Текст книги "Bran New Death"

Автор книги: Victoria Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

She sniffed and reached into her bag, drawing out a packet of tissues and blotting her mascaraed blue eyes carefully. “He’s been gone so long. I have to . . . I’m starting to think something happened while he was away. If I knew where he was going, I could check with the police there and hospitals, but . . .” She trailed off and shrugged. “That sheriff is no good at all. I keep hounding him to try to find Rusty, but he’s not doing a darn thing. I just don’t know what to think! And now, with Tom dead . . . poor Rusty! He’s going to be devastated with how he left things with Tom. When . . . if he comes back.”

“What did they fight over?”

“I just don’t know. I think it was business, but I’m not sure. There was something going on between Rusty and Melvyn. I knew that, but I didn’t think Tom was involved, other than it had to do with his father. There were lawsuits and bickering and turmoil. Gosh, it was nasty! Old Melvyn came out to the office with a double-barrel shotgun one day and called Rusty a low-life, lying snake.” She shook her head, but there was a faint smile curving up her lips.

“Did he mean it? I mean, my uncle, with the shotgun?”

“Well, the hole in the side of the trailer would seem to suggest he was serious!”

Chapter Seventeen

"YOU MEAN MY uncle actually shot the place up?”

“Oh, he wasn’t aiming at anyone,” Dinah assured me. “He shot over Tom’s head, but said next time a Turner would pay.”

Holy crap, I thought. He had waved a shotgun at Janice Grover, too. Maybe old Melvyn was truly nuts and did kill Rusty. But he didn’t kill Tom Turner, and that was the murder I was hoping would be solved pronto. Was it all tied in together? Did the “something funny” going on have to do with those poorly drawn up plans for Wynter Acres I found? “Dinah, were you in on any of the discussions between Rusty and Melvyn about subdividing the Wynter land to build condos?”

“I came in on the tail end of it. It didn’t make a bit of sense to me,” she said, eyes wide. “I asked Rusty, who would buy a condo out in the middle of nowhere?”

“My thoughts exactly! What did he say?”

She rolled her eyes. “Men! He said to keep my pretty, little nose out of it, that Melvyn had hidden assets and the only way to get them out of him was to go along with the old fool.” She gasped. “Oh, dear. He was your uncle, and . . . I’m so sorry for how that sounded. Rusty wasn’t the easiest guy to deal with. It sounds bad, but he didn’t mean it . . . well, I’m not sure exactly how he meant it.”

“It sounds like Rusty was using Mel,” I said, my tone blunt. I didn’t want to reveal that I had seen the shoddy plats and subpar plans.

She put one hand on mine on the table, and said, “Merry, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about Rusty. He’s a great guy, honest! Except he sees the world in terms of black and white; he seemed to think Mel owed him. He was worried, and had some kind of plan in mind to keep the company afloat.”

Uh-huh, a plan to cheat old Melvyn, maybe. Was that where the money in the account came from? And who else was he swindling? “You did the bookkeeping for the company, right?”

“I did.”

Interesting; she had just implied that Rusty, her boss and boyfriend was trying to cheat my uncle, but had no problem admitting she did the company bookkeeping. “Was everything aboveboard and square?” She looked a little offended. I hadn’t worded that very well. “I didn’t mean about your bookkeeping, Dinah. I guess I meant the books from before you took over.”

Mollified, she sighed and said, “They were a terrible mess! I started out as just a kind of office manager and receptionist, you know, but Rusty was in over his head. He used to have a gal who came in two days a week to do the deposits and payroll, but she quit. She had messed things up so badly, I didn’t even know where to begin. There were checks that hadn’t been deposited, bills that hadn’t been paid . . . it took me a year to get things straightened out, and I’m not positive that I did get it all square and shipshape. I wasn’t a very good bookkeeper myself when I started, but I took a correspondence course, and a lot of it is common sense along with the ability to look up state and federal regulations and apply them.”

“Who was it who used to come in to do the bookkeeping?”

“I . . . don’t remember the name,” she said, her gaze shifting away. “Is it important?”

“I guess not.” I had a sense that she did indeed remember very well but didn’t want to implicate someone.

