Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (10 page)

Both Zeke and Binny rolled their eyes.

“The Brotherhood?” I said.

“You’ve got to get off that kick,” Zeke replied to his friend, with the air of someone who has said the same thing many times before. He turned to me. “The Brotherhood of the Falcon is a bunch of old farts who sit around and make exclamations, or declamations, or whatever they do.”

“Declarations,” Binny said. “The last one was something about keeping the Brotherhood all male, as if any women would
want
to join! Zeke’s right, Gordy. Those are just a bunch of old guys drinking beer and remembering their glory days.”

“I don’t know,” Gordy said, his tone slow and doubtful as he nodded and winked with that knowing expression of someone who is in on a deep, dark secret.

“For God’s sake, Gordy . . . Dad was a member!” Binny said.

“Well,
I
heard they’re connected to the Freemasons, and you know who
they
are!” He was clearly waiting for someone to take the bait, but no one did and he looked disgruntled.

“Anyway, I’ve got work to do,” Binny said, and whirled around, stomping back to her ovens without another word.

Shilo and I stood and stared at each other for a moment, uncertain of what to do. I wished I could help, but I was the last person who could offer Binny comfort. I looked to the two locals. “Well. I guess we’ll be going.”

“You’re old Mel Wynter’s niece, right?” Gordy said. “The one who’s inherited the castle.”

“And you were there last night when Tom was killed, right?” Zeke said, looking me over closely.

“Uh, yes.”

“What’d you see?” Gordy asked softly, glancing over at the kitchen.

“Not a thing,” I said, using the tone that forbids further discussion. “Did you guys know my uncle?”

“Nah,” Zeke said. “But every kid in school snuck out to the Wynter estate and tried to look in the windows. I got chased away from there a couple of times by old Mel with a shotgun.”

Lovely. “We have to go,” I said. But I didn’t move. These guys probably were my best source for local info at that moment, I realized. It would be stupid to ignore that. “As we were coming in to Autumn Vale, we noticed a warehouse property just past the edge of town. Is that where Turner Wynter is located?”

“Well, it’s Turner Construction, yup,” Zeke said.

Binny started banging pots around in back, and I heard one loud sob. If I was a friend, I’d barge back there and comfort her, but I didn’t quite know what to say to a girl who didn’t seem to want or need consolation, preferring to hide in her kitchen and cook. Or maybe I did know too well what that was like. I had done the same when Miguel died. Gordy gave a look, then hitched his head toward the door. Shilo and I followed him and Zeke out to the street.

“Don’t go mentioning Turner Wynter around Binny,” Gordy said, joining us at the curb.

“There’s a lot of bad feelings there,” Zeke added. “Tom was sure in a tizzy about it all, the lawsuits and such. Don’t know what’ll happen now that they’re all dead.”

“I’ve heard about the lawsuits; what were they about?” I asked, interested in the gossips’ take on the situation.

Gordy and Zeke explained in their tag-team manner that there was once a plan for Turner Wynter to develop Wynter Acres, using some of the land attached to Wynter Castle. It devolved into lawsuits slung at each other, with both Rusty Turner and Melvyn Wynter claiming that the other man had cheated him. Other than that, they didn’t appear to know the details of who sued who, or about any possible resolution.

“Y’know,
you’ll
probably have to settle the lawsuit,” Zeke said, hitching his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “Along with Binny.”

“Me?” I squawked, taken aback. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“Your land now, your lawsuit,” Gordy said, rocking back on his heels.

“But there’s no one left to continue against!” Shilo exclaimed.

I saw both young guys shutter like blinds, and their gaze became shifty.

“I guess that’s so, isn’t it, Zeke?” Gordy said.

“Mighty interesting, that,” Zeke said. “Mighty interesting.”

And with that, the two cast me one long, thoughtful look, and ambled off down the sidewalk with their heads together, chattering like gibbons. Great. I felt like I was now back in the center of some kind of local suspicion.

“We’re going to visit a certain lawyer,” I said to Shilo.

