Muffin to Fear, page 4
“Merry, you’re back from your honeymoon,” she said as she sailed past me toward the group of men and Felice. She wore a black swing dress with a leopard print Peter Pan collar and jaunty chiffon bow, not something I would have put her in as a sixty-something plus-size lady, but taste is highly individual. Actually, she carried it off well, proving there is no age limit on style.
Lizzie, frizzy haired and unformed in her mid-teenage years, but with an enthusiastic intelligence and caustic manner I find engaging, jumped at me like a puppy, leaping up and down and hugging me. “Gawd, you have to stop going away, Merry. I’m tired of welcoming you home.”
I was touched; Lizzie is often dour and moody, a condition common in the teen years, if memory serves me, so this abandoned display of joy was a miracle of sorts. “Twice. I’ve gone away twice in the last year,” I said, my voice jittering as she leaped and gamboled, holding on to me.
“Yeah, but once was for months!” she complained, releasing me. “All freaking summer!”
“You’ll be happier about me going away after you get the wee giftie I bought you in New York.”
“Now, please!” she crowed, her eyes lighting up and widening. She likely surmised it was something camera-related, since I am a fan of her photography.
“Not now, later. How are you and your mom doing?” I asked, holding her away from me and gazing into her eyes, sweeping back the mop of frizzy hair that she tries, and fails, to contain. “Have you moved back with her yet?” Lizzie and her mom, Emerald, had gone through another rough patch recently when Em had gotten mixed up in a con artist’s scheme. I hoped they’d work things out.
She made a face. “Kinda. I’m spending weekends helping her paint and fix up the house and the shop. She’s decided she wants to do massage therapy now, properly, but she needs a course. There’s one in Rochester and one in Buffalo, so she has to figure out which one to take and when to start. Right now she’s still working at the bar. I’m staying at Grandma’s during the week and with her on weekends.”
I heard a screech right then, and whirled. Janice had collapsed. “Oh no!” I yelped, and trotted across the room to her, where she lay in a heap by the bookcase closest to the window.
The others, stunned, looked on as I bent over her. “Janice, are you all right?” I said, unbuttoning the top button of her Peter Pan collar, which seemed ready to choke her double chins. “Someone call 911!” I cried, but then felt Janice grip my arm in a steely grasp.
“Mmmm, I’m okay,” she muttered, struggling to sit up. Half a dozen people had whipped out their cell phones. “Please, no fuss,” she said, flapping one beringed hand. “Don’t call 911!”
Millicent Vayne was the only one of my interlopers who had deigned to actually come over. She knelt by Janice. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice gentle and quavering. “Whatever happened?”
I saw Janice’s shrewd gaze, quickly veiled by a look of bewilderment.
“I . . . I’m not sure,” she said, touching her forehead. “I felt woozy all of a sudden. I was overcome by a vision of . . .” One eye opened, watching Millicent. “Of men, in military dress.”
“Ah!” the psychic cried. “Me too! I swear, I saw them at the same moment as you, a whole troop, out on the lawn near—”
“In here by the dining room windows,” Janice said.
“Yes, in here by the dining room windows,” Millicent agreed.
I looked back and forth between the two. What was going on? Felice was still huddled with the others, but kept shooting glances over at Janice and Millicent. Meanwhile, with Millicent on one side and Lizzie on the other, Janice heaved herself to her feet by stages and toddled over to sink into a club chair.
“Are you a medium?” Millicent asked, sitting down on the coffee table in front of my friend and leaning toward Janice.
Janice eyed her speculatively. “I often have visions. It’s frightening at times. I sense that from you, too, that you see things you can’t explain, and it upsets you. You’re so perceptive, so intuitive. How do you deal with all of this muddle?” She looked around the room and shuddered. Lizzie was watching, fascinated.
Hugh had detached himself from the hissing and whispering group and strolled over to us, a look of some amusement on his face. “Mrs. Grover?” he said.
She nodded, regally, and stuck out her hand, which he took, bowed over, and released.