She stood and shook crumbs off her lap. “I had better get down to the nuts and bolts. I have to measure this place and figure out what I’m doing. Gogi Grace is going to give me a hand.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” I said, standing and likewise scattering crumbs from my skirt.

“She is, honest to God, like the sister I never had.”

I walked to the door, my heels clunking on the board floors and echoing in the empty place; it was a bland space right now, plain-board floors, white walls, dusty from disuse. It needed a lot of work before it could be a design store, and I hoped she knew what she was up against. I turned before I got to the door. “By the way, do you know anyone who does yard work or anything like that? I can’t seem to find any listing for a landscaping company in Autumn Vale, and I need the Wynter property taken care of on a regular basis.”

“What, you’re not going to mow it on your own?” she said with a quick grin. “I say just put up a notice at the Vale Variety. Rusty used to find day workers that way, for when we needed site cleanup.” Her grin died, as she talked again about her missing boyfriend.

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Dinah. I hope this place does great guns!”

“Me, too, if I ever figure out what to make it!”

I left the pastries behind for her and Gogi. On the street, I looked up and down as a young woman with a stroller passed me, a determined frown on her face. I had a lot to think about and even more to figure out. The last few days had revealed that the odd little town of Autumn Vale had seen some swirling controversies and issues over the last few years, some of them to do with my late uncle.

Was it unusual in that respect? Probably not. Get enough quirky characters together in one small space, though, and you had a recipe for disaster. The economic downturn could not have helped. Small towns across the country had been hit in a frightening way, that much I knew from reading the news. Just looking at the main street in this town you could see it had once been a thriving downtown that was now largely vacant. And it wasn’t just that people were now taking their hard-earned bucks to Rochester or Buffalo, it was that anyone left in town probably didn’t have any bucks, hard-earned or otherwise.

I was slowly redefining my economic situation as measured against the townsfolk of Autumn Vale, New York. My small heap of savings seemed like a larger pot than I had once considered it. I suddenly realized that Jack McGill had not given himself the job of filling the holes in my yard just to be nice to a newbie, it was part of a financial-survival strategy. Real estate in a small town as depressed as Autumn Vale had to be tough.

My eyes were open. I walked down Abenaki feeling raw and vulnerable. The boarded-up stores now represented failed dreams, lost livelihoods. Where did anyone work in Autumn Vale? There was no industry, that I could tell. Turner Construction was probably once the beacon of prosperity by the town’s modest measure, but it was history now, with no one to run it. A group of teenagers hung out in front of Vale Variety, their faces wan, smoking cigarettes and muttering to each other. They were going to have to leave town to get jobs, probably; would they ever come back? Was the lifeblood of the town leaking out, one young drop at a time? Was I just tired and edgy and making a mountain out of a molehill that wasn’t even my molehill?

Gordy and Zeke were coming out of Binny’s as I approached. What did they do all day? They were both in their early thirties, I figured, because Gordy had been in high school at the same time as Tom Turner, but neither appeared to work. “Hey, guys,” I said. “How’s it going?”

Both nodded. “Not bad, I guess,” Gordy said.

“I have a problem, and I’m wondering if you guys know a solution.”

They eyed me warily.

“You know the castle property,” I said. They exchanged glances and nodded. “Well, it is a massive headache to me. I can’t take care of it all. The property looks like a field, and if I’m ever going to get it back in shape, I need to start with a good cleanup. Do you know, or know of, anyone who does that kind of thing? Landscaping, I mean? Just basic stuff like mowing down the tall grass, and pulling weeds. There’s a lot of work to do before winter.”

They exchanged glances again. It was Zeke who spoke up, eyeing me with doubt in his squinty eyes. “You mean, you’d pay?”

“Of course!”

“We could do it.” They spoke at the same moment; it was eerie.

“Could you? It wouldn’t take you away from . . . from other things?”

“Nah, stuff can wait,” Zeke said, shoving his hands in his saggy-jeans pocket.

I was truly relieved. “You would be doing me a huge favor,” I said, and meant every word of it. “But I don’t know the first thing about machinery. It is a really big property, and . . . what about a mower? What kind would you use for a property like that?”

