“Ninety-six and still hell on walker wheels,” the girl said and laughed. “Heavens . . . her son is over seventy! The dottiest ones are the most able to get about.”
She had a lilting Irish accent, and I smiled. “And Dotty is dotty, it seems.”
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I was wondering if Gogi Grace is here?”
The receptionist hit a buzzer, and said, “Mrs. Grace, someone to see you. Your name?” She looked up at me.
“Merry Wynter,” I said and she repeated it.
My new friend, today dressed in a soft-purple suit with businesslike gray pumps and a purple paisley scarf draped around her neck, emerged from a door down the hall and beckoned to me. “Come along, Merry. I’ll give you the tour.”
The modern addition was small, but clean and bright, with bedrooms off a square, open area centered by a nurse’s station. There were two dining rooms, she told me, one for the mobile folk, and another for those who needed more room and more help. The second floor of the new section was much the same as the first; an elevator with wider-than-normal doorways and a deeper cabinet accommodated motorized wheelchairs, and could even be used for transporting patients who were bedridden. “Turner Construction, Rusty Turner’s company, did all the work on this seven years ago,” Gogi said.
“It turned out well!” I replied, impressed by the neat, simple layout.
She took me out a side door on the main floor and showed me the protected garden, cradled in the L shape between the modern addition and the old building. “Rusty did this a couple of years ago,” she said, pointing out the six-foot-high privacy fencing, safe even for those with dementia who might wander off, since there was no external access except a locked gate.
“So all of this is in the newly built area; what’s in the older section?” I asked.
“I’ll show you that now.”
I followed Gogi, who was talking as she went; upstairs in the old section were suites for those who could manage stairs and were more independent. We descended the wide, sweeping staircase, as she explained that on the main floor were the social rooms. She led me to what was probably once the dining room and parlor, linked by pocket doors, which were open. There were tables set up sporadically, and settees and shelves with books lined one wall. A few gentlemen and ladies were seated in some of the comfortable wing chairs near the fireplace and by the front window. Some were reading, others chatting, and one was just watching everyone else.
“We call this the library.”
A pudgy teenager with dark, frizzy hair pulled back in a tight ponytail carried in a tray laden with cups, sugar, milk, and spoons. She set it on the table in the corner. When she straightened, she noticed Gogi, and her sullen expression, mouth turned down in resentment, changed to one of uncertainty.
“Pardon me a moment,” Gogi said, then crossed the room and took her aside, speaking to her for a few minutes. The girl nodded, wiped away a tear, and nodded again. When they were done, the girl impulsively reached out and hugged Gogi. After that, her expression lighter, she went to each lady and gentleman in the room and offered tea or coffee.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Gogi watched the girl for a long moment, then drew me aside. “I wouldn’t normally say anything; I try not to let people become prejudiced before they meet her, you know. She’s here on community service,” she murmured. She met my gaze, and answered the question in my eyes. “Graffiti. She was caught in the cemetery spray-painting awful slogans on gravestones.”
“Is this the right place for her?” I asked, a little shocked that they would put her with the elderly.
“Oh, I think so, with careful supervision, of course. In fact, I asked for her. I followed the case in the local paper, and when I learned that she had been abandoned by her mother and left in the care of her grandmother, who no longer could control her, I knew she was going to end up in a group home. I was afraid she’d never learn or understand why she was angry. She needs to figure that out if she’s going to get past it.”
I was silent for a long minute as I watched the girl caught by one old gentleman, who grabbed her arm and asked her something. She looked like she was ready to flee, but one look from Gogi kept her in place. She sat down, and before long the old man was talking to her intently, and she was listening. Truly listening; I could tell.
“That’s Hubert Dread. He has the most interesting stories. Not all of them are true, but they are interesting.”
“So, you think her graffiti problem was a result of . . .” I raised my eyebrows, a question in my tone.