“Our agreement with Mr. Lincoln did include the aid of two locals, besides his own contributions.”
Aha, so this was Pish’s doing! He was always looking out for his friends. He knew Janice’s hammy traits and Lizzie’s obsession with all things photography.
“Felice tells me that you say you are attending our shoots as a medium clairvoyant, and that some teenage girl is supposed to act as an intern on the crew?” He raised one eyebrow.
“That’s me!” Lizzie cried. “I’m Lizzie Turner, sir,” she said, sticking her hand out toward him. “I’m a photography major. I did principal photography for a film shoot for the Roma Toscano video ‘Sola Perduta Abbandonata.’”
She stumbled slightly over the title of the opera aria, but otherwise I was impressed with her go-getting attitude. Lizzie is, indeed, a deeply talented photographer, but it was stretching it a little for her to call herself a photography major, since she is just a junior in high school.
Hugh grimaced. “God save me from arts majors. All we need is someone to carry cords, fetch coffee, and tidy up after the crew.”
“I can do that! I’m strong.” She flexed invisible biceps under a ratty gray Autumn Vale sweatshirt.
I watched her, fascinated by how quickly she could shift gears. “I can attest to her abilities,” I offered, shifting my gaze to the producer, who appeared skeptical as he examined the teenager. “Lizzie is very steady for her age. She volunteers at a senior retirement community serving coffee and tea.”
She made a face, but in this case I knew what I was doing; they wanted quiet subservience, not active, curious engagement. Intellectual curiosity, if expressed vociferously, would be seen as interference. I’d have to talk to Lizzie about it if they let her stay. She could observe, think, and notice all she wanted, but she must stay quiet and do what she was told the moment she was told it.
Hugh nodded. “Okay, I never turn down free labor. Stay out of the tech crew’s way, but do whatever they want.” He turned to walk away, but then stopped and swiveled, watching Janice, over whom Millicent still bent. “Mrs. Grover, could we do a video test with you at some point today?”
Janice nodded, but as I watched the cast I could see varying degrees of alarm. This was not a popular decision.
“Good. Your faint was lovely and convincing, even better than Millicent’s.”
He walked away, and Millicent made a face at his back. “I hate him. He can be such a jerk sometimes,” she muttered.
“What do you mean?”
“You never know what he’s going to do. Sometimes I feel like he’s trying to sabotage us.”
“Explain,” I said, intrigued.
But she refused. I was left to infer that Millicent meant he made decisions with only the bottom line in mind, as most producers do. That didn’t always go over well with cast members.
Janice and Lizzie were hustled over to meet with Todd and Stu. I retreated to my kitchen and puttered, then went to the back door, which opened onto the side terrace facing the woods. I called loudly, “Be-cket!” I saw the orange flash near the woods, and a streak rocketing across the open expanse. “Come on, sweetie! I’m home!” My cat hurtled into the hall, skidded to a halt, and stood at my feet, glaring up at me. I’ve gone away too much, as Lizzie noted, and I had to stay home for a while. It was nice to be missed.
It took a half hour of tinned chicken, cooing, and kitty milk—milk with the lactose removed—but he eventually appeared to forgive me and wandered off on his own. I got ingredients out of the cupboard and started baking. The chill in the air made me think of winter, and winter made me think of hot cocoa, and that made me think of a Hot Cocoa muffin! I had mini marshmallows and chocolate chips somewhere.
That’s where Pish found me a while later. He seemed tentative, but I smiled as I pulled on an oven glove and grabbed a pan of muffins out of the oven. “My darling Pish, stop worrying. I’m not angry. This just happened; I get that. Heaven knows enough has happened on my watch.”
“It’s not just that,” he said, eyeing me, then turning toward the pantry. “I promised to cook for the main members of the talent and crew. Dinner at least, for up to ten. I’ll take care of it all, Merry, I promise.” He paused as I took in what he had just said. “It’s only three dinners. I’ll do everything. I have tonight’s meal planned.”
