Death of an English Muffin (4 page)

“Someone will be in contact,” he said. “Maybe even Sheriff Grace. I hear he comes out this way often.”

This was said with some kind of insinuating undertone I didn’t understand but didn’t like. Just then my gaze strayed to his ID patch, sewn above his blue shirt pocket;
Deputy Urquhart
, it read. A queasy sensation squeezed my stomach. I caught Gogi’s eye and she nodded. How fortunate for me. I managed to snag the only officer on the force who probably thought I was more trouble than Virgil did. He
must
be related to the tribe of Urquhart kin who resided in Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge. Minnie Urquhart, who ran the only local postal outlet, had for some unfathomable reason decided I was the devil’s handmaiden. She spread gossip and lies through the village like a stream of poison.

That explained Deputy Urquhart’s “Wynter curse” remark. As he drove away, Lauda staring pitifully out the back window at us, tears streaming down her pudgy cheeks, I had a sense that my life was about to become more complicated once again. Just what I needed.

“I
THINK I
can guess why you looked concerned,” I said, turning to Gogi and wrapping my arms around myself. The day had gotten sharply colder, the brilliant April sun tucking itself behind gathering clouds. “He’s part of the Urquhart clan.”

“A nephew of Minnie’s; she seems to have an army of nephews and nieces. Virgil told me about it when he made the hire two months ago. The boy is a good deputy, he says, nothing like the rest of his family. But he
did
seem to have a bit of an attitude, didn’t he?”

“Why has that whole family decided I’m trouble? I just don’t understand.”

Stoddart had joined us. “It’s like the herd circling,” Stoddart said.

“It all started with Minnie,” I griped, leading the way back to the castle. “She decided I was bad news and there was no going back from there.”

The interruption broke up our afternoon tea and the folks
from the village and Golden Acres left. It was always something, but this time at least it had nothing to do with me. However, it was becoming evident that Cleta was the center of some family drama, not something I was pleased about given how much drama I had suffered through in my own life in the last year.

I had changed into comfortable attire and was in the kitchen. Pish and Stoddart followed Janice back to her warehouse to look at some set décor items she had stashed away for their production of
The Magic Flute
. Lizzie had hitched a ride into town with the gentlemen and would return with them. Emerald finished tidying the dining room, while Juniper and Shilo were doing laundry and cleaning bathrooms. They seemed to have worked out their own schedule and way of dividing the chores, and I was happy with that.

I needed to start dinner, a much more involved process now that I had guests, so I was alone in the kitchen, peeling potatoes then plunging them in cold water, occasionally staring out the window overlooking the woods that lined the far end of the property. The fairy-tale wood haunted me. What did my great-uncle intend? It was such an odd thing for him to do.

I had a crown rib pork roast and was going to rub it with crushed garlic, stuff it, and roast root vegetables around it. It was a showy-looking dinner, but not difficult. The ladies had all gone upstairs for a nap after the excitement, or at least I
thought
they had all gone up.

“Merry, may I speak with you?”

The voice made me jump and I put one starchy hand over my heart. “Vanessa!” I exclaimed, turning toward the door. “Is everything all right?”

She appeared worried but hesitant and frowned, shaking her head.

“Want to take a seat and chat?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said and entered, taking one of
the chairs at the long wooden table that centered the work area of the kitchen. She had changed out of her tea dress into a bejeweled grape-colored velour pantsuit.

I went back to peeling but when no confidence issued forth, I asked, over my shoulder, “You did wish to speak with me?”

“I feel I must. It’s about Lauda.”

“That woman is quite a trip. What did she mean by all of that squalling? She acted like we had kidnapped Cleta and were holding her for ransom.”

“There is a long story behind it, but you mustn’t judge Lauda by her behavior today.”

I turned and eyed her, wary of the apologetic tone she was taking. “She was completely off her rocker. Even Cleta seemed afraid of her; I wouldn’t have expected that woman to be afraid of anyone. She said Lauda tried to kill her.”

Vanessa fiddled with her hair, patting at some stray strands that had escaped her elaborate hairstyle. “Cleta has no children, as you know,” she said. “Lauda is her late sister’s daughter. Did you know that Cleta’s name means ‘glory’?”

