Текст книги "Bran New Death"

Автор книги: Victoria Hamilton

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Chapter Ten

"MARRIED?” I STARED at her. Was she serious? I examined her serene face. Yes, she was serious. “Uh, did he tell you that?”

“No, of course not. He didn’t know it,” she said, her head tilted to one side, her huge gray eyes dreamy. “But it would have happened. I was the only one he told things to, you know? He talked to me.”

“It sounds like you were friends,” I said carefully.

“We were. Good friends. And he loved me.” Her eyes flooded, and one big drop fell on her hands, which were folded in her lap. “Eventually he’d have seen that no one would have . . . no one . . .” She sniffed and shook her head, looking down at her hands, struggling with her emotion.

“I’m sorry, Hannah,” I said, gentling my tone. “He was lucky to have someone in his life who loved him so much.” It seemed an impossible match to me, this little, bookish miss and the hulking, angry Tom, but perhaps she would have been the making of him. That she loved him so fiercely changed how I saw him and strengthened my sorrow at his death.

She told me good things about Tom Turner, that he was the one who had built the wheelchair ramp for her and all the shelves for the books, many of which were from her own collection. The library truly was hers, supported in part by the Brotherhood of the Falcon that Binny made such sport of, and with other grants that she zealously pursued. She was quite accomplished, I gathered, at writing grant proposals. As Hannah spoke, I thought about how a person could be so many things at once, good and bad and sometimes ugly. I recalled what Gordy and Zeke had said, about Tom and Junior Bradley fighting over some bar dancer named Emerald. Which Tom was the real deal, the one who hung out in bars looking for a fight, or the one who built shelves and a ramp for a sweet-faced librarian? I guess he was both.

“I want to know who did this,” Hannah finally said.

“Me, too.”

“Then let’s figure it out.”

I gaped at her. “Let’s . . . you mean you and I?”

“Why not? We’re both smart women, right?” Hannah smiled even as tears welled in her eyes. She sobered, and said, “I won’t rest until I know who killed him. He didn’t deserve it.”

I stared at her for a moment, then said, “You know, some are probably going to think I killed him. In fact, I know they do.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then let’s get started figuring this out.”

But how to do that? Maybe if I got to know Tom posthumously, it would help. “What was he like? From your viewpoint?”

“Rough around the edges,” she said, staring off into the distance. “I’ve known him a long time. Mrs. Turner used to babysit me before she left town.”

“Mrs. Turner?”

“Binny’s mother.”

“She left town? When? Why?”

“She took Binny and left . . . oh, let’s see . . . Binny was about ten, I was fifteen, so I guess about fifteen years ago or so? No one knows why.”

“Hmm. Odd that she took just her daughter and left town.” It seemed to me in a small town, someone should know why, unless it was something so breathtakingly horrible that no one wanted to be the first to say it.

Her eyes flashed, and she fastened them on me. They glittered strangely in the shadowy dimness. “And don’t you go thinking anything nasty. It wasn’t anything like that.”

My eyebrows climbed. She was not quite so sheltered as I had thought, if she had picked up on the direction of my wandering musings. But then, a voracious reader does learn much of the world, if only through books. “I’ll take your word for it.” I hadn’t truly thought the woman had taken Binny away to avoid some kind of abuse by father or son anyway; it had been a possibility, though not high on the list. There were dozens of other explanations, most of which didn’t involve anything sinister at all. “How did father and son get along after Tom’s mom left?”

“She actually wasn’t Tom’s mother . . . Rusty’s wife, I mean, which I guess was why she didn’t take Tom with her when she left; plus he was, like, nineteen or so. Tom was from Rusty Turner’s first marriage. His mom died soon after having Tom.”

“You do know a lot about folks, don’t you? What do you know about my uncle Melvyn?”

She waved one delicate hand airily. “Tom’s murder first. Focus, Merry.”