“We might be able to come up with something,” Gordy said. “My uncle’s a farmer out your way, and I could borrow his hay mower, if the grass is that long.”

“It is. I don’t think it’s been cut all summer. The place looks abandoned.” I quickly pulled a card out of my purse and wrote my cell phone number on the back as well as the castle landline. I handed it to them, and Zeke took it.

“What day of the week is it?” I asked, suddenly aware that I had, in the twilight zone of Autumn Vale and Wynter Castle, lost track.

“Friday,” they intoned together.

“Okay, call me,” I said. “I appreciate your help, guys!” I had a few more things to do in town, among them a visit to the post office to arrange continued forwarding of my mail. The post office building, one of the streetscape oldies squashed in together along Abenaki, was opposite Binny’s Bakery, so I strolled across the quiet street and walked in, a buzzer triggered by my entrance sounding somewhere.

There was a counter across the room, and along one wall a bank of post office boxes stacked from small at the top to large at the bottom. Dinah Hooper was there, pulling a wad of envelopes out of one of the medium-sized post office boxes. She turned and smiled. “Hey, fancy meeting you here!” she said.

“I just left you waiting for Gogi!”

“She was delayed at the home. One of her clients is very ill,” she said. Her expression saddened, and there was a glimmer of tears on her face. “I don’t know how she manages it—emotionally, I mean. I do what I can at Golden Acres, read to some of the residents and help them with their taxes, but it’s hard for me. My mother passed away five years ago this week, and I still think about her every day. Being there reminds me of her.”

“I know how you feel. My mom and my grandmother died within six months of each other. That was eighteen years ago, and I still miss them.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, stuffing the envelopes in a cloth bag and touching my arm in a gesture of sympathy. “And here I am moaning about losing my mother when I was in my fifties!”

“It’s hard no matter the age,” I said.

“I’d better go,” she said with a watery half-smile, “before I get any more morose!”

As Dinah exited, I turned to the woman at the postal counter, who had been listening in with unabashed curiosity. “Hi. How are you today?” I asked.

“I’m just great,” she said with a huge grin plastered on her broad face. She leaned on the counter, her plump arms folded. “You’re the girl who inherited the Wynter Castle, right?”

“I am.”

“Figured you’d be in here sooner or later. Everybody comes to see the postwoman, you know.”

Minnie, a woman in her mid-sixties, I judged, and as broad as she was tall, befriended me swiftly; she seemed hungry for a fresh face, and gossiped relentlessly about many of the folks I had come to know. Doc English was a hoot, but a lot smarter than anyone took him for. Dinah Hooper was one of those women who seem doomed for unlucky lives. Virgil Grace was a mama’s boy, and his mom was a bad woman to cross.

“Gogi Grace? What do you mean?” I asked, startled by her assertion.

She looked from left to right, as if there was a crowd waiting to listen in, and leaned across the counter, fixing her gaze on mine. “The woman’s got money. How do you think she came into it?”

I shook my head.

“Inherited. Husbands number one and two!” She held up two fingers like a peace sign.

“I didn’t know that. Which one did she have her kids with?”

“Husband number one. He didn’t leave her a lot of dough, but the insurance after he died? That paid for the big house. It was husband number two who had the money. When he died . . .” She let out a low whistle and widened her pouchy eyes. “How do you think she afforded the renovations for Golden Acres? That cost mucho dinero, inherited from numero duo.”

I felt bad gossiping about Gogi; I’ve been on the nasty end of tittle-tattle. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I said, “I’m here to see about having my mail forwarded from my old address for six months. I figure I’ll be here at least that long fixing up Wynter Castle.”

She straightened and instantly became professional. I filled out the forms and paid with my debit card, finishing up just as another customer came into the post office. I slipped out with a wave good-bye, figuring I’d be the next topic of conversation. Minnie was a talker, and I’d make a mental note to remember that. I wasn’t sure what she was implying about Gogi, but I was going to erase the postmistress’s insinuations from my mind.