“Fear. Anger. She was raging against living with an old woman who didn’t understand her, and yet at the same time she was afraid of losing her grandma.” Gogi sighed and shook her head. “That’s an oversimplification, and I don’t mean to play armchair psychiatrist, but it’s a beginning. She seems a little better already. It was a gamble; working here could have made her more angry, but it’s turning out the way I hoped.”
As Gogi led me to an alcove to sit, an old man wandered in, the one wearing the sunbonnet.
“He does live here!” I said. “Who is that fellow?”
“Well, actually, that is someone I’d like you to meet,” Gogi said. She went to him and took his arm, saying something as she led him over. “Merry, this is Doc English. Doc, this is Merry Wynter, Melvyn’s niece, the one who inherited the castle.”
His pouched blue eyes, filmed by cataracts, lit up and he put one gnarled hand on my arm. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You’re the one asked me where Wynter Castle was a few days ago. Scared the crap out of me; I thought you were a ghost, that early in the morning.”
I glanced at Gogi, then back at the old guy. “Doc, you do know you’re wearing a lady’s straw sunbonnet, right?” I said. I didn’t mention the pink-plaid sweater.
He grinned, his own real teeth a kind of yellow and spotty collection in his mouth. “I sure do. Nice girl, the nurse this morning, but she said I’d get a melanoma if I didn’t wear a hat. So I grabbed the first one I saw. Then she said I’d catch cold if I didn’t wear a sweater, so I borrowed hers. Then I headed out for my constitutional. If I walk every day,” he explained to me, “I’ll never lose the ability.”
I chuckled. He had a point, and an interesting one it was. That explained the random selection of headgear.
“You’re the one made us the muffins, hey?” he said, eyeing me. “You making more?”
“I am.”
“Bran’s good . . . keeps the pooper working . . . but what about carrot?”
“I love carrot! I’ll make some for the next batch.”
“Doc, Merry had some questions about Melvyn. Could she ask you about her uncle?”
“Sure. Get me some coffee instead of that colored water the girl is bringing around, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Chapter Eight
"I’LL GET HIM some of my private stash,” Gogi said. “We share a love of cappuccino!” She trotted away, her paisley scarf fluttering behind her.
“What do you want to know?” Doc asked, after I made sure he was comfortable in an armchair by the wall of books.
I thought about it for a minute. What did I want to know? “What was my uncle like? I only met him once, and that was just for a few minutes.”
“Yeah, your mother was a pip, hey? Didn’t take to old Mel too good.”
“So you knew about my very brief trip here,” I said, and he nodded, his expression neutral. “Do you know why they argued?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
The young girl, done with her conversation with the old fellow, brought the tray of mugs around and asked if we wanted a drink. I said yes, but Gogi came back into the lounge at that moment with a special mug for Doc.
“Here you go; don’t say I never do anything for you,” she said, dropping him a wink. “You two okay here?”
I nodded as the girl brought me a mug of coffee. “Thank you,” I said, and she offered a
hint of a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Lizzie,” she said.
“Well, thank you, Lizzie, I appreciate the coffee.”
The girl went on to the next set of folks. Gogi nodded. “Okay, I’ve got a lot to do before lunch; if you two are comfortable, I’ll see you again, right?”
“I’ll have another batch of muffins for you tomorrow,” I said. “Two dozen carrot and the same of apple spice, maybe.”
Doc sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. “Good stuff. Just what the doc ordered,” he muttered. When he opened his eyes, he fixed his gaze on me. “You look a lot like your mother.”
“You saw her?”
“Nah, saw photos. Mel kept one in his room of you with your mom and dad.”
I knew the photo he meant; there weren’t that many. It was of me and my parents on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. My father I only remembered vaguely as a shadowy, comforting figure. “My dad spent time at the castle, didn’t he?”
“He was a great kid,” Doc said with a reminiscent grin, showing his yellowed teeth. “Broke his arm jumping off the parapet once; thought he could fly.”
“Honestly?” I was uneasily aware that my knowledge of my dad was so sketchy, I didn’t even know whether he was normally a daredevil kind of guy. A little overwhelmed, I blinked back tears, which had begun to well.
