Even through the thick walls of the castle, I could hear the heavy engines of police vehicles arriving; they were coming to finish up with the encampments, as Virgil had promised. I wrapped Becket in the towel and carried him outside to the car, as the sheriff and his crew set up their base of operations, but I didn’t have time to talk. I handed Shilo the keys to the rental and we took off, with me holding Becket and Shilo driving. Shi had been able to get ahold of McGill, who told her where the only vet in town was located. She had explored a lot already, more than I had, mapping out the town in her retentive brain, and she brought me to a little clinic that took up one end of a redbrick, modern strip mall that also had the town waterworks department and other municipal offices in it.
The vet was a young Asian-American woman, Dr. Ling. After she heard my remarkable story and confirmed that though he was not my cat, I was going to be responsible for the bill, she ordered me to leave Becket there in the treatment room. As we left, I heard her call out to an assistant to start a fluid IV. Becket was in good hands.
Again, life in Autumn Vale had changed up my day in weird ways.
Shilo told me she was going to hitch a ride back to the castle with McGill, who was headed out there to fill in more holes—at the rate he was going, he’d be done by the next day—so I was free to do what I needed to do. I had at least thought well enough ahead to throw my muffin tins in the car, so I headed down to Binny’s Bakery to see if she would mind me starting the muffins a little early.
I entered to the now-familiar clang of the bell over the door and was once again taken by the collection of teapots, which I examined with interest. It wouldn’t be long before I had all my stuff from storage, and then I was going to have to deal with my own dozens of boxes of teapots and teacups. Binny came out from the back, wiping her hands on a towel, and said, “Oh, it’s you!”
“Yeah. Could I start my baking a little early?” I explained why.
She had an odd look on her face, and nodded. “Sure.” She paused, tapping on the countertop and biting her lip. In a rush, she said, “Maybe you can do me a favor?”
“No problem,” I said. “You’ve been so generous, I’d love a chance to do you some payback.”
“Would you mind the store for an hour while I run an errand? You know how to use a cash register, right?”
I didn’t then, but I soon learned. A half hour later, she threw some goodies in a bag and took off out the back door. No explanation. Boyfriend, maybe? Not my business. I made two large batches of muffin batter—banana bran and applesauce, since those two seemed to be going over best—popped them in the oven, and set the timer, as a couple of customers came in. It just happened to be Isadore Openshaw and another, middle-aged lady.
“Hi, what can I help you with?” I said, in my brightest customer-service voice.
Isadore looked like she’d swallowed an air bubble, kind of pained and grimacing, but the other woman smiled and cocked her head to one side. “Who are you? Where’s Binny?”
I explained who I was as Isadore stared fiercely at the goodies in the bakery case. “I’ve met a lot of folks, including Miss Openshaw,” I said, “but I haven’t met you yet.” I stuck out my hand over the counter.
“Well, isn’t this fascinating! I’m Helen Johnson of the Autumn Vale Methodist Church,” she said, taking my hand in a firm, if clammy, clasp. “I visited your uncle many times, to take him soup and ask him if he’d like to join our congregation. We have such wonderful seniors’ programs, with euchre nights, shuffleboard, and bus trips to Amish country!”
I stared at her for a long moment, nonplussed, wondering what kind of reception she’d gotten from my cantankerous uncle. Hopefully she wouldn’t have a story about being chased away by a rifle-wielding madman. She was one of those born church ladies, but in tweed capris instead of the expected skirt, topped by a silk blouse and pearls. Sensible sandals and socks, visible under the counter’s pass through, finished the ensemble, and a hat topped her billowy nest of gray hair. “I’m pleased to meet you. How did the visits with my uncle go?”
Isadore snorted and stared ferociously over my head.
Helen glanced over at her with a frown, then looked back to me. “Well, he was not pleased to see me. Tell me . . . was he suffering from Alzheimer’s, perhaps? Every single time I went out, he asked the same question; what did I think I was doing there? He was so terribly confused. I never knew what to tell him.”
I took a deep breath to keep from laughing. The timer dinged, and I rushed to pull the muffins out, then returned to the counter and explained to the ladies what I was doing there: making muffins and minding the store. Helen clasped her hands together. “Oh, muffins! My darling mama told me about your wonderful muffins. She lives at Golden Acres, you know, and feels fortunate. Mrs. Grace is such a wonderful woman, a real social leader in this town. Even though she doesn’t go to church.”