Coronate? Oh! “Corroborate?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said, her puzzled expression clearing. “Like, trick me into being the one who found the dead guy. But I told him no way. I told you about the camp, not the other way around.”
“I appreciate that. I’m new here, so no one knows what to think of me.”
“Yeah, you’re kind of different.”
The way she said it was a compliment. I think.
I told her about finding Becket and taking him to the vet, but I was thinking all the while. Would her mom ever tell her who her father had been, I wondered? Lizzie was owed the truth so she could at least have her aunt, Binny, to get to know. It would be good for Binny, too, I thought, since she appeared to have no one but her mother. But it wasn’t my place to interfere. Contrary to what some of my friends say, I do not think I know what’s best for everyone but myself.
After another half hour, Hannah trundled out the door and down the walk toward us. “Hey, there,” she said as she approached. “How are you girls doing?”
Lizzie, still a little shy with Hannah, ducked her head and said hello back. Hannah grabbed a book from the bag hanging off her wheelchair handle and gave it to the teenager. “I saved this for you,” she said.
The teen took the book and looked at the title, her face turning red.
I glanced at the cover. The book was entitled Uglies by Scott Westerfeld. I gaped at Hannah with horror, and she caught my look.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, glancing between me and Lizzie.
I glared at the title of the book and raised my eyebrows.
“Oh, my goodness, you don’t think . . . Lizzie,” she cried, stretching out her delicate hand. “I didn’t give you the book because of the title! Good lord . . . you’re a beautiful girl,” she said, wistfully stroking the teen’s hand. “I never even thought you could take it that way. I gave you the book because . . . because I wish it had been around when I was a teenager. It would have helped me understand how it’s good to be unique, and how no one should think they’re wrong for being different than her peers. You have a brain. You have a heart. That’s not always easy in this world, because they’ll try to stifle your smarts and crush your spirit.” Her chin went up. “I know that from experience.”
Lizzie smiled a crooked grin, then, and said she had to go, so she dashed off, book under her arm. I asked Hannah if she had another copy, because I knew I wanted to read it myself.
“I do. Come down to the library sometime and I’ll loan it to you. It’s a great book about thinking for yourself. Not something you’ve ever had a problem with, I’d bet.” After a pause, she glanced over at me, and said, “You do think it was okay that I gave her that book? Lizzie believed me, right? It never even occurred to me that she’d think the title was referring to her!”
“She believed you,” I said.
“I hope so. If she likes it, there are a couple more books in the trilogy.”
We were silent for another moment, each lost in our own thoughts. If there was anyone who would want to know about Lizzie’s paternity, it would be Hannah, who loved Tom so, but did I dare tell her? I didn’t know her well, despite our quick empathy. “Have you thought any more about the complications in Tom’s life, and who may have wanted him dead?” I asked.
“I have.” She folded her small hands together on her narrow lap and looked down at them, twisting a filigree silver ring around on one finger as she spoke. “Tom has not always been . . . circumspect. He’s made a lot of people angry.”
“Junior Bradley, for one.”
“Right, but others, too. I didn’t remember this until just yesterday, but he and Dinah Hooper had an argument one day in the middle of the street.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know,” she said, distress on her pretty, little face. “They were too far away, and there was no one around them.”
“Okay, anyone else?”
She glanced up and down the walk, and leaned toward me. “He . . . he had a big fight with Mr. Grover, the bank manager.”
“Really?” I thought about the genial Simon Grover, who had not seemed the type for a heated disagreement. I hadn’t seen him crossed, though. “Did you hear any of it?”
She nodded vigorously. “I didn’t remember until just yesterday—I’ve been so upset—but it was something about Turner Construction’s account at the bank, and Mr. Grover was telling him that it must have been a mistake on Tom’s part, because his bank didn’t make errors.”
That sounded kind of innocuous, and not like a fight that could lead to murder. She may have read that in my expression, because she shrugged. It was all she had. I considered something Pish had said to me, though, about the funny business with the accounts at Turner Construction; he had said it sounded like either drug peddling or a money-laundering scheme. I knew that some small businesses had made their revenue stream more robust by using their accounts to launder money.
So, was Tom involved in the funny business going on at Turner Construction? From my brief acquaintance with him, he seemed more the drug-peddling type than a money-scam guy, but there was no saying he hadn’t been doing both. Was he fiddling with the accounts in concert with Dinah Hooper? Or had he and his father been doing it behind her back, and she found out, but was trying to distance herself? Was Mr. Grover upbraiding Tom about the problems with the bank accounts? Confusing.
“Hannah, can I ask you a few questions about people you might know?”
She brightened. “Sure!”
I pondered for a moment. Where to start? Somewhere off the beaten path. “Do you know Lizzie’s mother?”
She turned pink and ducked her head. “Uh, I know of her. Tom knew her.”
How much did she know, or guess? “Did he . . . know her well?”
Hannah put her chin up and, soft gray eyes glittering, said, “Why don’t you come right out and ask, Merry? I don’t know for sure, but . . . but I think Lizzie might be Tom’s daughter. Is that what you’re fishing for?”
I was stunned into silence.
