Muffin to Fear, page 24
I hustled down the hallway to the butler’s pantry area, where there were cabinets holding all manner of serving dishes I had gathered over the year I had lived in the castle, as well as what had been left behind by generations of Wynters. I needed an epergne to hold bananas and apples for folks to eat, something that would sit slightly above the other trays. The cabinet was ajar. Odd. I opened it and something dark and furry leaped out at me. I shrieked, jumped back, and . . . discovered that the furry thing was whatever Becket had streaked in carrying during the night.
It lay still and damp on the stone floor. Eeuw! I kicked at it with one toe, and it flopped over to reveal an underlay of fabric holding the hair in place. It was a wig. A dark bushy wig. I suddenly got it, or at least one part of it. It looked like Arnie’s hair. Becket must have found it somewhere and dragged it home, as he had a tendency to do lately with all manner of fuzzed and furry things. It told of a purposeful plot to implicate Arnie in Dirk’s death. So whoever did it must have donned the bushy hair and a toque and mimicked Arnie’s movements on their way to set the killing trap. That meant it must be one of the taller men: Todd, Chi, or possibly Stu. The camera angle was such that the figure was somewhat foreshortened, meaning there was no accurate gauge of the height, except that it was not someone exceptionally short, like Rishelle.
I wheeled the cart into the library and set up the food. Everyone looked exhausted and unnerved. There was suspicion among them; I could see how glances slid sideways, and how people were isolated in little groups, those who trusted one another together. That in itself was odd. Didn’t they all believe Todd had committed suicide? Why the suspicion? Or was this still about Dirk? But that didn’t make sense; they should all think it was solved, that Todd had killed Dirk, then committed suicide out of remorse.
Rishelle was still distancing herself from the others. She was huddled in her housecoat, curled up in misery and staring down at her wedding ring. She was a widow now. My heart hurt. I remember how that felt, that you were alone even when surrounded by people and that nobody in the world understood your grief. This would be even more complicated, if she believed Todd had killed himself. The guilt and pain would be amplified, repeating on a loop through her heart.
As some of the others went to the food and began assembling plates, I knelt by Rishelle’s chair. “Honey, I know how you feel, and I don’t say that lightly. I lost my first husband in an awful accident. It took me a long time to come back to life again.”
She met my eyes. Hers were big, red-rimmed, and drowning in tears that welled and flowed down her cheeks. “No one here cares like I do; even Stu, one of his oldest friends. They all hate me. None of them understand,” she whispered, reaching out to grab my hand like a lifeline.
“Do you have family you can call?” Her hands were icy, and I chafed them, feeling the wedding set still on her left hand, third finger. “Can I do anything for you?”
“They let me call my mom, but we’re not very close. She’s going to tell my sister. I hope she can come get me. I don’t know what to do. I want out of h-here.” The last word came out on a gasp and a sigh.
It was a cry for help. She looked younger, sitting there in an oversize bathrobe with her makeup off and tears streaming down her face. The very best thing I could do was help figure out who killed her husband, if he hadn’t killed himself. But she also needed support, and this lot was doing what people did to me: not make eye contact, back away from turmoil, not engage when an emotional wreck of a woman is needing them most. Even Arnie was now ignoring her, since she had pushed him away. None of them liked her at all. How lonely a place that must be for her.
“I’m here for you, Rishelle,” I murmured. “I’ll do whatever I can do, but you’ll have to suffer through the next day or so. The police won’t or can’t tell you much at this point. You can’t even make arrangements for poor Todd yet. Hang tough and know, I’ll help you every way I can.”
A weak and trembling smile quavered on her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Why don’t you lie down for a while? Or . . . first, have something to eat and drink. I know you don’t feel like it, but you won’t do yourself any favors by getting sick.” I glanced around. “Millicent, can you get Rishelle a cup of tea, with sugar for shock, and a sandwich?” I asked, raising my voice. “Nothing too big. Some turkey on a roll, or something like that. Someone needs to help this poor girl cope.”