Silvio was in, and Shilo and I entered, but this time he seemed out of sorts. “What do you want this time, Miss Wynter?”

And he had been so friendly last time! “I take it you’ve heard about Tom Turner’s death in my yard?” I said, steeling myself against hurrying in the face of his irritation.

He nodded.

“People are suspicious, it seems, of my connection to the whole case because of those darned lawsuits. Can’t we resolve things, now that it’s all water under the bridge?”

He sighed heavily, very much the put-upon legal eagle. “There is nothing I can do about it, I told you. Nothing to do with me.”

“The point is, it is a complication in the estate.”

“Yes. It’s unfortunate. Rusty and Mel started out working together on Wynter Acres, and it all seemed so promising. It was to be a housing development meant to attract retiring baby boomers who wanted to live in the country but have the convenience of condo living. Then Mel accused Rusty of cheating him and it all went to hell in a handbasket. Though I could not get legally involved, I
was
trying hard to mediate between those two bullheaded, old men.”

“Until Rusty disappeared and Melvyn died.”

He nodded. “I don’t even know where everything stands. It’s all in limbo until we know the legal determination in Rusty’s death or disappearance.”

“In other words, it could go on forever,” I said. “What does that mean to my wanting to sell the estate?”

He shrugged.

Anger was building up in me. “So you can’t even tell me if I’ll be
able
to sell the estate, is that it?”

“Oh, you should be able to sell, but there will be conditions attached to the sale.”

Great. Buyers just
love
conditions. His next appointment, a young woman, entered, and we were forced to leave, me feeling kind of huffy about the whole thing.

“We may as well find this library folks keep telling me about,” I said. Shilo and I walked the streets of Autumn Vale, the locals watching and whispering about our every step.

Finally, along a side street in the downtown section, up a sloped alley, I saw the sign I had noticed before, hanging out from the building. Autumn Vale Library it read, in curly script that looked hand painted. According to the placard attached to the wall it was open, so Shilo and I strolled up the wheelchair access ramp to the door and entered to the sound of weeping.

Shilo gripped my elbow, as full of consternation at the woeful, echoing sounds as I. It was like the place was haunted by a mournful ghost. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I looked around the cavernous, gray room lined with bookshelves, most not above shoulder height, and finally saw what looked like a desk.

We approached. Behind the desk was a girl in a wheelchair. I say “girl” because at first glance she appeared to be no more than ten or eleven. But on closer inspection, as she turned red-rimmed eyes—beautiful, luminous,
huge
eyes—toward me, I could see within them a woman’s full measure of pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked my voice faltering.

She stared at me for a long moment, then said, “When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of a book, but translated into a better language.”

Shilo said “Huh?”

But I’d heard or read the quotation before. I closed my eyes; it took me a moment, but I finally replied with the next, more famous part of it, my voice softly echoing up into the gray shadows of the library’s upper reaches. “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” It was from a prose piece written by John Donne, and was the source of Hemingway’s most famous title.

The girl bowed her head for a long moment, and we were silent. But she looked up, and said, “It’s true, isn’t it? He’s dead. Tom Turner is gone.”

“You were friend of Tom’s,” I said.

She nodded, her large, gray eyes fixed on me. “He was a good man, despite what others say. Despite what
you
may think.”

“You mean because of my run-in with him?”

She nodded.

“You know who I am.”

She nodded again.

“I just wanted him to stop digging holes on my property,” I said, on a sigh. “I really wish it hadn’t ended this way. I’m sure you feel the same.”

“I do . . . I’m so s-sad! That’s where he died, isn’t it?” Her breath caught on a sob, but she was trying to be brave. I could tell.

It was my turn to nod.

Shilo was looking back and forth between us. “I think I’m going for a walk,” she said.

Once Shi was gone, the girl said, “I suppose you’re here to learn about the Wynters of Wynter Castle.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I said. “That can wait. Why don’t we talk about Tom Turner, first. I know so little about him or anyone here. You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. What’s your name?”

“Hannah,” she said. “It means ‘God has favored me.’”

