Muffin to Fear, page 25
“I get what you’re saying, and maybe you’re right, but we never see his face,” Virgil said. “That’s not proof; the costume did its job.”
“I know. It’s irritating. I need to see this on a bigger screen. Pish, can I use your laptop for a moment?”
We changed places and I hooked my phone up to his computer, brought the video up, and zoomed in. I scanned the figure and what had caught my eye jumped out at me. Confirmation; it had to be a conspiracy between two unlikely people. When I thought about it, there was much that had pointed in that direction, even though we had been misdirected by so many other things. It was inescapable proof to me, because there was no other reason for this particular person to be out there doing what he was doing.
Pish got it immediately, though Virgil, not being a fashion guy, took a moment. He was still doubtful, but willing to be convinced. He even called Urquhart for me. They had a long discussion, during which Virgil was forced to admit I may have let someone unauthorized view the copies of the tapes I had. The sheriff was angry, from the sounds of Virgil’s slightly defensive tone, but I thought he’d work with us to ensure the right person was caught with enough objective evidence to convict.
I hoped.
While Virgil was busy with Urquhart on the phone, I asked Pish if he could do me a favor. “Can you call Chuck Sandberg, at HHN? I have some questions.”
It took him a few minutes, while Virgil paced behind us and talked to Urquhart. Pish did get the programming director at HHN, though, and asked the questions I jotted down. Sandberg didn’t know everything, but he had someone look into it, and it all confirmed my suspicions. The shoot they were supposed to be at was canceled by Todd himself, the homeowners had complained, not them, and Todd had offered no explanation. They were angry because they had rearranged their schedule to accommodate Haunt Hunt. Todd had simply told them he’d get back to them to reschedule.
Except that it wasn’t Todd, if I was right, and the not-Todd knew the Haunt Hunt paranormal investigator would never “get back to them,” nor would Todd be alive to discover the lie.
Sandberg told Pish that his boss at HHN was deeply troubled by what had happened, but was cooperating with the sheriff’s department in Autumn Vale. Urquhart had been in touch with them, it seemed, to review the backgrounds of each member of the cast and crew. Hugh Langley had also called his network bosses. Pish covered the receiver and told me that his friend said that Hugh was very upset by the deaths, but had confidence it would be solved swiftly.
“Pish, one more thing,” I whispered, checking to make sure my reasoning was right. “How did the homeowners know it was Todd who phoned them?”
Pish asked Sandberg that question and shrugged. When he signed off he said, “They took his word for it that they were speaking with Todd.”
“That’s what I thought. So it could have been anyone: Todd, Dirk, Hugh, Stu, Ian . . . any guy!”
“But only one who could be sure he could change the schedule,” Virgil, who had just gotten off the phone, said. I could see he was coming around to my way of thinking.
“Exactly,” I replied.
Virgil was deep in thought.
“Is the sheriff going to help us?” I asked, when he didn’t say anything.
“Well, yes and no.”
“It can’t be both,” I said.
“He will, but he thinks he already knows who killed Todd, at least.”
Pish and I exchanged a look. “So he does agree with you that it’s not suicide?” I asked.
“He has come to that conclusion. He’s not a hasty guy, Merry, but he does get there. He’s solid.”
“Okay, I know.” Virgil keeps trying to convince me about Urquhart, but I remain unimpressed. He’s solid, maybe, but slow. “So who does he think killed Todd? And why?”
“He finally got access to Todd Halsey’s phone records. Apparently, the last person Todd talked to before he died was Stu Jardine, and it was a longish conversation. He’s not sure yet why Stu would have killed him, but if he had been talking to Todd for that long shortly before he died, why wouldn’t Stu have said something?”
Pish said, “Maybe Stu got scared, afraid he’d be accused?”
