Much Ado About Muffin by Victoria Hamilton Page A

one of the cookies. They were good: tender, not too sweet, with a faint licorice flavor. Isadore didn’t seem too fond of them and drew out a bag of peanut butter cookies, took her tea, got a book from a shelf, and began reading.
    â€œI don’t often talk about Minnie because I know she was difficult, and I know you two didn’t get along,” Hannah said. “Minnie didn’t get along with many people. But she came in here sometimes, and we talked on occasion.”
    â€œShe was a reader?” I said.
    Hannah nodded, her gray eyes thoughtful. “She liked—this is going to sound strange now, but she read a lot of truecrime books. Especially Ann Rule; I always saved new Ann Rules for her when we got any in.”
    â€œMinnie seemed so gossipy and judgmental.” I shared how Minnie had told me, before she decided I was the devil, that Gogi Grace had murdered her two husbands for the inheritance and insurance.
    Hannah smiled sadly. “I told her that was nonsense, but she was stubborn once she got something in her head. I always had a sense that Minnie craved drama, and never got it. She moved here from Ridley Ridge, but that was as far as she ever went in life. I think . . .” She hesitated and watched me. “I
think
that’s why she didn’t like you. She saw how . . . how interesting you are, and how worldly. You represented everything she craved, but couldn’t have.”
    I felt my cheeks flush.
    â€œThat’s not your fault,” Hannah said, reaching out and touching my hand. “But you’ve been places and seen things. You were married to a fashion photographer, and inherited the castle. You’ve had a dramatic life.”
    I frowned down into my teacup. I’ve always considered myself the most prosaic of women. I’ve
met
dramatic people, folks like Roma, and my friend Zee, also known by the name she chose for herself, Zimbabwe Lesotho, an internationally acclaimed artist. Even Shilo is more mysterious than I. “I’m just a woman things happen to,” I said, and Isadore, over in the corner, snorted.
    â€œI felt sorry for her,” Hannah said softly. “She took in boarders not just to make money, but also because she was lonely, and I think she liked to help young people.”
    â€œWhat do you know about her current boarders?” I asked.
    She eyed me, but then looked thoughtful. “Well, there’s Karl Mencken.”
    Isadore growled. “Jerk,” she muttered.
    â€œHe’s not a nice boy,” Hannah said. “He teases Isadore when he sees her.”
    â€œWhat does he say?” I asked the woman.
    She reddened and shook her head, but then said, in her creaky, seldom-used voice, “Calls me the weird old cat lady and holds his nose, like I smell.”
    â€œWow. That’s dumb.” Isadore always smells pleasantly of talcum powder and Jergens. So that was the little crud who was couch surfing at Zeke and Gordy’s. I was glad, now, that Binny was helping them get rid of him.
    â€œBrianna’s a nice enough girl,” Hannah said. “She’s twenty-three and moved here from Houghton, a small town about fifty miles away. She comes in once in a while looking for romance novels and fashion magazines, and we talk about celebrities.” My young friend pinkened and her nose went up, as if daring me to criticize her occasionally plebeian tastes.
    But, hey, I’m not much of a reader, and I
love
a good romance story. Gossip about celebrities used to be my stock in trade, so no criticism from me. People seem to think that because I hang out with Pish I’m hoity-toity. Most of what I know about opera, classical music, and art I learned from him. “She works part-time at the retirement home. I saw her there,” I said, but didn’t mention the drug deal I suspected I’d witnessed. “And there’s one more.”
    â€œLogan Katsaros. But he