“She looks so much like him!” Hannah continued, a soft smile lifting her lips. “And even her expressions . . .” She trailed off and looked away.
I nodded. “Lizzie’s mom pretty much confirmed that yesterday when I took the kid back to her grandmother’s place. But Lizzie doesn’t know it yet. And I don’t think anyone ought to tell her until we know who killed Tom, at least.”
Hannah sighed and slumped a bit. “I’m glad,” she said. “A bit of Tom will still be in the world.” Her eyes welled, but she dashed the tears away with her finger, then fished around for a tissue, blotting her eyes. “What else do you want to know?”
“What does Isadore Openshaw have against Dinah Hooper?”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about Miss Openshaw’s anger toward the woman, expressed in the Vale Variety and Lunch.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said with a frown.
“Has Dinah ever done anything to her? Other than the catnip-mice incident at last year’s Autumn Vale Harvest Fair, I mean?”
“I don’t know Mrs. Hooper very well. She comes to Golden Acres sometimes. She used to have her son take people for walks . . . you know, push their wheelchair down the block and back.” Hannah chuckled. “That was no fun for Dinty, nor the resident!”
“Why not?”
“You had to know Dinty Hooper. He was a grumpy guy. When he finally took off, everyone in Autumn Vale heaved a sigh of relief.”
“You must talk to Miss Openshaw quite a lot, given all the books she borrows. What do you know about her?”
“Let’s see, she lives alone since her brother died, except for her cats. She works at the bank, pretty much the only teller other than a part-time girl who works on Fridays.”
“Does she drive?” I asked, remembering her on her bike up near Wynter Castle.
“She rides a bike everywhere.”
“But you don’t know for sure th
at she doesn’t know how to drive.”
“I guess not.”
I watched a pair of elderly women stroll arm in arm down the sidewalk, one with a cane. My mind wandered, and I wondered what my mother and grandmother would have been like had they lived. Would my grandma be one of these octo-or nonagenarians, living for muffins and tea, and Random Quote Day? I’d love to be able to visit my grandma, do crafts and drink tea with her, take her for car rides.
My mother would be in her sixties, and probably still protesting. What would she think of my inheriting Wynter Castle and trying to maximize some profit from it? I wish she were around to tell me what it was she had against Melvyn Wynter. Once things settled down—and by “things” I meant two murder investigations on my property—I wanted to talk to Doc English again about my uncle, learn more about him.
A van pulled up to the curb and a middle-aged woman hopped out of the passenger side and waved.
“I have to go,” Hannah said. “That’s my mom.”
I probably had more to ask her, but my mind was fuzzy and I was confused. “Bye, Hannah. I’ll talk to you again soon!”
“Call me if you have any more questions!” She motored down the sidewalk and around to a lift in the back, waving as she centered herself on the lift and trundled into the back of the van.
As Hannah and her parents headed off, Gogi Grace came down the sidewalk and sat down beside me. She looked calm and serene, but I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Are you okay?” I asked, watching her face.
She nodded. “The doctor is coming to pronounce death. I’m keeping an eye out for him.”
“So . . . the patient died?”
“It was just a matter of time. She slipped away peacefully ten minutes ago.” One tear escaped and raced down her cheek, marking a pale trail in her matte foundation.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “I’m all right. Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
We spoke of my and Lizzie’s discovery of the body in the woods, and she frowned over that. Autumn Vale had occasional missing persons, she said, and those who just left town for greener pastures. That was a fairly common occurrence. But she agreed with me that it was more likely that the dead fellow was a hiker who had either run afoul of a friend he was with, or died of natural causes. The sheriff had told me his head was bashed in, though, so definitely murder. I also told her about meeting Helen Johnson in the bakeshop, along with Isadore.
“They’re both in my book club,” Gogi said. “Helen goes for Christian and Amish romance novels.”
“Amish romance novels?” I said, eyebrows high.
“Oh, yes, they’re very popular with the ladies of the Methodist church. Isadore, on the other hand, reads a bit of everything, kind of a literary omnivore.”
“I noticed. What is that woman’s deal?” I asked. “She always seems so . . . tense.” I explained about my visit to the bank.
“She has a lot of responsibility on her plate. I think she takes her job very seriously.”
“She pretty much said that Simon Grover wouldn’t know how to open the bank without her there.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I want to find out about my uncle’s dealings with the Autumn Vale Community Bank . . . you know, whether there were any outstanding loans, or anything like that. Isadore is either stonewalling me, doesn’t like me, or . . . I don’t know.”
My cell phone chimed and I jumped. It wasn’t a sound I was used to hearing in the dead zone that was Autumn Vale. It was Dr. Ling, telling me that Becket was going to be all right. He was exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, but recovering rapidly. I could take him home.
I sat staring at the phone for a moment. “I guess I have a cat,” I finally said.
“Let me think about things,” Gogi said, “and try to figure out if there are any details I should have shared with Virgil. He really is trying to solve this, you know. Tom was his friend. He doesn’t show it, but this has upset him badly.”
A big, black car pulled up to the home, and an older gentleman got out, grabbing an old-fashioned doctor’s bag from the backseat along with a briefcase.