With renewed energy and determination, I headed off to the library. I got lucky; as I had remembered, Friday was an open day, and not only were there a couple of patrons, one of them was Lizzie. Perfect. “Hi, Hannah,” I said, to the diminutive librarian. She waved, then went back to her conversation with Isadore Openshaw, who was piling books up on a table. Lizzie was covertly watching me, as she leafed through a magazine featuring Amy Gulick photographs. I sat down at the table opposite her. “Still suspended?” She nodded. “You busy tomorrow?” I asked, noting the kohl around her eyes, and the bloodred lipstick. The girl was going emo, it seemed, if that’s what they still called it. It was called Goth, when I was a kid. If she was trying to frighten folks away, she was probably in the wrong town. Weird was a way of life in Autumn Vale.

“Why?” she asked, staring down at the page.

Good for her; she had learned to be suspicious of open questions like that. It took me a long time to learn they usually preceded requests to help someone move, or bury a body. And yes, I did get asked to help someone bury a body once; a friend’s beloved dog had died, and she couldn’t bear to do it alone, and yes, I did help her. We cried and drank wine together afterward. If I ever needed help burying a body, she promised she’d come through for me. I had her phone number with me at all times.

“I was wondering if you would come out to the castle tomorrow and show me where that abandoned camp in the woods is. You can take all the pictures you want, I just need you to guide me, since you obviously know the woods better than I do.”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “But I’ll need a ride out to your place.”

“If I can’t get Jack McGill to do it, I’ll pick you up myself. You don’t mind McGill, do you?” I suddenly remembered that she was fifteen, and might have an opinion on her chauffeur.

“No, he’s cool.”

So far, my day was proving to be useful, more than I even imagined in my midnight maunderings. I turned my attention toward Isadore Openshaw and Hannah. I wanted to ask Hannah some questions about Tom, but they would just have to wait. Ms. Openshaw, morose bank teller, was piling books up at a crazy rate. Was she really going to read them all?

I examined the spines. The Tao of Meow. The History of Greed. Women Who Love Too Much. The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. The Secret.

Wow, what a mixed bag! Maybe Isadore Openshaw was a self-help junkie. I’ve known women like that, who seemed to think all they needed was one more self-help book and they’d be happy. Just one more book and they’d discover what was wrong with them, why people kept crapping on them. I could have told her there was no “secret.” Mostly we create our own reality, it was true, but not always. Sometimes bad stuff just happens, and the only thing you can do is try to move on.

Which was what I was doing after the crapstorm that was Leatrice Peugot. I looked up from her stack of books to find Isadore staring at me with a weird, focused look. Should I befriend her, I wondered? I might need an ally at the bank if my uncle’s finances were as twisted as I feared.

I smiled. She grabbed her stack of books and shuttled awkwardly to the checkout desk. Lizzie, who had noticed the interaction, snickered, and I gave her a dirty look. “What are you, Miss Charming all of a sudden?” I said.

The teenager made a face and bent back over her magazine.

After the bank teller left, Hannah motored over to our table. “How are you two doing?” she asked. “It’s Lizzie, right?”

The girl nodded, her gaze sliding back to the magazine. I got a feeling she felt awkward with tiny, wheelchair-bound Hannah, but I couldn’t be sure. Lizzie seemed to be awkward with most people, except Gogi Grace.

“Lizzie is a talented photographer,” I said to Hannah. “She’s taken some interesting shots of my property. In fact, she’s going to come out tomorrow and take more pictures and show me around in the woods.”

Hannah’s narrow face lit up. “Would you show the photos to me? I’d love to see modern pictures of the castle and the grounds. I’ve read so much about it, but I’ve only seen old photos from the fifties, and driven past it once or twice.”

Lizzie agreed to bring her camera back to the library to show Hannah whatever photos she took of the castle and grounds. “It’s the best place for pictures!” she enthused. “I used to sneak onto the property and take all kinds, especially last winter, and just before a storm. The sky behind the castle . . . too much!” She sighed, her artistic fervor leaving her speechless.

“So next time, bring your camera with you here and show Hannah!” I said.

“Sure.” She stood and picked up the magazine. “I have to go to Golden Acres now,” she said, and left.

Hannah and I were alone in the gray confines of the library. We talked about Lizzie for a moment, then I told Hannah what I had so far learned about Tom’s murder, which was almost zero.

