I scanned the others—there were English and Chinese teapots, art deco shapes, utilitarian designs, and fanciful animal shapes—but I didn’t have time to look them over, as the baker was getting impatient. No small talk, then. Too bad. I’m the master of small talk. In the modeling world, it pays to know how to schmooze, no matter what your position. First as a model, then a stylist, and then, finally, as a personal assistant to a model, being nice to hair stylists, makeup artists, set decorators, assistants, gofers, photographers, and everyone in between had paid off.
“I need directions,” I said, holding up the printed map, flapping it around. “This seems to be useless, since none of the roads around here have the names listed on the map.”
The woman cracked her first smile. “It’s a conspiracy,” she said with a short laugh. “Town council and the county can’t agree. The names get changed every year or so. You’d think they didn’t want anyone to find us. What are you looking for?”
Finally, some friendliness! “I’m trying to find Wynter Castle, on Exeter Road.”
The woman’s smile died swiftly. “You don’t want to go out there. All you’ll find at Wynter Castle is death.” She turned away as the oven timer binged a warning.
“What do you mean?”
She bustled around in the back, taking a tray out of the oven and banging it down on the counter.
“Hello?” I hollered. “What do you mean by that?” She wouldn’t come back, ignoring me completely, so I stalked out of the place, winding up on the sidewalk again, looking up and down the street.
An old fellow in a trapper hat and plaid jacket shambled past, making use of his cane. He eyed me with interest, his smudgy glasses not quite concealing the intelligence in his beady eyes. I’d try again. “Excuse me, sir,” I said. I had to bend over to talk to the elderly gnome, but his eyes twinkled with reassuring sharpness. “Could you help me?”
“Mebbe,” he said, bushy brows raised. “Whadyawant?”
“I’m trying to figure out the best way to get to Wynter Castle on Exeter road.”
He made a choked sound in his throat and bolted away from me as if I had a communicable disease. Who knew someone using a cane could move so quickly? Tap-tap, tappity-tap.
“Charming.” As I stood watching the oldster speed down the sidewalk, a police cruiser slowed near my rental car.
I walked toward it, watching the cop lean across the passenger seat and examine my rental’s license plate. If he was so interested, he may as well help me out. I walked out onto the street and leaned over the cruiser, gesturing the cop to roll down his window. He did, and I leaned in the open window. “Hi there! Maybe you can help me?”
He looked down at my cleavage and smiled, then looked up into my eyes. “I sure hope I can,” he replied.
Never failed. I sighed inwardly, but smiled back, amused, as always, by the male fascination with breasts. The poor dears just can’t help themselves. I read his name tag, and said, “Well, Officer Virgil Grace—”
“Sheriff Virgil Grace, ma’am,” he said with an attractive grin.
“Sheriff, how . . . Western. Anyway, I’m trying to find someplace.”
“I’d love to help,” he said, a dimple winking in his cheek. “You looking for the way to my heart?”
He was a definite cutie, but too young for me. I wasn’t on the lookout for the trail to any of his vital organs. “Maybe another day. Right now I just need directions to Wynter Castle, but no one wants to tell me how to get there, not even the friendly voice on my GPS.”
Watching my eyes, he frowned and said, “Why do you want to go to Wynter Castle?”
It wasn’t any of his business, but maybe it would help if I explained. “I’m Merry Wynter, Melvyn Wynter’s niece and heir. Wynter Castle is my property.”
He nodded. “Okay. I heard you were trying to sell it.”
“I was . . . am . . . but no one seems to be in the market for a monstrosity of a castle in the wilderness of upstate New York,” I said, and stood, hand to my back. After no sleep and hours of driving I was cranky, but had to stifle the urge to snap at him. I bent back down and said, in as neutral a tone as I could manage, “So what is the problem with me trying to find Wynter Castle?”
“No problem,” he said, his expression serious. “Follow me and I’ll lead you there.”
“Thanks!”
“You may not thank me when you see the place.”
Chapter Two
TWENTY MINUTES OR so later, I followed him up a winding lane, emerging from a thick forest that opened out to a long, green slope up to Wynter Castle. I parked in a weed-infested flagstone drive and got out. The sheriff parked, too, and walked over to me. I was numb with fatigue and something else: a weird, bittersweet feeling of coming home. This was one of the few places I had ever gone with my mom, and the only place I knew of where my father had stayed for any length of time.