She smiled through tears, and she was beautiful. I pulled a chair over to sit beside her, and we talked. Hannah was a little person, tiny of frame and fragile as a bird, with pale skin like bone china. But her heart was huge, too big for her small frame, and she seemed filled with an eager grace. I don’t know how else to express it. A beautiful yearning poured from her, expanding to fill the dim recesses of her library.

“How did you come to work here, in the library?”

“It’s
my
library; I applied for a grant, I talked them into it, and I got the place renovated. I’ve always loved reading,” she said. “When I was a kid, I read a book
The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak
. It opened up the world to me. I’ve been to Cameroon with Gerald Durrell, and to Yorkshire with James Herriot. Isak Dinesen showed me Kenya. I’ve been around the world with books as my traveling cloak.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “I’ve lived and breathed in Regency England with Jane Austen. I’ve walked the Yorkshire moors with Emily Brontë and the streets of Victorian London with Charles Dickens. Books are a marvelous transport. Tell me about why you were crying for Tom Turner.”

Her smile illuminated the shadows. “We were going to be married.”

"M
ARRIED?” I STARED
at her. Was she serious? I examined her serene face. Yes, she was serious. “Uh, did he tell you that?”

“No, of course not. He didn’t know it,” she said, her head tilted to one side, her huge gray eyes dreamy. “But it would have happened. I was the only one he told things to, you know? He talked to me.”

“It sounds like you were friends,” I said carefully.

“We were. Good friends. And he loved me.” Her eyes flooded, and one big drop fell on her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Eventually he’d have seen that no one would have . . . no one . . .” She sniffed and shook her head, looking down at her hands, struggling with her emotion.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” I said, gentling my tone. “He was lucky to have someone in his life who loved him so much.” It seemed an impossible match to me, this little, bookish miss and the hulking, angry Tom, but perhaps she would have been the making of him. That she loved him so fiercely changed how I saw him and strengthened my sorrow at his death.

She told me good things about Tom Turner, that he was the one who had built the wheelchair ramp for her and all the shelves for the books, many of which were from her own collection. The library truly was hers, supported in part by the Brotherhood of the Falcon that Binny made such sport of, and with other grants that she zealously pursued. She was quite accomplished, I gathered, at writing grant proposals. As Hannah spoke, I thought about how a person could be so many things at once, good and bad and sometimes ugly. I recalled what Gordy and Zeke had said, about Tom and Junior Bradley fighting over some bar dancer named Emerald. Which Tom was the real deal, the one who hung out in bars looking for a fight, or the one who built shelves and a ramp for a sweet-faced librarian? I guess he was both.

“I want to know who did this,” Hannah finally said.

“Me, too.”

“Then let’s figure it out.”

I gaped at her. “Let’s . . . you mean you and I?”

“Why not? We’re both smart women, right?” Hannah smiled even as tears welled in her eyes. She sobered, and said, “I won’t rest until I know who killed him. He didn’t deserve it.”

I stared at her for a moment, then said, “You know, some are probably going to think I killed him. In fact, I know they do.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then let’s get started figuring this out.”

But how to do that? Maybe if I got to know Tom posthumously, it would help. “What was he like? From your viewpoint?”

“Rough around the edges,” she said, staring off into the distance. “I’ve known him a long time. Mrs. Turner used to babysit me before she left town.”

“Mrs. Turner?”

“Binny’s mother.”

“She left town? When? Why?”

“She took Binny and left . . . oh, let’s see . . . Binny was about ten, I was fifteen, so I guess about fifteen years ago or so? No one knows why.”

“Hmm. Odd that she took just her daughter and left town.” It seemed to me in a small town, someone should know why, unless it was something so breathtakingly horrible that no one wanted to be the first to say it.

Her eyes flashed, and she fastened them on me. They glittered strangely in the shadowy dimness. “And don’t you go thinking anything nasty. It wasn’t
anything
like that.”

