction with Tom, and even my brief encounters with Binny, giving me no hint what he was looking for. I also told him all that I’d heard in town, about Junior Bradley and Tom Turner’s fight a while
ago. When I was done, he shook his head.

  “Keep everything locked up tight, okay? There was another break-in last night not too far from here, just a farmer’s shed, but I want you to be careful.”

  “Maybe that was Tom’s killer, have you thought of that?”

  With a disgusted look on his face, he said, carefully, “Well, Miss Big City, no, gee golly gosh, I never would have thought that a break-in and a murder the same night might be connected. Thank you so much for pointing that out.”

  Okay, he had a point. He turned and started walking away.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” I called after him. “Do you have any leads? Are you going to interview Junior Bradley? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t comment on that,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you can’t comment?” I raced after him and caught his sleeve. “I’m not a reporter, for crying out loud; I’m the one who found Tom’s body.”

  “All the more reason.” And he was gone, off talking to the team, which appeared to be wrapping up. I watched as they moved Tom’s body, bagged in black, into the hearse and cleaned up the area of all of their tools. It was sobering, and left me with the familiar desire to leave, to run away from sorrow. It tugged at my heart, urging me to abandon ship. So far, life in Autumn Vale had been such a mixed bag of fear, sadness, and bafflement that I just didn’t know what to make of it all.

  Just as the hearse started to clear out and the cops looked like they’d be doing the same soon, Jack McGill booted up the lane in his Smart car. Together we watched the hearse drive off, then I said, “Want to come in? A teenage girl named Lizzie is here; she kind of hitched a ride with us. Maybe you can take her back to town.”

  “Lizzie Proctor? I know who you mean.” He looked toward the castle. “Troubled girl. Doesn’t get along with anyone.”

  “Neither do I,” I grumbled. I was tired and completely worn out. “You people have the strangest little town I’ve ever seen.”

  As we walked toward the castle, I asked him about Dinah Hooper, telling him what Isadore Openshaw had said. “But Dinah seemed like an okay woman to me. What does Isadore have against her?” I could not believe their feud was over catnip mice.

  “Beats me. Isadore is a little odd. Never married. Has cats. Lives alone.”

  “And that makes her odd?” I challenged. “Good lord, McGill, I thought better of you than that.”

  He held up both hands in protest. “That’s not me!” he protested. “I’m just repeating what the locals have been saying. Even folks at the bank find her odd. My mom knows her from book club and says she’s kind of got a conspiracy-theory paranoia. Thinks people are watching her home. She moved here about ten years ago to take care of her brother, and when he died, she stayed.”

  “So she’s not a born-and-bred local?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. She certainly has the Autumn Vale stamp of peculiarity.” I glanced over at McGill, but he didn’t seem offended by my grumpy honesty. We circled the castle and entered through the butler’s pantry door to find Shilo and Lizzie sitting together companionably, eating muffins and drinking milk. McGill’s eyes lit up when he saw Shilo, but first he said, “Hey, Lizzie. How’s school going this year? You’re a junior, right?”

  “I’m just the belle of the ball, y’know? Half the boys in love with me, the girls all jealous bitches. Five dates lined up for junior prom already. Which lucky guy shall I choose as my escort? And gee whiz, will he bring me a wrist corsage?”

  I cocked my head and examined her. She had a definite edge to her, but I’d bet she was smarter than any of the kids in her class. If I didn’t watch it, I’d find myself liking her. “Why aren’t you in school today?”

  “Got suspended.”

  “Already?” I exclaimed.

  “Yup. New record.”

  “Hi, McGill,” Shilo said, throwing him a muffin. “Sit. Eat!”

  “Be honest,” I said, sitting down. “Why did you hide out in Shi’s trunk, Lizzie?”

  She chewed and swallowed a bit of her muffin, drank some milk, made a face, and set her glass down carefully. “I think I know who killed Tom Turner.”

  Chapter Twelve

  OF COURSE WE all shouted at once, but since we all shouted different things it was kind of a scramble of “Who?” “How do you know?” and “What did you see?”

  I was the one who shouted “Who?”

  Lizzie looked a little scared, and Magic, the bunny, who had been sitting quietly munching on a carrot—I didn’t mention that before, did I?—squeaked and jumped off the table.

  I put up my hands for silence, let Lizzie finish her last bite, and said, calmly, “Who do you think killed Tom Turner?”

  “That weirdo Gordy Shute,” she mumbled.

  “Gordy?” I was puzzled. “Why would Gordy kill Tom Turner?”

  Lizzie looked calmly across the table to McGill. “Why don’t you tell her?”