She was one of those people who asked just the right questions at just the right moment. “Who feels like the killer to you?” she asked.

“If I had to guess this moment, I would say Junior Bradley.”

“Why?”

“He was the last known person to have a violent confrontation with Tom.”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t get attached to that one theory, though, right?”

“I won’t. I’ll keep looking.”

“Merry, I know you worry that I have Tom on a pedestal, and that I don’t know much about life, but I know more than you might think. Tom was upset about his father’s disappearance, yes. He and Dinah were arguing a lot in the last few months. But there were other things going on in his life, too, something from a long time ago that he had just discovered was not quite as he thought it was.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said regretfully. “He looked ashamed, and wouldn’t tell me what had happened.”

He knew about her hero-worship of him, probably, and didn’t want to tell her unsavory details that might damage how she saw him. I thought for a long minute. “Was there anything else you were talking about at that point?”

“I was, uh . . . wait! I remember!” Her small face was turned up into the light, long lashes fluttering as she closed her eyes. “We got into a conversation about parents, and I was telling him how much I appreciate mine. I don’t know what I would have done in my life without such a great dad. Tom looked . . . ashamed.” She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t know why.”

“Maybe he was ashamed of something to do with Rusty?” I thought about it. Had Rusty’s hasty disappearance had to do with his own son?

“There’s something else,” Hannah said, eyeing me with discomfort.

“What is it, Hannah? You can tell me anything.”

“Tom was working for someone, doing something he wasn’t proud of, but he needed money, he said.”

This sounded promising. “What was it?”

“He was following someone for a lawyer. But he wouldn’t tell me who he was following.”

“What lawyer? Andrew Silvio, maybe?” I asked, but she just shrugged. Were there any other lawyers in Autumn Vale? Was I limiting myself by only considering this town? I remembered my conversation with Silvio, who told me about a lawyer in Ridley Ridge with whom Melvyn was working on the lawsuits between him and Rusty. “He didn’t give any indication who he was following, or why? Or what he found out?”

She shook her head.

“Can you think of anything else at all?”

“No. I’m going to ask around, though. I see lots of people every day, and no one will think twice about me asking questions, because everyone knew how I felt about Tom.”

The wistfulness in her voice about broke my heart. “Be careful, Hannah,” I warned. “Maybe it would be best if you just left this up to me. There is a killer out there, and we can’t let ourselves be blinded by anyone.”

“I’m not helpless,” she said with a frown.

“I know you aren’t. Just be careful.” I stood and said, “Is there somewhere here I can change my clothes? I have to go bake muffins, and a skirt suit just doesn’t cut it, so I brought jeans and a T-shirt with me.”

A few minutes later, dressed down for baking, I decided to call Shilo. I stood out on the street and held up my cell phone. Not working today. I eyed the sky, noting the low ceiling of clouds that obscured the ridge above Autumn Vale, and wondered if that had something to do with the spotty reception. Dinah had suggested Wi-Fi for better cell reception, but I wasn’t sure that would help me. In truth, I didn’t really understand anything about it. I’d need her to write that stuff down so I could ask an Internet representative without sounding like an idiot.

I walked toward Binny’s Bakery, just as someone whooshed past me on a bicycle. Isadore Openshaw? It was indeed her, heading toward the bank, her books piled in the wicker basket of her bike and a white paper bag from Binny’s Bakery on top. It reminded me of the scene from Wizard of Oz with the mean woman on the bicycle threatening Toto.

While Binny served her customers, I tried to get accustomed to using commercial ovens and baking all my muffins at once. It was faster, but I had to watch them the whole time, because I just wasn’t sure if the temperatures were the same as using a home oven. I let them cool and tried to get ahold of Shilo again. I finally got her using Binny’s store phone. My friend sounded chipper. She was in Ridley Ridge, helping McGill stage a house he was trying to sell. I told her I was going to deliver the muffins to Gogi then head back, and she said she’d meet me at Golden Acres.

