Death of an English Muffin (26 page)

Cleta Sanson had never needed the money; she’d just enjoyed watching Vanessa squirm. She had underestimated Vanessa, though.

Virgil was tensed and waiting, silent, as was everyone. Lush was stifling sobs, Lauda was wide-eyed, but Barbara was regarding Vanessa with interest. “I thought Patsy had made up the whole story,” she said. “But she was right about it all. What a play this would make for the stage!”

We weren’t done yet, I thought. We didn’t have a confession. “When this plan to move to Wynter Castle came up you saw the opening, a chance to live alongside Cleta to give you
time and opportunity to plan her demise,” I said softly. “All the previous attempts you had managed to blame on Lauda. So
you
were the one who told Cleta about it initially, telling her it would be a great way to evade Lauda. Cleta did the rest, as you knew she would, pressuring and guilting the others into
all
inviting her, so each would think she was the one responsible for Cleta coming along to spoil everyone’s peace of mind. But it was you all along who planted the seed.”

Tears ran down her cheeks, gathering makeup and creating pale trails on the wasted remains of a beautiful face. Her shoulders sagged, the ramrod posture gone, like a rag doll with all the stuffing beaten out of it. She nodded and then looked over at Virgil. “You’re waiting for my confession. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen the letter, Vanessa. The police have it now, and they can match your handwriting, you know.” I wasn’t sure she’d even remember exactly what was in the letter. It wasn’t completely a confession, after all, and a good defense lawyer would laugh at it. She made a decision. I watched her demeanor transform, then, her posture return, her expression one of suffering.

“I’ll tell you the story of a young, stupid girl, a woman who loved her, the girl’s betrayal of her trust, and the guilt that plagued her for the rest of her life. Poor Annie,” she whispered. “She did love me. She’s probably the only person who saw what I was when I first came to New York—a country bumpkin—and loved me anyway. I did what I did for my sister Faith! I wanted her to come to New York and marry into money, but instead she betrayed me to stay in the hills, get pregnant, and marry some dumb miner. They
all
turned their backs on me, the whole clan.”

“Did they know what you did for them?” I asked gently.

“I think they knew, or at least they suspected. Even Faith wouldn’t talk to me. She said I’d changed.”

She met my eyes, and I was chilled.

“She was wrong. I hadn’t changed,” she said. “Not one little bit.”

Virgil made a minuscule movement, but I put up one hand. Vanessa wasn’t done. “How did Cleta find out?”

“I met her in England, right around when I was marrying Nigel. I think she knew there was something wrong, something I’d done. She
loved
secrets. Despicable woman! At the time I thought she was fun: witty, acerbic, so very acidic! And she cultivated me; I see that now. Flattered me, groomed me, got me drunk, and pried it out of me. When I remembered the next day what I’d said—it was kind of a jumble in my brain, but I believe I told her all—I wrote her a note trying to take it back. Too late I realized all it did was give her evidence. By then I cared what people thought of me.”

She looked around the table, and maybe for the first time she saw the faces of her friends, aghast, Lush and Barbara realizing with whom they had been friends all those years. Lauda was frozen, just sitting still, shivering.

“I would have lost work if anyone suspected what happened!” Vanessa said in an indignant tone. “For fifty years Cleta tortured and victimized me, the pressure mounting, the pain never gone.” Her voice cracked with self-pity. “I held out for as long as I could.” She gathered us all in her spellbinding gaze, scanning the circle. “Finally I did everyone a favor and killed Cleta Sanson.”

I expected music to swell, drama filled, swooping violins and thrumming cellos. The credits should roll:
Diary of a Murderess, starring Vanessa LaDuchesse
. She was shaping the story even as she told it, making it into a drama that would no doubt hold the world captive. She was making it seem like she had acted on impulse in the heat of a moment brought on by intolerable pressure. It was her victim’s fault, she implied. But I knew better. Cleta’s murder had taken extended planning and cold calculation.

Lush rose unsteadily to her feet and pointed across the
table. “You vicious harpy! Cleta was bad enough, but how could you do what you did to poor, dear,
sweet
Patsy, who never hurt anyone?”