  The real estate agent looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lizzie.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on! I’ve only been here a year, and I know about this old crap. Everyone knows that Tom was always a big old bully, and that he used to pick on Gordy back in high school.”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked. “That was forever ago, if they were teenagers.”

  “It’s a small town,” Lizzie said. “People still talk about the earthquake of 1957 as if it happened last week.”

  I blew air out through pursed lips. The amount I didn’t know about living in a small town . . . well, it was a tonnage. I eyed her with some respect; the kid was smart. Could a grudge live that long in the incubating atmosphere of Autumn Vale? Did proximity fester rage?

  Shilo was staring at McGill. “Did you go to school with them, Tom and Gordy and Zeke?”

  He was kind of pinkish as he said, “I went to school in another town, a . . . a religious school.”

  He seemed embarrassed. Maybe in Autumn Vale that made him an oddball? In New York, every second kid went to Hebrew school, a Roman Catholic academy, or a new age arts school. “Just because Tom bullied Gordy,” I said, “it doesn’t mean that Gordy would want to kill the guy, Lizzie.” To her, high school was the current state of her suffering, but about fifteen years later? Folks might remember that Tom was a bully, but the feelings from past events could not be running as hot. It was possible though, that there was a more current tension between them.

  “Whatever,” Lizzie said, shrugging her shoulders. “Are you going to show me around this place, or what?”

  I stared at her, bemused by her moodiness. “How old are you?”

  “How old are you?” she shot back.

  Shilo suppressed a snort.

  McGill, two spots of red on his gaunt cheeks, said, “Lizzie, you might want to try being polite for a change.”

  “She has a point,” I said, watching her. “Why should she answer, unless I’m willing to do the same? I’m thirty-nine. And three-quarters.”

  Her eyes widened. “Geez, my mom is only thirty-two. I turned fifteen a month ago.”

  “Happy belated birthday. Was the camera a gift?”

  “You could say that.”

  Not exactly a straightforward answer, but maybe it was none of my business. I was not going to be bullied in my own castle, however, by a teenager with bad manners. “Lizzie, you might want to consider this; you have a long life to live ahead of you. At the rate you’re offending people, you’re going to run out of folk to talk to before you’re twenty.”

  Shilo snickered and McGill smiled.

  “That doesn’t matter because I’m going to be out of this hick town the moment I turn eighteen.”

  “Where are you going to go?” Shilo asked.

  “New York, where people actually have lives,” she grumbled, slumping down in her chair.

  “Look, I know being fifteen can suck at times,” I said. “Been there, done that. But like it or not, you’re stuck here fo
r at least another three years, right? Not everyone is out to make you miserable, and it’s up to you to figure out who might be an ally, and who just needs to be ignored.”

  She was silent, for once, and looked like she might actually be thinking about that.

  “Gogi Grace is an ally; you’ve already figured that out, I think.”

  More silence.

  “Besides, even in New York you have to be nice to people sometimes,” I said. “Now, do you want to rephrase your request for a tour?”

  She watched my eyes, fiddling with her camera. “Okay. Can I see the castle? Please?”

  “That’s better. Sure.” I left McGill and Shilo to flirt cautiously in the kitchen, and I took the kid on a tour. I even let her take photos. As we left one of the bedrooms—not mine or Shilo’s . . . I left those out of the tour—I said to her, “No Facebooking them, okay? No sharing them at all without my permission, and that goes for anything on my property.” I thought it best to lay the groundwork so there would be no misunderstandings later.

  She shrugged. “My grandma doesn’t have Internet access,” she said, “and no one will buy me a cell phone. So I don’t have Facebook or anything. I’m a pariah.”

  A pariah . . . how did she even know that word? What an odd girl! “Just putting it out there. What do you photograph?” I asked as we moved back down the stairs to the main hallway.

  She didn’t answer until she had framed and taken a photo of the rose window, and the double oak doors. Then she sat down on the steps. “Wanna see?” I sat beside her and together we scrolled through all the photos on her SLR digital camera. She took all kinds of pictures . . . people, places, and nature. She was pretty good. Better at framing photos than me, that was for sure.

  “Where is that?” I asked, as she scrolled to a photo of a wooded area, and a sad, leaning tent spotted with mildew.

  “That’s in your woods . . . or I think it’s probably your woods,” she said. “I don’t know where the property line is, or anything. There’s a few trails. I followed one, and then there’s kind of a clearing beneath a hill; that’s where this camp is. Creepy. All kinds of crap there . . . old tins, clothes, other stuff.” She brought up an interesting photo of a burned-out fire, with a can of beans, the label charred and the lid half opened.