The flood of emotion was probably what I was hoping to avoid by not coming to Wynter Castle, but now that I was here, I’d have to deal with it.
“So, are you staying?” McGill asked as we returned to the main floor.
“I am.” Did I really have any options, now that I had given up my life in New York?
“For how long?”
“I don’t really know yet.” And I didn’t.
Chapter Three
IT WAS MIDMORNING, and the village had come to life, shrugging off the torpor of a lazy day at the end of summer, and beginning the bustle that would become the “back-to-work” attitude of September, once Labor Day weekend had passed. Even in Autumn Vale, there was a “back-to-school” rush, I guess, and I saw a mom tugging two kids into the general store, a tall, narrow building with poster-obscured windows. I parked at one end of the main street and walked down it, watched by a trio of old men sitting on a bench outside of Vale Variety, a convenience store.
If I was going to stay for a while, I needed supplies: food, toiletries, cleaning products. McGill had assured me I could go to Rochester, about thirty-five or forty miles away, but there is nothing that gains you friends in a small town like spending your money there. That was true in Italy, France, Germany, and the good old US of A. I needed to scope out the town and learn a little about it, if I was going to figure out how best to sell Wynter Castle.
I dawdled around town for a while, but the residents seemed to shy away from me. Oh, they watched me all right. I felt the blaze of scores of steady gazes as I sauntered by. I ambled past the one antique store that appeared to still be open for business, Crazy Lady Antiques and Collectibles, but the sign noted it had limited hours, on Friday and Saturday only. There was apparently a tiny Autumn Vale Public Library, accessed by a ramp and a side door off one of the alleys, but the hours were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, noon to five. Autumn Vale Community Bank was an interesting little building, dark-red, shiny brick, situated right on a corner and with a curved face and doors set into the curved corner, but I didn’t feel like going in to the bank just yet.
The “all you’ll find at Wynter Castle is death” comment made to me by Binny the Baker echoed in my brain. Did she honestly think my uncle had killed her father? But you know, a woman who loved teapots that much couldn’t be all bad. I stopped in front of her shop, noting the customers coming out with paper bags full of the most incredible-smelling focaccia. I was hungry! Okay, so I would buy bread and try to make a fresh start with Binny. If her dad was missing and presumed dead, I felt for her. It was hard losing a parent at any age and in any way.
I entered, and waited my turn. Every woman in there was watching me, as long as they thought I wasn’t looking at them. Gossip, McGill said, about old Mel Wynter’s niece’s arrival, had gotten around. That’s what had brought him out to the castle; someone saw me talking to Virgil Grace and called Binny Turner, found out who I was, and then called the realtor.
I turned and looked around the shop, noting that opposite the shelves of teapots was a wall of photos. There was one of Binny and an older man, both dressed in camouflage, and holding guns. There was another of the same old man and a blonde, middle-aged woman, again, both in camo and both holding guns. Sheesh . . . was Autumn Vale the kind of place where everyone hunted? I’m no hunter, except for great bargains on shoes, but I was going to stay out of the whole judging-someone-based-on-their-pastimes thing. That had been one of my mother’s failings. Instead, I sidled up to the glass case and said, “Everything looks wonderful!”
Binny served every single person in the bakery, then turned and looked at me. “Can I help you? Again?”
She hadn’t helped me the first time, but I was not going to point that out to her. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Turner,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m Merry Wynter, Melvyn Wynter’s niece. I was sorry to hear that your father is missing. I know how hard it is to be in that kind of pain.”
She froze, and glared at a spot above my head, but didn’t answer. The bell above the door tinkled, a sign that someone else was entering. Not the time to pursue this. “Uh, well, I’d like a half dozen of the panini, a few ciabatta, and one of those marvelous focaccia, please,” I said.
The baker silently put the food in a couple of paper bags, took the money, gave change, then turned to the other customer, an older woman who stood looking over the items in the glass case. There were biscotti and pfeffernüsse on the top shelf, and an assortment of sweets, buns, and breads on the others, all exotic and beautiful.