Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (22 page)

I took my time, delaying going out to see the sheriff. Instead, I stacked dirty mugs in the sink and ran soapy water, then washed them and set them on the drain board to air-dry. I had a lot to consider, and what the bank manager had just said about the lawyer made me wonder. The tangled mystery of who killed Tom Turner in the middle of the night on my property had many threads. Who wanted him dead being the central thread, of course, or even, who
needed
him dead and why? I knew so little about the local dynamics that I was afraid I was missing much of what could help me figure it out. But then, Virgil Grace was local, and he might even now have a solid idea of who killed Tom. I wouldn’t discover that until he made an arrest. I sure hoped it wouldn’t be
me
led away in handcuffs. I had to believe Sheriff Grace would realize that an argument in town in front of witnesses did not make me guilty of murder.

But Mr. Lawyer Silvio . . . I hadn’t even put him in the mix until now. Far from trying to put a stop to the back-and-forth lawsuits between the two old men, as he said he was doing, it appeared—or so the bank manager said—that he had been spurring both men on. But why? The answer that made sense was, to make as much money as he could with the fees he would accrue from one or the other. But Silvio had already told me he represented neither man in the lawsuits, since that would be a conflict of interest.

Did I believe him? It should be easy enough to find out the truth. Or maybe he was making money off the discord somehow. Could I really see Silvio creeping across my property in the middle of the night wielding a crowbar and cracking Tom Turner over the head? I wouldn’t put it past him, especially the creeping part. One thing I had to keep in mind when dealing with anyone was, there could be motives that I just wasn’t seeing because I had not been in town long enough. That went for Mr. Silvio, too. He had not always been an Autumn Vale citizen, but maybe he had been there long enough to have a grudge against Tom Turner. Hannah had said Tom was doing something for a lawyer. If that was Silvio, maybe whatever it was went wrong? Did Tom find something out and threaten Silvio with it?

I had a lot of questions, and very few answers. I wandered outside. McGill was still hard at work, despite it getting darker by the minute and the grim scene of police vans and patrol cars. Shilo talked earnestly to one of the investigators, Miss State Police Khaki Uniform.

The sheriff saw me and approached, full tilt. “Didn’t McGill tell you I wanted to talk to you?”

“Yes, he did.” I looked up at him, examining the line of scruff along his jaw. “If this is twenty questions, it’s my turn. Did you know that you constantly have an unpleasant look on your face? One of these days, you’re going to turn into a grumpy old man with a peptic ulcer.”

I turned away and watched McGill push dirt into a hole not that far away from us. He had been working steady, making progress while I mooned around weeping to old friends on the phone, talking to a hypertensive bank manager, and washing mugs.

The sheriff settled his expression some, and said, “Well, I just thought you’d like to be the first to know. We don’t think the dead body is Rusty Turner.”

I actually felt a leap of joy at that; one thing poor Binny would not have to deal with. But the question remained. “Who else could it be?”

“We’re still working on that. The medical examiner might be able to tell us more.”

I watched Sheriff Grace’s profile; he was a good-looking man, no doubt about it. But his permanent scowl damaged that, and I was serious about him ending up with a peptic ulcer if he didn’t watch it. Looking at it from his viewpoint though, this was serious business and nothing to smile about. And these folks were his friends and neighbors. “You know, it’s probably just the body of some hiker who got lost, set up camp, and had a heart attack in his sleep.”

“I wish I thought that,” he said. “But he has blunt-force trauma to the head, from what the ME says, and in his pockets he had some stuff that makes me think he’s local. I just can’t figure out who the hell it could be.”

Local, and not Rusty Turner. “What did he have in his pockets? A card from a local business? A takeout menu from Vale Variety and Lunch? He could have that kind of stuff and still just be a transient passing through.”

Virgil shook his head, and I knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t answer me.

“It’s getting too dark to do anything, so we’re packing it in. But we came across the other site you and Lizzie found, and we’ve got it cordoned off. We’ll have a team here tomorrow morning to investigate it, in case it holds any answers.”

