Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (21 page)

She frowned and shook her head. “Where do people get that garbage? That never happened. The fight was not about me at
all
. Look, I can’t do this right now. I have got to go. Move it or lose it, lady!” She got in her car, slammed the door, and gunned the motor. When I hustled to pull out, she screeched down the drive, backing up as skillfully as a NASCAR driver, and took off out of town, perhaps toward the bar at Ridley Ridge to work.

I decided to check on Lizzie, but when I went up to the door, I could see her sitting on the sofa with her grandmother, who had her arms around her grandchild. It was a complicated situation, and I didn’t think I could help, at least not today.

Instead, I headed back into the heart of Autumn Vale and Crazy Lady Antiques, parking along the side street that intersected with Abenaki behind a dirt bike that was taking up an on-street parking spot. Janice was in her shop and answered the door when I knocked. I told her my need for serving coffee to the masses, and she located a big box of oddly assorted mugs, most with funny and/or inappropriate sayings, and I carried them outside and around to the side street, with her following me. She threw in a box of odd plates and serving pieces she obviously wanted to get rid of. I asked, “You knew the Turners, right?”

“Of course.”

“Did Tom ever get married?”

“Nope. That boy could never settle on one girl. My Jackson is about the same age—Jack moved to New York for school and never came back—and he said that Tom was serious about some girl in high school, but she broke up with him and broke his heart.”

Was that Emerald, I wondered? “What do you know about Junior Bradley?”

“Never trusted that boy. He cheated my boy Booker out of some money once.” She cocked her head as I shoved the box of mugs in the backseat of the car, and turned to take the box of serving pieces from her. “Are you trying to figure out poor Tom’s murder?” she asked. “Better leave that up to the cops.”

I straightened. “It happened right outside my door, Janice. I’m unnerved. I want it solved. Is that so strange?” I wasn’t about to talk about the dead stranger in the woods, not before we knew who it was.

“Virgil Grace is a good investigator, Merry. Leave it alone.”

“I would think you would subscribe to that old adage, Janice, that no woman who ever got anything done did so by listening to people telling her not to do things.”

She chuckled and patted my shoulder. “But in this case, there’s danger afoot. And you’ve got enough to do sorting out your family estate without getting involved in murder.”

It was good advice that I wouldn’t be taking. The bakery was still open, so I stopped in and bought up her stock of end-of-the-day rolls and sweets. I don’t know why I was bulking up my store of coffee mugs and treats as if I expected a horde, but from the number of cars that had been at the castle when I left, I wanted to be prepared. Anything I didn’t use I could toss in the commercial freezer.

I saw through Binny’s sullen facade now that we were friends, and I was dreadfully worried about the body in the woods. Odds were it was her father, and who would break the news if it was? I’d
have
to be there for her, if it proved to be true. Losing her brother had been tough, but if the body in the woods was Rusty, it was going to be doubly hard on her. On the other hand, she now had a niece she had not known about before. But none of that news was the kind of thing I could pass on at the moment, so I kept my mouth shut.

I pondered the whole mess as I drove back to the castle. Should I be leaving well enough alone, as Janice suggested? Virgil Grace was investigating Tom’s murder, and he knew the town and its people better than I, but I couldn’t just forget about it. As I had said to Janice, it happened right outside of my door, and the killer was still out there.

When I returned, the investigation was in full swing, with a state police command center vehicle now parked in my weedy drive. The clouds had cleared enough that a ray of sunlight peeped through. I called McGill over to collect the box of mugs, and commandeered Shilo to help with the bags of treats. I carried the smaller box of plates and serving pieces; together, we hauled them to the kitchen, and Shilo and I washed and dried all the dusty mugs, setting them out on trays on the long kitchen table.

The afternoon sun was lowering in the sky by the time we were done, and I strolled over to where Virgil was talking seriously with a woman in state police khakis. When she cast a glance at me and strode away, I approached the sheriff. He looked worried and tired and none too pleased to see me. Couldn’t blame him. On the other hand, it wasn’t my fault the body was in my woods.

“We’ve made a big urn of coffee, and I have some muffins and other things for folks to eat. If you would like to spread the word, everyone is welcome.”