Millicent nodded. She looked frightened herself. The best thing for them all was to solve this crime. Now. I returned to the catering trays and checked to make sure I had thought of everything.
“Look at her pretending she cares,” Felice muttered, glaring at Rishelle. “She didn’t give a damn. All she was trying to do was get in the middle of everything, get more attention for herself.”
I held my tongue when what I wanted to do was tell Felice to shut up. Instead, I asked, “Why do you say that? She loved her husband.”
“Right,” she said, giving me a withering look. “She didn’t care about Todd, or she wouldn’t have been messing around on him. She was screwing one of the other guys. Everyone knows that.”
Life is so black-and-white for some people. I was pretty sure Rishelle did love Todd, even though she was cheating on him. Love and pain, when they coexist, can cause such deep turmoil that people do and say things they never thought they would. At that precise moment my phone buzzed in my cardigan pocket. That would be Hannah. The woman was a godsend, and had excellent timing. I left Felice to stew in silence and ducked out of the room, heading upstairs to talk to my friend.
Chapter Twenty-five
I SAT ON my bed, phone in hand, and pondered what Hannah had just told me. She had fresh information, and a lot of it worked together. I had told her about the wig I had found that Becket had dragged in. I thought that this eliminated Arnie, essentially, but rethought that. It could easily be a red herring, I supposed. Hannah said that seemed kind of diabolical, but it still could be true. She had confirmed some things I already knew. Stu did indeed have a new deal for a show in the works; that gave him a fairly strong motive to get rid of the other guys, but surely breaking the contract would be easier than double homicide? Todd did have a physical confrontation with Dirk at the last paranormal conference a week before they came to Wynter Castle, and the video was on the Internet. It was witnessed by many fans, who related the substance of it online in breathless tones, but they didn’t seem to know what started it.
But there was more. I had made many wrong assumptions, and now I had to face them. It was jumbled right at that moment, but I was actually beginning to see a glimmer of light. The intent of it all was, I thought, to irrevocably kill Haunt Hunt. Now I needed to get it all straight, and for that I needed to talk to my two men, Virgil and Pish.
My poor brain was holding a tangle of conflicting information, possibilities, and mistaken impressions I had believed. I made a few random observations.
Online sources are notoriously untrustworthy. I knew that, and yet I had unthinkingly accepted information from such unreliable sources. Some subreddit commenters were misinformed; Arnie Ball had never hurt anyone on set, had never caused a studio to be sued, nor had he ever been blackballed by the major studios. But someone else working on Haunt Hunt had.
Also . . . people can be evasive or lie without being guilty of anything heinous. I hear folks all the time asking why someone would lie if they didn’t have anything to hide, but just because they don’t have one thing to hide, doesn’t mean they’re not hiding something else. That sounds confusing, but it’s true.
And finally, sometimes the best way to succeed is to not try so hard.
There was so much I had missed or mistaken, and it all worked together, if I was right. But now . . . how to expose it all?
I paced to the window and saw Virgil striding back from the construction site. I stuck the phone back in my cardigan pocket and raced down to meet him at the side door. Lizzie had done well with the sheriff, who appreciated her input, he said. He had sent her back into the castle and sternly told her to stay in the library where there were people and a deputy, before he set off to the construction site to check their progress.
At least there everyone was doing their job and doing it well, he groused.
I gathered Pish from the library, where he was trying to keep the Haunt Hunt people from devolving into a free-for-all, and asked if we could, all three of us, talk in Pish’s sitting room office. Virgil asked for half an hour to shower, so as he ascended, followed by Pish, who had a phone call to make, I reentered the library.
A deputy stood off to one side, with a bemused look on her face as Felice and Rishelle quarreled, hurling insults at each other across a coffee table. Millicent was crying.
“What’s going on here?” I said, loud enough to cut through the invective.
