Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (4 page)

Suddenly overwhelmed, I slumped down on a stool and glanced around, tears filling my eyes. I was probably just tired and hungry, but all of a sudden I wondered how I was going to do this. What the hell was I doing in the middle of nowhere, in a castle that I had to find a way to sell? At thirty-nine, I was starting over with no clue of what I was supposed to be doing for the rest of my life, now that my career was busted and no one in the fashion industry would even trust me in their homes, much less working for them. I wasn’t being melodramatic in thinking my career was over, it was simple fact. Leatrice, spiteful and angry, had poisoned the fashion industry well. Even those who didn’t believe her lies just didn’t need to take that chance. I was alone, almost penniless, with a behemoth of a building as my only asset.

I shook off the weariness and depression, slipped on my loafers, and headed outside; fresh air or tea are my cure-alls. Defeat was not an option. Wynter Castle was amazing, but to be sellable it had to present as a viable property with great potential. The more I did to it, the more likely I would be to get a decent payday. With at least a million dollars or so that the castle
could
fetch if I worked hard, I could head back to the city and maybe start my own business. What kind of business, I wasn’t sure yet, but something.

The double oak door creaked shut behind me and I strolled to the edge of the flagged terrace, looking out over my land.
My
land. Weird. The castle grounds consisted of several acres (by my questionable judgment) of open land, surrounded by forest on all sides. The only exposed vista was down the laneway, but the lane then curved around a grove and disappeared in the trees.

I tried to visualize this landscape without the holes, but it was tough. I crossed a patch of the long, weedy grass and sidled up to one of the pits, staring down at the dirt and roots. It was at least six feet deep. What on earth was someone looking for? McGill theorized that it had to do with Binny Turner’s missing father, but could she really believe that Rusty Turner’s body was buried on the castle grounds? And that eighty-year-old Melvyn Wynter had managed to kill and bury the poor guy by himself? Sounded far-fetched to me.

And even if all that was true, how could Binny Turner be responsible for digging all of these holes?

As I glanced around, I noticed a pair of glowing eyes trained in my direction. Something moved on the edge of the forest, an animal watching me. I squinted and shaded my eyes with my hand. Whatever “it” was, it was orange. How many native animals are orange? I took a step in that direction, wondering what it would do; it melted back into the forest. Just then I heard rumbling in the distance. Earthquake? As I stared down the lane, a small excavator appeared from around the bend, followed by a disgraceful, rattletrap vehicle that I immediately recognized.

“Shilo,” I shrieked, jumping up and down in glee. I tore off toward the car, trotting to it, then alongside it as it made its way up the lane. My dearest friend in the world—well, one of just two or three—was waving and chirping happily as she tootled up the drive.

S
HILO DINNEGAN HALTED
her creaky, old vehicle on the weedy, flagged drive and leaped from the ancient Ford; she threw her skinny arms around me, hugging hard. Despite the fact that we had just had dinner three days ago—during which I wanted to tell her my plans, but was afraid I would burst into tears—it felt like I hadn’t seen her in months.

I hugged her back, then held her away from me. “Shilo, what are you doing here?” I asked, shaking her.

“You invited me to come stay,” she said calmly, cocking her head on one side, her black eyes snapping with good humor.

“I . . . but . . .” I spluttered, then broke into laughter. “Shilo, you know that’s not quite true, but I’m
so
glad to see you. And you know you’re welcome to stay.” My depression vanished like mist, as I considered what a difference having Shilo around, even for a little while, would make. Arm over her shoulders, I turned to the Bobcat driver, and found it was Jack McGill, wearing battered blue jeans, a soft, old, plaid shirt, and a huge grin. “So you’re the cut-rate hole filler?” I said.

“Yup, I am. Borrowed this machine from a friend. I’ll get going. I want to get these filled for you so you won’t break your neck.”

He started work immediately, and Shilo linked her arm in mine and tugged me away. “Isn’t he cute?” she said, watching him over my shoulder.

“You think he’s cute?” I glanced back at McGill, who had begun at the hole closest to the castle.
Really?

*

“SO YOU WERE LAST HERE WHEN YOU WERE
HOW
old?” Shilo asked.

“I was about five, I think,” I said, pulling a boho-chic dress out of one of Shilo’s many suitcases and shaking the wrinkles out of it.

The room I had chosen for myself was one with a “Jack and Jill” bathroom and a room on the other side. I had vaguely thought I might make the other room an office, of sorts. Instead, I put Shilo in it, figuring that would be only one bathroom to clean rather than several. The castle already felt smaller because of her boundless energy and enthusiasm. The cage with Shilo’s bunny, Magic, was on top of a dresser, and the rabbit stared at me with witless focus through the square mesh.