I shook my head, dried my hands and sat down opposite Vanessa. “Inappropriate, in my opinion.”

“Lauda was named in her honor. Lauda means ‘praise.’ Kind of like glory, I suppose, if you look at it that way.”

I waited. Vanessa was not usually so roundabout, but I would be patient. She met my gaze; her eyes were remarkable, very green. In conversations over the past weeks I had heard about how she was hired the first time as a gypsy extra in a Hollywood extravaganza because of those mesmerizing eyes, then her part was cut. The casting director had just wanted to sleep with her, she said. She had wanted to be a serious actress, but it wasn’t easy. In an effort to stand out she dyed her hair black, arched her eyebrows, painted her lips bright red, and positioned herself as a vixen, a popular
female character in 1950s movies. She had been aiming for films like
Blackboard Jungle
, but had ended up in B-grade fetish roles and cheap noir films.

From there she landed a European count who lived in England and retired from the business, a bad-girl version of Grace Kelly, she had said in a moment of candid self-mockery. After her divorce, she went back to acting. I remembered seeing some of her later movies on late-night TV. She played the aging vamp or the dangerous woman, archetypal roles in which she was rather good, if a little over-the-top. After a pause, I prompted her. “You were going to tell me something about Lauda?”

“Lauda is Cleta’s sole heir. I feel rather bad for the girl. After her mother died she followed Cleta around like a puppy, and I’m afraid my vindictive friend took advantage. She had Lauda doing all of her errands, cleaning her condo, fetching her dry cleaning . . . everything!”

I had my own issues with Cleta, and I was certain that Cleta took advantage in every way she could, but Lauda was a grown-up. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want.

Vanessa went on, “The deal between them was worth it, I suppose. Cleta is a very rich woman. When she dies Lauda will be wealthy.”

I murmured an acknowledgment.

The aging actress played with her bangle bracelet and frowned. “Cleta began to notice things, like little traps set for her, items in her way in her condo that weren’t there before, as if to trip her.”

“You’re saying Lauda was trying to kill Cleta.”

Vanessa shook her head. “
I’m
not saying it, but that’s Cleta’s take on it. I say the old gal is just getting forgetful and doesn’t want to admit it. Or her vision is getting worse. Of course, Cleta being who she is, she
would
put the worst construct on it. She says
I’m
a drama queen, but she has me beat.”

“What are you saying, Vanessa? Lauda didn’t give me much choice but to have her carted away.”

“I know that, my dear. I’m not blaming you.”

So why did her tone sound full of reproach? “Really, Vanessa, you have to admit, Lauda’s behavior was not that of a reasonable person.”

Vanessa leaned forward and stared into my eyes. “How would
you
feel if someone you loved was accusing you of trying to kill them? Even with all the abuse she’s taken, I
do
think Lauda loves her aunt.”

“So there’s nothing to Cleta’s accusations?”

Vanessa was silent, her forehead furrowed in thought. “I just don’t know what to think. Lauda is counting on that inheritance. She doesn’t have any savings, and she’s getting close to retirement age.”

All the more motive to poison her aunt, besides the obvious, which was Cleta seemed like a woman who needed poisoning. “Does Lauda work?”

“She was on the custodial staff at a bank but was let go for some reason.” Vanessa sighed and stood, tugging her gaudy sweatshirt down over her hips. “I think I’ll go have a little nap. That awful scene wore me out. I feel so
sorry
for Lauda. Cleta has been making wild accusations against her, and it just got worse after that incident of food poisoning. She
swears
Lauda tried to poison her, but there was no way she could have.”

“Were they alone when it happened?”

“No, not at all. It was at a charity function that we were all invited to.”

“Did anyone else get sick?”

“Well, no. But
that
doesn’t mean anything.”

“So you were
all
there?”

She thought for a moment. “I believe we were, even Lush. It was a Valentine’s Day dinner and dance given by one of Patsy Schwartz’s daughters. The girl is named Patricia as well, so
even though she’s well into her fifties, we still all call her Pattycakes. She was trying to launch some kind of catering business, and paired with a charity that needed a fund-raiser.”