Lizzie darted over to me. “Well, Felice said Rishelle was mining Todd’s suicide for sympathy and why didn’t she confess that she and Stu were having a hot fling?” It was like a catfight play-by-play. “Rishelle said that Felice was a jealous hag who was green because she couldn’t get a man to notice her even if she flashed him her boobs.”
Millicent sank down on the sofa, head in her hands, weeping. “You’re all so awful!”
“Okay, enough,” I said, wading into the fray and looking around the room at the angry, sad, ambivalent, worried expressions. “We’re all getting on each other’s nerves, but none of you are going to go until they clear the scene and make some headway. Believe me, I want you all gone, but I want them to figure this out, too.” The two women glared at me. “Felice, maybe it’s best if you go and sit with Stu for a while. Rishelle, I know right now it feels better to be angry than sad, but this is not going to help you in the long run.”
Her breath caught and she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know what to think, how to f-feel.”
“I know, but there’s no shortcut through this. Millicent, come sit with her.”
The psychic obediently jumped up, put her arm around the widow’s shoulders, and got her to sit down.
I turned to the producer. “Hugh, normally I’d send you all packing, but that’s not an option right now. Staying busy would be good for everyone. Is there anything at all we can do?”
He shrugged, helpless. “I’m sorry, Merry, but I don’t know what to say. Or do. I’m so tired.” He swiped at his eyes and leaned back on the sofa.
I understood his weariness. Would this day ever end? It felt like it had been going on forever, and now, late afternoon, showed no signs of getting better. The sheriff was tight-lipped when I saw him occasionally. He wouldn’t say if he had called in the state police, and they had not yet moved the body or the van. Until they did, I was not going outside again.
“Anyway, Rishelle and I are not having a fling, Felice,” Stu said into the silence. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Felice started to say something—probably something rude—but I interrupted. “Everybody, cool it, okay? I know you’re all tired and upset.” I scanned the room.
Serina, her eyes bloodshot, was curled up in a ball in a chair near a window, staring out. She had removed herself as far as she could from the others. Ian was wide-eyed, his gaze darting from one to the other of his colleagues. Stu, book still in hand, perched on a windowsill, Felice now sitting nearby, glaring around the room. Arnie was practically reclining in one of the chairs, staring off into space. He seemed separate, alone, his mouth set in a straight line. Millicent was sitting with Rishelle now, while Chi hovered nearby.
This wasn’t getting us anywhere. I turned to the producer, an idea for how to proceed finally coming to me. “Hugh, these people need to do something to keep their minds occupied. I know you may never be able to use it, but can we do something for the show?” I hesitated, but looked at the widow and asked, “Rishelle, would you be okay with that?”
She nodded. “Todd would have wanted it that way.”
Felice snorted, but I gave her a look that would have cut diamond. She was being difficult and unpleasant and I was fed up. “Deputy, may we do this, just to keep these folks busy?”
She shrugged, but then nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
“Now, everyone, please,” I said, raising my voice. “I know this is hard. You’re all missing Dirk and Todd. In the little time I knew him, Todd seemed like a great guy. Do this for him.” Win one for the Gipper, it almost sounded like, but I plowed on, amazed at my own mendacity. “You haven’t had a chance to review the footage yet, but can we talk about the experiences on camera, perhaps? It would be cathartic for you all.” I scanned the group. Some nodded, some shrugged.
Hugh roused himself, sitting up straighter. Work is the one constant in many lives, and maybe he saw it as an opportunity. “Arnie? Serina? Can we set up some sound equipment in here and a camera or two? Merry’s right; we need to do something, work as a team again. We’re getting on each other’s nerves.”
Serina gave him a dark look; this must be devastating for her. But surely you couldn’t commiserate with the mistress and the widow, both in the same room? It was awkward, to say the least.
Arnie heaved himself up out of his chair and pushed his bushy hair behind his ears. Without his toque I could see the threads of silver in the dark matted thicket. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Give me a while to set up the shot. We’ll need the lights out of the supply van, and to re-lay some wire.”