“Remember what Lizzie overheard? She heard Todd threaten someone that they’d better help him, or he’d tell what he knew. If that was Stu . . .” Virgil shrugged. “We can’t avoid the undeniable truth that Todd was shot with a gun that Stu bought. It fits. Anyway, Urquhart told me I could share the info with both of you, but asked us to not say anything.” He gave me a warning look. “Especially you.”
I rolled my eyes. So the sheriff didn’t trust me. What was new?
I reviewed the video one more time. Was I wrong about everything? Could the person in the video be Stu? Or alternately, was it possible that there were two murderers; one had killed Dirk, while Stu had killed his partner? I didn’t think so, but my confidence was shaken.
• • •
The three of us descended together. My stomach was twisting and my gut rumbled. I felt sick inside, confused and jumbled and worried. I had thought I knew who did what, but now, with Urquhart’s information, I wasn’t sure.
Trouble was, I could build a compelling case for why Stu might kill Dirk, but not so much why he’d kill Todd. Stu, like Todd, was serious about ghost hunting. Dirk, with his over-the-top antics, was bringing ridicule down on their heads, in social media, anyway. Though many fans of the show loved Dirk, in the paranormal investigation society as a whole, the fathers of Haunt Hunt, Stu and Todd, were seen as jokes at best, traitors at worst, for allowing their show to become the Dirk and Millicent Fake Psychics Hour. Stu was already planning his exit. However, if he had an ironclad contract binding him to Haunt Hunt, it might be tricky. If Dirk died, though, given how popular the psychic was, maybe Stu felt it would kill that show. Had Todd found out and confronted him about it? With his new show at risk, had Stu killed Todd to keep him quiet?
I didn’t think so, but the reasoning made a good case. Urquhart would take the information to the DA and possibly get an arrest warrant. Stu being the last to talk to Todd was definitely not a fact in his favor, especially if he had failed to admit it in his interview with Urquhart.
We needed solid evidence, the kind you can’t refute. They were taping a segment as we entered the library. I motioned to Lizzie to follow me into the dining room for a moment. She did, but she wasn’t happy. Hands on her hips and shooting glances back toward the library, she hissed, “What d’you want? I shouldn’t leave, you know. Hugh doesn’t like it when crew leaves in the middle of a shoot.”
“Okay, all right, but I need you,” I said, hand on her shoulder. We were by the fireplace, the farthest part of the dining room from the library, but I still whispered. “You’re the only one I know who understands the equipment.” I asked her to do something for me.
She looked surprised, but crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the fireplace for a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Can you do it without being caught?”
“Jeez! I’ve been sneaking out of my room at Grandma’s for a year now. Even when she catches me sneaking in at four in the morning I can convince her I’m up getting a glass of warm milk to help sleep.” She snorted. “I think I know a little something about not being caught and getting up to no good.”
“What were you doing out at four in the morning?” I hissed, alarmed by the thought.
“What d’you think? Taking pictures! There was a meteor shower last month and I wanted to get some shots.” She snorted again. “Grandma believed me. Warm milk!”
Though I was more than a little concerned by her answer, it was nothing I hadn’t done at her age in a far more dangerous city and for far less savory reasons. She would never be in any actual danger; I’d make sure of that. And surprisingly, something she had just said provided one more little tiny piece of the puzzle. Distracted slightly by my thoughts, I said, “Okay. Do it, then.”
We wove back through the dining room to the library and reentered. Virgil, Pish, and I took seats away from the others, as quietly as we could.
Hugh and Rishelle were sitting together on the sofa, and Arnie was manning the camera, for once not zooming in on Rishelle’s cleavage, but staying steady on her ravaged face.
“We all loved Todd so much. And he was such an important part of the paranormal investigation community,” Hugh said, his cultured voice gentle. He was actually very good on camera, with a lovely voice that resonated with the right tone of sorrow. “Can you tell us what his death has meant to you, his adored wife?”