“Okay.” I watched as he stalked off.

Shilo joined me as the officers packed up and departed.

I told her I had spoken to Pish, and she was happy about that. I then threaded my arm through hers and we reentered the castle. “You and I have a lot to talk over,” I said. “Starting with the fact that I have discovered who Lizzie Proctor is, or at least, who her father is, supposedly. Shilo, Binny Turner has a niece.”

“What? You mean . . . ?”

“Yup. Tom Turner was Lizzie’s father.”

“Wow. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Neither did I.”

I
WOKE UP
the next day sure of a few things. First, I needed to speak to Junior Bradley again and try to find out what he and Tom Turner had really been fighting about. At the same time, I needed to know about the faulty plats and plans I found at Turner Construction. Who approved them? Who loaned the company money for construction based on them? What lawsuits were truly extant when Melvyn died? Did it have anything to do with those faulty plans, I wondered.

I also needed to get a handle on who I thought
might
have killed Tom Turner. Despite everyone’s belief in Virgil Grace’s ability to solve the murder, I could not just stand by and wait. After all, nine months later he still had not figured out if my uncle’s “accident” was really an accident. Maybe I could even help, with an outsider’s viewpoint. I wondered what the buzz was in town, especially now, with this body we found yesterday.

As Shilo snored on the other side of the Jack and Jill bathroom door, I showered and dressed comfortably in jeans and a soft, V-neck T-shirt. Then, cup of coffee in hand, I exited the front door, descended from the terrace, and walked down the weedy drive to try to get a better view of the castle and decide what needed to be done first. I turned and squinted, looking over my inheritance. As I had begun to realize, I was going to be at Wynter Castle longer than I had anticipated, and had better start planning for a winter spent in upstate. But I had a couple months of outdoor time left before the unpredictable winds of November set in.

The exterior itself was attractive: old, cut stone, square facade with a turreted look to the rounded extensions at either end, and Gothic-arched windows. The entrance, centered on the long, flagged terrace that wrapped around the ballroom on the west side of the castle, was bland, though, even with those amazing oak doors. It needed something to set it off, to make it stand out. Maybe gardens or potted plants and statuary. The terrace, I had discovered, extended all the way along the far side, and the ballroom’s French doors opened out onto it. That, too, needed something to break up the long expanse.

How was I going to afford any of the upgrades needed? I had to make or borrow enough money to bring Wynter Castle up to a degree of attractiveness for potential buyers. The property would only appeal to someone who could afford to gamble. Wynter Castle was too far away from New York City to make it a spa retreat, and there was absolutely nothing nearby to make it a desirable destination from a tourist’s aspect. Investors would cringe. It needed a buyer with imagination and bucks.

I turned away and wandered the property near the castle, avoiding what I now thought of as the death hole, where crime-scene tape still fluttered from hastily erected fence posts. It was only early September, but after a couple of very cool nights the leaves were beginning to get that desiccated look from late-summer stress and nearly autumn change coming on. A blue jay shrieked at me from a cluster of brushy shrubs that had grown up in the long grass.

When was my grounds crew going to show up? They never did phone me. Had I done the right thing, hiring Zeke and Gordy to mow the fields? They didn’t strike me as the brightest bulbs in the package, maybe twenty-five-watt in a hundred-watt world, but how bright did you have to be to mow a yard? That sounds snooty, but I was getting irritated at the slow pace of life in Autumn Vale. No one seemed to be ready to hustle. The grass, or hay, or weeds—whatever the mess was—had to be taken care of and soon, because . . . well, because I needed to see progress.

I walked past the excavator parked among the filled-in holes, thinking of all the damage Tom had done, and wondering why. He could not possibly have believed that old Melvyn Wynter had buried his father, not when he was digging all the way out to the edge of the property. It didn’t make a bit of sense!

