Free Much Ado About Muffin by Victoria Hamilton Page B

like a tiny version of a Musketeer sword from the movies, with a miniaturized knuckle guard that protected the hand when the sword was held, and a small silk tassel, now soaked in blood.
    I heard the distant wail of a siren and took one last long look, then stepped out the back door, standing in front of it, swaying in revulsion and fear, trying to assemble my face in some kind of stoic expression. My mind raced. Roma. Did she? Didn’t she?
Could
she have?
    Impossible. Wynter Castle was a long way from the scene.Roma didn’t own a car and perhaps didn’t even drive; many New Yorkers don’t. Minnie hadn’t been dead that long, I didn’t think, judging by the smell, the sight and her habits. By my estimate it could have been a half hour, maybe more, given what I knew about her arrival, usually about ten minutes before she was to open, and the fact that she hadn’t turned on the lights or opened the actual post office.
    She must have been killed shortly after she arrived, but before she started opening up for the day’s business. The killer must have been someone who knew her schedule, though that pretty much covered the whole town. For all her many faults, she was as regular as clockwork when it came to opening and closing. I hadn’t thought to see if I could tell if the day’s fresh mail had been delivered by truck yet. Maybe the delivery guy had seen her and could provide a time frame.
    The siren was closer; did I have time for one more look inside to see if I could tell if there was fresh mail? Gogi, her face pale as bleached linen, came around the corner, cell phone in hand, as a sheriff’s department car, driven by Virgil, screamed down the back lane by the post office. He jumped out, drew his gun, and ran to his mother first. “You okay?” he asked, hand on her shoulder. She nodded. He looked over at me, his expression unreadable. “Merry?”
    I nodded. Another car approached, and he directed Deputy Urquhart to go around the front and make sure no one exited the building that way. I was impressed; from Gogi’s phone call he must already know Minnie, Deputy Urquhart’s aunt, was dead, and didn’t especially want the nephew to be one of the investigators on the scene. Nothing got past Virgil, and everything he did had a reason. He then told the other deputy, a young woman, to back him up, and they went in together to establish that she was indeed dead. They came out two minutes later; he was grim-faced, but confirmed that there was no one else in the building.
    He radioed in, then guided us away from the action as the late summer heat began building, shimmering in the air. He left for a moment, directing his deputies on a search of the business district, such as it is, of Autumn Vale. They were to look for anyone who was not where they should be, and any stranger or unknown vehicle.
    He came back to us, his gaze softening as he saw his mother’s white, frightened face. Gogi, as owner and operator of a senior’s home that also provided hospice care, had seen more than her fair share of death. But this was murder, and it was different. He gave her a brief side hug and touched my shoulder, while I drank in the comfort of a strong and capable man. I’m no shrinking violet; I can take care of myself. But Virgil is as solid as they come—big, square-jawed, muscular, and tough without surrendering his humanity—and in an emergency it was nice to have him near.
    â€œI have to make a call,” he said. “This murder happened in a post office, so I have to call the United States Postal Inspection Service.”
    â€œWho are they?” I asked.
    â€œYou could say they are the police arm of the post office. I can’t do anything more than secure the scene.”
    Frustrating for him. Virgil is a doer, not a waiter.
    â€œWhy don’t you two go over to Binny’s, or somewhere else close? But don’t discuss this with