Muffin to fear, p.1
Muffin to Fear, page 1
Praise for the national bestselling Merry Muffin Mysteries
“Start with a spunky protagonist named Merry, mix in some delicious muffins, add a mysterious castle in upstate New York, and you’ve got the ingredients for a wonderful cozy mystery series.”
—Paige Shelton, New York Times bestselling author of To Helvetica and Back
“Another fun read . . . There were plenty of twists to keep me turning those pages. The story is well-plotted and had me guessing whodunit right until the very end. The author has thoughtfully provided some yummy recipes.”
—MyShelf.com
“Mix the crazy cast of characters with humor, mystery, and romance and you have a delightful story that will keep you captivated for hours. It’s a page turner!”
—Socrates’ Book Reviews
“[A] great cozy with varied and interesting characters, a nice plot with a few twists, and a good main character who has some baggage to work through . . . Excellent—loved it! Buy it now and put this author on your watch list.”
—Mysteries and My Musings
“Victoria Hamilton proves herself again as [a] master plotter . . . Merry Wynter is a delightful protagonist . . . [Hamilton’s] characters are complex and most are likable . . . The plot had enough twists and curves to keep me challenged and entertained.”
—Open Book Society
“Another engaging mystery with a fascinating locked-room angle, and an intriguing cast.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton
Vintage Kitchen Mysteries
A DEADLY GRIND
BOWLED OVER
FREEZER I’LL SHOOT
NO MALLETS INTENDED
WHITE COLANDER CRIME
Merry Muffin Mysteries
BRAN NEW DEATH
MUFFIN BUT MURDER
DEATH OF AN ENGLISH MUFFIN
MUCH ADO ABOUT MUFFIN
MUFFIN TO FEAR
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Donna Lea Simpson
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9780698406087
First Edition: August 2017
Cover art by Ben Perini
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book have been created for the ingredients and techniques indicated. The Publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require supervision. Nor is the Publisher responsible for any adverse reactions you may have to the recipes contained in the book, whether you follow them as written or modify them to suit your personal dietary needs or tastes.
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Contents
Praise for the national bestselling Merry Muffin Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Recipes
About the Author
Thank you to librarians everywhere. In a world where knowledge is not always respected or prized, you consistently do the important work of making sure every man, woman, and child with curiosity and a love for the truth can read what the great thinkers and writers in history have handed down. Intellectual curiosity and open hearts and minds will save the world, if we let them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyeditors are the unsung heroes of fiction writing. They keep authors from committing terrible errors in judgment, as well as in spelling and grammar. I’d like to extend a huge “Thank You” to Randie Lipkin, who, by pointing out one glaring flaw in Muffin To Fear (as well as many other smaller errors), kept my favorite fictional librarian, Hannah Moore, from making an ethical faux pas that would horrify any librarian.
Prologue
READER, I MARRIED him.
That is certainly the most famous line of all from romantic fiction, is it not? In Charlotte Brontë’s masterwork Jane Eyre, it goes: “Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had . . .” And so I start with that, as it was true for me. What was there to wait for? About three weeks after Virgil Grace asked for my hand in marriage, we stood by the fireplace in the parlor, and with Pish presiding—he has the legal right to perform weddings and has done the honors before—Gogi, Hannah, Lizzie, Emerald, Binny, Doc, and a few others stood with us as we quietly wed. I said, “I do,” Virgil said, “I do,” and we all cried, even Virgil. It was the best moment of my life, facing him, our hands joined, and watching one tear well in each of his gorgeous brown eyes and trickle down his cheek.
We then left town the morning after a raucous reception, driving to New York City to stay at Pish’s condo for a two-week honeymoon. Pish had returned from there to Wynter Castle in time for the wedding after taking Roma Toscano, the opera singer, back and visiting his mother, who was now off with Pish’s aunt Lush on a cruise. His apartment is luxurious; I know it well because my friend is a masterful party giver. I have spent many an evening in his New York home as he played show tunes while various entertainment types lounged singing, chatting, or getting quietly blotto. He was an investment counselor for years, with many wealthy clients from the various arms of the entertainment industry and still retains a few, but since he took his own financial advice he doesn’t need to work. One of his best investments was property, he has always said, and his condo, in a lovely building overlooking Central Park, has more than doubled in value since he first bought it.