Sipping my coffee as I scanned the edge of the woods, I thought I saw a patch of orange. Was Becket back? In all the flurry of the day before, I had almost forgotten the poor, limping cat! I edged closer, but the animal didn’t move this time. My heart started pounding, and my stomach lurched. I walked faster, speeding to a trot. It was Becket; it had to be!

It was. He wasn’t moving, but he was still breathing a labored, slow pant. As I knelt by him, he opened his eyes, meowing fiercely, then wailing and thrashing about. As I leaped to my feet and backed off, he focused and met my gaze; his meow gentled to a question. I hadn’t had a cat in years, but I knew that sound. He needed help.

Tossing the junk-store coffee cup aside, I knelt again, and scooped him up. He was wearing, amazingly, a collar, with a cheapie plastic tag attached; incredible that it had survived nearly a year! “Becket” was written on the cardboard insert. “You poor fellow,” I murmured. There were no cuts or bites that I could see, but he didn’t look right. He was a big cat, long-limbed, but skinny,
far
too thin, and his orangey fur was matted and dull looking. As I carried him, his head lolled over my arm, his eyes open but filmed.

The next hour was a blur. I took Becket in to the kitchen and laid him on a towel in one of the chairs by the fireplace, then got Shilo up. We gave him a drink of water, which he lapped at thirstily before collapsing again in exhaustion. I got ready to go, organizing my day as quickly as I could as I worried about the cat.

Even through the thick walls of the castle, I could hear the heavy engines of police vehicles arriving; they were coming to finish up with the encampments, as Virgil had promised. I wrapped Becket in the towel and carried him outside to the car, as the sheriff and his crew set up their base of operations, but I didn’t have time to talk. I handed Shilo the keys to the rental and we took off, with me holding Becket and Shilo driving. Shi had been able to get ahold of McGill, who told her where the only vet in town was located. She had explored a lot already, more than I had, mapping out the town in her retentive brain, and she brought me to a little clinic that took up one end of a redbrick, modern strip mall that also had the town waterworks department and other municipal offices in it.

The vet was a young Asian-American woman, Dr. Ling. After she heard my remarkable story and confirmed that though he was not my cat, I was going to be responsible for the bill, she ordered me to leave Becket there in the treatment room. As we left, I heard her call out to an assistant to start a fluid IV. Becket was in good hands.

Again, life in Autumn Vale had changed up my day in weird ways.

Shilo told me she was going to hitch a ride back to the castle with McGill, who was headed out there to fill in more holes—at the rate he was going, he’d be done by the next day—so I was free to do what I needed to do. I had at least thought well enough ahead to throw my muffin tins in the car, so I headed down to Binny’s Bakery to see if she would mind me starting the muffins a little early.

I entered to the now-familiar clang of the bell over the door and was once again taken by the collection of teapots, which I examined with interest. It wouldn’t be long before I had all my stuff from storage, and then I was going to have to deal with my own dozens of boxes of teapots and teacups. Binny came out from the back, wiping her hands on a towel, and said, “Oh, it’s you!”

“Yeah. Could I start my baking a little early?” I explained why.

She had an odd look on her face, and nodded. “Sure.” She paused, tapping on the countertop and biting her lip. In a rush, she said, “Maybe you can do me a favor?”

“No problem,” I said. “You’ve been so generous, I’d love a chance to do you some payback.”

“Would you mind the store for an hour while I run an errand? You know how to use a cash register, right?”

I didn’t then, but I soon learned. A half hour later, she threw some goodies in a bag and took off out the back door. No explanation. Boyfriend, maybe? Not my business. I made two large batches of muffin batter—banana bran and applesauce, since those two seemed to be going over best—popped them in the oven, and set the timer, as a couple of customers came in. It just happened to be Isadore Openshaw and another, middle-aged lady.

“Hi, what can I help you with?” I said, in my brightest customer-service voice.

Isadore looked like she’d swallowed an air bubble, kind of pained and grimacing, but the other woman smiled and cocked her head to one side. “Who are you? Where’s Binny?”