What would have been annoying from anyone else, was charming coming from her, and she knew it. I had to smile. “What was Tom looking for on my property? Do you know?”

“He said he was looking for his father’s body—and that’s what he told Binny—but that wasn’t true.” She hesitated.

“And . . . ?”

She shrugged, and engaged the joystick of her wheelchair, whirling around and wheeling to one of the bookshelves. I followed. Her mood had changed abruptly. She looked at the spines of the books at her eye level, pulled one out, and handed it to me. “This will tell you more about Autumn Vale and your ancestors. The town is called Autumn Vale because of them, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, looking down at the plain, hardbound book.

“The town was supposed to be called Wynterville, but one of the earliest settlers was dead-set against it. Said the Wynters were already too powerful. He got folks on his side, and the town was named Autumn Vale, it is said, so it would never be Wynter.”

“Wow.” It sounded like the kind of story that gets started when a town mythologizes its past, but it could be true. I paused for just a second, but then charged ahead. “Hannah, do you know what Tom was digging on my property for?” It had not escaped my notice that she had avoided the question neatly.

She pressed the joystick and returned to her librarian desk. “I don’t know, exactly, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t really believe that Rusty’s body was buried there. He had Binny convinced, though, at least for a while.”

“So what was he looking for?” I insisted. “Come on, Hannah, if you have any idea, please tell me!”

She sighed. “I don’t. Truly, Merry, I would tell you if I could.” Her shadowed face was marked by an expression of indecision.

“Okay. Who disliked him enough to kill him?”

Hannah grimaced. “Poor Tom. He was good at making people dislike him. I don’t know why.”

“Then where should I start?”

“Well, two places. I heard he had a fistfight with Junior Bradley, the zoning commissioner. They were childhood friends. Tom wouldn’t tell me why they fought.”

I’ll bet he wouldn’t tell her why. The girl adored him, and he would have shattered her view of him if he told her that he and his friend had come to blows over a stripper. I’d definitely have to check out that dancer and Junior Bradley. “And who else?”

“Well, you should probably consider Dinah Hooper.”

The name sounded familiar, but with all the locals I had been meeting, I was momentarily stumped. “Who is she?”

“She is . . . was . . . Rusty’s girlfriend. She works at Turner Construction. Her son, Dinty, worked there, too, but he left town some time back.”

“How is Dinah dealing with Rusty’s disappearance?”

Hannah looked pensive. She angled her face upward, and a ray of light shone in one of the few high windows in the dim library, catching her eyes, beaming brightly in the luminous gray depths. She was like a faery, sometimes fey, sometimes grave, looking like a child but speaking like a woman. I’ll admit, among the many characters of Autumn Vale, she fascinated me most.

“I feel sorry for her; I’d say she’s truly upset and worried. It’s difficult for her, I imagine. But . . . I won’t say anything else. You should talk to her yourself.”

“I will. Is Dinah Hooper in a position to inherit anything, now that Tom is gone, and Rusty probably, too?”

She didn’t flinch from the question, and in fact I could tell she had already considered it. “I don’t think so. She didn’t live with Rusty, and they weren’t married. If anything, I think it kind of exonerates her, you know? Because if she was out for money, it would have been better for her if Rusty had stuck around and married her.”

“The son, Dinty . . . when did he leave town? Before or after Rusty disappeared?”

“Uh, after. A few months, actually. Why?”

I shrugged. It could mean nothing at all, or it could have been guilt that sent the guy away. I didn’t know him, but I’d bet that Gordy and Zeke did. I’d have to tap into those two guys’ knowledge at some point. Should be easy if I used Shilo as a lure.

“I don’t care what happened to Rusty,” Hannah said, her fine-boned face holding a grim expression. “We’re trying to figure out who killed Tom, and why.”

“I know. I’m just trying to find my bearings. Could it all be tied up together?”

“I suppose.”

Shilo came back in to the library, a poorly hidden expression of excitement on her face.