Vanessa turned a contemptuous eye to Lush. “Poor, dear,
sweet
Patsy was willing to take advantage of Cleta’s death. She tried to use that same damnable letter—which she stole from Cleta’s possessions—to blackmail me. She had lost all her money on stupid real estate purchases and profligate spending, and she thought she could claw her way back into the upper echelons of society with
my
money. Stupid woman. First she tried to borrow money from Cleta, and after Cleta was gone, she tried to blackmail me.”

Virgil rose, circling the table to Vanessa. He placed one hand on her shoulder and said, “Mrs. Vanessa LaDuchesse, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Miss Cleta Sanson and the attempted murder of Mrs. Patsy Schwartz.” He then gave her the standard caution.

But for Vanessa the caution held no charm. Even as Virgil escorted her from the castle, she was talking about how she got into movies, how she slept with the right people, and how she never would have been able to do that had she not freed herself from the love of her first victim. Those of us left behind just looked at one another in dismay.

And so it
ended.

O
F COURSE THERE
was an independent witness to Vanessa’s presence in the back hall near the bathroom at the important time. Lauda had indeed “borrowed” the postal truck and snuck into the castle by the back hall when Zeke wasn’t looking. She crept through the kitchen, and when she heard someone coming, she hid herself behind the chairs near the fireplace. She saw Vanessa slip though the kitchen and disappear down the hall.

At the time she didn’t think anything of it. She was intent on getting up to her aunt’s room to see if there was a holographic will disinheriting her. She was seen, though. That was what Patsy thought she ought to tell someone about. Barbara was worried that Lauda was the killer, which was why she told Patsy to stay out of it.

It wasn’t until later that Lauda figured out that Vanessa was Cleta’s killer. Lauda confronted the aging actress, she told Virgil, and Vanessa admitted it, but said if Lauda dared tell anyone, Vanessa would claim that Cleta had indeed made
a will, but that Lauda had stolen it, killed Cleta, and destroyed the evidence.

Lauda was in an awful position; if she told the truth, that Vanessa was the murderer, she ran the risk of not being believed. If Vanessa then told her trumped-up story, Lauda could lose her freedom and her new wealth. If she just kept quiet, she inherited. She stayed silent but got more and more frightened and upset; she had
loved
her ungrateful aunt, and it horrified her that the murder would go unpunished. That was what the confrontation was about, the one that happened just before Lauda stomped through the great hall shoving me aside. Lauda swore she found no new will, and with no evidence to the contrary, there was nothing to prevent her from inheriting.

On a gorgeous sunny day three weeks after the fateful dinner, I helped a weak but happy Patsy Schwartz—who had been nursed back to better shape by her sweet daughter Pattycakes—into a rental car that Gordy would drive. He was going on a big adventure to the city, with Patsy and Barbara Beakman as his passengers. Barbara had sent word on ahead to open up the condo, and Gordy was going to stay three days in New York City as their guest, and then come back to Autumn Vale. Patsy would live with Barbara from then on.

Neither would be lonely, and both would have someone to take care of. Patsy’s financial situation was indeed dire, her wealth long gone on bad investments, unscrupulous money managers, and profligate spending, but what did they need money for? Barbara asked her. Patsy had a pension and the promise of more once her bankruptcy was done. Pattycakes leaned in the car window and kissed her mother good-bye, promising to come to New York for a visit in a couple of weeks.

Vanessa was in jail awaiting arraignment, but had she been silent? No, in fact, in a weird way I think she was living one of the last chapters of her life in a blaze of ill-gotten
glory. Every national media outlet was covering her story. All the entertainment shows had featured her or were about to. A journalist from the
New York Times
was doing an in-depth feature on her, as queen of the B-movie noir films of the fifties.

While she was not allowed to have visitors, she wrote letters and made phone calls, garnering even more attention. I stuffed down the anger as best I could, but I acknowledged that in a sense, Cleta was the author of her own demise. It didn’t make what Vanessa did excusable, especially given her past crime, killing a woman whose only fault was in loving and trusting Vanessa too much, but when you play with tigers, expect to get mauled. Cleta was too sure of herself and enjoyed too much the power she exerted with her collection of secrets.