And I knew what that would be. For a group that large it would be spaghetti Bolognese. I laughed and shook my head. “Between the two of us we do get into some fixes.” I hugged him and he hugged me.
“This is some welcome for you to come home to from your honeymoon.”
“But, Pish, the honeymoon was glorious, and after that, I can handle anything.” I released him and kissed him soundly on his cheek, smooth and soft as a baby’s. He takes excellent care of his skin. “Besides, Virgil is jumping right into a job and may have to leave for a couple of days.”
Pish opened the huge commercial-size fridge and took out a giant package of fresh pasta. “It’s a good thing I went to Costco with Janice yesterday.”
I got out some cans of tomatoes. As we chopped and sautéed, cooked and drank wine, we chatted about food. After planning meals for the next three days, I asked, “What exactly made you call the Haunt Hunt guy? Which one did you speak with? I forget.”
“My friend at HHN, Chuck Sandberg, got me in touch first with Hugh Langley. I spoke to him briefly, but then he set me up with Todd Halsey. He seemed like a nice fellow on the phone.” He paused, in the process of sweating onions, celery, and carrots and frowned down at the pan. “It’s hard to explain. None of the weird things happened until after you left for Spain, and it hasn’t happened since you’ve been back.” He started moving onions around in the pan again and dumped in some chopped garlic. The delicious scent of mirepoix and garlic filled the air. “But there were too many incidents of shadows flitting past me, and unexplained noises, like whispering voices. I would hear my name said softly and smell perfume, or sometimes lamp oil.”
“That’s weird.” I set the huge pasta pot on the back burner and took a long gulp of wine. I have never known Pish to imagine things, but the skeptic in me revolted. “There has to be a logical explanation.”
“You know me, Merry; I’m a pragmatist. But a couple of times things even flew off shelves.” He shook his head and bent back to his task, breaking up a clump of lean chopped sirloin and adding it to the pan. “I just don’t understand.”
• • •
Janice drove Lizzie to her grandmother’s in Autumn Vale. Hugh promised one of the production assistants would call and tell the two when they were needed. Lizzie darkly prophesied that meant never, but I told her I’d be sure they called. I didn’t want her to be disappointed.
Pish and I ate dinner in the breakfast room with Hugh, Todd, Stu, Rishelle, Felice, and Millicent. The breakfast room, unlike the dining room, is human-size, with just enough room for twelve or so to sit and eat. I love the warmth of the Eastlake sideboard filled with my teapot collection, as well as china platters, silver candelabrum, et cetera. The crew, some of the lesser members billeted at a motel on the highway, had opted to go to Ridley Ridge for food, to the bar where Emerald works. They’d likely dine on one of their infamous mystery meat burgers; they’re supposedly a blend of three meats, but they never tell you what the three meats are. I got the distinct impression that Stu, at least, from among the cast, would have liked to go with them, but some odd fraternal glue kept him with the other paranormal investigators eating my and Pish’s excellent pasta and drinking one of my uncle Melvyn’s newer wines, a Castel Boglione red sparkling wine. Serina, Ian, Arnie, and Chi would be returning later to stay in the castle.
All of the cast were there except for Dirk, who had announced he had something to take care of and headed off on his own mysterious mission with one of the Haunt Hunt vans. No one at the table mentioned him. There appeared to be something of a rift between him and the rest of the cast. I’ve met his type before; he was an egoist. Show business and the modeling world are full of them. They exist in their own world, with their own priorities at the fore. Nothing wrong with that, except they generally expect everyone else to have their success as a priority, too.
“So how does this go?” I asked, looking around at my guests, who were in various stages of finishing their meal. I sipped my wine, feeling mellower for the alcohol, if I’m being honest. “How do you start? You’re beginning filming tonight, right?” If that was the case, I would have to go fetch Lizzie; I was not going to see her cheated of an experience she was so looking forward to.
Todd shrugged. “We got here too late and the setup took longer than expected. This is a big place. Everyone’s tired.”