“Shilo, this is Hannah,” I said. “Hannah, this is my best friend, Shilo.”

“Shilo . . . that means peaceful.”

“Bad name for me!” Shilo said with a laugh, plunking down in a chair by the librarian.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hannah said, gazing at her steadily. “You look how I always imagined Rebecca from Ivanhoe would look.” She reached out and touched Shilo’s long, dark hair. She fingered the curled locks with a wistful look. Her own hair was thin and mousy, lying flat on her narrow skull, parting around her ears like a stream around a rock.

“And you make me think of the pixies,” Shilo said, touching Hannah’s hand gently. “I believed in pixies when I was a kid. I played with them, out in the forest. Always my favorite faery folk.”

I could see they would be friends, each a little odd, each willing to say exactly what she thought. Hannah nodded, as if reading my mind.

“I saw Jack McGill,” Shilo said, her eyes sparkling, as she turned back to me.

“McGill?” Hannah said.

I whirled around and looked at Hannah. “You call him McGill, too?” I said.

“Sure,” Hannah replied. “Jack is too common a name for him.”

“I know. Even though he is a Jack-of-all-trades, in a sense. He’s filling in the holes that Tom dug.” That sobered me, bringing me back to Tom’s death. I could see it had affected Hannah similarly. “How did you happen across him, Shi? What did McGill have to say for himself?”

“Well, he was showing an empty storefront to a prospective tenant. The tenant was Dinah Hooper.”

“Dinah Hooper?” Once you hear a name, I thought, you just keep hearing it! “Rusty Turner’s girlfriend. Why would she be renting out a storefront?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Shilo said. “But it’s interesting, right?”

I chewed my lip. It was certainly interesting.

There was probably more I could have asked Hannah, but a local library patron came in, an odd woman, heavyset and with a determined frown; she wore a red hat and purple dress, and pushed a rolling walker along the shelves, but didn’t seem to depend upon it for support. She grabbed books as she went, tossing them into the basket of her walker.

“Hey, do you take book donations?” I asked.

“We do!” Hannah said, luminous eyes glowing. “Do you have any?”

“I sure do. I have my mother’s books, which have been in storage since she died; a lot of classics and poetry. I also have my grandmother’s. She favored kids’ books and classic mysteries. Lots of hardback Agatha Christie novels. All my boxes are coming from storage, and I could sure use a home for the books . . . that’s if they’re in good shape. They should be. Can you use them?”

“We definitely can. Whatever we can’t use, we sell to raise money at the annual Autumn Vale Harvest Sale.” Her smile died. “Tom always takes the books to the auditorium for me.” Tears welled up.

“I bet Jack would help out with that,” Shilo said softly, smiling down at Hannah.

The girl brightened just a shade. “Do you think so?”

“You know he will,” Shilo answered. “He seems to be very civic-minded, and the book sale . . . I’m sure lots of folks count on that every year.”

Hannah colored faintly and nodded. “Thank you.”

I told Hannah I’d be back another day, and she said she was often at Golden Acres for their Book Hour. She took in coffee table–type books for some of the old folks to look over and reminisce about. She was something of an amateur historian, it seemed, and talked to the oldsters about their early years in Autumn Vale and made up trivia games. She had heard about the muffins I was supplying, she informed me, and approved.

“I like muffins,” she said. “Take the book I gave you; it will give you some information on Wynter Castle. And come back in and check out more of the local history books sometime.”

As Shilo and I left, the purple-dressed woman eyed us covertly, using the brim of her red hat to shield her interest. Not very successfully, I might say. “Maybe I’ll see you at Golden Acres, then, or I’ll come back here!” I said as I waved good-bye to Hannah.

As we emerged out to the main street, I felt like I’d just left a dream. Hannah was an odd, little creature, full to the brim with emotion and tremulous longing. I wondered how hard that would be, to have people dismiss you because of your stature or disability when inside you were an adult woman, yearning for love. But she filled the library with her personality, making a gray, dull interior into a faery land.

