Death of an English Muffin Read Online Free PDF Page A

almost a year living in the wild, convinced Russian mobsters were after him. He still looked a little rough, but he had gained weight and his craggy face had fleshed out a little. He was subdued in company; I had a feeling he was suffering a little post-traumatic stress from his awful experience.
    His daughter, Binny, was a talented local baker. In fact, the napoleons and mini-éclairs I was offering my guests came straight from her Main Street bakery. Lizzie was Rusty’s newly discovered granddaughter and Binny’s niece. She was a visible reminder of the son he had lost to murder, and he watched her with love and yearning in his squinty eyes. Their relationship was advancing, but slowly. I hoped they worked it out. If Binny had anything to say about it, they would.
    Hannah’s parents, a quiet little couple, were also at the table, but would leave early to pick up their daughter at Golden Acres, where she was holding one of her book days. Once or twice a week she would take coffee-table books to the senior home and share them with the folks.
    Tea proceeded. I drifted from table to table, joining conversations that were lagging, and clearing dirty plates as needed. Emerald was brilliant as a hostess. I could have left the whole thing to her, as a matter of fact, and I appreciated her swift but calm service and sharp gaze. A plate that was about to be overturned, a cup that was close to falling off a table, Hubert Dread needing a hand up and guidance to the washroom: nothing got past her. Consciousness Calling must be a wonderful organization, I thought, as I watched her smiling, circulating, helping, and chatting, the way she had blossomed from their teachings evident. She filled in for Shilo, who was not paying attention, and for Lizzie, who had come to help but instead hung around listening to Hubert Dread’s stories and taking photos, or talking to her grandfather, who held on to her hand at every opportunity.
    Eventually Lizzie’s attention shifted to Vanessa LaDuchesse, and I hoped that the woman wasn’t telling some of her more scandalous tales of life in Hollywood in the fifties and sixties, because most of it was inappropriate for young teenage ears. I don’t know why I worried; little seemed to shock Lizzie, who had been with me when I found a dead body once and had to help
me
out of the woods. She appearedfascinated by the actress and took dozens of photos. Vanessa loved it, I could tell, and preened, presenting her striking profile in the light from the arched windows.
    Barbara was complaining to her tablemates about Cleta, who wasn’t in her spot. Probably had gone to the bathroom, I figured. She complained how rude her friend was, and how unsympathetic, mostly to Barbara’s gastric woes, to hear her tell it. “I don’t know how Cleta Sanson ended up coming here to stay with us. She certainly wasn’t invited by
me
! If I were Merry, I would have told her to turn right around and march out that door.”
    I sighed, wondering whether to intervene. Rusty looked bored and Hannah’s parents were clearly mystified, while Stoddart looked amused in a not-quite-nice way. I drifted closer. “How are you today?” I asked of Hannah’s mother. “Your dress is lovely.” She wore a taupe dress with a teal and sage floral pattern in a style that suited her petite figure perfectly.
    She lit up, turning her small, round, lightly lined face toward me. “I sewed it myself,” she said, jumping to her feet and twirling.
    “It’s so well made!” I exclaimed, examining it closely. It was a retro fifties style with a fitted waist and bell-shaped skirt.
    “I started sewing when Hannah was young because it was so hard to find clothes to fit her.”
    Hannah had extremely frail limbs and a narrow frame, but she wore the loveliest clothes, mostly dresses in light gauzy fabrics with pretty, fanciful prints. Now I understood why her clothes always fit her so perfectly and suited her whimsical personality. “You have a