My eyebrows climbed. She was not quite so sheltered as I had thought, if she had picked up on the direction of my wandering musings. But then, a voracious reader does learn much of the world, if only through books. “I’ll take your word for it.” I hadn’t truly thought the woman had taken Binny away to avoid some kind of abuse by father or son anyway; it had been a possibility, though not high on the list. There were dozens of other explanations, most of which didn’t involve anything sinister at all. “How did father and son get along after Tom’s mom left?”

“She actually wasn’t Tom’s mother . . . Rusty’s wife, I mean, which I guess was why she didn’t take Tom with her when she left; plus he was, like, nineteen or so. Tom was from Rusty Turner’s first marriage. His mom died soon after having Tom.”

“You do know a lot about folks, don’t you? What do you know about my uncle Melvyn?”

She waved one delicate hand airily. “Tom’s murder first. Focus, Merry.”

What would have been annoying from anyone else, was charming coming from her, and she knew it. I had to smile. “What was Tom looking for on my property? Do you know?”

“He
said
he was looking for his father’s body—and that’s what he told Binny—but that wasn’t true.” She hesitated.

“And . . . ?”

She shrugged, and engaged the joystick of her wheelchair, whirling around and wheeling to one of the bookshelves. I followed. Her mood had changed abruptly. She looked at the spines of the books at her eye level, pulled one out, and handed it to me. “This will tell you more about Autumn Vale and your ancestors. The town is called Autumn Vale because of them, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking down at the plain, hardbound book.

“The town was supposed to be called Wynterville, but one of the earliest settlers was dead-set against it. Said the Wynters were already too powerful. He got folks on his side, and the town was named Autumn Vale, it is said, so it would never be Wynter.”

“Wow.” It sounded like the kind of story that gets started when a town mythologizes its past, but it could be true. I paused for just a second, but then charged ahead. “Hannah, do you
know
what Tom was digging on my property for?” It had not escaped my notice that she had avoided the question neatly.

She pressed the joystick and returned to her librarian desk. “I don’t know, exactly, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t really believe that Rusty’s body was buried there. He had Binny convinced, though, at least for a while.”

“So what
was
he looking for?” I insisted. “Come on, Hannah, if you have any idea, please tell me!”

She sighed. “I don’t. Truly, Merry, I would tell you if I could.” Her shadowed face was marked by an expression of indecision.

“Okay. Who disliked him enough to kill him?”

Hannah grimaced. “Poor Tom. He was good at making people dislike him. I don’t know why.”

“Then where should I start?”

“Well, two places. I heard he had a fistfight with Junior Bradley, the zoning commissioner. They were childhood friends. Tom wouldn’t tell me why they fought.”

I’ll
bet
he wouldn’t tell her why. The girl adored him, and he would have shattered her view of him if he told her that he and his friend had come to blows over a stripper. I’d definitely have to check out that dancer
and
Junior Bradley. “And who else?”

“Well, you should probably consider Dinah Hooper.”

The name sounded familiar, but with all the locals I had been meeting, I was momentarily stumped. “Who is she?”

“She is . . . was . . . Rusty’s girlfriend. She works at Turner Construction. Her son, Dinty, worked there, too, but he left town some time back.”

“How is Dinah dealing with Rusty’s disappearance?”

Hannah looked pensive. She angled her face upward, and a ray of light shone in one of the few high windows in the dim library, catching her eyes, beaming brightly in the luminous gray depths. She was like a faery, sometimes fey, sometimes grave, looking like a child but speaking like a woman. I’ll admit, among the many characters of Autumn Vale, she fascinated me most.

“I feel sorry for her; I’d say she’s truly upset and worried. It’s difficult for her, I imagine. But . . . I won’t say anything else. You should talk to her yourself.”

“I will. Is Dinah Hooper in a position to inherit anything, now that Tom is gone, and Rusty probably, too?”

She didn’t flinch from the question, and in fact I could tell she had already considered it. “I don’t think so. She didn’t live with Rusty, and they weren’t married. If anything, I think it kind of exonerates her, you know? Because if she was out for money, it would have been better for her if Rusty had stuck around and married her.”

