Muffin But Murder (A Merry Muffin Mystery) by Victoria Hamilton Page B
Authors: Victoria Hamilton
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Melanie Pritchard and friend,” Zeke responded, his eyes wide. Gordy nodded in agreement.
“Neither one of them is Melanie. How did this happen?”
Zeke shrugged. “When she came—the taller one . . . they came together in a taxi from somewhere—she laughed and told me if I could guess who she was I’d get a kiss, so I said Miss Melanie Pritchard, ’cause she looked like a Melanie, and she said, yes, that’s exactly who she was. With a friend. And Gordy checked her off.”
“And she kissed us both!” Gordy added.
I thought I had covered everything with them, but apparently I forgot to tell them to engage their brains and not their groins in the ID process. “Okay,” I said, looking over Gordy’s clipboard. Every name had been checked off with the exception of Les Urquhart, the owner of the Party Stop, and Percy Channing. “So why did you start letting a
second
of each of these people in?” I asked, indicating the double checkmarked names. “Why didn’t one of you come get me?”
Both shuffled their feet and shrugged. I heard some boisterous noise through the open doors and uneasily wondered if things were getting out of hand. I sure hoped not, or this whole idea of introducing Wynter Castle to the world via parties could be done before it began. Pish appeared concerned, too, looking over his shoulder into the great hall. “Okay, no one else gets in,” I told Zeke, thrusting the clipboard back at Gordy. “I’m trusting you guys. I understand that you didn’t know who was who this time, and I’ll make sure you’re better prepared next time.” If there
was
a next time for them.
The evening wore on. I knew I should be schmoozing the potential investors, but there were too many other things going on, and I ended up stomping out social fires like a flamenco dancer on Red Bull. One of my fashion friends, Zimbabwe Lesotho (not her real name, and I only ever called her Zee), mortally offended Isadore Openshaw by cornering her and trying to give her fashion advice. I took Zee aside and told her that Isadore was a bit prickly; besides, what she was wearing was supposed to be a costume, though it was how she usually looked. My friend then had the good grace to apologize, complimenting Isadore on her “cool old-lady costume,” which opened up a whole new can of worms.
Doc English got tiddly and told a couple of my friends, “You’re fired!” They thought he was hilarious and launched a drinking game with the old guy. I was too busy looking for the football geeks and their girlfriends, a couple of whom had been seen heading upstairs. I didn’t find them, but I did find an angry Becket, who now sat teetering on the railing howling down on the gathering. “Becket, why don’t you hide in my room if you hate this so much?” He just hissed at me and stalked along the railing, leaping down to the floor and crawling away to a dark corner to grumble.
Cranston was, oddly enough, a saving grace. He was gently humorous, a hit with one and all. He circulated, making sure folks had drinks and something to eat, encouraging people to try one of Binny’s pastries and extolling her skills. In short, all the things I ought to have been doing if I had the time. It was good to have him there.
At some point in the evening, the casket containing Uncle Mortimer disappeared from the great hall while Pish and I talked to a group of interested investor types in the ballroom. I thought I knew who had taken it—the football team—so I wasn’t concerned. If it got ruined and I had to end up paying Janice for it rather than merely renting it, then so be it.
Finally it was over. The Westhavens were already gone, and I couldn’t help but feel that the boisterous footballers were to blame for their early departure. I had wanted to talk to them, to get their professional input on Wynter Castle, but that would have to wait. The other chauffeur-driven folks left fairly early, too. The danged footballers and their giggly
“Neither one of them is Melanie. How did this happen?”
Zeke shrugged. “When she came—the taller one . . . they came together in a taxi from somewhere—she laughed and told me if I could guess who she was I’d get a kiss, so I said Miss Melanie Pritchard, ’cause she looked like a Melanie, and she said, yes, that’s exactly who she was. With a friend. And Gordy checked her off.”
“And she kissed us both!” Gordy added.
I thought I had covered everything with them, but apparently I forgot to tell them to engage their brains and not their groins in the ID process. “Okay,” I said, looking over Gordy’s clipboard. Every name had been checked off with the exception of Les Urquhart, the owner of the Party Stop, and Percy Channing. “So why did you start letting a
second
of each of these people in?” I asked, indicating the double checkmarked names. “Why didn’t one of you come get me?”
Both shuffled their feet and shrugged. I heard some boisterous noise through the open doors and uneasily wondered if things were getting out of hand. I sure hoped not, or this whole idea of introducing Wynter Castle to the world via parties could be done before it began. Pish appeared concerned, too, looking over his shoulder into the great hall. “Okay, no one else gets in,” I told Zeke, thrusting the clipboard back at Gordy. “I’m trusting you guys. I understand that you didn’t know who was who this time, and I’ll make sure you’re better prepared next time.” If there
was
a next time for them.
The evening wore on. I knew I should be schmoozing the potential investors, but there were too many other things going on, and I ended up stomping out social fires like a flamenco dancer on Red Bull. One of my fashion friends, Zimbabwe Lesotho (not her real name, and I only ever called her Zee), mortally offended Isadore Openshaw by cornering her and trying to give her fashion advice. I took Zee aside and told her that Isadore was a bit prickly; besides, what she was wearing was supposed to be a costume, though it was how she usually looked. My friend then had the good grace to apologize, complimenting Isadore on her “cool old-lady costume,” which opened up a whole new can of worms.
Doc English got tiddly and told a couple of my friends, “You’re fired!” They thought he was hilarious and launched a drinking game with the old guy. I was too busy looking for the football geeks and their girlfriends, a couple of whom had been seen heading upstairs. I didn’t find them, but I did find an angry Becket, who now sat teetering on the railing howling down on the gathering. “Becket, why don’t you hide in my room if you hate this so much?” He just hissed at me and stalked along the railing, leaping down to the floor and crawling away to a dark corner to grumble.
Cranston was, oddly enough, a saving grace. He was gently humorous, a hit with one and all. He circulated, making sure folks had drinks and something to eat, encouraging people to try one of Binny’s pastries and extolling her skills. In short, all the things I ought to have been doing if I had the time. It was good to have him there.
At some point in the evening, the casket containing Uncle Mortimer disappeared from the great hall while Pish and I talked to a group of interested investor types in the ballroom. I thought I knew who had taken it—the football team—so I wasn’t concerned. If it got ruined and I had to end up paying Janice for it rather than merely renting it, then so be it.
Finally it was over. The Westhavens were already gone, and I couldn’t help but feel that the boisterous footballers were to blame for their early departure. I had wanted to talk to them, to get their professional input on Wynter Castle, but that would have to wait. The other chauffeur-driven folks left fairly early, too. The danged footballers and their giggly
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