I hustled over to the edge, but just as I was about to look over, I heard a rustling sound, and clambering up the steep embankment came none other than Miss Isadore Openshaw.
Chapter Eighteen
"IZZY . . . UH, MISS OPENSHAW,” I cried in surprise. “What were you doing down there?”
Shilo stared at her, openmouthed. The woman tugged her shapeless dress down over her hips and clumped over to her bicycle, kicking up gravel.
“What were you doing down there?” I repeated.
“This is where your uncle died, you know,” she said, pointing down the hill, her mousy hair fluttering out of a tight bun. “Now, you tell me why his car went off the road right there?”
“It was early morning, still dark in November. He was an old man with bad sight. The road was icy—”
“No it was not! It was not icy!” Her voice shook.
“Okay,” I said, puzzled by her vehemence. “What are you trying to say?”
She righted her bike and got on.
“Wait! Don’t go yet,” I said, standing in front of her, both hands out in a “stop” gesture. I wasn’t going to let her put me off with her verbal surprise attack. “What are you implying? Why are you here? Were you looking for something down there?”
“No,” she said, hopping off, wheeling the bike around me, and hopping back on—she was very agile for an older woman wearing a dress—and cycling down the hill, back toward the village.
“What is going on?” I yelled after her. She picked up speed and disappeared around the bend of one of the switchbacks in the road. “This whole town is wacko,” I grumbled, moving over to where she had emerged. I looked down the hill and saw nothing but her path, and the broken saplings.
“What do you think she meant, talking about it not being icy on the morning your uncle died?” Shilo came up beside me and stared down the hill.
“Good question.” I thought about it. Someone—who was it?—had said that Melvyn was headed to Rochester that morning. But if he had been headed to Rochester or anywhere away from town, he would not have been on this winding road heading into Autumn Vale. Where was he going in town? And why? “I just don’t know.” We headed back to the castle.
It rained heavily overnight and into the morning, but it finally began to clear midmorning. It was almost noon when I took a cup of coffee out to survey the property, before McGill and Lizzie arrived. In the distance I saw that spot of orange again, closer this time. And he wasn’t moving. I watched for a while but the animal still didn’t move.
I’d seen the orange cat often enough since I’d been at the castle, but never for too long. He had come closer each time, but never close enough for me to go up to him. He usually melted back into the woods, as if he wanted me to follow him. If it really was Uncle Melvyn’s ginger cat, Becket, then he was one remarkable dude to live for ten months on his own. My friend joined me outside.
“Shi, do you think that’s Becket?” I asked, pointing to the lump of orange. Suddenly it did move and it sat up, staring toward me. I handed my coffee cup to Shilo. “Just wait . . . don’t follow me. I’m going to try to get closer.” Over the next twenty minutes, I approached ever nearer to the cat, inching closer and closer. He looked like he was ready to bolt, but he didn’t.
McGill roared up to the castle in his Smart car and screeched to a halt. Lizzie bolted out of the car, whirling and yelling—loud enough that even across the field I could hear her clearly—at McGill, “You’re an idiot, you know that?” She stomped into the castle.
The cat streaked away, limping. Damn! There was probably something wrong with his paw or leg, and that was why it had stayed as I approached. I returned to the courtyard in front of the castle where Shilo and McGill were in conversation. “What the heck happened?” I said, now in a peeved mood.
McGill shrugged. “I was just telling Shilo, I don’t have a clue. I was making conversation, and she suddenly howled like a banshee!”
“What exactly did you say?” Shilo asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, McGill, you have to remember,” I pleaded.
“He asked me if I was planning on taking photography in college,” Lizzie said. She had emerged from the castle and stood on the top step, arms crossed, a sullen look on her face.
Shilo, McGill, and I exchanged puzzled looks. I piped up, “And that was a rotten thing to say because . . . ?”
“Well, duh! I’m never going to be able to go to college. How will I? My grades suck, my grandma is old and poor, and my mom is a whore. It’s never going to happen!”