“Do you want to see the store Dinah Hooper was looking to rent?” Shilo asked.

Tucking the book into my voluminous bag, I replied, “Yes! I do.” I didn’t know Dinah Hooper, and so couldn’t conclude that she had anything to do with Tom’s murder on my property. I was grasping at straws, but it was worth a look.

We strolled along the main street, as I tried to get used to being stared at. It was natural, I suppose; I was a stranger, and the owner of a notorious plot of land. I was a Wynter. But a local had also been murdered on my property, after vandalizing it repeatedly. I smiled and nodded at those who met my eyes, and ignored those who didn’t.

“This is it,” Shilo said as we came up to a small storefront.

A nicely dressed older woman trotted toward us, concentrating on the tiny screen of her cell phone and tapping away at a text message. She stopped abruptly as she looked up and saw us watching.

“Hi,” I said, striding toward her, arm outstretched. “My name is Merry Wynter. This is my friend, Shilo Dinnegan.”

The other woman awkwardly shuffled her armload of papers, Prada handbag and cell phone, and put her hand out, grasping mine in a warm grip that almost hurt because the number of rings on her fingers. “Binny told me all about you.” She eyed me up and down, then turned her attention to Shilo. “But she didn’t mention you.”

“I’m just here as support,” Shilo said. “Are you Dinah Hooper? Jack McGill mentioned he was meeting with you, and that you were looking to rent a storefront.”

“I am Dinah Hooper,” she said. She looked up at the storefront with a worried expression. “This place is going to be my new business. I need to have something to do since . . .” She broke off and shook her head, her eyes tearing up. “Since poor Rusty disappeared, and now Tom is gone, too. I just don’t know what’s going to happen with Turner Construction. I guess I don’t have a job anymore! Not that I’ve been doing anything there for a while. I’m going to do something with this place; maybe open a flower shop.”

“This must all be so difficult,” I said. “Was Tom like a son to you? Were you close?”

“Close? No. But I don’t know how Rusty is going to feel about all of this.”

“You think he’s still alive?” I blurted out, then clapped my mouth shut.

“I’m sure of it!” she said fervently, fingering the strap of her purse, pulling at a loose thread. “He just has to be. I will not believe that he’s dead.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. It sounded like she was in denial.

Shilo glanced at me sideways, then said, “Do you think he just left town, then? Why would he do that?”

The woman frowned as her cell phone chimed with a dance tune. She looked at the screen, and said, “I have to take this. To answer your question, Rusty was not well. He was upset by some stuff at work—Tom, God rest his soul, was giving him no end of heartache—and I think he just took off. I didn’t think he’d be gone this long, and I wish I had a way to contact him.”

“But Tom and Binny seem to think their father is dead!” I said.

Dinah shook her head, her blonde hair stiffly resisting any movement. “They just don’t want to believe that he would purposely leave them alone, that’s all. They don’t understand their dad.”

“Who do you think killed Tom?” Shilo said.

“If I knew, don’t you think I’d have told the cops by now?” Dinah answered smartly, and then punched a button on her cell phone. She said hello as she got her keys out, entered her new storefront, and closed the door behind her.

We stood staring after her. “That was sudden,” I finally said.

“I guess she didn’t appreciate being questioned by strangers,” Shilo commented with a wry tone. “Who could imagine that?”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “We were a little nosy and pushy with her. Let’s find a restaurant in this town and have something to eat.” It was early afternoon, and I hadn’t eaten anything but some muffins since earlier in the morning.

Shilo moved the car closer, locked up as best she could—her car is in bad enough shape that the locks only work intermittently—and we began looking in earnest for some place to eat. Most small towns have that one place, usually a down-home kind of café or restaurant, where everyone gathers to gossip. As soon as I saw it, I knew that Vale Variety and Lunch was it. I had passed it several times in my hunt for muffin ingredients over the last few days, thinking it was just a mom-and-pop variety store, but now I noticed the “Lunch” part of the sign. When Shilo and I entered, I saw that beyond the variety store at the front was a lunch counter and café area, which was quite deep.

