Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (5 page)

Chapter Five

P
ERCY
C
HANNER
? A
convenient time? What the . . . ? “I’m not ready for him,” I moaned, hopping from one freezing foot to the other. “He’s supposed to come to the party and have his look then.”

“Mr. Channer likes to see things when he likes to see them. I would go along with it, ma’am, if I were you. If you turn him away right now, he won’t be back.”

I was furious, but I’d dealt with his kind of people before and the chauffeur was right. This was business, not pleasure, and I needed to snatch this opportunity and make the best of it. I was happy about one thing; at least the graffiti was gone. I hoped no new crap had been written on the wall overnight.

Pish joined me at the door, and I quickly explained the situation in an undertone.

“Merry, why don’t you go get dressed while I take Mr. Channer to the library?” my wonderful friend said. He wore an elegant smoking jacket over his silk pajamas, and was eminently presentable.

I was grateful it wasn’t Shilo who had come down first, because she likely would have asked him if he wanted his aura read or sung him dirty ditties while he waited. As Pish showed Mr. Channer to the library, I got dressed in a forest green Kiyonna wrap dress—because they were inexpensive and flattering to my body type, I had Kiyonna wrap dresses in all colors—and slipped on some bone pumps and pulled my dark hair back in a chignon. I pinned a cameo at my cleavage and hastily stuck bone-colored enamel stud earrings in my lobes. It took all of five minutes, and then five more for some makeup.

I descended, put on the coffee, and then girded my loins, so to speak, to go to the library.

Having dealt with my fair share of eccentric millionaires and the models they married, and armed with the laconic chauffeur’s insight into his boss, I knew I might only have one shot at impressing him with the beauty of Wynter Castle. I was going to have to position it as a diamond in the rough, a blank slate, ready for molding into a highly polished gem. The stark exterior, no swimming pool, no formal gardens or even informal gardens to speak of, would have to be presented as a plus; this was virgin ground, ready for the imprint of a bold investor and brilliant designer. I would appeal to his ego, saying only a man with foresight could take on Wynter Castle and turn it into a finished gem.

Mr. Percy Channer was a short man, with a bulldog face and no neck to speak of. He was dressed in an expensive suit but with no necktie. I greeted him warmly, asked about his drive from New York, and offered him breakfast.

“Nah . . . we stopped at a McDonald’s. Love the Sausage McMuffin. But Brooke, my driver, might want some coffee.”

“I’ll have someone take him a cup of coffee, or he can come in to the kitchen and have a cup in comfort.”

Pish bustled off to take care of it while I began the tour. I couldn’t get a handle on the man. He followed me willingly enough, but kept bringing the topic back around to Autumn Vale and Ridley Ridge, rather than the castle. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to scope out the potential for converting the castle into a romantic destination for locals and tourists alike, but I could have told him not to hold his breath as far as the locals. They were more interested in a beer at the Tap Room on Saturday night than an evening of fine dining and wine as a classical quartet played.

I didn’t say that to him of course, and I was not being snobbish in thinking the way I did. I had plenty of evidence, and had even been to the local bar a few times to shoot pool. It was just that kind of community: no pretension, no polish, just relaxed and real. We finished inside and I grabbed my pashmina and strolled out to the flagstone terrace, leading him around to get a view of the distant woods and the property. I emphasized the castle’s potential as a boutique hotel or even a spa retreat. There was plenty of room to build custom structures like a pool and sauna, I said, indicating the land with a sweep of my hand, or even cottages. We were, I said, protected from the outside world by forest and my uncle’s arboretum, which I called Wynter Woods.

“Isolated, right? How about newcomers; how are they welcomed?”

I grimaced inwardly, as the unhappy incident with the woman in town and the graffiti on my castle had left a bad taste in my mouth. But I said, honestly enough, “Most of the locals have been very warm and welcoming. Though isolated, it’s not especially insular.”

He nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. “Any new faces in your town?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. “Uh, not really. Mr. Channer, will you consider coming back for the party? I have locals catering, including Binny’s Bakery in town; Binny makes the very best European pastries, as good as any I’ve tasted in Paris.” I watched him for a moment, then said, “It’s just that I’ll have more of the work done by then, and can showcase rooms of interest. We’re actually not ready for viewing yet.”

Arms folded over his chest, he silently scanned the property.

I followed his lead, wondering what had him so irritable. When I’d first arrived, the property had seemed barren, but now I noticed all the subtleties. There were a few groves of trees in the open expanse, a couple of big oaks surrounded by grassy stretches. Outbuildings dotted the landscape, including a large garage and some smaller sheds, most empty, but with the reminders of their original uses for animal husbandry and tool storage.

Of course, because the late Tom Turner had dug quite a few big holes on my property before ending up dead at the bottom of one, there were large dirt patches where McGill had filled in the holes for me. This was not good; the longer we stood there staring, the more problems I saw and thought of.

Finally, Channer said, “I’m going to have a look around the area. If we decide to buy Wynter Castle and take on the rebuild, you do have clear title to the land, correct?”

I crossed my fingers, and said, “Yes, the castle was left to me, and me alone.” That much was true enough. Brooke had the limousine door open for his boss. Channer strode over, climbed in, and didn’t so much as glance back as the chauffeur closed the door, got in, and drove off down the lane, disappearing around the bend beyond the forest.

I returned to the house discombobulated, as Doc often put it. That was how my day started. It continued in the same hurried manner, with muffins to bake and the town to visit. I decided not to expect much from Mr. Percy Channer. If he came back for the party, then I would consider him interested.

One more odd event marked the late day.