Doc regarded me with sympathy in his old, rheumy eyes. He had surrendered the sun hat, but still had on the pink-plaid sweater. I cleared my throat, but found I couldn’t say another word for the moment.
“You know, we don’t hafta talk about it all at once,” he said, and patted my hand. “You can come back and ask about your pop another time. ’Bout Melvyn, too. Why don’t we talk about the castle, first? You planning on keeping it?”
“I don’t see how I can. What would I do with it? How could I afford to keep it?” Even if I wanted to stay in remote Autumn Vale, I thought, but did not add.
“You think that hasn’t dogged the last four generations of Wynters, how to keep the castle running? Ever since your family lost all its money—”
“All its money?” I blurted out. “Were we rich?”
“Now, how do you think that castle got built in the first place?”
He had a point. At one time the Wynters must have been very rich, but like me, they had been foolish and lost their money. Seems it ran in the family. “You’re right. I guess I knew that. How did that come about? And how did we lose the money?”
He waved one hand. “You want the castle history, you go talk to that little gal who’s set up the library. She’s got all kinds of info there, some useful, most not. But I can tell you about Melvyn, if you like.”
And he did just that for the next hour. I heard about the hijinks back in the day; he and Melvyn were school buddies. They went off to university together, then served in “the big one,” as Doc called World War II. Doc came back to Autumn Vale, married, and had a bunch of kids, while Melvyn . . . well, he just started working on converting Wynter Castle into something that could make money rather than lose money. I was left with a sad sense that I would have liked Melvyn, if I had ever gotten to know him.
“But my dad, he was Melvyn’s brother’s kid, right?”
Doc slurped back the last of his cappuccino, smacked his lips, then burped. “Yup. Your daddy was the only son of Murgatroyd Wynter, Melvyn’s younger brother by about three years. Murg was a good kid. Married a local girl, had one kid—your pa—but his wife, your grandma, she died real young. Anyway, Murg and Mel started working on Wynter castle, and planting trees, with your daddy running after them on his short little legs. Mel always said there was money in trees.”
“What did that mean?”
“Damned if I know.” He yawned mightily, as a buzzer sounded somewhere. At once, the old folks all got up and headed out of the room. Doc got up, too, and picked up his empty cup.
“What’s going on?”
“Lunch, my girl, lunch. No old person misses a meal if they can help it. Never know when it’s your last, I guess. You should see some of these genteel old biddies scarf down their food. ’Specially dessert.”
I jumped to my feet. “But . . . but I want to find out so much . . . like, how did Murgatroyd, my grandfather, die? And when? And what about my grandmother, Murgatroyd’s wife? What was she like? And what did Uncle Melvyn plan for the castle? And my mom . . . what did she and Melvyn argue about? You said you might know.”
He shrugged and yawned again. “I’m gonna eat, then have a nap. Nothing like an after-lunch nap to get you through the day.”
Subtle but effective, that stopped me in my tracks. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Doc. May I come back?”
“Come back all you want! And next time I see you while I’m out for my walk, we’ll walk together.”
I picked up all the ingredients I’d need for the next day’s muffins, and headed back to the castle, to find that my handyman-slash-real estate agent had gotten another few holes filled, and Shilo had made him a lunch that was more fit for Magic than McGill. Rabbit food, in other words. He was picking away at his salad when I came in, and looked up at me with hope in his eyes. I shook my head, and he sighed, a sad man doomed to a veggie-heavy lunch. I took salad, too, and we chatted for a few moments, but he had to get going to show a house in another town for a fellow real estate agent.
I had phone calls to make, one inspired by the fact that I now knew, after talking to Doc, that I wanted to stay at Wynter Castle long enough to get a sense of my father’s side of the family. I missed out on time with Uncle Mel, but maybe I could learn a little and fill in the gaps in my family history. I’d never get a better chance. After I sold the castle, I didn’t imagine I’d be coming back to Autumn Vale. I called the storage facility where all my stuff was, and asked about a mover who could pack it up and bring it to Autumn Vale for me. They assured me they knew just the fellow, and could supervise it for me.