Gordy and Zeke were there, and greeted us as long-lost friends. It seemed some kind of badge of honor that they could introduce us to others, among them, significantly, Junior Bradley, who had been Tom Turner’s friend before having a fistfight with him over a dancer named Emerald, as the story went.

Junior looked up, briefly, but then hunched back down over his grilled cheese sandwich and Rochester newspaper. Various others included the odd-looking woman in the red hat and purple dress, whose bag full of books was now on the floor near her walker, beside her tiny table at the back of the diner. She was reading a romance while she slurped tomato soup through her teeth. At another table, studiously ignoring her, was a woman of about the same age—late fifties/early sixties, at a guess—wearing a dress made out of cotton with multiple, humorously positioned cats all over it. She was rigidly upright, and stared straight ahead of her as she sipped a cup of tea from a thick, white, porcelain, restaurant ware cup.

Shilo and I sat at a table near Gordy and Zeke, our two personal informants, and a waitress slouched over, handing us a menu and mumbling the specials: tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwich or tuna salad on an English muffin. I noted “Breakfast All Day” written on the chalkboard above the counter, and ordered two eggs, sunny, with whole-wheat toast. Shilo ordered breakfast too: eggs, bacon, toast, but with sausages and a stack of pancakes as well. The Hungry Gypsy’s Special, I guess.

“What do you think of Dinah Hooper?” I asked Gordy, who was staring at Shilo with an intensity that most would find unnerving, but didn’t seem to faze her in the slightest.

“Dinah?” Zeke answered, instead of his bewitched friend. “She’s a good egg. She’s involved in everything: annual fall fair, hospital committee, reads to the old folks at Golden Acres . . . lots of other things.”

The prim woman in the cat dress slammed her teacup down on the table in front of her and stood, her pale-green eyes bulging with emotion. “That woman! That woman is the devil’s pawn . . . you mark my words.” With that, she gathered up her things and marched out of the café.

Chapter Eleven

WE ALL WATCHED her stomp out of the place, and though I can’t speak for the others, I was stunned by her pronouncement.

“Who the heck is that?” Shilo asked.

“Isadore Openshaw,” Gordy said.

Shilo burst into laughter, and I snickered, too. Both guys looked confused, so I said, “C’mon, guys . . . Isadore Openshaw?”

They exchanged looks. “I don’t get it,” Zeke said.

“Never mind.”

The woman in purple rose up, and said, “It’s funny . . . ‘Is a door open, Shaw?’ How can you rubes not get that? That’s why Isadore doesn’t speak to me. I laughed at her name once. Woman’s got no sense of humor. I guess that’s what happens when you work in a bank too long.” She turned to me and nodded. “I was hoping you’d be smart. Guess you are. If you’re smart, then you’ll be looking at the whole ball of wax. What happened to Rusty Turner? What happened to Melvyn Wynter? And now Tom Turner?”

I glanced at Shilo, and said, “It seems like an awful lot of intrigue in such a small town.”

The purple lady made her index finger into a gun, her thumb the hammer. “Bingo,” she said, cocking and firing the little finger gun. She then grabbed her walker and strode out, leaving a trail of cracker crumbs in her wake.

“Wait, what do you mean?” I called, half rising from my chair.

“Don’t bother,” Zeke said. “She won’t tell you. She fancies herself a kind of oracle, or something. Likes to make mysterious pronouncements, then never explains ’em.”

“Who is she?” I said, watching her weave expertly through the variety store at the front and toward the door.

“Janice Grover,” Gordy said. “Her husband is Simon Grover, the Grand Tiercel of the Brotherhood of Falcons.” He nodded slowly and winked that slow wink of his that indicated a fount of secret knowledge.