I went to Golden Acres to visit with Gogi Grace. She is a lovely, classy, elegant woman in her sixties, and I’d always figured that though her retirement home was a business venture, it was also a way of serving her community. We got along extremely well; in other words, she could not be more different from her obstinate, grumpy son, the sheriff.

We were sipping a cup of her favorite cappuccino in her office, a warm, cluttered, happy room on the main floor of Golden Acres. It was more like a living room than an office, with bookshelves, artwork, and a sitting area at one end. We had been discussing Percy Channer’s visit, and I had vented a little of my lingering mourning for my late husband. I went into my purse for a tissue and came out with a crumpled piece of paper, one I had totally forgotten about until that moment. Flattening it out on my lap, I read it, and the surprise must have showed on my face.

“What’s wrong, Merry?” Gogi asked.

“It’s this note I found on my car the other day,” I said, explaining to her the confrontation with the frowsy woman and the note I had found on my windshield. “I didn’t read it until just now.”

“What does it say?”

“Well, it’s scrawled, really, like it was done in a hurry. It says,
Your not welcome here. What will it take to make you leeve?
” I handed the note over to her. “Why do people want me to leave, Gogi? What have I done wrong?”

She put on her rhinestone-studded cheaters and read the note. She handed it back to me. “Give it to Virgil.”

“He’s not doing anything about the vandalism; what could he do about a crank note?”

“You don’t know he’s not doing anything about the vandalism. And the note could be connected. In fact, it could all be just one person, like the woman who yelled at you.”

“Virgil says some people in town are worried about what I’m going to do with the castle.”

Sighing, Gogi said, “Unfortunately I heard that at book club just the other day. Helen Johnson expressed a concern about your party. She wondered if you would be inviting the ‘wrong kind of people’ to Autumn Vale.”

“Helen,” I mused, thinking it sounded familiar. “Oh! I met her about a month ago or so. A church lady, right? And she’s friends with Isadore?”

“As much friends as Isadore has, and more because Helen feels it’s her duty to be kind to the downtrodden, as she puts it. We all belong to the same book club. But in truth, Helen is just a little old-fashioned. She doesn’t mean anything by it, and I know for certain that she wouldn’t be your vandal.”

I remembered a tidy little church lady in tweed capris and pearls. I couldn’t picture her with a can of spray paint, nor did I think she would misspell
you’re
and
leave
, as the writer of the note had. “No, this doesn’t seem like her. Has anyone else said anything?”

“I’ve heard that Minnie, the post lady, has been gossiping quite a bit about Shilo and Pish, calling them weirdos,” Gogi said, with an apologetic shrug.

“She doesn’t like you, either, though,” I said.

“Oh, I know!” Gogi said, with a chuckle. “She keeps telling people I murdered both my husbands!”

“I guess I won’t worry about it,” I said, folding the note and putting it back in my purse. “If I can sell the castle, it won’t be any of my concern anymore.”

“Will you stay in Autumn Vale? You could buy a house here with the proceeds from the castle and still have a lot of money left over.”

I shook my head, regretfully. “Even if I sell the castle, I’ll have to find work, and there doesn’t seem to be anything for my particular skill set here in this town.” I touched her arm, then stood up. “I’ll miss so many Valers when I leave.”

“You’ll always have a place to visit,” she said. We hugged, and I headed home.

The days passed, and October continued its lovely procession, the woods surrounding Wynter Castle taking on the umber shades of autumn. It was so beautiful. Though I had a lot to do, sometimes I just needed a sanity break from my two well-meaning but demanding friends. Pish was full of expensive, if lovely, ideas for the castle, while Shilo wanted to talk nonstop about her day, which usually involved trips with McGill to see friends, or visit his mother, or help stage a house he was selling. I actually missed her presence and worked hard on not resenting the real estate agent’s demands on her time. We had made no progress on the mystery of the hidden loot, my uncle’s little game, but I knew we would once we had the party stuff out of the way. All of our excess time was spent fixing up the castle.

However, I did walk in the woods a few times, accompanied by Becket, who loved racing ahead on a path, then jumping out at me when I least expected it. Though he’s just an ordinary marmalade tabby, his personality is quirky and intelligent with a liberal dose of independence. He made a good companion on my rambles, since neither Pish nor Shilo were into it.

Occasionally I came across Lizzie Proctor and her friend Alcina. Alcina had a talent for constructing faery gardens in the woods—little gnome homes and faery rings—which I would happen upon during my walks. Lizzie photographed them, as she did everything, and then showed the pictures to me; some of them were very good.

A few days before the party, I just couldn’t stand being inside anymore. Pish was directing Zeke and Gordy on some of the decorations that needed to be hung, and Cranston was in the way, as usual, offering suggestions I trusted Pish would not listen to. McGill and Shilo were in the kitchen doing some of the grunt work associated with such a large party, and since it involved a lot of whispering, kissing, and laughter, I felt like a third wheel. McGill insisted on helping out a lot, his way of justifying the fact that he was still the agent for the property and would write the contract and help me through all the intricacies of a sale, along with the lawyer, Andrew Silvio. McGill would be in for the biggest payday of his life if I sold the castle, but I knew he was conflicted. He was a good guy and a good friend, and I liked him a lot.

So I had delegated; now it was my turn to get out of the way and let my friends do what they wanted to do, how they wanted to do it. Later I had to go into town, but it was too early to do that. It was a gorgeous day. I needed some fresh air. Those two things meant a long walk. I put on boots and a jacket, since it was beginning to get cold, especially in the depths of the woods where the sun would not pierce the gloom. I surveyed my property as I walked across the grassy expanse toward the path into the woods. Zeke and Gordy had done a great job of mowing the land and keeping it mowed, so the turf resembled real grass more than the weedy hay it had looked like when I first arrived.