We chatted for a while . . . or rather, she raved, going over the same stuff she had told Pish, and I listened. I love the kid, but she can be a bit intense at times. Lizzie, a few years ago, had been dragged to Autumn Vale by her mother, Emerald, who grew up here. She had taken Lizzie away when she was a toddler and hadn’t been back, though Emerald’s mother lives in town. Starting over in a new place, Lizzie rebelled and got in trouble, spray-painting her grandfather’s tombstone, an act of anger at the world. Virgil, sheriff at the time, had given her a second chance; the sentence she served was community service at the retirement residence owned and operated by Virgil’s mother. Lizzie had been volunteering at the retirement home, Golden Acres, ever since, though she years ago had fulfilled her hours.
When I arrived in Autumn Vale Lizzie was a misfit among the local teens, most of whom had grown up together from toddlerhood. So Alcina, who didn’t go to the local school and was a few years younger than Lizzie, was once Lizzie’s only friend. She is an odd, lovely, artistic girl, given to flights of fancy that had her building fairy homes that Lizzie photographed, and spending a lot of time flitting through the forest. She told everyone that her mother was deathly ill; I pictured her rather like a wraith, a literal Mimi fading away in her garret. But that was apparently an exaggeration, for the woman seemed fine whenever I saw her, though distracted by the impending doom of her marriage and the business of making a living, not so easy to do when you live off the grid on a plot of land from which you eke out an existence growing and selling produce, flowers and herbs.
So the plot of land was now abandoned, according to Lizzie. I knew that once Alcina’s father left them for good, things went sour. Alcina was no longer homeschooled, or “unschooled,” which is apparently a thing, and had to attend the local high school. That academic institution seems to be, from Lizzie’s description, a combination of dystopian young adult fiction—think The Hunger Games—and a Sharks and Jets West Side Story dance-off, complete with knives. The two friends drifted apart as Alcina got in with a set of kids whose worst attributes, according again to my young friend Lizzie, was a penchant for short plaid kilts and aggressive eyeshadow.
“So I went away for a few weeks in the summer,” Lizzie said, “with Aunt Bin to check out colleges, and I come back, and Alcina is nowhere to be found. I gave it some time. I figured she and her mom would be back, but nothing. Nada. Zipolla.” She fiddled with her camera, which is never out of her hands. “What’s up with that? Alcina and her mom have disappeared off the face of the earth, and I can’t get anyone to listen to me,” she said, throwing a moody look over at Pish, who had perched on a stool by the long trestle table that ran down much of the length of my castle kitchen, sipping the aromatic brew made from his expensive imported roast. Good coffee like his apparently spoils you for normal brew; I’ve seen his decaffeinated panic when he’s out of it. I stick to grocery store brands for the most part.
I had made a pot of coffee and poured one for myself, then sipped it while I moved stuff around, tidying the seating area near the fireplace and adjusting the angle of the wing chairs in front of it. “Maybe they moved to Ridley Ridge?”
“I checked that out. Her mom got a job there for a while in the summer at the same bar where Mom works.” Emerald, her mother, has a fitful work history. She’s always trying new careers, but usually ends up back working as a cocktail waitress at the same lousy, seedy bar (which changed owners and names frequently) in that sad-sack town. “But Mom says she worked there a week in the kitchen, then disappeared. She had been talking about some new friends, a guy she had met in the bar when he marched in with a sign saying they were all going to hell.”
“Oh, hey! I know who that is,” I said, pausing in the act of pouring a second cup of my dark brew. “One of those guys yelled at me and called me a jezebel yesterday in downtown RiRi.” Yeah, I know; Riri is supposed to be Rihanna, the gorgeous Barbadian singer, right? But locally RiRi is Ridley Ridge. They don’t know from Rihanna. Musical preferences in that town tend toward Metallica and Korn.
“Called you a jezebel?” Pish said, frowning.
I told them the story, punctuated with laughter. But we sobered as the implications sank in. “If Alcina’s mom has been lured into that cult, I’m genuinely worried.”
Lizzie pushed her bushy mop of hair out of her eyes and fiddled with her camera. “Poor kid,” she said about her friend. “Her mom has dragged her through so much crap lately.”
