I shook off the weariness and depression, slipped on my loafers, and headed outside; fresh air or tea are my cure-alls. Defeat was not an option. Wynter Castle was amazing, but to be sellable it had to present as a viable property with great potential. The more I did to it, the more likely I would be to get a decent payday. With at least a million dollars or so that the castle could fetch if I worked hard, I could head back to the city and maybe start my own business. What kind of business, I wasn’t sure yet, but something.
The double oak door creaked shut behind me and I strolled to the edge of the flagged terrace, looking out over my land. My land. Weird. The castle grounds consisted of several acres (by my questionable judgment) of open land, surrounded by forest on all sides. The only exposed vista was down the laneway, but the lane then curved around a grove and disappeared in the trees.
I tried to visualize this landscape without the holes, but it was tough. I crossed a patch of the long, weedy grass and sidled up to one of the pits, staring down at the dirt and roots. It was at least six feet deep. What on earth was someone looking for? McGill theorized that it had to do with Binny Turner’s missing father, but could she really believe that Rusty Turner’s body was buried on the castle grounds? And that eighty-year-old Melvyn Wynter had managed to kill and bury the poor guy by himself? Sounded far-fetched to me.
And even if all that was true, how could Binny Turner be responsible for digging all of these holes?
As I glanced around, I noticed a pair of glowing eyes trained in my direction. Something moved on the edge of the forest, an animal watching me. I squinted and shaded my eyes with my hand. Whatever “it” was, it was orange. How many native animals are orange? I took a step in that direction, wondering what it would do; it melted back into the forest. Just then I heard rumbling in the distance. Earthquake? As I stared down the lane, a small excavator appeared from around the bend, followed by a disgraceful, rattletrap vehicle that I immediately recognized.
“Shilo,” I shrieked, jumping up and down in glee. I tore off toward the car, trotting to it, then alongside it as it made its way up the lane. My dearest friend in the world—well, one of just two or three—was waving and chirping happily as she tootled up the drive.
Chapter Four
SHILO DINNEGAN HALTED her creaky, old vehicle on the weedy, flagged drive and leaped from the ancient Ford; she threw her skinny arms around me, hugging hard. Despite the fact that we had just had dinner three days ago—during which I wanted to tell her my plans, but was afraid I would burst into tears—it felt like I hadn’t seen her in months.
I hugged her back, then held her away from me. “Shilo, what are you doing here?” I asked, shaking her.
“You invited me to come stay,” she said calmly, cocking her head on one side, her black eyes snapping with good humor.
“I . . . but . . .” I spluttered, then broke into laughter. “Shilo, you know that’s not quite true, but I’m so glad to see you. And you know you’re welcome to stay.” My depression vanished like mist, as I considered what a difference having Shilo around, even for a little while, would make. Arm over her shoulders, I turned to the Bobcat driver, and found it was Jack McGill, wearing battered blue jeans, a soft, old, plaid shirt, and a huge grin. “So you’re the cut-rate hole filler?” I said.
“Yup, I am. Borrowed this machine from a friend. I’ll get going. I want to get these filled for you so you won’t break your neck.”
He started work immediately, and Shilo linked her arm in mine and tugged me away. “Isn’t he cute?” she said, watching him over my shoulder.
“You think he’s cute?” I glanced back at McGill, who had begun at the hole closest to the castle. Really?
*
“SO YOU WERE LAST HERE WHEN YOU WERE HOW old?” Shilo asked.
“I was about five, I think,” I said, pulling a boho-chic dress out of one of Shilo’s many suitcases and shaking the wrinkles out of it.
The room I had chosen for myself was one with a “Jack and Jill” bathroom and a room on the other side. I had vaguely thought I might make the other room an office, of sorts. Instead, I put Shilo in it, figuring that would be only one bathroom to clean rather than several. The castle already felt smaller because of her boundless energy and enthusiasm. The cage with Shilo’s bunny, Magic, was on top of a dresser, and the rabbit stared at me with witless focus through the square mesh.
While McGill worked steadily on filling holes, a gentleman in overalls had arrived—summoned by McGill, who knew exactly what needed to be done—and turned on the boiler, lit the pilot lights, and explained how it all worked, checked that everything was functional, then tipped his John Deere hat and left. I had sheets and blankets in the laundry, not trusting my uncle’s housekeeping, and would be able to make up our beds with fresh linens shortly. The washer and dryer were industrial-size, so it was all in one load.