I explained who I was as Isadore stared fiercely at the goodies in the bakery case. “I’ve met a lot of folks, including Miss Openshaw,” I said, “but I haven’t met you yet.” I stuck out my hand over the counter.

“Well, isn’t this fascinating! I’m Helen Johnson of the Autumn Vale Methodist Church,” she said, taking my hand in a firm, if clammy, clasp. “I visited your uncle many times, to take him soup and ask him if he’d like to join our congregation. We have such wonderful seniors’ programs, with euchre nights, shuffleboard, and bus trips to Amish country!”

I stared at her for a long moment, nonplussed, wondering what kind of reception she’d gotten from my cantankerous uncle. Hopefully she wouldn’t have a story about being chased away by a rifle-wielding madman. She was one of those born church ladies, but in tweed capris instead of the expected skirt, topped by a silk blouse and pearls. Sensible sandals and socks, visible under the counter’s pass through, finished the ensemble, and a hat topped her billowy nest of gray hair. “I’m pleased to meet you. How did the visits with my uncle go?”

Isadore snorted and stared ferociously over my head.

Helen glanced over at her with a frown, then looked back to me. “Well, he was not pleased to see me. Tell me . . . was he suffering from Alzheimer’s, perhaps? Every single time I went out, he asked the same question; what did I think I was doing there? He was so terribly confused. I never knew what to tell him.”

I took a deep breath to keep from laughing. The timer dinged, and I rushed to pull the muffins out, then returned to the counter and explained to the ladies what I was doing there: making muffins and minding the store. Helen clasped her hands together. “Oh, muffins! My darling mama told me about your wonderful muffins. She lives at Golden Acres, you know, and feels fortunate. Mrs. Grace is such a wonderful woman, a real social leader in this town. Even though she doesn’t go to church.”

I was exhausted by her relentless cheerfulness, and relieved when she bought two ricotta-stuffed pastries, while Isadore chose a gooey éclair. I boxed them up.

“One day when I was out there,” Helen said, lingering while Isadore waited at the door, tapping her patent leather shoe on the step, ”. . . at the castle, you know, there were two strange men, but I didn’t see Melvyn. I wondered and wondered about those men, you know, and I heard rumors they had been in town that day, but I never saw them again.” Her dark eyes were bright with curiosity, the perfect image of a nosy Nelly.

“When was that?” I asked.

“Oh, Lord, let me see; when
was
that?” She looked up in the air and cocked her head. “Was that before the fire in the woods behind the church, or after? After, probably. No, before.” She paused and frowned down at her sandals. “No, it had to be
after
the fire. I remember now! A week or so
after
. So that would have been, let me see . . . last October? Almost a year ago.” She nodded sharply, triumph on her round, cheerful face. “Late October of last year.”

I was exhausted with her thought process, and Isadore was clearly ready to go out of her mind, but I wasn’t done yet. “What did the men look like?”

“Well, now, they weren’t very friendly. They had on suits,
black
suits, and they had a black car.”

“Old? Young? White? Black? Tall? Short?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember, dear.”

“I have to go to work, Helen. I’m late! Mr. Grover won’t have a clue how to open.”

“Hey,” I said to her, “your employer came out to the castle yesterday, Miss Openshaw. Simon Grover was with the volunteer fire department, giving support to the police.”

Isadore didn’t answer, but Helen’s eyes widened. “Oh, my, yes! I heard about the corpse in the woods near you. Was it Melvyn’s body?”

Taken aback, I said, “Uh, no, Melvyn’s body was never missing.”

Isadore was practically dancing in place. “It’s ten-o-seven, Helen! I’m late. I thought you needed money at the bank, and then had to get to choir practice?”

Why didn’t she just head on to the bank and let Helen follow? Maybe it was like women in a bar who needed to go to the washroom; they traveled in duos. Or . . . maybe Isadore didn’t want me talking to Helen alone?