As Rishelle talked about how they met, and how Todd’s past led him to believe in ghosts—a touching story about a beloved grandfather who communicated with him from beyond the grave—I examined the others while trying to ignore Lizzie creeping around and surreptitiously setting up digital cameras around the room, setting them on tables and shelves, all while appearing to be watching the action from different angles. Truthfully, she had it down pat, bumbling quietly around in the background. Arnie, Chi, Serina, and the others didn’t seem to notice her in the slightest, riveted as they were on the piece being filmed, Rishelle’s finest moment, in a sense.
Felice, though, watched through narrowed eyes. Irritation radiated from her. I thought about how someone had used Rishelle and Millicent’s prank on Dirk to kill him. Felice hated Rishelle, but not enough to kill someone to blame her nemesis for it. That was ridiculous. And yet Felice had been the one outside more than anyone else, and had actually seen more than anyone knew. She was not, however, on tape approaching the garage. She had not killed Dirk.
I was basing much of my entire assumption of the murderer on some circumstantial evidence, mostly fashion. The psychology was correct, and I’ve spent a lot of time with people in various areas of show business. Enough to recognize certain aspects of narcissists and their manipulation of the world to feed their own needs.
However, if someone had been a good actor, or if someone had gone out of their way to pull a double bluff, the kind of thing beloved in fiction, it was barely possible that I was being led down the garden path. I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure that the killer had simply underestimated us all, thinking that we were a bunch of dummies who wouldn’t notice the slipup even if we did see the footage. Footage . . . I smiled.
Then I tuned back in. Rishelle, tears on her cheeks, faced the camera and said, “If Todd was right about the paranormal, he is greeting his grandpa in heaven. I hope that’s true.”
Sobered, I was reminded once again that the discovery of the killer was no academic exercise. It was a bid to find peace for the families of the victims. They all deserved answers. I felt responsible, to some extent, especially since I now suspected that the timing and location of this shoot at Wynter Castle, which had ostensibly been set up by Todd, was the result of manipulation on the part of the murderer. The call Pish had made to Chuck Sandberg at HHN confirmed many of my thoughts; the whole affair was a masterpiece of subterfuge, in a sense.
Wynter Castle had been chosen as a perfect location because of our last murder-filled year, not in spite of it, and that made me furious. How was I ever going to change my home’s reputation if people used us like that? Pish, too, was angry, that a simple call from him to Haunt Hunt had been the catalyst used by a heartless killer to corner their prey.
The crew stopped tape on the touching wifely tribute to her husband, and Hugh gave Rishelle a hug. “Good girl. I hope we get to use it somehow, some way, even if only on social media. I think the community would appreciate what you’ve said.”
I stood and approached Hugh as Rishelle walked away and Arnie disassembled his heavy Steadicam rig. “Pish and I would like to do a bit of reminiscing about strange occurrences at the castle. Would that be appropriate?”
This was something we had worked out in hushed whispers upstairs. Pish felt like he was the one who got us into the mess, though I had pointed out to him that if it hadn’t happened here, it would have happened somewhere else. Virgil was not totally on board, but what I love about him is he tends to trust my judgment . . . most of the time.
Hugh looked uncertain. “Perhaps.” He glanced over at the others. “Stu? Rishelle? Felice? As the remaining cast members, I’ll be guided by you.”
I watched Stu. His call with Todd just before his friend died and why he hadn’t spoken of it still puzzled me. He had to know the police would ask him about it. But then, with a clearer sense of who did what and why, I remembered a small detail. Now it made sense. And now I knew what Stu was looking for earlier.
“Okay, if no one objects I don’t see why not,” he said. “Though I don’t see why, either.”
“I always figure, better to have too much than too little,” Pish said. “And this is Merry’s home, after all.”
The producer nodded. “If the rest of you are all right, let’s roll. What do we have in mind?”
“Let’s wing it,” I said, with a slight smile. I had no intention of letting anyone control the action but me.
Chapter Twenty-six
HUGH WAS GOING to resume his producer role while Pish and I talked with Stu Jardine and Felice Broadbent.