And then there was Lauda. Cleta had played her so hard, threatening her every time they had disagreements, that she was worried sick about losing her inheritance. When they spoke in Autumn Vale Cleta had indeed given her the two thousand dollars she had taken out of the bank. It was supposed to pay for Lauda to go back to the city, but she used it to stay in Autumn Vale instead, intent on worming her way back into her aunt’s affections. Vanessa’s failed attempts in New York to kill Cleta—she had copped to those, detailing them to the press, the DA and anyone else who would listen—had driven a wedge between aunt and niece, and by the time Cleta came to the castle it was too late for the truth.

Lauda went back to New York immediately after Vanessa’s arrest with the keys to Cleta’s condo, which she now owned, according Cleta’s last will and testament and the law firm of Swan Associates, who were hoping she would retain them to do her business. She had been reassured that the body would be cremated by the local funeral home and the ashes shipped to her to sit on her mantelpiece, presumably as a reminder that sometimes the meek really do inherit the earth. Or at least a sizable portion of it.

Lush had decided to stay with us for now. But then, she was family, not a guest. She made regular trips in to Golden Acres to sit and visit with Doc and Hubert Dread, who competed for her prettily confused attentions.

But why wasn’t Pattycakes in the car with Patsy and Barbara, on her way back to New York? Well, despite loving her mother to bits, Pattycakes had found something in Autumn Vale she hadn’t been able to find anywhere else and that she needed badly, given how broke her family now was: a job. She was Binny’s new bakery assistant, and already the good folks of Autumn Vale were lining up out the door and down the street for the lightest, most heavenly cakes and cupcakes this side of New York City. Every day a new selection of German chocolate, vanilla layer, red velvet, and coffee cakes decorated the glass cases in Binny’s Bakery. Binny’s had begun taking specialty orders for birthday cakes, too, as Pattycakes was a whiz at cake decorating.

Elwood Fitzhugh, the seventy-something lady-killing scoundrel, was smitten and had asked her out about ten times already. She was weakening. Despite the age difference he was a charming man, Elwood was, and between her baking and his bonhomie, they could become the power couple of Autumn Vale if they so desired.

Pattycakes shared an apartment above the bakery with Juniper, who had started her own cleaning service in town. Jumpin’ Juniper Superclean, she called it. Elwood had come up with the name. I missed Juniper terribly, if not for her sparkling company, at least for her sparkling toilets, which I was back to scrubbing on my own when Emerald was too busy with Consciousness Calling business.

On a lovely early June day I was stuck up in the attic with Binny, while Pattycakes minded the bakeshop in town. My objective was to dismantle Juniper’s “room” and see what furniture I wanted to use downstairs in the next bedroom
to be redecorated. Binny was still intent on finding the clue to the millions she was convinced Melvyn had stashed.

I was dusty, hot, tired, and dirty. I longed for a cup of tea. Fortunately, Pish was cooking dinner, as Stoddart was joining us, so I could work as long as necessary and still have time for a shower in my reclaimed room, Cleta’s former space. I
loved
my luxurious room with walls that were actually painted and a bathroom that functioned the way it was supposed to.

I had done as much as I planned to do and plunked down on a trunk, watching idly while Binny, on a ladder, searched rafters. Yes, rafters. I was examining my nails and deciding I needed a manicure when I heard a yelp. Binny almost fell off her ladder, but when she scooted down, it was to flap in my face a dusty chunk of paper.

“Read this!” she crowed.

I read it. In my uncle’s sloping hand—I recognized it by now—I read
You will find the treasure you seek in the pages of your family
. “Pages of my family? What does that mean?”

“Do you have a family Bible or something?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. Pages. Pages of a book? There are other kinds of books. I wonder if he meant in one of the old photo albums; they have pages.”

“Where are they?”

“In a box in the library. I’ve started going though them, but there are still some to go.”

“What are we waiting for?”

I knew I was torturing Binny, but I was not going to go into my beautiful library and start looking through the boxes until I had had a shower and felt clean. I handed her a couple of towels and pushed her to one of the now-empty rooms and told her to take her time. I like to be tidy. An hour later, with clean hair, skin, and clothes, makeup-free, in yoga pants and a T-shirt, I had the boxes out in front of us. Pish ducked his head in. “Binny, you staying for dinner?”

