Bran New Death

I took a deep breath, put my head back and closed my eyes, bathing in the flood of his concern. “Yes, Pish, I’m fine. You know the castle I inherited? Well, that’s where I am. I gave up my apartment in the city and moved here.”

“And you didn’t tell me? How could you? Oh, Merry, I thought we were better friends than that!” He always spoke in italics, and in person the emphasis was exaggerated by fluttering hands. All designed to disarm and disorient, I believe, because his laser-focus, blue-eyed gaze is enough to alarm the unwary.

Pish is one of the sweetest people I have ever met, but his goodness is enhanced by a tart sense of humor and well-developed regard for the ridiculous. He’d adore Autumn Vale. What the good people of this town would think of him, I didn’t know. I could picture him in his beautiful Central Park West condo, which he shared with his querulous, elderly mother. He’d be sitting in front of a fireplace as I was, on a cool, September evening, but there would be a crackling fire in his; he’d be drinking cognac and reading Faulkner, or quaffing brandy and chuckling over Te

I sighed. “Darling, it is because I love you that I couldn’t tell you I was moving out of New York. It would have broken my heart to see you upset. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“What about Shilo? Do you know where she is?”

“I called her the morning I arrived, and she took it as an invitation, so she tootled up here in that dreadful vehicle she calls a car.” There was silence for a long moment, and I knew his feelings were hurt that I had called her and not him.

“That is just like our darling scatterbrain,” he said, his tone dry. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, though I’ll hold a grudge for a while and make you suffer.”

“I miss you,” I said, realizing how true that was. I met Pish through Miguel. He was my husband’s financial advisor, a wise decision that had left me a wealthyish widow, which I reversed with my own stupidity. However, my bad-decision days were over. I was not one of those sad folk who stagger from awful situation to awful situation. “I wish you were here right now.”

“Describe the castle, darling. I have been dying to hear about it ever since you inherited it! The real estate listing did it no justice, I’ll bet,” he said.

He, dear man, had advised me right away to go see my inheritance, but I was in the middle of the Leatrice drama at that point, and couldn’t leave New York. That was my excuse, anyway. I was just stu

I filled him in on our trip to the Turner Construction trailer, and my discoveries about the shoddy plat and grade school–level renderings of the Wynter Acres plan. Then I told him about what Shilo had discovered: the regular large cash deposits to Turner Construction accounts in the Autumn Vale Community Bank that had no discernible source, given that work had all but stopped in recent months.

“Who would have had the ability to deposit in the account?” he asked.

“Since Rusty’s been gone? Probably just Tom and Dinah.”

“Dinah was not married to Rusty Turner, is that right?”

“No, nor living with him,” I said, begi

“I don’t want to say too much, my dear, but it sounds to me as if Tom Turner had found a way to make money that had nothing to do with construction, and it may have led to his death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, drug peddling is one possibility, I suppose. But maybe he was involved in some kind of money-laundering scheme. And if he was, the kind of folk he would have been dealing with . . . well, he wouldn’t be the first who thought he was smart and ended up dead.”

That gave me pause, and I remembered someone—was it Gordy or Zeke?—had said something about a couple of scary guys in town late last year, about the time Rusty disappeared and my uncle died. I had a lot to think about. Pish told me to give his love to Shilo, and that he would be in touch—he was going to see if there was any information he could dig up—and that he hoped I’d take pictures of the castle and send them to him. As soon as I got my digital camera out of storage and my laptop working and got Internet service out in the boonies, I would.

I sat for a while staring at the empty fireplace. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see a big-bellied fellow draining the last of the coffee urn and snagging two muffins.

“You Mel’s niece?” he asked. He was dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt, but the getup didn’t quite look natural on him.

“I am,” I said, rising and going toward him. “Merry Wynter,” I added, sticking out my hand. I recognized him, but waited for him to introduce himself.

“Simon Grover,” he said, juggling the muffins and coffee, then clasping my hand in a firm grip. “You been talking to my wife.”

“You’re the bank manager, and head of the Brotherhood of the Falcons!”

“Yup. Not here because of that, though; I’m captain of the Autumn Vale Volunteer Fire Patrol. We’re providing backup to the state police and Virgil’s boys and gals.”

Making a quick decision, I motioned to the comfortable chair by the empty fireplace. “Would you like to sit and have your coffee in comfort, Mr. Grover?”

“I sure would,” he said with a sigh of relief. “My dogs is barkin’! These boots ain’t made for walking.” He spoke with a folksy air, maybe one he had developed since coming to manage a bank in a small town in rural upstate New York.

Grover waddled over to the fireplace and I let him sit with his coffee and muffins while I put the urn on to perk again. Then I joined him and we sat in companionable silence for a long moment, while I tried to figure out how to introduce the topic of my uncle’s dealings at the bank. In one sense, it was my business since I was the heir, but what went on before my uncle’s death could be deemed private, I supposed.

“You know,” he said, “I liked your uncle. We were brothers, in a sense, and Rusty Turner, too; us three were the founding members of the Brotherhood of the Falcons. Now I’m the only one of the three founding members left. The three amigos.”

Mad thoughts of a tontine-like arrangement flitted through my mind. But was it so mad? “I didn’t know my uncle was part of the club.”

“When my wife and I first moved here, I went out of my way to be pals with Melvyn. He was getting to be a crusty old fella even then. Not many friends.”

“He was friends with Gogi Grace’s husband, though, I understand. And Doc English.”

He shrugged, his bulky shoulders rolling. When he didn’t answer, I wondered if I had offended him by naming Melvyn’s buddies, right after he had said my uncle didn’t have many. He didn’t look offended, though. He was holding his empty coffee cup, glaring into it with a sad expression.