Over dinner, I told Shilo about my decision and she hopped up and down in her place, as Magic scoured the table for more carrots and lettuce. But a moment later, she got a pensive look on her face.
“What’s up, buttercup?” I asked as I finished the last of my soup.
She gave me her trademarked “underlash” look, gazing up at me from behind a fringe of bangs and eyelashes. When I was working on the open market—in other words, before I fell under the Leatrice Peugeot spell and ruined my life and career in New York City—I occasionally styled Shilo for shoots, and had taught her that her “look” was irresistible to the public in the same way that Princess Diana’s “Shy Di” look was. She was an eighteen-year-old model when I first met her, but she had not gotten a day older looking in the eleven years since.
Now she was using “the look” on me. “Tell me what’s wrong; you only use that look on me when something is worrying you.”
“Mer, what about me?”
Maybe I was having a dim moment, but I didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
“Can I stay and help?”
“Stay . . . what, here? Why would you want to?” I saw in a flash that I had hurt her feelings. I reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing gently. “Shi, you know you can stay as long as you want. I just meant, I’m not sure if that is what you’d really want to do.”
She looked startled. “Don’t you know? You’re my best friend. You’re the one who makes me feel good about myself, even when I’m having a bad day. You’re my . . . my BFF.”
Yeah, I teared up. I squeezed her hand again and released. “If you and Magic want to stay, I’d love to have you. You’re free to hang out here as long as you want, or go whenever you want.”
“That’s why I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve never had anyone say that I’m free, before.”
I swallowed hard. To know why, you have to understand Shilo. There is much about her past that is a mystery to me, and I have never pressed her on it. She’ll tell me when she feels like it. When I met her s
he had no apparent family, and shared an apartment with six other skinny, frightened, teenage models. She had come so far since then that I didn’t realize, sometimes that the skinny, frightened girl was still inside her.
We went for a long walk after dinner. It was a beautiful evening. In the cavernous wilderness of Manhattan, one could forget (if you never made it to Central Park) that pavement and concrete were not natural walking surfaces. We wove between the holes, some filled, most not, and waded through the weeds. The ground had been warmed all day by the sun, and as a cooler breeze puffed to life, I could feel Mother Earth radiating back that warmth under me.
We walked the entire open portion of my property, and even explored some of the outbuildings, like little kids looking for a playhouse. There was a huge garage, which the lane that circled the castle led to. Its big, double doors were locked, but when I stood on a cinder block by a window and cupped my hands around my eyes, I could barely make out that there were a couple of vehicles inside, one that looked like a gangster car—you know those long, low-slung forties cars with a running board, the ones you see in gangster movies? It might even be the one I remembered Uncle Mel picking us up in, from the train station, on that long-ago day. Would it still work, I wondered?
There was a falling-down ramshackle shed; when I sidled up to it while Shilo picked wildflowers (aka weeds), it was clear that the shed had not only been broken into, but it looked like someone had been camping out in it. Could be kids from town, or transients, but either way, it was going to stop. I made a mental note to ask McGill where I could get a heavy-duty padlock. Even farther from the castle there was a big barn, almost on the edge of the woods. I was not going to explore that; not today.
The woods were like walls around the castle, a long, straight line, a right angle, and another long straight line, the same over and over. The castle was boxed in by dense forest that was made impassable, in most spots, by thick, tangled weeds and vines along the perimeter. It was like a fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty, I think? The one with the impenetrable thicket of thorns. Once I got closer, I was eerily aware of something watching me, and I saw a spot of orange that melted back into the gloomy gray and green. The attack cat again, supposedly Becket, Uncle Melvyn’s faithful companion. But I was too distracted by the magnificence of the forest, and by a realization that struck me as I stood and stared. A pattern emerged in my vision. The trees were mostly lined up in perfect rows, like marching soldiers. “I wonder if the Wynter family planted all of these trees,” I said, pointing out the straight lines to Shilo.
Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) Page 8
