McGill had told us a little about the castle during lunch. It had been built in the 1820s by Jacob Lazarus Wynter, an early nineteenth-century building baron who made his fortune constructing mills for the Indian bands along the various rivers emptying into Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. That was already more information about the paternal side of my lineage than I had ever known. I was descended from a robber baron? I vaguely remembered that phrase from school, but wasn’t sure Lazarus Wynter fit the mold. This place had real historical significance, and it made me sad that instead of a thriving family inheritance there was just poor little old me, who had to sell it to live. The least I could do would be to get some kind of historical designation for it, and maybe a plaque relating both what McGill had told me and whatever other family history I could dig up.

I made a note of that idea, then jotted down a few ideas for the inn, possible places to advertise my inheritance. Everyone I have ever known in the business world dreams of one day retiring from the rat race and opening a little inn in the country. Well, for the right price I could help them fulfill their dreams. I started writing down names of people; modeling agency owners, models, actors, caterers, anyone I could think of who might be interested, or know someone who would be.

Tapping the pen on the page, I looked around the dark, spartan kitchen. The joint lacked charm. McGill told me he and his mother had cleaned up somewhat after Melvyn died and was buried, because he knew if he was going to sell it, it would need to be at least clean. But the guy had certainly not put any imagination into it, nor had he staged the castle to sell. Who could blame him? He had other fish to fry, no doubt, and easier sales to make. I should bring my stuff out of storage, I thought. It would be nice to have all my things around me for once. I’d had to keep some of it boxed up and packed away at all times, since Miguel’s death, after I lost most of my savings and was forced to downsize. I shied away from the thought, because getting all my stuff meant going through old photos of Miguel and me in happier times. I didn’t want to face that yet. It had been seven years though; when would I be equipped to handle it?

Not yet.

For the time being, I would just live there with whatever I could scrounge among the stuff left by my uncle. I wondered if there were any mugs that I had missed stuffed away in the butler’s pantry, so I sidled in to that room, turning on the light and scanning the high, glass cabinets, which were mostly empty.

I heard a noise, and quickly turned out the light, peering out the window that overlooked the land where McGill had been working. Was that the Bobcat I heard? McGill, working in the middle of the night? I squinted into the darkness, and saw the faint illumination of the excavator cab. Yes, someone was operating the machine, but instead of filling in, they had moved to a fresh patch of land and were digging!

Chapter Five

"FOR THE LOVE of Pete,” I yelled, annoyed. This was exactly what I had been concerned about. If it was Binny or her brother, I wanted them to know this was not acceptable, and without a thought for my safety, I flung open the butler pantry door and bolted outside into the dark, toward the roaring machine. The interior light showed some jerk in the driver’s seat manipulating the gears and digging. Grr!

As I was crossing the wide open space between me and the Bobcat, I saw something—some creature, a streak of orange by the light of the excavator—launch into the open compartment at the operator. There was an unearthly screech, a howl of pain, and then the man bolted from the driver’s compartment and stumbled toward the woods, pursued by the animal. I followed as well as I could in slippers and a housecoat, but I tripped, went down hard, and by the time I clambered to my feet, all I could see was the fellow disappearing into the woods.

“Merry! Where are you?” Shilo was at the door, backlit by the overhead light.

I limped back to the door of the butler’s pantry and gasped, “Call the cops!”

Shilo had her cell phone, and dialed 911—she got a connection, miracle of miracles, maybe because it was the middle of the night—and told the operator we were at Wynter Castle, and relayed in brief what I said had happened. We then sat in the kitchen with the door locked, and waited. And waited. Long enough that the excavator sputtered to a stop, out of fuel, I suppose. Gradually my anger and panic turned to just anger at the lackadaisical attitude of the local constabulary, so when the sheriff’s car finally pulled up to the castle, I strode outside to the lane.

As Virgil Grace climbed out of the car, I stormed over to him and said, “What exactly is the point of coming now, an hour after the hole digger left?”

“Pardon me for not coming immediately, Miss Wynter, ma’am,” he said, with a laconic, weary edge to his voice. “But I had a domestic, and trying to convince a beaten, frightened woman to file charges against her drunken boyfriend took precedence over a phantom hole digger.”

In the light from the open doors I could see that he had scratches across his cheek near his hairline, and he looked exhausted. “Okay, all right. I’m sorry for snapping at you. You’re here now,” I said. I told him what I had seen, and we went to look at the machine.

The sheriff played his flashlight over the Bobcat, and noted some blood on the seat. “Well, whatever that animal was, it sure left a mark!”

I looked at the scratches on the sheriff’s cheek and down at the drop of blood, and said, “It sure did!”

*

THE NEXT DAY MCGILL, AFTER GASSING UP THE excavator with fuel he brought with him, was back at it, filling in holes—the sheriff didn’t swab the blood he found or check for fingerprints, since there was no way the county was going to do blood testing or any other forensic examination for the “crime” of someone starting up an excavator illicitly, he said—and I knew I had to get down to work if I was going to have a couple dozen muffins for Gogi Grace when she came that afternoon.

“I wish I had Granny’s cookbooks here,” I said, standing at the counter and looking at the pile of ingredients uneasily. “The bacon and cheddar muffins yesterday were easy; just a basic, savory muffin recipe. I vaguely remember the proportions necessary for bran muffins, but I wish I was sure.”

McGill came to the door, rubbing his hands together. An unseasonable cold snap had taken hold of the valley. “I smell coffee. Mind if I grab a cup?”

I waved at the percolator on the stove, and Shilo got him a chipped mug from the meager store of dishes.

“We can’t disturb her,” Shilo whispered to him. “She’s trying to figure out a recipe. She promised Mrs. Grace two dozen bran muffins for the old-age home today.”

“Ah, muffins! For Golden Acres? That’s swell.”

Shilo stared at him. “Did you say that was ‘swell’? I feel like I just stepped back into the fifties.”

McGill grinned at her, then sidled up next to me. “Say, Merry, I’ve always wondered, what’s the difference between a muffin and a cupcake?”

Shilo groaned, hand on her head in dramatic fashion. “Oh, you’ve started her up now! Prepare to be lectured. You’ve just enrolled in Muffins 101.”

“Huh?” he said, looking back and forth between us.