“The sheriff is supposed to release the scene anytime now, and then you can all pack up and go home,” I said. “But I would like to get on tape some last thoughts.”
“Where do you want to sit?” the producer asked. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen our show, but normally we’d do this, a conversation with the homeowner, at a table with the equipment, and you’d be reviewing the tape and audio with two of the investigators, but we don’t have the tape reviewed yet to isolate what has gone on.”
“Where you taped Rishelle, on the leather sofa with me on one side, Pish on the other, and one of the investigators in between?” I said. “It’s just a chat. Informal would be best.”
Hugh nodded. “Sure. Arnie, set up again across the coffee table.”
Arnie grabbed his heavy camera and a sturdy tripod, moved around opposite the sofa, while Pish and I hustled over to sit, and set up the equipment. Arnie snapped his fingers without looking up. “Kid, get me another memory card for this camera.”
Lizzie, startled, tripped, righted herself, and brought him a card.
“Not that one!” He tossed it back at her with a glare. “That’s for those dinky DVR cameras the cast use. You know that! I need the professional camera card!”
She reddened and whirled, digging in an equipment bag and getting the right card, longer and thicker than the standard SD card for the DVR cameras. She mumbled an apology to the cameraman.
“Don’t be such a dick, Arnie,” Serina said as she returned her boom mic stand to position it over the sofa. She got out her meter for sound levels. “The kid is just trying to help.”
“It’s okay,” Lizzie said. “I messed up. No big.”
I caught her eye and smiled, and she nodded. One thing she had learned in the last year was that when you mess up, own up. Virgil, who had stood, probably thinking of taking Lizzie’s side, sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t look particularly happy, and I knew he was on edge about what we were doing.
Arnie inserted the card in the camera, put the full one in the plastic case, and tossed it to Lizzie. “Don’t lose it!”
She nodded and slipped it into the equipment bag. We were ready to go.
“What do you want to do, Merry?” Hugh asked. “This is your shoot. You tell me how it’s going to go.”
He was being indulgent, and I appreciated that. It would hopefully let Pish and me spring a trap. “Can Felice come and talk to us first? Pish wanted a chance to better explain what he experienced in the castle.”
Felice hustled right over, grateful, I think, to be called upon. “I can do whatever you want,” she said, eagerly plopping down between us. “Felice Broadbent, speaking with Pish Lincoln and Merry Wynter,” she said, looking into the camera for the establishing shot. She said the date and time.
It turned out that she was surprisingly good at going along with our free-form chat. She stayed engaged and listened, asking my friend to first describe what he had experienced in the castle that led to him calling Haunt Hunt. “Merry was gone all summer,” he said to Felice. “So for much of the time it was just me and my elderly aunt living here. Most of this occurred then.”
“What happened first?” she asked.
“I was alone in the kitchen. Lush, my aunt, was upstairs taking a nap, and I was making dinner. There is a shelf over the counter with plastic bottles of spices on it. For no reason at all, one out of maybe ten bottles pushed out from the row and fell off.”
“My goodness! What did you think?”
Pish looked thoughtful. “At the time, I thought that perhaps I hadn’t put it back right. But that wasn’t so. I know that bottle was in line with the others.”
“If you knew Pish, you’d know that’s so,” I added in. “He’s meticulous. He’d have noticed if it wasn’t in line.”
We chatted in that vein briefly. I was surprised by some of his experiences, which were odd, to say the least. He had been in the great hall when he heard whispers from the gallery, even though no one was there. He saw the shadow of a person in the library, but when he turned on a light it disappeared. In the wine cellar he saw a shadow, too, of what looked like someone creeping around. I have no explanation for the incidents.
Then Pish and I met eyes. It was time.
I sighed. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this castle and whether it is truly haunted, in the last few days. I must speak of the tragedies we’ve suffered.” I looked up, and right into Hugh’s eyes, where he sat slightly behind Arnie, a notebook on his lap. “Two people have been murdered here in the last couple of days, and certainly not by ghosts.”
