Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) (18 page)

With renewed energy and determination, I headed off to the library. I got lucky; as I had remembered, Friday was an open day, and not only were there a couple of patrons, one of them was Lizzie. Perfect. “Hi, Hannah,” I said, to the diminutive librarian. She waved, then went back to her conversation with Isadore Openshaw, who was piling books up on a table. Lizzie was covertly watching me, as she leafed through a magazine featuring Amy Gulick photographs. I sat down at the table opposite her. “Still suspended?” She nodded. “You busy tomorrow?” I asked, noting the kohl around her eyes, and the bloodred lipstick. The girl was going emo, it seemed, if that’s what they still called it. It was called Goth, when I was a kid. If she was trying to frighten folks away, she was probably in the wrong town. Weird was a way of life in Autumn Vale.

“Why?” she asked, staring down at the page.

Good for her; she had learned to be suspicious of open questions like that. It took me a long time to learn they usually preceded requests to help someone move, or bury a body. And yes, I did get asked to help someone bury a body once; a friend’s beloved dog had died, and she couldn’t bear to do it alone, and yes, I did help her. We cried and drank wine together afterward. If I ever needed help burying a body, she promised she’d come through for me. I had her phone number with me at all times.

“I was wondering if you would come out to the castle tomorrow and show me where that abandoned camp in the woods is. You can take all the pictures you want, I just need you to guide me, since you obviously know the woods better than I do.”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “But I’ll need a ride out to your place.”

“If I can’t get Jack McGill to do it, I’ll pick you up myself. You don’t mind McGill, do you?” I suddenly remembered that she was fifteen, and might have an opinion on her chauffeur.

“No, he’s cool.”

So far, my day was proving to be useful, more than I even imagined in my midnight maunderings. I turned my attention toward Isadore Openshaw and Hannah. I wanted to ask Hannah some questions about Tom, but they would just have to wait. Ms. Openshaw, morose bank teller, was piling books up at a crazy rate. Was she really going to read them all?

I examined the spines.
The Tao of Meow
.
The History of Greed
.
Women Who Love Too Much
.
The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
.
The Secret
.

Wow, what a mixed bag! Maybe Isadore Openshaw was a self-help junkie. I’ve known women like that, who seemed to think all they needed was one more self-help book and they’d be happy. Just one more book and they’d discover what was wrong with
them
, why people kept crapping on
them
. I could have told her there was no “secret.” Mostly we create our own reality, it was true, but not always. Sometimes bad stuff just happens, and the only thing you can do is try to move on.

Which was what I was doing after the crapstorm that was Leatrice Peugot. I looked up from her stack of books to find Isadore staring at me with a weird, focused look. Should I befriend her, I wondered? I might need an ally at the bank if my uncle’s finances were as twisted as I feared.

I smiled. She grabbed her stack of books and shuttled awkwardly to the checkout desk. Lizzie, who had noticed the interaction, snickered, and I gave her a dirty look. “What are you, Miss Charming all of a sudden?” I said.

The teenager made a face and bent back over her magazine.

After the bank teller left, Hannah motored over to our table. “How are you two doing?” she asked. “It’s Lizzie, right?”

The girl nodded, her gaze sliding back to the magazine. I got a feeling she felt awkward with tiny, wheelchair-bound Hannah, but I couldn’t be sure. Lizzie seemed to be awkward with most people, except Gogi Grace.

“Lizzie is a talented photographer,” I said to Hannah. “She’s taken some interesting shots of my property. In fact, she’s going to come out tomorrow and take more pictures and show me around in the woods.”

Hannah’s narrow face lit up. “Would you show the photos to me? I’d love to see modern pictures of the castle and the grounds. I’ve read so much about it, but I’ve only seen old photos from the fifties, and driven past it once or twice.”

Lizzie agreed to bring her camera back to the library to show Hannah whatever photos she took of the castle and grounds. “It’s the
best
place for pictures!” she enthused. “I used to sneak onto the property and take all kinds, especially last winter, and just before a storm. The sky behind the castle . . . too much!” She sighed, her artistic fervor leaving her speechless.

