I also needed to get a handle on who I thought might have killed Tom Turner. Despite everyone’s belief in Virgil Grace’s ability to solve the murder, I could not just stand by and wait. After all, nine months later he still had not figured out if my uncle’s “accident” was really an accident. Maybe I could even help, with an outsider’s viewpoint. I wondered what the buzz was in town, especially now, with this body we found yesterday.
As Shilo snored on the other side of the Jack and Jill bathroom door, I showered and dressed comfortably in jeans and a soft, V-neck T-shirt. Then, cup of coffee in hand, I exited the front door, descended from the terrace, and walked down the weedy drive to try to get a better view of the castle and decide what needed to be done first. I turned and squinted, looking over my inheritance. As I had begun to realize, I was going to be at Wynter Castle longer than I had anticipated, and had better start planning for a winter spent in upstate. But I had a couple months of outdoor time left before the unpredictable winds of November set in.
The exterior itself was attractive: old, cut stone, square facade with a turreted look to the rounded extensions at either end, and Gothic-arched windows. The entrance, centered on the long, flagged terrace that wrapped around the ballroom on the west side of the castle, was bland, though, even with those amazing oak doors. It needed something to set it off, to make it stand out. Maybe gardens or potted plants and statuary. The terrace, I had discovered, extended all the way along the far side, and the ballroom’s French doors opened out onto it. That, too, needed something to break up the long expanse.
How was I going to afford any of the upgrades needed? I had to make or borrow enough money to bring Wynter Castle up to a degree of attractiveness for potential buyers. The property would only appeal to someone who could afford to gamble. Wynter Castle was too far away from New York City to make it a spa retreat, and there was absolutely nothing nearby to make it a desirable destination from a tourist’s aspect. Investors would cringe. It needed a buyer with imagination and bucks.
I turned away and wandered the property near the castle, avoiding what I now thought of as the death hole, where crime-scene tape still fluttered from hastily erected fence posts. It was only early September, but after a couple of very cool nights the leaves were beginning to get that desiccated look from late-summer stress and nearly autumn change coming on. A blue jay shrieked at me from a cluster of brushy shrubs that had grown up in the long grass.
When was my grounds crew going to show up? They never did phone me. Had I done the right thing, hiring Zeke and Gordy to mow the fields? They didn’t strike me as the brightest bulbs in the package, maybe twenty-five-watt in a hundred-watt world, but how bright did you have to be to mow a yard? That sounds snooty, but I was getting irritated at the slow pace of life in Autumn Vale. No one seemed to be ready to hustle. The grass, or hay, or weeds—whatever the mess was—had to be taken care of and soon, because . . . well, because I needed to see progress.
I walked past the excavator parked among the filled-in holes, thinking of all the damage Tom had done, and wondering why. He could not possibly have believed that old Melvyn Wynter had buried his father, not when he was digging all the way out to the edge of the property. It didn’t make a bit of sense!
Sipping my coffee as I scanned the edge of the woods, I thought I saw a patch of orange. Was Becket back? In all the flurry of the day before, I had almost forgotten the poor, limping cat! I edged closer, but the animal didn’t move this time. My heart started pounding, and my stomach lurched. I walked faster, speeding to a trot. It was Becket; it had to be!
It was. He wasn’t moving, but he was still breathing a labored, slow pant. As I knelt by him, he opened his eyes, meowing fiercely, then wailing and thrashing about. As I leaped to my feet and backed off, he focused and met my gaze; his meow gentled to a question. I hadn’t had a cat in years, but I knew that sound. He needed help.
Tossing the junk-store coffee cup aside, I knelt again, and scooped him up. He was wearing, amazingly, a collar, with a cheapie plastic tag attached; incredible that it had survived nearly a year! “Becket” was written on the cardboard insert. “You poor fellow,” I murmured. There were no cuts or bites that I could see, but he didn’t look right. He was a big cat, long-limbed, but skinny, far too thin, and his orangey fur was matted and dull looking. As I carried him, his head lolled over my arm, his eyes open but filmed.
The next hour was a blur. I took Becket in to the kitchen and laid him on a towel in one of the chairs by the fireplace, then got Shilo up. We gave him a drink of water, which he lapped at thirstily before collapsing again in exhaustion. I got ready to go, organizing my day as quickly as I could as I worried about the cat.