I got up, turned the oven on, and began to ready my pans for the day’s muffin baking. I had a new recipe I was dying to try before the holiday season arrived, a mandarin orange cranberry chocolate chip combo inspired by a treat my grandmother’s English friend savored. If the recipe worked out, it might be a hit among my customers for winter!
A text chimed on my cell phone. It was Hannah, asking if she and Zeke could visit. They were worried about something and wanted to ask our opinion. I texted back, telling them I was at the castle. They were out and about and would be just a few minutes.
Hannah Moore, the Autumn Vale librarian, is one of my favorite people in the world. She carved her library out of an abandoned space on a tiny side street that was dreary to most but had become a haven for readers. Hannah is physically disabled, a tiny elfin woman who looks like a child until one sees the maturity in her eyes. She gets about in a motorized wheelchair, but once you get to know her, her attributes make one forget the chair and anything else but her magnificent brain and heart. Though she has the appearance of a mouse, she has the courage and heart of a lion.
Zeke, her lifelong friend and current companion, was one half of an odd friendship; Zeke and Gordy Shute had once been my stalwart helpers with the grounds maintenance of the castle, but both had since gone on to other jobs. Hannah and Zeke’s friendship deepened as she tutored him with lessons that helped him deal with his dyslexia, and had blossomed into something lovely and sweet and tender. I had always known he adored her, so it was no surprise. Zeke now lived with Hannah and her parents. Someday, maybe, they would marry.
Of course, as life changes, some folks get left behind. That is what had happened to Gordy, who always had trouble making friends, and who harbored odd conspiracy theories that he adamantly defended against external logic.
What could be worrying Hannah so much, I wondered, that they needed our opinions or help? I hoped it wasn’t Gordy.
Chapter Five
I popped muffins into the oven, then cleaned up. Pish changed the music on the system to Brahms, then went up to get dressed. Lizzie headed out with Becket and her camera to walk the property; it was a gorgeous day, and she had photos to take. She was doing, against her mother’s wishes, a gap year between high school and college, and her projects were intended to further her prestige and learning at photography school. She was documenting both aspects of the Wynter Woods property, the moving and reestablishing of old homes on my property, and the building of an arts community from the ground up. Emerald, her mother, was worried that Lizzie would lose focus, as she had, and never end up going to college.
I might have been similarly worried but I knew the ferocity of Lizzie’s ambition, and her gap year was intended to further it. She would have one shot at this, and didn’t want to be out of the loop. That’s ostensibly why she was at the castle this fine morning; she was photographing our progress for a book that she and Pish were working on together, called Building the Arts, which was going to be about the transformation of Wynter Woods into a purpose-built Tanglewood-like arts community. She had consulted with Pish about what photos he wanted as the project began to ramp up, he had given her a list, and she was intent on getting a start, as well as taking photos of the progress on the moved houses.
I looked out the back window and watched Lizzie, on her way back from taking pictures. I couldn’t even begin to imagine where life would take me in the next few years, except that I would always have my friends and my husband, and my home. It took me into my forties before I found lasting happ
iness—joy I had achieved before that was brief and fleeting—and now that I have it I’m holding on with both fists. No one and nothing will harm those I love, and the village I have come to call home.
And yet I am single-handedly responsible for many of the changes that will soon be wrought. We were almost ready to sign the first long-term leasehold: Blaq Mojo (birth name George Alan Bartholomew), a well-respected rapper and activist, was planning to lease one of our houses for his mother, one of the most famous opera divas of our time and the first African-American soprano for the Lexington Opera, Liliana Bartholomew. They weren’t going to arrive until near Christmas. For a time Liliana would stay in the castle. She and Mojo (as he is known to the public) hadn’t decided on which house to lease yet; she wanted to have a look before committing herself.