While McGill worked steadily on filling holes, a gentleman in overalls had arrived—summoned by McGill, who knew exactly what needed to be done—and turned on the boiler, lit the pilot lights, and explained how it all worked, checked that everything was functional, then tipped his John Deere hat and left. I had sheets and blankets in the laundry, not trusting my uncle’s housekeeping, and would be able to make up our beds with fresh linens shortly. The washer and dryer were industrial-size, so it was all in one load.

“Why didn’t you look up your uncle, after your mom and grandma died?” Shilo asked.

I sat down on the mattress as Shilo finished her unpacking and talked about my family, something I rarely did. “I didn’t remember the trip here very well. Still don’t. And I only have a dim memory of Uncle Melvyn. We came here by train, I remember, and Uncle Melvyn met us at the station in an old car, something that looked like it was from a forties gangster movie, the kind my grandmother liked to watch on TV.” I wondered if that car was still in one of the outbuildings that dotted the landscape, and that I had yet to look into.

Why had Mom come all the way to Autumn Vale, I wondered. I told Shilo the rest of the story: It was a long trip and I was tired, which is why I don’t remember much of the castle, I guess. I tumbled right into bed, which I shared with Mom, but I woke up the next morning alone. A little scared by the movie-set weirdness of the castle, I found my way down to the kitchen. Mom and Uncle Melvyn sat in the kitchen talking, and I remember the smell of strong, burnt coffee. I lingered at the door of the kitchen, shy, I suppose, as the conversation between the two of them became an argument. I don’t remember what they said, but the tone of an adult argument is familiar to any child.

Mom stormed out of the kitchen, grabbed my arm, and hauled me upstairs. I sat cross-legged on the bed while she packed our bags and called for a cab to take us back to the train station. Though I was hungry, there wasn’t even time to eat; I remember that vividly. The cab pulled up, honked its horn, and we stormed out of there, followed by my shouting uncle. I knelt on the seat of the car and looked out the back window. Uncle Melvyn stood at the huge oak double doors, shaking his fist.

“What did they fight over?” Shilo asked, shutting a drawer now filled with her confused jumble of clean underwear.

“To this day, I don’t know. My mom wouldn’t tell me. But we never came back here, and she never mentioned him again. You didn’t know my mother, but she had those kind of arguments with people all the time. If someone didn’t share her political views or her moral ideals, then they were the enemy.”

“Wow. Judgmental much?”

“I know. She said compromise was for those who couldn’t stick to their ideals. I mean, she was right, usually, about the stuff she was passionate about, but it didn’t make it any easier to have friends. I don’t think I ever had a friend with Republican parents. Mom wouldn’t stand for it.

“Anyway, I asked a few times about Uncle Melvyn, but finally stopped after the umpteenth dirty look from Mom. We moved to New York and lived with Granny, Mom’s mother. You know the rest; when I was twenty-one Granny died, and Mom just months later. I never even thought of looking up Uncle Melvyn. I supposed I didn’t realize he’d still be alive. He seemed ancient when I was five, though I guess he must have only been in his fifties.”

Shilo danced into the bathroom with her cosmetics bag and dashed back out without it. “We met when you were . . . what?”

“I was twenty-eight.” That was the year I’d met Miguel Paradiso. Everything changed when I met Miguel, a photographer who confessed, on a Lane Bryant shoot in St. Tropez, that skinny girls frightened him. Hunger of any kind frightened Miguel, except for the hunger for love he saw in my eyes, he said to me.

It was a
great
pickup line. He was such a romantic, and had a genius for flattery, useful in his work as a photographer. Every woman felt more beautiful around Miguel, more womanly, softer, vulnerable. Cared for. I fell in love almost that same moment and couldn’t believe my good fortune when he fell in love with me, too. We got married just six months later in that Connecticut castle, which Miguel knew from a shoot. We had two glorious years together before he died in a car accident while on his way to a job in Vermont, leaving me a widow at the age of thirty-one.

Shilo reached out and touched my arm. “You’re thinking of Miguel.”

“How do you always know?” I asked, the view of my friend shimmering through the veil of tears.

“It’s not hard to figure out,” she said, her pixie face drawn down in a sad expression. “If you’re crying, you’re probably thinking of him. We all loved Miguel,” she said, referring to the community of photographers, artists, stylists, designers, and models who made up our friendship circle.

Most of whom had now abandoned me. The Leatrice effect, again. Even those who didn’t believe the woman’s outrageous claim thought I had sold out by going to work for her, instead of continuing my work as a stylist. “I know,” I said. “I still miss him.”