But first, I’d drop in at the bank and look around. Autumn Vale Community Bank was a squat, two-story redbrick building on the corner of Abenaki and Mohawk Road. It had dentilated ornamentation at the top and a rounded corner where the glass door was. It was a charming, old building, and the plaque attached read that the bank had been in existence since the early 1800s. I stepped inside. There were only two wickets—the old-fashioned kind like out of an old movie, with brass bars and a marble countertop—and a manager’s office at the back, with Simon Grover’s name in gold, Gothic lettering.

Isadore Openshaw was at the only open teller’s spot, and I approached the wicket. She would have to speak to me there. She looked up and I smiled. Her expression soured, like she had a tart candy in her mouth, which was, by the way, ironically coated with powdered sugar.

“Hi, my name is Merry Wynter, and I just thought I’d stop in to introduce myself.”

“What can I do for you?” She had a surprisingly husky voice, scratchy, as if it wasn’t used often.

“Well, I would like to inquire about my uncle’s affairs here. I’m not sure if he had an account with you?”

“You’ll have to speak to Mr. Grover. He’s busy right now. May I make you an appointment?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Then I can’t help you,” she said and turned away.

Sheesh! “Okay, all right, I’ll make an appointment. How about . . . tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. The bank is closed on Saturday.”

“Uh, Monday, then?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me through the brass bars. “He’s busy Monday morning.”

Frustrated with her stonewalling, I said, “How about any morning for the next—”

“Izzy, where the hell is my coffee? I asked for it a half hour ago.”

She jumped and hustled away to a coffeemaker in the back corner, poured a cup, and took off with it to Grover’s glass-doored office, sidled in, and then came back out. I tried to imagine Janice Grover hustling like that when her husband roared. Nope, wouldn’t happen. Good thing he had “Izzy” at the office. Izzy? I shook my head as the woman hurried back to her neglected window. I could not think of her as anything but Isadore Openshaw.

A customer entered the bank as I tried one more time to convince her to let me in to see Grover. No go, and the elderly woman behind me, leaning heavily on her walker, should not have to wait just because Miss Openshaw was being a pain in my rear.

I considered marching back and thrusting myself into his office, but I decided that likely wasn’t the best way to introduce myself to the banker who might be able to help me. I’d simply call him directly for an interview. I returned to the bakery, retrieved the cooled muffins, and headed to Golden Acres. Had I ever been this busy working in New York?

Doc English was sitting outside of Golden Acres in the one single ray of sunshine the clouds were allowing through, wearing a flowered sunbonnet and a goose down vest. I was starting to think he dressed as he did to get a rise out of people, which was confirmed to me when I commented on the hat; he just smiled like the Cheshire cat. I delivered the muffins to the kitchen, but when I asked after Mrs. Grace they told me she had just gone out, so maybe she and Dinah had finally managed to get together.

I then asked about Shilo, and was told she was playing checkers in the social room. As I entered, Mr. Hubert Dread, the old fellow with the war stories, had just finished beating her hands down and with a great flourish, but she told him she’d be back for a rematch. She appeared to be adjusting nicely to life in Autumn Vale.

We loitered around town, had a very late lunch at the Vale Variety, did a little shopping, and then headed home. I told her about my appointment the next day with Lizzie, and she offered to call McGill to ask him to pick Lizzie up. He was already booked to come out and continue filling the darned holes in, she said, since he had called the sheriff and asked about the rest of them apart from the one Tom had been found in. Virgil Grace had okayed him resuming his duties, as long as he stayed away from the murder scene.

The dark clouds had thickened, and rain spattered on the windshield as we began to climb the ridge out of town. My tires crunched on the gravel at the edge of the road and I straightened the wheel. As my gaze flicked along the side of the road, I noticed a bike and slowed. It was just resting on a grassy, weedy patch, looking like the rider had either ditched it or . . . or what?

“That wasn’t there this morning. I hope no one’s hurt!” I pulled over and Shilo and I both got out and trotted over to the embankment, looking up and down the road in both directions. We were along a forested stretch, with a steep decline on one side and a sharp rise on the other. The decline side was where the bike was, and there were broken saplings and trees with the bark broken off. I got a bad feeling as we approached the roadside, but the damage to the trees didn’t look fresh.

I hustled over to the edge, but just as I was about to look over, I heard a rustling sound, and clambering up the steep embankment came none other than Miss Isadore Openshaw.