It’s also superbly comfortable, with a housekeeper who comes in every morning for three hours except on the weekend. Virgil and I stayed in bed the first two days, fortunately on a weekend so I didn’t have to deal with Mrs. MacGregor, a dour Scotswoman who gets along well with Pish’s mother, and that’s saying a lot. They have what I call a Sourpuss Alliance. I was finally forced to get out of bed Monday morning for food and a shower, and to be decently dressed by the time Mrs. MacGregor arrived. Being married to Virgil is the best combination workout regimen and diet I’ve ever been on, and that’s all I’ll say about that.
After the weekend in bed we did other stuff; we watched old movies, Barefoot in the Park and The Out of Towners, since we were in New York. We ate out, attended the theater, shopped, walked hand in hand in Central Park—autumn in New York is the best—visited friends (it was a lot of fun introducing him to my old friends) and went to an ice hockey game between the Rangers and the Islanders. I thought I’d loathe it, but it was fun! It was thrilling hanging on to Virgil while he fist pumped at every goal and jumped up and down . . . cheering for the Rangers, of course. Why it’s “of course,” I don’t know, but that’s all he said when I asked who we were rooting for. He bought an oversize Rangers T-shirt, which I wore to bed at his request.
Kinky!
After two glorious weeks, I awoke on the last day and lay on my side, watching him sleep. He’s the kind of guy who grows a beard moment by moment, and dark stubble clothed his steely jaw, dark lashes resting on his tanned cheeks. In repose his face isn’t quite as strong-looking, his cheeks softer, throat skin slack, dark unruly hair mussed. His shoulders are broad and sturdy. He sleeps with one arm flung up over his head, and he has a dark swirl of hair across his upper chest that narrows and points down intriguingly under the covers.
“Are you done watching me sleep?” he growled.
I chuckled and ducked under the covers. “I guess I am,” I said, my voice muffled.
Chapter One
WE STARTED OUR drive back to Autumn Vale in a fog of happy weariness. It’s a long way and takes se
At a certain point, though, he decided to take his own route. We hit a construction zone that wasn’t indicated anywhere, and he got impatient. He’s the kind of driver who taps his thumbs on the steering wheel while he gets more and more agitated. We then got backed up in traffic, and in no time we were quarreling, finally lapsing into sullen silence when he refused to go where I wanted. That lasted until we arrived in Geneseo (not far from Autumn Vale), got out to stretch our legs, and started kissing; we quickly discovered a nature preserve and used the gorgeous, quiet, lush grassland for what I assume officials meant by the allowed activities including “low-impact recreation.” As chilly as the air was on my skin, Virgil kept me warm. Afterward, we shimmied back into our clothes—luckily, I was wearing mid-rise boyfriend jeans, a T-shirt, and cotton cardigan, instead of the jeggings I had considered—picked the dead grass out of our hair, got back on the highway, and were on the best of terms again. Late in the afternoon, as the sun began to sink toward the treetops and the air got chillier, we pulled up to the castle exhausted and utterly blissful.
Which lasted about thirty seconds until I registered the array of vans, cars, and a cube van parked willy-nilly over my flagstone parking area. Several guys and a few gals in jeans and golf shirts emblazoned with the letters HHN bustled around carrying orange reels of black wire, lights on tripod stands, black suitcases rimmed in steel, steel suitcases rimmed in steel, tripods with screw mounts, and assorted other kinds of electrical and electronic equipment.
“What’s going on?” I said, slamming Virgil’s car door as he circled and popped open the trunk.
“You expecting company?”
“No. Why do I have a feeling this is Pish’s doing?” Pish, my best and one of my oldest friends, had gotten me into numerous scrapes over the last year, from a murder among his aunt’s group of friends I had labeled the Legion of Horrible Ladies, to Roma Toscano, a histrionic and hysterical opera diva who was detained by the FBI and almost arrested for murder. I have to admit, though, that he was not responsible for problems previous to those, including the body I found just days after arriving at my inherited castle near Autumn Vale, New York, more than a year ago now.
But this most definitely spelled trouble, with a capital Pish. It appeared to be some sort of television or movie shoot. Had he booked a commercial? A movie of the week?
“You talk to Pish,” Virgil said. “I’ll get our stuff organized and start taking it in and upstairs.” Virgil had moved into the castle with me while putting his house on the market to sell. Jack McGill, our real estate agent and my best friend Shilo’s new husband, had sold it quickly to a couple from out of town, but closing was still a few weeks away. We had plans for how and where we were actually going to live and had started the process with the help of Turner Construction, but hadn’t shared the full plans with anyone but Pish and a couple of select others.