“The son, Dinty . . . when did he leave town? Before or after Rusty disappeared?”

“Uh, after. A few months, actually. Why?”

I shrugged. It could mean nothing at all, or it could have been guilt that sent the guy away. I didn’t know him, but I’d bet that Gordy and Zeke did. I’d have to tap into those two guys’ knowledge at some point. Should be easy if I used Shilo as a lure.

“I don’t care what happened to Rusty,” Hannah said, her fine-boned face holding a grim expression. “We’re trying to figure out who killed Tom, and why.”

“I know. I’m just trying to find my bearings. Could it all be tied up together?”

“I suppose.”

Shilo came back in to the library, a poorly hidden expression of excitement on her face.

“Shilo, this is Hannah,” I said. “Hannah, this is my best friend, Shilo.”

“Shilo . . . that means peaceful.”

“Bad name for me!” Shilo said with a laugh, plunking down in a chair by the librarian.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hannah said, gazing at her steadily. “You look how I always imagined Rebecca from
Ivanhoe
would look.” She reached out and touched Shilo’s long, dark hair. She fingered the curled locks with a wistful look. Her own hair was thin and mousy, lying flat on her narrow skull, parting around her ears like a stream around a rock.

“And you make me think of the pixies,” Shilo said, touching Hannah’s hand gently. “I believed in pixies when I was a kid. I played with them, out in the forest. Always my favorite faery folk.”

I could see they would be friends, each a little odd, each willing to say exactly what she thought. Hannah nodded, as if reading my mind.

“I saw Jack McGill,” Shilo said, her eyes sparkling, as she turned back to me.

“McGill?” Hannah said.

I whirled around and looked at Hannah. “You call him McGill, too?” I said.

“Sure,” Hannah replied. “Jack is too common a name for him.”

“I know. Even though he is a Jack-of-all-trades, in a sense. He’s filling in the holes that Tom dug.” That sobered me, bringing me back to Tom’s death. I could see it had affected Hannah similarly. “How did you happen across him, Shi? What did McGill have to say for himself?”

“Well, he was showing an empty storefront to a prospective tenant. The tenant was Dinah Hooper.”

“Dinah Hooper?” Once you hear a name, I thought, you just keep hearing it! “Rusty Turner’s girlfriend. Why would she be renting out a storefront?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Shilo said. “But it’s interesting, right?”

I chewed my lip. It was certainly interesting.

There was probably more I could have asked Hannah, but a local library patron came in, an odd woman, heavyset and with a determined frown; she wore a red hat and purple dress, and pushed a rolling walker along the shelves, but didn’t seem to depend upon it for support. She grabbed books as she went, tossing them into the basket of her walker.

“Hey, do you take book donations?” I asked.

“We do!” Hannah said, luminous eyes glowing. “Do you have any?”

“I sure do. I have my mother’s books, which have been in storage since she died; a lot of classics and poetry. I also have my grandmother’s. She favored kids’ books and classic mysteries. Lots of hardback Agatha Christie novels. All my boxes are coming from storage, and I could sure use a home for the books . . . that’s
if
they’re in good shape. They should be. Can you use them?”

“We definitely can. Whatever we can’t use, we sell to raise money at the annual Autumn Vale Harvest Sale.” Her smile died. “Tom always takes the books to the auditorium for me.” Tears welled up.

“I bet Jack would help out with that,” Shilo said softly, smiling down at Hannah.

The girl brightened just a shade. “Do you think so?”

“You
know
he will,” Shilo answered. “He seems to be very civic-minded, and the book sale . . . I’m sure lots of folks count on that every year.”

Hannah colored faintly and nodded. “Thank you.”

I told Hannah I’d be back another day, and she said she was often at Golden Acres for their Book Hour. She took in coffee table–type books for some of the old folks to look over and reminisce about. She was something of an amateur historian, it seemed, and talked to the oldsters about their early years in Autumn Vale and made up trivia games. She had heard about the muffins I was supplying, she informed me, and approved.