Much Ado About Muffin by Victoria Hamilton Page B

only comes into the library looking for Brianna, so I don’t know much about him. I think Brianna is going out with him.”
    Isadore went back to work, and some library patrons came in, so I hugged Hannah good-bye and left, walking back toward my car. It was one of those September days that feel dusty and yet damp at the same time, the yellowing grass and dying plants a reminder that autumn couldn’t arrive fast enough for many of us. Autumn Vale is in a valley, so the breeze is limited and the heat lingers, radiating off brick and shimmering off of asphalt in mirages that look like puddles but aren’t. I prepare ahead on days I know aregoing to be like that, so my long hair was up in a chignon, off my neck, but still . . . the back of my neck was moist and there was a trickle of sweat down the middle of my back.
    But I was alive, and poor Minnie wasn’t. That knowledge clouded the day, closing in over me like waves over the drowning. And somewhere among the townies, likely, was a killer who was hugging to themselves the knowledge of what he or she did, congratulating themselves on getting away with murder.
    As I walked toward my car, I saw Emerald outside her shop sweeping the stoop. “Em,” I called out. “Emerald, it’s so good to see you!”
    She turned and smiled, but it was a frosty smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I felt a chill, even in the heat. “Hello, Merry. How was your trip?”
    I approached cautiously, like you might an unknown cat you weren’t sure you should reach your hand out to. “It had a purpose, and it went well. I made peace with my late mother-in-law before she passed away.”
    She nodded and turned away.
    â€œI’m excited for you and your new endeavor. Emerald Illusions . . . nice name. It’s a massage therapy shop, right?”
    â€œNot really.”
    I followed her in. “Emerald, is anything wrong?”
    She turned and eyed me. “No, of course not. What could be wrong?”
    It certainly looked like a space for massage therapy; there was what appeared to be a massage table in the center, and peaceful harp music played over the sound system. The place had been scrubbed clean: blond hardwood floors, pine shelving along the walls with books, flowers, shells, and giant geode crystals. Everywhere on the walls above the shelves were signs:
Ask What You Want of the Universe
,
Stop What’s Blocking You
,
Give Yourself Freedom
,
Align with the Divine
, and other vague sayings.
    There was a beach glass bead curtain across the door that led to the back. It was pushed aside by a middle-aged woman, who came to the front of the shop and joined Emerald. “Who do we have here,” she asked, her voice light and breezy, “Emerald?”
    â€œThis is Merry Wynter,” my friend said with heavy emphasis. She and the woman exchanged meaningful (to them—I had no clue of the meaning) glances. “Merry, this is Crystal Rouse.”
    Aha! I examined her frankly while she examined me. She was in her forties or fifties, with sun-spotted skin and clear blue eyes. Her hair was frizzy and blonde, with some dark graying roots showing. Her clothes were pretty normal; no shamanistic robes or anything, just shorts and a T-shirt that said
Ask Me About CC!
which I assumed meant Consciousness Calling. She reminded me of the typical weight-loss coaches of the nineties, the ones who wore T-shirts screaming,
Ask me how I lost fifty pounds!
    â€œSo I hear you found another dead body,” Emerald said.
    I was taken aback by her tone. “Along with Gogi, yes.”
    She exchanged another of those knowing looks with Crystal. The bells over the door chimed, and Lizzie stomped in, head down, frizzy hair wildly tangled, and threw down her purse.
    â€œLizzie!” I cried with relief.
    She looked up, blinked once, and surged forward, throwing her arms around me. As we babbled our hellos, she dragged me outside