As Virgil started toting his first load into the castle—I had, of course, shopped while in New York, and bought presents for friends, as well as myself—I approached one of the men, a slim guy in his thirties, olive complexion, and with jet-black hair and black eyes framed by black glasses. “Pardon me, but who are you?” I asked.
He looked up from the silver metal case he was rummaging in and frowned. “Who’s asking?”
“I don’t mean you in particular, I mean all of you, all of this,” I said, pointing toward the trucks and stacks of equipment. “All of you!”
“Chi-Won Zhu. But just call me Chi.”
“And what do you do, Chi?”
“I’m an effects creator.”
“Effects, as in special?” My nerves frayed just a skosh.
Just then Pish came trotting out the door, waving his hands in the air. “Merry! My darling. I just spoke with Virgil. How is the blissful bride? You are glowing; it must be happiness.”
Uh-oh. He was speaking in italics, which meant he was hiding something or feeling scattered. “Right now it’s confusion with a hint of panic, Pish,” I said. “What is all this? These vehicles, HHN, an effects creator?”
“Ah well, yes.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “You’re home early! I told you when we talked on Monday to stay through the weekend, and here it is, just Thursday.”
“We have to talk to the construction company. You know that, Pish!”
“Yes, yes. Of course! Anyway, come inside, tell me all about your honeymoon, then I’ll tell you what fun we’re having.”
I took his arm and we entered. Inside was worse than outside . . . much worse. The great hall, normally a calm, echoey oasis, the heart of my real American castle, was filled with people consulting one another in loud tones, more cases of equipment, wires and cords snaking up the stairs, draped on the banisters and hanging from the gallery railing. There was even a burly fellow with a camera on a body mount. He was filming a guy with sandy hair who mounted a small camera on a tall tripod. Why was someone filming a guy setting up a camera? It made no sense.
Virgil, who had gone back outside, followed us in with my second suitcase and dropped it, chuckling. I turned and glared at him. “Don’t you start.”
He cast a sympathetic look at Pish. “You’ve stepped in it now, pal.”
“If Merry will just hear me out—”
“Don’t even.” I stepped over some wires, dodged a boom mic that was headed my way, ignored the sandy-haired guy who was glaring at me for ruining his shot, and said, over my shoulder, “Pish, kitchen!”
In my sanctuary, the commercially outfitted kitchen my weird old great-uncle Melvyn Wynter had designed before he was murdered and I inherited the pile of stone called Wynter Castle, I sat down at the long trestle table with a cup of tea from McNulty’s, a specialty tea and coffee shop in New York. Away from the mysterious hordes in the great hall, I felt the calm of my two-century-old castle seep into my bones. Pish was my saving grace, my guardian angel for many years, the friend who saved me from self-immolation after the death of my beloved first husband, Miguel Paradiso, almost nine years ago. He deserved much more than I could ever repay, and his wild ideas always had a way of turning out. Pretty much.
Okay, usually.
“So what’s going on?” I asked, and took a long sip of tea, rolling my eyes back at the wonder of the taste. Good black tea is like honey: warm, delicious, full of flavor.
He took a long breath and sighed. “It all started when you were in Spain—”
“Pish, I mean what’s happening now!”
“I know, I know, but I have to go back to the summer to tell you.”
I had gone, in June, to visit my former mother-in-law, Miguel’s mother, Maria, who was dying and wanted to make peace with me before she did. She had never liked me, and had demanded, after Miguel’s death, that I change my last name back to Wynter. We made our peace, but I stayed on weeks after her death, cocooned in the protection of the Paradiso wealth. I realize now I was just figuring things out, but I had happily made the right decision, to come home where I needed to be, at Wynter Castle and in Virgil’s arms.
“Okay, so tell me your way,” I said.
He composed himself as I watched. Pish is a lovely man, slim, exquisitely dressed in slacks and a polo-neck sweater with the sleeves pushed up, long-fingered hands with just a signet ring on one finger. His longish hair, just touching his collar, is a natural (or natural-looking; I know his secrets, as does a certain hairdresser in Autumn Vale) light brown despite his being somewhere north of sixty. He is cultured and wise, talented and deep, and I love him like the father I’ve never had, combined with the wittiest New York friend a girl could ask for.
“While you were gone to Spain this summer I had a few odd experiences in the castle.”