“So next time, bring your camera with you here and show Hannah!” I said.

“Sure.” She stood and picked up the magazine. “I have to go to Golden Acres now,” she said, and left.

Hannah and I were alone in the gray confines of the library. We talked about Lizzie for a moment, then I told Hannah what I had so far learned about Tom’s murder, which was almost zero.

She was one of those people who asked just the right questions at just the right moment. “Who feels like the killer to you?” she asked.

“If I had to guess this moment, I would say Junior Bradley.”

“Why?”

“He was the last known person to have a violent confrontation with Tom.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t get attached to that one theory, though, right?”

“I won’t. I’ll keep looking.”

“Merry, I know you worry that I have Tom on a pedestal, and that I don’t know much about life, but I know more than you might think. Tom was upset about his father’s disappearance, yes. He and Dinah were arguing a lot in the last few months. But there were
other
things going on in his life, too, something from a long time ago that he had just discovered was not quite as he thought it was.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said regretfully. “He looked ashamed, and wouldn’t tell me what had happened.”

He knew about her hero-worship of him, probably, and didn’t want to tell her unsavory details that might damage how she saw him. I thought for a long minute. “Was there anything else you were talking about at that point?”

“I was, uh . . . wait! I remember!” Her small face was turned up into the light, long lashes fluttering as she closed her eyes. “We got into a conversation about parents, and I was telling him how much I appreciate mine. I don’t know what I would have done in my life without such a great dad. Tom looked . . . ashamed.” She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t know why.”

“Maybe he was ashamed of something to do with Rusty?” I thought about it. Had Rusty’s hasty disappearance had to do with his own son?

“There’s something else,” Hannah said, eyeing me with discomfort.

“What is it, Hannah? You can tell me anything.”

“Tom was working for someone, doing something he wasn’t proud of, but he needed money, he said.”

This sounded promising. “What was it?”

“He was following someone for a lawyer. But he wouldn’t tell me who he was following.”

“What lawyer? Andrew Silvio, maybe?” I asked, but she just shrugged. Were there any other lawyers in Autumn Vale? Was I limiting myself by only considering this town? I remembered my conversation with Silvio, who told me about a lawyer in Ridley Ridge with whom Melvyn was working on the lawsuits between him and Rusty. “He didn’t give any indication who he was following, or why? Or what he found out?”

She shook her head.

“Can you think of anything else at all?”

“No. I’m going to ask around, though. I see lots of people every day, and no one will think twice about me asking questions, because everyone knew how I felt about Tom.”

The wistfulness in her voice about broke my heart. “Be careful, Hannah,” I warned. “Maybe it would be best if you just left this up to me. There is a killer out there, and we can’t let ourselves be blinded by anyone.”

“I’m not helpless,” she said with a frown.

“I know you aren’t. Just be careful.” I stood and said, “Is there somewhere here I can change my clothes? I have to go bake muffins, and a skirt suit just doesn’t cut it, so I brought jeans and a T-shirt with me.”

A few minutes later, dressed down for baking, I decided to call Shilo. I stood out on the street and held up my cell phone. Not working today. I eyed the sky, noting the low ceiling of clouds that obscured the ridge above Autumn Vale, and wondered if that had something to do with the spotty reception. Dinah had suggested Wi-Fi for better cell reception, but I wasn’t sure that would help me. In truth, I didn’t really understand anything about it. I’d need her to write that stuff down so I could ask an Internet representative without sounding like an idiot.

I walked toward Binny’s Bakery, just as someone whooshed past me on a bicycle. Isadore Openshaw? It was indeed her, heading toward the bank, her books piled in the wicker basket of her bike and a white paper bag from Binny’s Bakery on top. It reminded me of the scene from
Wizard of Oz
with the mean woman on the bicycle threatening Toto.