He eyed me and nodded. “Okay. That’s real nice of you.”

“But?”

“Look, I know you’ve been asking questions in town. Stop. Now.”

I watched his eyes, trying to decide what to say. “Maybe you’ll answer a couple of questions for me; then I won’t have to ask other people.”

He sighed and looked skyward. I’d swear there was a hint of a smile on his lips. He looked down at me, his expression softening. “You can ask, anyway.”

Which of all the jumbled thoughts and questions in my head were most important? Maybe if I was a real investigator, those things would fall into order. First things first. I took a deep breath. “Is that body in the tent Rusty Turner?”

“It’s male, that’s about all we know.”

“So it’s possible. Is there anyone else local it could be?”

“No one has been reported missing.”

“Oh.” But I squinted up at him, realizing he hadn’t really answered my question and wasn’t going to. The state police female deputy strolled toward us. Darn. I had a lot more questions.

“Sheriff Grace, we need you for a few minutes,” she said.

“I had a couple of more questions,” I said. “Can we talk later?”

He nodded, then walked away with the deputy.

McGill knew all of the Autumn Vale deputies and even some of the state police officers, and he was introducing Shilo around to them. I should probably join them, I thought, but remembered I had not yet checked off one more thing on my list. I went inside, grabbed the cordless phone, and curled up in one of the cozy chairs Shilo and I had hauled in to the kitchen by the fireplace. I dialed a number from memory, a sudden, desperate need to hear one voice making my movements hasty.

“Hello?” came that familiar, dear, warm voice on the phone.

I burst into tears.

“W
HO IS THIS?
What’s wrong?”

I hadn’t expected to react like I did, and I could hear the panic in my dear friend’s voice. “Pish, it’s all right, it’s me!” I burbled, my tone thick and strange.

“Who . . . Merry? Is that you?”

“Yes!”

“Are you okay? Where
are
you? I’ve been trying to call you for a
week
! The stupid phone company keeps saying your line is disconnected. Then I tried your cell phone, but it kept going to voice mail or saying you were unavailable. I tried calling Shilo, but she’s gone, too. I thought an alien had kidnapped you both. Or one of her gypsy relatives. Are you
okay
, sweetie?”

I took a deep breath, put my head back and closed my eyes, bathing in the flood of his concern. “Yes, Pish, I’m fine. You know the castle I inherited? Well, that’s where I am. I gave up my apartment in the city and moved here.”

“And you didn’t
tell
me? How
could
you? Oh, Merry, I thought we were better friends than
that
!” He always spoke in italics, and in person the emphasis was exaggerated by fluttering hands. All designed to disarm and disorient, I believe, because his laser-focus, blue-eyed gaze is enough to alarm the unwary.

Pish is one of the sweetest people I have ever met, but his goodness is enhanced by a tart sense of humor and well-developed regard for the ridiculous. He’d adore Autumn Vale. What the good people of this town would think of him, I didn’t know. I could picture him in his beautiful Central Park West condo, which he shared with his querulous, elderly mother. He’d be sitting in front of a fireplace as I was, on a cool, September evening, but there would be a crackling fire in his; he’d be drinking cognac and reading Faulkner, or quaffing brandy and chuckling over Tennessee Williams, or sipping pinot noir and leafing through Escoffier. I could hear a recording of Domingo’s version of “Nessun Dorma” in the background, the rich voice rolling through the airwaves.

I sighed. “Darling, it is because I love you that I couldn’t tell you I was moving out of New York. It would have broken my heart to see you upset. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“What about Shilo? Do you know where she is?”

“I called her the morning I arrived, and she took it as an invitation, so she tootled up here in that dreadful vehicle she calls a car.” There was silence for a long moment, and I knew his feelings were hurt that I had called her and not him.

“That is just like our darling scatterbrain,” he said, his tone dry. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, though I’ll hold a grudge for a while and make you suffer.”

“I miss you,” I said, realizing how true that was. I met Pish through Miguel. He was my husband’s financial advisor, a wise decision that had left me a wealthyish widow, which I reversed with my own stupidity. However, my bad-decision days were over. I was not one of those sad folk who stagger from awful situation to awful situation. “I wish you were here right now.”