After a brief pause, she said, “So seriously, dearie; what are you going to do with this monstrosity of a castle?” Shilo got up and twirled around in the room, her arms spread wide.

“It’s either a godsend or a death knell,” I said, getting up and wandering the room, touching the furniture, comprised of both beautiful and ugly old pieces in the Eastlake style. “I thought I could just sell it and move on, but it seems like the universe wants me here for a while, anyway. My idea is to fix it up enough to unload it, and get the heck back to NYC.”

“But we’ll see what the universe has in mind for you, right?”

“Right.” I glanced over at Shilo and frowned. “By the way, how did you find your way here so quickly? I got lost a dozen times. It took me forever!”

“Gypsy blood, my dear,” Shilo said, waggling her fingers near her eyes, veiling them mysteriously, then peeping at me. “It’s not that far from the city, as the crow flies. I’m part Roma, and part Irish Traveler, you know, and both sides can find their way anywhere by intuition.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I did get lost outside of Autumn Vale,” she admitted. “But darling Jack was just leaving a construction lot with that machine. I flagged him down, and when he said he was coming here, I followed him.”

Darling Jack?
“This is a weird place,” I said. “This whole valley is distinctly odd. Like, Shirley Jackson odd.
Stephen King
odd!” I told her about my GPS acting up, and about my dubious welcome, the “Wynter Castle is death” refrain from Binny the Baker. I mused about my quirky cell phone reception, and also told her about Gogi Grace, the retirement home owner.

Shilo laughed. “You actually let her rope you in to making two dozen muffins? On your first day in a new town?”

“She seemed nice, and she looked like she might be a valuable contact.”

“Method behind the madness?”

“You bet!”

Once Shilo was settled in, and Magic had a carrot to chew on, we went down to the kitchen and I familiarized myself with the appliances by making lunch, one of my favorite soups, Gouda and Harvest Vegetable Chowder. I was starved, having only munched on one of the buns I bought from Binnie that morning. I went outside while the soup simmered to see how McGill was coming along. He was making progress, but slowly, and he looked unsure of the machine a good deal of the time. I caught his eye and waved him down.

He moved the Bobcat away from a hole and shut it off. “How’s it going?” he asked, climbing out of the machine.

“Good. Want some lunch? I’ve rustled up a little food.”

He enthusiastically agreed, and followed me through the big front doors. “There’s another way in, you know, right to the kitchen instead of going all the way around,” he said, his voice echoing in the big hall.

“I thought I saw another door, but I’ve lost track. It’s taking me a while to find my way around. You’ll have to show me.”

He showed me the door, off a long hall lined with cupboards behind the kitchen, a butler’s pantry, I think it’s called. While he washed up, Shilo and I found a few chairs and moved them into the kitchen. We set the worktable, using the oddly assorted dishes that my uncle had left, then I brought the big pot of soup to the table and pulled a batch of cheddar-bacon muffins out of the oven, dumping them into a big bowl, with a stick of real butter and a knife alongside.

McGill came in, wiping his hands on a towel and sniffed the air. “Wow, something smells great!”

“Merry is the muffin queen!” Shilo said. “Miguel said that he fell in love with her because of her muffins . . . and her buns!”

“Shi!” I said, giving her a stern look.
That girl has no boundaries
, I thought, but did not say aloud.

Chastened, Shilo said, “Sorry.”

Of course that necessitated an explanation as to who Miguel was. I found out that McGill had lost his wife not long after they were married, and after some mutual commiseration we were devouring lunch and chatting like old friends.

“So, was anything ever resolved between my uncle and the Turners?” I said, turning the conversation to business. “What were they fighting over?”

He shrugged, dipping a big chunk of savory muffin in his soup. “Bad business blood,” he mumbled, around a mouthful of muffin. “When Rusty disappeared, everything screeched to a halt. There’s a lot more to it than that, but I don’t know everything.”

I exchanged a glance with Shilo. It seemed like McGill was avoiding the subject, or trying to pass over it lightly. “Did he just disappear? What do you think happened to him? Is he really dead?”

McGill shrugged yet again, as he chewed and swallowed. “I just don’t know. There was so much going on. Rusty Turner . . .” He shook his head and made a sound between his teeth. “He was a contentious sort. Melvyn wasn’t the only one he was having trouble with.”

“But Binny clearly thinks he’s dead,” I insisted, refusing to be sloughed off.

“Tom’s got her convinced that Melvyn killed him, and—”

“Tom?”

“Her older brother. He worked for both Turner Construction
and
Turner Wynter, their construction partnership.”