Chapter 6 Noah
NOAH
Isettle back in my chair and pull out my digital recorder, placing it on the small table between Muffin and me.
The morning light streams through the bakery window, highlighting the exhaustion and strain on her face.
Her red curls are pinned behind her ears, and her makeup looks smudged as if she slept in it.
Behind us, I can hear Lottie and her crew still bantering about something, but I choose to tune them out. It’s time to get to work.
“Do you mind if I record this?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle but professional enough.
Muffin Whitmore just agreed to tell me all she knows about her husband’s homicide that occurred less than twenty-four hours ago, and right after he embarrassed her in front of the entire town—heck, the entire state of Vermont, for that matter.
And yet she still looks every bit the part of someone who is grieved. “It helps me keep everything straight.”
“Of course.” Muffin nods immediately. “I want everything on the record.”
Her eagerness strikes me as either completely innocent or carefully calculated.
In my experience, the guilty ones usually want lawyers present before they’ll even spell their names, while the innocent ones can’t wait to clear things up.
The question is, which category does Muffin fall into?
As it stands, she’s projecting innocence pretty darn well.
Lyla Nell claps and laughs from across the way, and even offers me a thumbs-up before Everett scoops her into his lap. I nod his way in thanks. If anything can distract me from doing my job, it’s my baby girl.
“Let’s start with the basics,” I say, pressing record. “Full name and current address.”
“Margaret Elizabeth Whitmore. I live at 42 Lakeshore Drive.” Her voice is steady despite the obvious emotional toll of the last twenty-four hours.
“How long were you married to Duncan?”
“Three years.” She pauses, then adds, “Though it feels both longer and shorter than that, if you know what I mean.”
I do know what she means, but I keep my expression neutral.
I still feel like I’m married to Lot despite the fact that my old stepbrother is warming her bed at night.
Some might say my take isn’t healthy, but I’d be the first to tell them that true love never dies.
Not only that, but I do respect their marriage even if it doesn’t appear to be true from anyone’s perspective.
“Can you walk me through yesterday?” I ask. “Start with when you woke up.”
Muffin takes a deep breath before launching into her timeline.
“Let’s see, I was up early to prep for the festival photography, arrived around ten to set up my equipment, and spent the morning taking candid shots of families and kids.” She shrugs and goes on a bit more about the mundane. Everything sounds normal until we get to Duncan’s public performance.
“When your husband made that announcement, where exactly were you?”
“Behind my camera near the main stage. I was getting ready to photograph the costume contest.” Her voice tightens. “I had no idea what he was planning.”
“What did you do after he finished speaking?”
“I ran.” She says it simply, without shame. “I couldn’t stay there with everyone staring at me. I went back to my car and sat there crying for about twenty minutes.”
“Anyone see you there?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention to anything except trying to pull myself together.”
Not exactly an airtight alibi, but emotional breakdowns rarely come with witnesses. I make a note to check with the parking area vendors, see if anyone noticed her.
“You made a threat against your husband in front of the entire crowd,” I say with a wince. “You said you could kill him.”
Muffin flinches but doesn’t look away. “I was angry and humiliated. Wouldn’t you be? But saying something in the heat of the moment isn’t the same as actually doing it.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Duncan before the incident?”
“That morning. We had breakfast together, talked about the festival logistics. It was actually pleasant.” She laughs bitterly. “I thought we were in a good place.”
“Had he threatened to expose your... writing before?”
“Never. I thought he didn’t know about it. He wouldn’t have approved. I was careful, used a separate laptop, different email account.” She shakes her head. “But not careful enough.”
I’m taking notes, but part of my mind is already racing ahead to the bigger picture.
Lottie is going to go gangbusters to find this killer—she always does—and whoever stabbed Duncan Whitmore isn’t going to take kindly to getting caught.
They used a knife, up close and personal.
That level of violence suggests someone who either knew him well or has serious anger management issues.
Or was just humiliated in front of the world.
Maybe all three.
“Tell me about Duncan’s relationship with his family,” I continue. “Any ongoing conflicts?”
“Oh, plenty,” Muffin says with a little laugh.
“He and his sister Bunny fought constantly about her wellness business. He thought it was ‘hippie nonsense’ that reflected poorly on the family name. And his brother Fairbanks...” She pauses.
“There’s been tension there for years. Something about business decisions and family hierarchy. ”
“What about Regina?”
“Gina is sweet, but she’s only been in the family for a few years. I think she tries to stay out of the drama.” Muffin shifts in her chair. “Though Duncan mentioned something recently about business partnerships that concerned him.”
Interesting. I file that away for follow-up questions.
“Is there anything else you think I should know?” I ask, wrapping up the formal interview portion.
“Just that I didn’t kill my husband,” she says firmly. “I wanted to leave him, yes. I was planning to divorce him, actually. It was over years ago. We were just dragging it out. But I didn’t want him dead.”
I study her face, looking for tells. She maintains eye contact, her voice stays steady, and nothing about her body language screams deception. But I’ve been fooled before.
“I know this might seem inappropriate,” Muffin says, her tone shifting slightly, “but I’d like to continue with the calendar project. The shelter needs the funds, and honestly, I need something positive to focus on.”
“That should be fine, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the investigation.”
“I’m hoping to start shooting soon. Are you still willing to participate?”
The question catches me slightly off guard. Posing for a charity calendar while investigating the photographer’s husband’s murder has to violate some kind of professional protocol, but I can’t think of which one. The words morally gray area come to mind.
“Just keep me posted on your schedule,” I tell her. “And let me know what to wear.” And hopefully, I will be wearing a lot.
“I will.” She stands, gathering her purse. “Thank you for listening. And for treating me like a person instead of a suspect.”
“Take care of yourself,” I say. “I know this is a difficult time.”
“And Noah?” She leans my way another notch. “For that photo shoot, you won’t need to wear much more than a deerstalker cap and a magnifying lens.” Her lips curve a notch before she sweeps out the door.
I watch her walk away, and my brain takes a moment to process what just happened. Did she just casually inform me that I’m going to be practically naked for this charity calendar? While discussing a murder investigation? The woman has interesting timing.
I’m posing nearly nude with detective props? This day keeps getting stranger.
My desk back at the station is covered with budget reports, court testimony prep, and three other cases that were priorities until yesterday afternoon. But this homicide investigation just jumped to the top of the pile.
I glance over at Lot, who seems to be arguing with Carlotta about something involving Easter decorations and appropriate public behavior. In about five minutes, she’s going to start asking me questions about the case, and in about ten minutes, she’s going to decide she needs to solve it herself.
Which means I’d better solve it fast, before the love of my life gets herself killed trying to catch a killer who’s already proven they’re not afraid to use a knife.