There was a good chance that Mojo would invest in our performing arts center project, since he was interested in renting our recording facilities for his own use and that of his mother. He had visited the property and had checked out the town, and loved it all. His visit had caused a national stir among entertainment shows, and locally the young folks in Autumn Vale had been ecstatic. He had made a nice contribution to the school’s music program, but he had done it on the sly, with no prior notice. He wasn’t looking for kudos. His mother was similarly entranced by our project and the venue we were building. I like them both very much. Despite her overwhelming talent and impressive, majestic aura, she is one of the most down-to-earth opera singers I have ever met, and I have met a few.
Thinking about the lovely people we are attracting to our project helps when I feel overwhelmed. We’d sort it all out.
Lizzie came back in with Becket as Zeke and Hannah arrived. I could tell the two were worried. This was no ten-minute conversation. They joined Pish, Lizzie and me for lunch in the breakfast room. We ate soup with cheddar muffins, then we all retired to the small parlor, one of my favorite rooms.
“So what’s up?” I asked.
She and Zeke sat, hand in hand, he in a wing chair and she in her mobility chair. “We’re worried about Gordy,” she said, glancing at Zeke, who watched her.
He turned to look at us. “I haven’t seen Gordy in a while,” he said, his acne-scarred face flushing with guilt. Zeke and Gordy had once shared an apartment over the top of Binny’s bakery, which was owned by Turner Construction. “In the spring he let this guy, Nathan, move in, a guy who was working for Turner Construction.”
The name was familiar. “Nathan . . . is that Nathan Garrison? I met him on the crew when they were putting up the foundation for the Tudor house.” I flushed, feeling heat in my cheeks, angry at the memory. “He followed Shilo home from here early in the summer and sat in his car outside her and Jack’s house until Jack chased him off. After that he kept harassing Shilo whenever Jack wasn’t around, even after he was warned off by Sheriff Urquhart. I spoke to the new manager at Turner Construction, and he agreed to fire him.”
It was common knowledge. “Yeah, that jerk,” Zeke said.
“I didn’t know he lived with you guys. How did they meet?”
“I guess they were at some bar, and Nathan and him got into some long conversation about . . . I don’t know, one of the New World Order things that Gordy is always going on about.”
That made sense. Anyone who would indulge Gordy’s crank conspiracy theories was a-okay in his books. Most people shrugged and rolled their eyes when he got on one of his pet theories. It must have seemed like a connection to him. “So he let the guy move in?”
“Yup. Without even asking me.”
“That’s happened before.”
Zeke sighed. “Yeah, he’s a soft touch. I mean, I get it. I’ve done it too. We’ve had strangers crash on our couch too many times. But this guy . . . at first I didn’t say anything about Nathan because I thought Binny had asked him to let him stay—you know, because Nathan worked for her dad—but no, it was Gordy’s idea. So we had a fight and I moved out to the Moores’ place, and I haven’t seen him much since.” He shrugged his shoulders in unease. He didn’t normally talk so much in one stint, but Hannah was letting him continue, watching him anxiously, worry on her sweet narrow face.
“But now you don’t know where he is?” I prompted, as it appeared he was done.
“Yeah. I stopped by at the apartment last week hoping to talk it through with Gordy. I miss him. We’ve been friends since . . . well, forever. But Binny says he had started spending time with Nathan out at some place between AV and RiRi. I guess he moved out and the apartment is empty. But now he’s, like, d-disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Pish and I said in chorus.
Zeke blinked once, his Adam’s apple moved up and down his throat. “Like I said, he’s gone. I guess this guy talked him into moving out to this compound, he called it.” He sighed heavily. “Said something like, it was a place for the last real men in the world.”
“Real men! As if.” Hannah giggled, then bit her lip and looked away. “I didn’t mean . . .” She shook her head.
I sent her a sympathetic glance. I got it, Gordy could be hard to take at times, especially recently, with his conspiracy theory talk.
“Binny didn’t know anything about it and no one has seen him in town in weeks. Maybe months! I thought it was weird, that he was, like, nowhere,” Zeke said. “I tried calling, but he’s not answering his phone, and his voice mailbox is full, it says. I texted and . . . nothing. Used to be I’d see him once in a while in the coffee shop. I went to see his uncle, you know, the one he works for.”
I nodded. Gordy worked for his Uncle Rich, a farmer, doing odd jobs and working the harvest, or whatever else needed doing on the farm. His Uncle Rich lived with his two sisters, Gordy’s aunts.