Zeke rolled his eyes.

“Is she . . . reliable?” I asked, not quite sure how to phrase my real question, which was, is she a whackadoodle?

“She’s got three grown kids,” Zeke said, frowning.

I wasn’t sure if that was an answer to the question I was truly asking, or his own interpretation, but decided not to pursue that line of investigation. “So what about this Openshaw woman . . . what’s she got against Dinah Hooper?”

“Now, that’s a good question,” Gordy said. He furrowed his brow, indicating deep thought, then said, “I bet it goes back to last year’s fall fair catnip mouse incident.”

“Do tell,” I said. I couldn’t wait to hear this.

Zeke nodded and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down his throat. “That’s prob’ly it. At last year’s Autumn Vale Harvest Fair, Miss Openshaw set up a booth selling catnip mice to benefit the kitty cat rescue organization she’s trying to start, you know.”

Silence. “And?” I prompted.

Gordy took up the story. “Well, then Mrs. Hooper, who was the organizer, you see, told her she couldn’t collect money for a charity if it wasn’t registered, and made her close up her booth. Miss Openshaw was left with 227 catnip mice and nowhere to get rid of ’em. Ended up giving ’em to the shelter over in Ridley Ridge to give away with every cat adopted.”

“Is that it?”

Gordy and Zeke both looked surprised at my comment. “Caused quite a kerfuffle at the time,” Zeke said, and Gordy nodded in agreement.

Still, the devil’s pawn? Wasn’t that a little harsh over catnip mice? Maybe I just didn’t get the complicated nature of relationships in small towns.

Shilo and I ate our lunch, my head swimming with all the oddball people I was meeting. Autumn Vale was turning out to be one strange little burg, more entertaining than any street corner in the weirdest section of New York. Was it something in the water? Maybe I’d better stick to Perrier, I thought, pushing away my glass of tap water.

“Zeke, back to Dinah Hooper . . . I understand her son, Dinty, lived here with her for a while. When did he leave? And why?”

Gordy sniffed and crossed his arms, while Zeke ruminated for a long moment, then said, “You had to know Dinty. He was a troublesome sort. Him and Tom . . . they didn’t get along at all. Not at all.”

“Okay, so they didn’t get along. Is that why Dinty left town?”

“You could say that. I heard it all,” Gordy said. “Tom, in front of everyone, told Dinty he better keep his shifty eyes off Binny, or he’d give him what for. Dinty called her a name, Tom lit into him, and the next day Dinty packed up his Jeep and headed out of town. Dinah said he had talked about heading out west to Denver to get a job in construction. Autumn Vale didn’t have the right kind of opportunities for a guy like him.”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “Otisville is the only place with opportunities for a guy like that.”

“Otisville?”

“Federal prison,” Gordy filled in.

As Shilo chased down the last scraps of her pancakes, spearing them with little grunts of satisfaction, I rose, strolling over to Junior Bradley. I had no idea how to approach him, but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. “Hi,” I said, then had a brainstorm. I’d ask about my uncle’s desire to create a condo community, and whether zoning had been approved! It seemed like a great conversation starter. “I understand that you’re the local zoning commissioner. My name is Merry Wynter, the new owner of Wynter Castle. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment.” I was about to slide into the empty seat opposite him when he abruptly stood up, folding his newspaper and tucking it under his arm.

“I don’t talk business in public. Call and make an appointment,” he said, towering over me. He was a big guy. He thrust a card at me just before striding off, weaving through the variety-store section at the front.

Business card in hand, I stared off after him. What a grouch! I had hoped to start with the zoning, then slide in a couple of questions about his relationship with Tom Turner, but maybe it would be better if I did so in private. Hannah had presented him as a possible killer, though, so I sure wasn’t going alone. I’d drag someone with me, preferably male; maybe Jack McGill.