“That’s the doctor,” Gogi said. She stood, and I did, too. She reached out and pulled me into a hug, then held me away from her. “I hope you figure out a way to stay in Autumn Vale, Merry. This is a good place to live. It took me a while to see that, but I finally did.”
As she met the doctor, hugging him briefly—she was definitely a hugger—and then walked up the path with him, I remembered what the postmistress had implied, but dismissed it. Gogi Grace had not knocked off her husbands for the insurance money and inheritance. It was patently ridiculous.
Chapter Twenty-three
AT THE VET’S office, I was given Becket’s collar and the bill. I paid Dr. Ling’s assistant using a credit card; I needed to save my cash to pay for local labor, because I didn’t think Gordy and Zeke—if they ever decided to come out to work at the castle—would take MasterCard. I bought a case of cat food, too, and litter and a box. It was all in the backseat, while Becket snoozed on the towel on the passenger seat. The vet said he was still weak and would need several days to fully recover. I petted his head and he opened one eye, meowing weakly.
As I drove through town, I noticed Simon Grover getting into what I presumed was his car. It was a vintage, black Lincoln with some dull-black paint concealing what looked like old damage on one side. Damage, on Simon Grover’s black car. It gave me food for thought, I can tell you, since I was still puzzling out the first assignment given to me in Autumn Vale by Gogi Grace: to find out if my uncle was murdered.
I followed Simon out of town—not on purpose, but we were evidently both going the same way—wondering where he and his wife lived. We ascended up and out of Autumn Vale, me following him, still not on purpose. When he finally turned off the highway, though, I was curious, so I turned, too, and followed him at a discreet distance. After a while I wondered, was he even going home? I could be following him all the way to Rochester to visit his troubled son, Booker. That was not a good idea with a sick cat on the front seat. I was slowing, ready to do a U-turn, when I saw him pull into a drive some distance down the road.
This was where the bank manager and Janice lived? It was a side-split ranch house with a double garage, tidy and modern. I had pictured a woman like Janice Grover rattling around in a great, shambling Victorian, stuff everywhere, her love of junk evident in her home, as it was in her shop.
But wait . . . someone was coming out of the house, and it wasn’t Janice. The hefty bank manager heaved himself out of the car and another man approached, took a briefcase from Grover, and the two men shook hands. The other man was Andrew Silvio. They strode into the open garage together.
I had no excuse for going up there, and had a sick cat that was beginning to wake up and meow. So I eased back onto the road and drove past the house, looking for a place to turn around, as I pondered what I had just seen. There were a hundred innocent explanations, I supposed. Grover could easily have retained Silvio for some legal work. Silvio could be legal counsel for the Brotherhood of the Falcon. Or he could even be a member of the organization. Wasn’t that what businessmen did, join fraternal groups to make contacts, network?
I turned and cruised back past the house, but there was no activity that I could see. What I kept coming back to was the badly repaired damage to Grover’s black sedan. Did it mean something, or was that pretty normal? In the past week or so, I had noticed a lot of cars with damage on them. One local was driving around with a smashed windshield, the result, I was told, of a run-in with a deer. I just didn’t know. My uncle’s accident was nine months ago; if Grover had been the one to push him off the road, surely he would have gotten the damage to his car fixed right away? And though I had the feeling that Virgil had left the casebook on my uncle’s accident open for a reason, he must have noticed the bank manager’s damaged front panel.
A
s I pulled up my weedy lane, some uniformed officers were packing it in, closing the doors on the back of the state police van and winding up electrical cord. Virgil Grace was talking to a couple of detectives, but it had the appearance of a conversation that was coming to an end. McGill was, to my surprise, filling in the last hole, except for the one poor Tom Turner died in. He and Shilo had made great progress.
I didn’t know what Shilo and I would do without McGill around. He jumped down from the excavator, and grabbed the crate of cat food and other stuff while I carried Becket into the house, gently toting him upstairs, and doing the necessary things, like setting up the cat litter box I had bought, putting down bowls of food and water, and making a bed for him near the radiator in my room, where it was warm. I made sure he was comfortable, then closed the door behind me and descended.
Outside, it looked barren. Deserted. “Where’s the sheriff?” I asked McGill, who was locking down the excavator.
“He’s gone.”
Gritting my teeth, I slapped my thigh. “Darn! I wanted to talk to him.” Really, I had wanted to tell him what I had seen, but what did I have to report? That I had seen the bank manager and the local legal eagle together? Big whoop, as Shilo would say.
Speaking of . . . Shilo came floating out of the castle, a skirt and pretty, gauzy top on, with a jacket over it and a scarf fluttering from under the lapels. She took McGill’s hand and he stared down at her with a goofy smile. “We’re going to have dinner with McGill’s mom. Is that okay with you, Merry?”
“Of course, sweetie.” I could not believe the change in my friend. What would happen if McGill was the one? Could I picture her becoming an Autumn Vale businessman’s wife? Maybe even a mother?
“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone with a sick cat.”
“You two go on. Have fun.”
Still, my friend hesitated. “Do you want to come with us?” she asked. “We can fit you into the car. Or take mine.”
Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) Page 23