“Describe the castle, darling. I have been
dying
to hear about it ever since you inherited it! The real estate listing did it
no
justice, I’ll bet,” he said.

He, dear man, had advised me right away to go see my inheritance, but I was in the middle of the Leatrice drama at that point, and couldn’t leave New York. That was my excuse, anyway. I was just stunned by the development and afraid of what I’d find. I told Pish all about the castle, and my multitude of troubles, from Tom Turner’s murder up to and including the body in the tent in the arboretum. As I talked, police officers and professionals came and went, grabbing mugs of coffee and handfuls of muffins and treats from the baskets of Binny’s Bakery items. I waited until the kitchen was empty of others, then finally said, “Pish, I called you to check in, and I’m sorry you’ve been worried, but I also have some questions.”

I filled him in on our trip to the Turner Construction trailer, and my discoveries about the shoddy plat and grade school–level renderings of the Wynter Acres plan. Then I told him about what Shilo had discovered: the regular large cash deposits to Turner Construction accounts in the Autumn Vale Community Bank that had no discernible source, given that work had all but stopped in recent months.

“Who would have had the ability to deposit in the account?” he asked.

“Since Rusty’s been gone? Probably just Tom and Dinah.”

“Dinah was not married to Rusty Turner, is that right?”

“No, nor living with him,” I said, beginning to see what he was asking. I thought about our conversation, how Dinah had more or less given up on working at Turner Construction since before Tom died. She seemed a little desperate to find a way to make money. And yet she said she hadn’t been taking a wage from Turner Construction in the last few months. Why, if there was a large amount of money there, as there seemed to be? Did she know where it came from or not? Did she refuse to touch it or take her wage because of the money’s origins? If it was Tom’s, I supposed that would make sense. I shared my thoughts with Pish.

“I don’t want to say too much, my dear, but it sounds to me as if Tom Turner had found a way to make money that had nothing to do with construction, and it may have led to his death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, drug peddling is one possibility, I suppose. But maybe he was involved in some kind of money-laundering scheme. And if he was, the kind of folk he would have been dealing with . . . well, he wouldn’t be the first who thought he was smart and ended up dead.”

That gave me pause, and I remembered someone—was it Gordy or Zeke?—had said something about a couple of scary guys in town late last year, about the time Rusty disappeared and my uncle died. I had a lot to think about. Pish told me to give his love to Shilo, and that he would be in touch—he was going to see if there was any information he could dig up—and that he hoped I’d take pictures of the castle and send them to him. As soon as I got my digital camera out of storage and my laptop working and got Internet service out in the boonies, I would.

I sat for a while staring at the empty fireplace. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see a big-bellied fellow draining the last of the coffee urn and snagging two muffins.

“You Mel’s niece?” he asked. He was dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, but the getup didn’t quite look natural on him.

“I am,” I said, rising and going toward him. “Merry Wynter,” I added, sticking out my hand. I recognized him, but waited for him to introduce himself.

“Simon Grover,” he said, juggling the muffins and coffee, then clasping my hand in a firm grip. “You been talking to my wife.”

“You’re the bank manager, and head of the Brotherhood of the Falcons!”

“Yup. Not here because of that, though; I’m captain of the Autumn Vale Volunteer Fire Patrol. We’re providing backup to the state police and Virgil’s boys and gals.”

Making a quick decision, I motioned to the comfortable chair by the empty fireplace. “Would you like to sit and have your coffee in comfort, Mr. Grover?”

“I sure would,” he said with a sigh of relief. “My dogs is barkin’! These boots
ain’t
made for walking.” He spoke with a folksy air, maybe one he had developed since coming to manage a bank in a small town in rural upstate New York.

Grover waddled over to the fireplace and I let him sit with his coffee and muffins while I put the urn on to perk again. Then I joined him and we sat in companionable silence for a long moment, while I tried to figure out how to introduce the topic of my uncle’s dealings at the bank. In one sense, it was my business since I was the heir, but what went on
before
my uncle’s death could be deemed private, I supposed.

