But first, I’d drop in at the bank and look around. Autumn Vale Community Bank was a squat, two-story redbrick building on the corner of Abenaki and Mohawk Road. It had dentilated ornamentation at the top and a rounded corner where the glass door was. It was a charming, old building, and the plaque attached read that the bank had been in existence since the early 1800s. I stepped inside. There were only two wickets—the old-fashioned kind like out of an old movie, with brass bars and a marble countertop—and a manager’s office at the back, with Simon Grover’s name in gold, Gothic lettering.
Isadore Openshaw was at the only open teller’s spot, and I approached the wicket. She would have to speak to me there. She looked up and I smiled. Her expression soured, like she had a tart candy in her mouth, which was, by the way, ironically coated with powdered sugar.
“Hi, my name is Merry Wynter, and I just thought I’d stop in to introduce myself.”
“What can I do for you?” She had a surprisingly husky voice, scratchy, as if it wasn’t used often.
“Well, I would like to inquire about my uncle’s affairs here. I’m not sure if he had an account with you?”
“You’ll have to speak to Mr. Grover. He’s busy right now. May I make you an appointment?”
“No, I don’t think—”
“Then I can’t help you,” she said and turned away.
Sheesh! “Okay, all right, I’ll make an appointment. How about . . . tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. The bank is closed on Saturday.”
“Uh, Monday, then?”
She narrowed her eyes and glared at me through the brass bars. “He’s busy Monday morning.”
Frustrated with her stonewalling, I said, “How about any morning for the next—”
“Izzy, where the hell is my coffee? I asked for it a half hour ago.”
She jumped and hustled away to a coffeemaker in the back corner, poured a cup, and took off with it to Grover’s glass-doored office, sidled in, and then came back out. I tried to imagine Janice Grover hustling like that when her husband roared. Nope, wouldn’t happen. Good thing he had “Izzy” at the office. Izzy? I shook my head as the woman hurried back to her neglected window. I could not think of her as anything but Isadore Openshaw.
A customer entered the bank as I tried one more time to convince her to let me in to see Grover. No go, and the elderly woman behind me, leaning heavily on her walker, should not have to wait just because Miss Openshaw was being a pain in my rear.
I considered marching back and thrusting myself into his office, but I decided that likely wasn’t the best way to introduce myself to the banker who might be able to help me. I’d simply call him directly for an interview. I returned to the bakery, retrieved the cooled muffins, and headed to Golden Acres. Had I ever been this busy working in New York?
Doc English was sitting outside of Golden Acres in the one single ray of sunshine the clouds were allowing through, wearing a flowered sunbonnet and a goose down vest. I was starting to think he dressed as he did to get a rise out of people, which was confirmed to me when I commented on the hat; he just smiled like the Cheshire cat. I delivered the muffins to the kitchen, but when I asked after Mrs. Grace they told me she had just gone out, so maybe she and Dinah had finally managed to get together.
I then asked about Shilo, and was told she was playing checkers in the social room. As I entered, Mr. Hubert Dread, the old fellow with the war stories, had just finished beating her hands down and with a great flourish, but she told him she’d be back for a rematch. She appeared to be adjusting nicely to life in Autumn Vale.
We loitered around town, had a very late lunch at the Vale Variety, did a little shopping, and then headed home. I told her about my appointment the next day with Lizzie, and she offered to call McGill to ask him to pick Lizzie up. He was already booked to come out and continue filling the darned holes in, she said, since he had called the sheriff and asked about the rest of them apart from the one Tom had been found in. Virgil Grace had okayed him resuming his duties, as long as he stayed away from the murder scene.
The dark clouds had thickened, and rain spattered on the windshield as we began to climb the ridge out of town. My tires crunched on the gravel at the edge of the road and I straightened the wheel. As my gaze flicked along the side of the road, I noticed a bike and slowed. It was just resting on a grassy, weedy patch, looking like the rider had either ditched it or . . . or what?
“That wasn’t there this morning. I hope no one’s hurt!” I pulled over and Shilo and I both got out and trotted over to the embankment, looking up and down the road in both directions. We were along a forested stretch, with a steep decline on one side and a sharp rise on the other. The decline side was where the bike was, and there were broken saplings and trees with the bark broken off. I got a bad feeling as we approached the roadside, but the damage to the trees didn’t look fresh.