“I can help,” Lizzie said. “Since the rest of the crew can’t be here.”
“Lizzie, you stay inside, though. I don’t want you going out near . . .” I couldn’t finish, thinking of poor Todd in the sound truck.
“I’ll make sure she stays here,” Hugh said, gently.
“What would we talk about?” Felice asked.
I sighed with some relief. If work would get these media hogs thinking about something else, it would give us all a break from the tension and bickering. “You all figure that out. Lizzie, you can help set up, but you go nowhere else, okay? I’ve had it with this crew, and I don’t trust any single one of them.” I glared around at the whole lot of them. “I’ll be back down soon, so maybe you can interview me and Pish about the castle.”
I headed out of the library as the cast and crew of Haunt Hunt, or what was left of it, started to discuss where to shoot, what to shoot, who to shoot, what to say, etc. For all I knew, more quarrels would break out, but that was not my problem.
I tapped on Pish’s door. Virgil emerged from our room, his hair wet, freshly shaved, white T-shirt and jeans stretched over his bulky frame, looking handsome as he always does. As Pish shouted “Come in” and I opened the door, my husband joined me, gave me a swift side hug and kiss, and we entered together. We sat down in chairs by Pish’s desk in his sitting room, and I told them what I had learned from Hannah.
“Felice was outside, but apparently just to smoke. I saw a brief snippet of who I thought was Arnie heading out; he is distinct, with that bushy hair and toque jammed over it. But a short while ago I discovered a bushy wig that Becket found out there and dragged inside last night, when I opened the door on Rishelle’s screaming.”
“So someone dressed as Arnie to fool the cameras and set up the trap to kill Dirk,” Virgil said.
“That’s probably what the police will think when they see that tape, right, that Arnie did it?” Pish said.
“Until I tell them about the wig. From what I saw, it has to be one of the guys. Also, Hannah gave me some intel; originally she learned on a Haunt Hunt subreddit that Arnie had a troubled past, and that he was unhirable in the industry because he had almost killed someone, and that person sued and won a huge settlement from the movie studio. Hugh apparently gave him a chance. Except . . . the gossip was wrong. It was not Arnie.” As I said, online information should be viewed with skepticism.
“Who is it?” Pish asked.
“Chi-Won Zhu.” I faced two blank stares of incomprehension. “I know, right?” I said. “Surprising. He’s the last guy I would have expected to have a short fuse. I’m not sure that he has anything to do with the murders, though. Just because he has that past, doesn’t mean anything in relation to this. His involvement in the prank could be solely because Millicent asked him to help, and he has a thing for her.”
“Good job, Hannah!” Virgil said. “I wonder if she’d be willing to work for Dewayne and me as a researcher?”
“She’d be thrilled! It’s her superpower, ferreting out information.”
“Did Hannah get anything else?”
“Yes, she did. She noted multiple examples of Felice sneaking out, but most times it was to smoke. I don’t know how much Felice told Urquhart. She was oddly defiant about it.”
“She’s that dark-haired glary girl, right?” Virgil said.
“Yes. She’s kind of sneaky and definitely confrontational. But I don’t think she’s involved in any of this. As far as I know, she has no motive, and if the show dies, so does her TV career. She won’t find anyone else to hire her.”
My phone pinged, and I fished in my cardigan pocket for it. “Something from Hannah,” I said. A clip of video came up. It was hard to see on my little screen, but it was the exact image I had noticed, with the Arnie look-alike heading toward the garage, and the time stamp was the night of Dirk’s murder. But it was not Todd; Hannah had found a way—Zeke had helped her, she said in the attached note—to enhance the video.
I have a good eye for people’s stance from years working as a stylist, and there was something about the set of the shoulders that I recognized. I drew in a swift breath. “Oh. Yes, I do know who that is.” I turned it so Pish and Virgil could both see the screen, stopped the video, and pointed out something that told me everything I needed to know.