“You know,” he said, “I liked your uncle. We were brothers, in a sense, and Rusty Turner, too; us three were the founding members of the Brotherhood of the Falcons. Now I’m the only one of the three founding members left. The three amigos.”

Mad thoughts of a tontine-like arrangement flitted through my mind. But
was
it so mad? “I didn’t know my uncle was part of the club.”

“When my wife and I first moved here, I went out of my way to be pals with Melvyn. He was getting to be a crusty old fella even then. Not many friends.”

“He
was
friends with Gogi Grace’s husband, though, I understand. And Doc English.”

He shrugged, his bulky shoulders rolling. When he didn’t answer, I wondered if I had offended him by naming Melvyn’s buddies, right after he had said my uncle didn’t have many. He didn’t look offended, though. He was holding his empty coffee cup, glaring into it with a sad expression.

“Let me refill your cup with fresh coffee,” I said. When I came back and handed him the fragrant steaming brew, he sighed in contentment.

“Your coffee’s better’n my wife’s.”

“A lot of people like perked coffee better than drip.” How could I talk to him about my uncle’s affairs, I wondered. To make conversation, I said, “It’s great of you and your volunteers to come out this afternoon.” I wasn’t sure how they could possibly help or what they were doing other than standing around talking, drinking coffee, and eating muffins. It was more likely that he had come out for one more excuse to avoid his wife’s company, although maybe that was unfair. “I got the mugs from your wife’s shop,” I said, testing the waters.

“Bunch of old crap she’s got there. Never makes a penny,” he grumbled.

Okay. “It must have been awkward for you, with both Melvyn and Rusty as founding members of the Brotherhood, and them being at legal loggerheads.”

“It sure the hell was! Pardon my French. Those two old arseholes—again, pardon the French—were getting more and more cantankerous. I tried to get ’em to see sense, but they just . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Couldn’t get ’em to stop feuding.”

“Toward the end, was my uncle okay?” I still feared that the body in the woods was Rusty Turner, and that my uncle had gone off his rocker and killed him.

“Okay, as in, all his marbles?”

I nodded.

“Well, yeah, I’d say your uncle was sharp as a tack and just as painful, if you sat on him.”

I pondered what that meant. “In other words, he was fine, unless you crossed him?”

“Yup. Then he was like a wasp, wouldn’t let you out of his sight until he’d given you what for.”

His chagrined tone made me wonder if Simon Grover, bank manager, had crossed Melvyn Wynter before he died. I knew too well that Rusty Turner had, repeatedly. “Did he, uh, come in to the bank ever?”

Grover shrugged. “Sometimes. Not often.”

“Was my uncle worried about anything? Before he died, I mean.”

“He was mad as hell that Rusty had disappeared. Said the old coot was trying to avoid the lawsuit.”

I pondered my discovery that Uncle Melvyn had been heading into town that fateful morning when he went off the road. “Was he angry enough that he’d be confronting someone about it?”

The banker frowned into his empty cup. “Like who?”

A sudden inspiration made me say, “The lawyer, maybe? Mr. Silvio was trying to get them both to agree, though, right? Like you were. He was trying to solve things between my uncle and Rusty Turner?”

The man snorted into a chuckle, then a wheezing, coughing guffaw. “Have you ever heard of any lawyer trying to settle out of court unless there was a wad of cash involved? No way! Silvio was lining his pockets from the money two old men with grudges brought him. He wasn’t mediating; hell, he was exacerbating, egging each one on to file more and more lawsuits!”

I heard a noise behind us, but it was just McGill, filling a couple of mugs with the fresh coffee. He had an odd look on his face, one that I couldn’t translate.

“Merry? Virge wants to see you outside.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Grover heaved himself out of his chair and set his mug in the sink as he waddled past. “I guess I’d better go home, see what the little woman’s got for supper,” he grumbled, heading for the door. “She can’t make coffee worth a damn, but at least she can cook.” He lumbered outside.

Darn! I had just been about to ask him about finding my uncle’s car off the road, hoping to quiz him on what he had seen. It still seemed odd to me that he was returning home to Autumn Vale at six in the morning! And I hadn’t had a chance to inquire about my uncle’s bank dealings and what was up with Isadore Openshaw. That would all have to wait.