“And was Lauda there as well?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Patsy got her daughter to hire Lauda as serving staff. The poor woman is desperate for money, as I said, not having a steady job anymore.”

I went back to the sink to finish the potatoes and start on the carrots and parsnips.

“I feel sorry for Lauda,” Vanessa said. “Cleta is not an easy person to deal with.”

“Hopefully Lauda will go back to the city,” I said, looking back over my shoulder at her.

“I’m sure she will. Thanks for listening, dear. I know we’ve been a sore trial to you this last month, but I’ll try to get the others to behave.” She smiled and winked. “Not that that is going to work with Cleta.”

I chuckled. “I’ll call you all when dinner is ready.”

“Thank you again for listening to me.”

“Anytime,” I said.

As I finished up paring and peeling all the root vegetables Shilo came into the kitchen and perched on a stool. She was headed home but wanted to talk first, so I fed her tea and muffins as we chatted about what was going on in her life. She loved Jack, adored his mother, and though she wasn’t crazy about their sixties split-level ranch home, it was comfortable. I had been to their house many times over the winter, and she appeared to settle in to his world nicely enough. Sometimes I felt a little like she was a caged bird, though; her wings clipped, her cage gilded, her owner doting, but still . . . not free.

She insisted she was happy with Jack, and that was all I could ask. She didn’t seem quite her normal self, and I wondered if the adjustment was, after all, more difficult than she had anticipated. All I could do was trust her when she
said nothing was wrong, and hope she would come to me if she needed me.

“That was something, what happened this afternoon,” I said.

“I don’t get that woman, Miss Sanson,” Shilo said, softly, twirling her long dark hair around one finger and staring out the window. “Why is she so mean? And then she turned into a big ’fraidy cat when her niece barged in.”

“Hannah told me she thinks Cleta has a bitter heart,” I said.

Shilo was silent and frowned down at her hands, picking at her peeling nail polish. “A bitter heart,” she finally said. “I’ve known people like that.”

“Who?” I asked.

But she shook her head. “Family,” she said, slipping off her stool and stretching. “I’d better go.”

I stood, too, and she looked up at me with a smile that was almost like her normal self. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged. “Take care of yourself, Shi.”

She left through the back door and I followed, then stood with it open, watching her start up Jezebel and tear off down the lane, disappearing around the curve. I put dinner in the oven as Pish and Stoddart returned, bringing Lizzie home. She disappeared to her room to take the photos off her camera and do with them whatever it was she did. Becket had slipped in with them and followed her upstairs. The two men stayed in the great hall to frame out the movements for their performance of
The Magic Flute
, now that they knew what set pieces they would be using. I went up to change into suitable dinner clothes.

An hour later dinner was served. It was calm, a good end to a crazy day. Cleta was subdued and said hardly a word except to actually say something nice about the dinner. Roast pork with homemade apple butter was her favorite; it reminded her of the cook they had at home when she was a child. The ladies all retired to the small parlor, where I left them with tea and dessert. After a while, one by one, they toddled off to bed.

I went in to tidy up and get the empty plates and teapot, but heard a gusty, ethereal sigh and whirled, peering into the dimness of one corner, where a club chair faced the fireplace. “Hello?”

“What are
you
doing in here?” came a crabby voice from the shadows.

“I’m tidying up. It is
my
castle! Who is that?”

“No need to get snippy, young lady. I know when I’m not wanted. Of course, I’m just a guest here. A
paying
guest, but still just a guest.”

Patsy Schwartz. If I haven’t mentioned her much yet it was because she didn’t say a lot. When she did speak it was with a self-pitying whine. She and Barbara Beakman competed in the Complaint Olympics, to see which was most pitiful. Their grumbling differed in some ways, though. Patsy tended to look for slights where none were intended, while Barbara seemed to think no one was as depressed or ill as she was.

“Mrs. Schwartz, you can stay here—uh, in this
room
—as long as you want after dinner.” I was careful to clarify my remark because I was hoping the ladies would want to go back to New York at least by the fall, if not sooner, and if they didn’t make the move themselves I was prepared to employ other means. Some well-timed renovations of their rooms or other unpleasantness would force the issue. “I thought you had all gone upstairs.”