While Binny served her customers, I tried to get accustomed to using commercial ovens and baking all my muffins at once. It was faster, but I had to watch them the whole time, because I just wasn’t sure if the temperatures were the same as using a home oven. I let them cool and tried to get ahold of Shilo again. I finally got her using Binny’s store phone. My friend sounded chipper. She was in Ridley Ridge, helping McGill stage a house he was trying to sell. I told her I was going to deliver the muffins to Gogi then head back, and she said she’d meet me at Golden Acres.

But first, I’d drop in at the bank and look around. Autumn Vale Community Bank was a squat, two-story redbrick building on the corner of Abenaki and Mohawk Road. It had dentilated ornamentation at the top and a rounded corner where the glass door was. It was a charming, old building, and the plaque attached read that the bank had been in existence since the early 1800s. I stepped inside. There were only two wickets—the old-fashioned kind like out of an old movie, with brass bars and a marble countertop—and a manager’s office at the back, with Simon Grover’s name in gold, Gothic lettering.

Isadore Openshaw was at the only open teller’s spot, and I approached the wicket. She would have to speak to me there. She looked up and I smiled. Her expression soured, like she had a tart candy in her mouth, which was, by the way, ironically coated with powdered sugar.

“Hi, my name is Merry Wynter, and I just thought I’d stop in to introduce myself.”

“What can I do for you?” She had a surprisingly husky voice, scratchy, as if it wasn’t used often.

“Well, I would like to inquire about my uncle’s affairs here. I’m not sure if he had an account with you?”

“You’ll have to speak to Mr. Grover. He’s busy right now. May I make you an appointment?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Then I can’t help you,” she said and turned away.

Sheesh! “Okay, all right, I’ll make an appointment. How about . . . tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. The bank is closed on Saturday.”

“Uh, Monday, then?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me through the brass bars. “He’s busy Monday morning.”

Frustrated with her stonewalling, I said, “How about any morning for the next—”

“Izzy, where the hell is my coffee? I asked for it a half hour ago.”

She jumped and hustled away to a coffeemaker in the back corner, poured a cup, and took off with it to Grover’s glass-doored office, sidled in, and then came back out. I tried to imagine Janice Grover hustling like that when her husband roared. Nope, wouldn’t happen. Good thing he had “Izzy” at the office. Izzy? I shook my head as the woman hurried back to her neglected window. I could not think of her as anything but Isadore Openshaw.

A customer entered the bank as I tried one more time to convince her to let me in to see Grover. No go, and the elderly woman behind me, leaning heavily on her walker, should not have to wait just because Miss Openshaw was being a pain in my rear.

I considered marching back and thrusting myself into his office, but I decided that likely wasn’t the best way to introduce myself to the banker who might be able to help me. I’d simply call him directly for an interview. I returned to the bakery, retrieved the cooled muffins, and headed to Golden Acres. Had I ever been this busy working in New York?

Doc English was sitting outside of Golden Acres in the one single ray of sunshine the clouds were allowing through, wearing a flowered sunbonnet and a goose down vest. I was starting to think he dressed as he did to get a rise out of people, which was confirmed to me when I commented on the hat; he just smiled like the Cheshire cat. I delivered the muffins to the kitchen, but when I asked after Mrs. Grace they told me she had just gone out, so maybe she and Dinah had finally managed to get together.

I then asked about Shilo, and was told she was playing checkers in the social room. As I entered, Mr. Hubert Dread, the old fellow with the war stories, had just finished beating her hands down and with a great flourish, but she told him she’d be back for a rematch. She appeared to be adjusting nicely to life in Autumn Vale.

We loitered around town, had a very late lunch at the Vale Variety, did a little shopping, and then headed home. I told her about my appointment the next day with Lizzie, and she offered to call McGill to ask him to pick Lizzie up. He was already booked to come out and continue filling the darned holes in, she said, since he had called the sheriff and asked about the rest of them apart from the one Tom had been found in. Virgil Grace had okayed him resuming his duties, as long as he stayed away from the murder scene.