Bran New Death(14)

After a brief pause, she said, “So seriously, dearie; what are you going to do with this monstrosity of a castle?” Shilo got up and twirled around in the room, her arms spread wide.

“It’s either a godsend or a death knell,” I said, getting up and wandering the room, touching the furniture, comprised of both beautiful and ugly old pieces in the Eastlake style. “I thought I could just sell it and move on, but it seems like the universe wants me here for a while, anyway. My idea is to fix it up enough to unload it, and get the heck back to NYC.”

“But we’ll see what the universe has in mind for you, right?”

“Right.” I glanced over at Shilo and frowned. “By the way, how did you find your way here so quickly? I got lost a dozen times. It took me forever!”

“Gypsy blood, my dear,” Shilo said, waggling her fingers near her eyes, veiling them mysteriously, then peeping at me. “It’s not that far from the city, as the crow flies. I’m part Roma, and part Irish Traveler, you know, and both sides can find their way anywhere by intuition.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I did get lost outside of Autumn Vale,” she admitted. “But darling Jack was just leaving a construction lot with that machine. I flagged him down, and when he said he was coming here, I followed him.”

Darling Jack? “This is a weird place,” I said. “This whole valley is distinctly odd. Like, Shirley Jackson odd. Stephen King odd!” I told her about my GPS acting up, and about my dubious welcome, the “Wynter Castle is death” refrain from Binny the Baker. I mused about my quirky cell phone reception, and also told her about Gogi Grace, the retirement home owner.

Shilo laughed. “You actually let her rope you in to making two dozen muffins? On your first day in a new town?”

“She seemed nice, and she looked like she might be a valuable contact.”

“Method behind the madness?”

“You bet!”

Once Shilo was settled in, and Magic had a carrot to chew on, we went down to the kitchen and I familiarized myself with the appliances by making lunch, one of my favorite soups, Gouda and Harvest Vegetable Chowder. I was starved, having only munched on one of the buns I bought from Binnie that morning. I went outside while the soup simmered to see how McGill was coming along. He was making progress, but slowly, and he looked unsure of the machine a good deal of the time. I caught his eye and waved him down.

He moved the Bobcat away from a hole and shut it off. “How’s it going?” he asked, climbing out of the machine.

“Good. Want some lunch? I’ve rustled up a little food.”

He enthusiastically agreed, and followed me through the big front doors. “There’s another way in, you know, right to the kitchen instead of going all the way around,” he said, his voice echoing in the big hall.

“I thought I saw another door, but I’ve lost track. It’s taking me a while to find my way around. You’ll have to show me.”

He showed me the door, off a long hall lined with cupboards behind the kitchen, a butler’s pantry, I think it’s called. While he washed up, Shilo and I found a few chairs and moved them into the kitchen. We set the worktable, using the oddly assorted dishes that my uncle had left, then I brought the big pot of soup to the table and pulled a batch of cheddar-bacon muffins out of the oven, dumping them into a big bowl, with a stick of real butter and a knife alongside.

McGill came in, wiping his hands on a towel and sniffed the air. “Wow, something smells great!”

“Merry is the muffin queen!” Shilo said. “Miguel said that he fell in love with her because of her muffins . . . and her buns!”

“Shi!” I said, giving her a stern look. That girl has no boundaries, I thought, but did not say aloud.

Chastened, Shilo said, “Sorry.”

Of course that necessitated an explanation as to who Miguel was. I found out that McGill had lost his wife not long after they were married, and after some mutual commiseration we were devouring lunch and chatting like old friends.

“So, was anything ever resolved between my uncle and the Turners?” I said, turning the conversation to business. “What were they fighting over?”

He shrugged, dipping a big chunk of savory muffin in his soup. “Bad business blood,” he mumbled, around a mouthful of muffin. “When Rusty disappeared, everything screeched to a halt. There’s a lot more to it than that, but I don’t know everything.”

I exchanged a glance with Shilo. It seemed like McGill was avoiding the subject, or trying to pass over it lightly. “Did he just disappear? What do you think happened to him? Is he really dead?”