“But Rich hasn’t seen him either. I’m worried.”
Unspoken was the reason we were all so worried; Gordy has a tenuous grasp on the world as it is. His great-uncle Hubert Dread, who lives at Golden Acres, is a humorist, but if you didn’t know that you’d think he was a wing nut. Mr. Dread loves to tell tall tales, but he had not managed to convey to Gordy the tall part of the tale, in that they were not true. He is always sharing the latest conspiracy theory, and claimed, among other things, that Elvis was abducted by aliens and lived on Pluto, that so-called chemtrails are a government experiment to induce a docile populous, and that Autumn Vale was underlain by hundreds of miles of tunnels from its time as a World War Two experimental facility.
Most recognized the twinkle in Hubert’s eye, but Gordy had always believed him implicitly and naïvely spread his wild theories to others, who laughed behind the poor fellow’s back. And lately it seemed that he had spun off on his own. He’d been getting deeper and deeper into those conspiracy theories as an explanation for everything. It had started out harmless enough but had steadily become more frightening, to me, once he started talking about a New World Order, the Illuminati, and the coming apocalypse that was being planned by those who held power (Hint: reptiles in people suits were not out of the equation).
“Where he’s gone sounds like the same place we think Alcina and her mom have moved,” Lizzie said to me.
It did, and it sounded like the same place where the jezebel-caller had come from, where salvation was promised and the lure of belonging would collect the waifs and strays of the world. But for what purpose?
“We’re worried, Merry,” Hannah said softly. “But we’re not sure what to do.”
“I think it’s time for a field trip, Lizzie,” I said to my young friend. “I’m curious now, and if Gordy and Alcina and her mom are all there, I’d like to check into their welfare, see how they’re all doing. What do you think?”
“Yup. And I’m taking my camera.”
There was no time like the present. I set the muffins on racks to cool, then sent Zeke and Hannah back to Autumn Vale, she to open the library and he to work at Golden Acres on Gogi Grant’s (aka, my beloved mother-in-law) computer system, which she had somehow mucked up with a
bug.
While I did all that and tidied the kitchen, I let Lizzie retrieve my car from the house and pull it up to the front of the castle. I wasn’t comfortable yet with her driving me in my new car down the highway, but we were working on it. She could drive me on the highway or in town when she stopped being distracted by every cool view and neat picture opportunity along the way.
From a chilly, dampish start, it had become one of those deceptive October days when it feels like summer is still in full swing. The air was humid from the previous night’s rain, the sky was hazy, and there was a light breeze, soft puffs of air tossing my bangs. I assumed the driver’s side, while Lizzie hopped around to the passenger’s seat. She called one of her few school chums, another photography nerd, Julian Delvechio, who had some tenuous connection with the nutbars at the compound, and got directions, relayed to me in a minute-by-minute monologue.
“Julian says it’s east of Sharon Road . . . dude, where is Sharon Road? Oh . . . west of the cemetery? Okay, Merry, go left there,” she said, pointing. “Left! No . . . left!” She grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it left.
“Lizzie, there is no left turn!” I yelped as we careened off the road.
“Oh. Okay, right, then, go right!” she said as we settled. “Jeesh!”
I sighed heavily, rolled my eyes until they ached, and started the car again from the bottom of a ditch, where it had coasted as she frantically yelped in my ear and wrenched the steering wheel. This is why I don’t let her drive; the concept of right and left are abstract to her, as is the notion of right-of-way. Stop signs she sees as mere suggestions, vague hints to be followed. Or not. “You keep threatening to get a tattoo?” I grumbled. “Now you’re legal age. I’ll pay for your first two; I’m going to get right and left tattooed on the backs of your hands!”
Smugly she said, with a smirking side glance, “Who’s to say it would be my first tattoo?”
“What?” I screeched. “Where did you get a tattoo? When?” I slewed a look at her. Ever since I showed her my one tattoo (not saying where it is, but I got it on my honeymoon), she’s been hell-bent on getting her own.
Muffin But Trouble Page 5