“No, thanks, Pish. Patty is making nachos. I’m going to have dinner with her and Juniper, then I’m taking dad to the Falcon meeting tonight.”

“Okay, just asking.” He looked at me. “I hope you’re wearing something other than that tonight. You know Stoddart likes to dress for diner.”

When he ducked back out I stuck my tongue out at the door.

“Don’t you like Stoddart?”

I shook my head. “He’s judgmental and snarky and sarcastic. He acts like all the folks of Autumn Vale are beneath him. He makes jokes at their expense and doesn’t understand why Pish and I like them.”

“Why do you put up with him?”

“Because I love Pish; he’s family.”

“Speaking of . . .” She grabbed a photo album and began flipping through the pages, while I did the same.

We were silent for about fifteen minutes, when I finally came to the back of the album—the one with the photos of me as a toddler—and realized the paper stuck down on the back cover bulged; there was something beneath it. For the first time I wondered if Binny was right and I was wrong.

Hands shaking, I carefully peeled the paper back and found a two-page letter in my uncle’s hand. I read it out loud.

My dearest Merry,

If you have found this
,
then good; you followed the trail and found the treasure. Family is the treasure, your past and my past . . .
W
e’re connected. I don’t have much anymore. Fact is, I’ve lost about everything I ever had, except for a few odd
s
and ends, but I know you’re out there somewhere, and that gives me solace. That’s what my friend Doc calls it . . . solace.

Do you know what your granddad called you? He called you Merrywinkle, because you liked the pretty periwinkle plants in the woods. Merry, I want you to know what took me too damned long to figure out
:
Life’s short. Family is all we have. Money doesn’t matter much. I wish I’d tried harder to get to know you, but I was a damn stubborn prideful fool, and your mama and I never saw eye to eye about anything. She didn’t like me, and I thought she was a hard woman. After your daddy died, I wanted you both to come live here, since Murg was gone
,
too, by then, but your mama and I fought, and when she left I said I’d burn in hell before I’d ever talk to her again.

I was wrong about that, and I did try, but all I got were the letters back. Don’t blame your mama for that; I didn’t give her any reason to think I had your best interests at heart. But I did. Things are kinda complicated here right now, but I have a mind to set out to find you. I’m gonna try, anyway, and see if I can make amends.

I paused, taken aback. It was like he was talking to me across the divide between life and death, and he had already told me more than I had ever known about my grandfather. And Melvyn . . . He had planned to come find me. I felt tears prickle my eyes. I looked up to see Binny regarding me carefully. “I think we found the treasure Melvyn left me.”

She nodded, solemnly, then got up, touched my shoulder, and said, “Don’t read it out loud to me. Read it to yourself later. It’s from his heart to yours, and I know how important that is. If I’d lost Dad . . .” She stopped, choked with emotion. “I gotta get back to town, have dinner, then go home to Daddy.”

She said good-bye and I refolded the letter, then went upstairs to dress. I had dinner with Lush, Pish, and Stoddart,
told them the bare bones of our treasure-hunt results, then excused myself to read the whole letter.

I learned a lot. Pish came to my room after Lush toddled off to bed with an Agatha Christie novel from the Autumn Vale library, coincidentally one of the books I had given them from my grandmother’s stash. Pish told me Stoddart had already gone, driving back to his own home. I sat up in bed and he sat cross-legged on the end.

“We had a quarrel,” Pish said. “Stoddart just doesn’t understand why I love this place so much, how I adore Janice and Hannah and . . . you.”

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

He shrugged. “My
darling
child, no one will come before you in my life.”

“Pish, you deserve love as much as the next fellow.”

“As long as it isn’t Stoddart?” he asked, eyeing me.

I chuckled.

“Tell me what the letter says,” he demanded.

I took a deep breath. “‘Once upon a time two brothers and the son of one of them set out to build a fairy-tale forest for the son’s little daughter. They all loved her so much.’” My voice choked and I cleared my throat as Pish waited. “‘The three of them worked together, building a Hansel and Gretel house, a fairy tower, and some other buildings. But because they didn’t really know what they were doing, something happened one day, and the little girl’s grandfather was hurt by a falling tree and died. The father blamed his uncle for what happened, and the two fought, and the young man took away the little girl, Merrywinkle, never to return to Wynter Forest again.’”