Junior Bradley didn’t look like someone I wanted to mess with, but I could understand why he didn’t want to talk in the local luncheonette. Talking business in the open in a small town was probably not a good policy unless you wanted that business spread through the gossip mill. Anyway, I was sure that Virgil would have heard about the fight between him and Tom, and questioned him about it. But it still would be worth my while to talk to Junior. I returned to my table but just shook my head when Shilo asked me what happened.

Gordy and Zeke ambled off, stopping at our table to say an awkward good-bye, as Gordy ogled a final eyeful of Shilo. Zeke angled for an invitation to the castle, and I brushed off his hints by saying that once I had some of the changes made and the cleanup accomplished, I’d be inviting the whole town to come have a look.

After lunch we headed back to Wynter Castle. Virgil and the team were still there, and I didn’t even want to think about what they were doing, or if they had removed Tom Turner’s poor, broken body. It was like this sore spot that I was avoiding touching or acknowledging, too awful to even think about. But as Shilo turned off the car—it always stuttered and yammered and banged before it actually shut down—Virgil headed toward us. We got out and waited, leaning on the hood.

“Your car is still hammering away,” I commented to Shilo. “You ought to have that thing looked at.”

She frowned and squinted at the car. “It’s getting worse. Oh well, if it breaks down, it breaks down.” Her insouciance was part of her charm.

“Ladies,” Virgil said, striding up to us. “I need to ask you a few questions.” He frowned and looked over at Shilo’s car. “You realize your car is making a funny noise?”

“Ignore it,” I said airily. “It always makes funny noises.”

He cocked his head. “Does it always yell ‘Help, help, help’?” He raced around to the trunk. “Open this up!” he yelled.

Shilo, eyes wide, got out her key, dashed to the rear of the car, and jiggled it in the lock. I joined them just as the trunk lid sprang open and we found a girl curled up in the trunk, gasping for air.

She clambered out and blasted us with an icy look. “I almost died in there!” she yelled.

Fists on his hips, Virgil glared at us. “You want to explain this?”

“I know you!” I said, pointing at the girl. “You’re Lizzie; I met you at Golden Acres. Shilo, why did you have Lizzie locked in your trunk?” I know I shouldn’t have said that; it made Shi look bad. But it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing she’s ever had in her trunk. I’m just saying . . . you never know with Shilo.

“I didn’t put her in there,” she said pointedly, and switched her glare to the girl. “Why were you in my trunk?”

Note she did not ask her how she got in there, she asked why. I told you about her car being a rattletrap, and that extended to the anti-theft system; a teething two-year-old could pop that lock.

“How should I know you didn’t have one of those lock-release thingies that are supposed to prevent people from dying in freaking car trunks,” Lizzie grumbled, brushing off her plaid skirt and black leggings. “You should clean it out, you know,” she said, pulling a wad of old gum out of her frizzy, dark hair. She tugged her hair back into an elastic. “It’s like a landfill site in there, and smells like a petting zoo.”

“Well, pardon me! I didn’t know anyone was moving in.”

Virgil had been monitoring the exchange with a wary look, which had now turned weary. “Lizzie, why did you climb in the trunk?”

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, duh . . . so I could come out here and get a good look at the castle. I’ve been out walking in these woods a lot,” she said, waving her hand around to take in the whole of the Wynter Woods, “but I’ve never been able to break into . . . uh . . .” She trailed off, and shifted gears, finishing with, “That is, I’ve never gotten to see the inside of the castle.”

She had a camera around her neck, a really good camera. I squinted at her with, I’ll admit it, some suspicion. I was remembering Gogi’s story about the girl having to do community service because she spray-painted on gravestones. “Why didn’t you just ask me if you could come out and have a look?”

She shrugged. Virgil’s puzzled gaze shifted from one of us to the next.

“Shi, why don’t you take her inside and feed her muffins,” I suggested, “while I talk to the sheriff.”