He seemed grumpy, and kept glancing at his wife, and then his partner, Stu, who was staring at his cell phone and playing with his fork, tapping it against his plate. Rishelle ate, but eyed the others with a watchful gaze. Felice kept her head down and shoveled her second helping of pasta, but Millicent picked the meat out of her sauce and ate very little.
With an apologetic shrug, Hugh added, “We’d like to be fresh when we do this, especially since everyone is on camera and should sound chipper and coherent.”
“Will that extend your time here?” I asked. “You’re going to be here just over the weekend, right?”
“We hope to leave by Monday evening or Tuesday morning, at the latest.”
I took in a deep breath. “What can we do to hasten . . . uh, help make things work more smoothly for you?”
“Just leave it up to us,” Stu Jardine said. “We’ve been doing this for years and have a system down pat.”
“Yeah, we know what we’re doing,” Todd said. “I built this into the hit it is, and you can trust us to do it again.” He sat back. “I’m glad I chose Wynter Castle. Interesting place. It’s going to look great on camera.”
Pish smiled. “You’re welcome here, of course, but this has been quite the surprise for poor Merry. I just want it to go smoothly.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Todd said. “We know what we’re doing. I’ve honed this team into a well-oiled machine.” He shot Hugh a look, and someone snorted, I think it was Stu. “And that’s despite everyone’s efforts, not because of them. We’ll spend tomorrow on some interviews with Pish, you, Janice, and anyone else who seems interesting. Tomorrow evening we’ll begin the hunt.”
Chapter Four
AFTER DINNER SOME of us moved to the parlor, a smallish but comfortable room tucked in by the dining room. I love it, like the breakfast room, for its more human size. There is a low, rosewood table, with a settee and two wing chairs near the fireplace. A large window is hung with Victorian-style wine-colored draperies, excellent for keeping out the blustery evening winds of November.
I had recently added a couple of slipper chairs in the corner near an Eastlake étagère I had rescued from the attic. Hugh discovered that Pish was a serious opera buff, and they sat there discussing the Lexington Opera Company—Pish’s pet artistic project—and listening to Scarlatti sonatas over the excellent sound system my friend had installed in the castle. The lively piano music trilled and threaded through the quiet chatter of voices.
Todd and Rishelle had headed out for a walk. Through dinner they seemed tense and appeared to be having some kind of argument. Perhaps they wanted to fight in private. During dinner whispered accusations had been flung between them. Felice, Stu, and Dirk—who had come back in time to reheat leftovers in the microwave—played a card game by the window at a dusty card table I dug out of the cellar.
Millicent was curled up in a wing chair by the fireplace reading a paperback, one I recognized from my stash in the library. It was an old copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, one of the few series of books I liked as a kid. As I sat down near her she looked up and stuck her thumb in to hold her spot. I got the feeling she didn’t mind the company. Becket wandered in and stood, regarding us both with his intelligent gold eyes. Millicent lit up at the sight of my ginger buddy, set her book aside, and patted her lap. “Is he friendly? What’s his name?”
“This is Becket, my late uncle’s cat. He is friendly, though he’s also pretty independent.” As she bent over and picked him up, I told her about coming to Wynter Castle a year ago and how Becket, alone since my uncle’s death, had drifted in and out of the woods, just on the edge, until I found him and coaxed him into coming home to the castle.
“This is a cool place,” she said, flapping one hand as she stroked Becket with the other. “Your castle, but the town, too. I love small towns.”
“I like it. I’ve made friends here, and I didn’t expect that. I thought I was going to just fix the castle up, sell it, and return to New York City. Instead I’ve found my home here.” We chatted for a while, and I found her to be more down-to-earth than I expected. I wondered what it was that made me think she’d be an airhead. Her clothing, or her belief in her own psychic ability? That was narrow-minded of me, and after over a year in Autumn Vale I should know better. “So, what’s the deal between you and that Dirk guy?” I asked, glancing across the room at the trio playing cards. “I sensed a lot of animosity coming from him, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
She shrugged and stroked Becket, who was purring, stretching, and kneading the air. “I don’t know. I think we just have different ways of seeing our abilities.”
