Bran New Death

“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 sunbo

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.

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.