“Turner Wynter was a real estate development company,” I reiterated. “Was it going well? This is kind of the boonies for development, especially with the economy the way it’s been for the last few years.”

“I won’t say they got along well,” Gogi, said, her well-shaped brows raised. “There was quite a bit of trouble in the last little while before Melvyn died, some lawsuits about the business. Most of the townsfolk sided with Rusty because no one got along with Melvyn except me and Doc English, one of my residents.”

“Things got that bad?”

“Two men like Rusty and Melvyn were never going to work together well. Things got pretty heated. Virgil had to step in a couple of times, because the two old fellows got into fisticuffs.”

“Fistfights?” I said. “Really? What did they do, a swing and a miss, or was it walkers at dawn?”

Shilo snorted, but Gogi only smiled. “You’d be surprised the damage a couple of old guys can do to each other. Believe me, I’ve had to deal with it at my home. And even though Rusty was not as old as Melvyn, he’s the one who ended up on the short end of the stick. Your uncle was not afraid to whip out a rifle to defend his property. That’s one of the things that made me wonder . . .” She shut her mouth and shook her head. “Never mind.”

“No, go on . . . what were you going to say?” I asked.

She stared at me for a moment, but when she spoke again it was about the night Rusty Turner disappeared, and how my uncle Melvyn died, exactly one month later. Rusty was just there one day, and gone the next, she said. All kinds of rumors swirled, but his girlfriend, Dinah, appeared heartbroken and said she didn’t know where he went. One story was that he had removed a large amount of cash from the bank, and called someone he knew from the city; he was on the run, some said. But no one knew for sure. Tom Turner swore Melvyn had murdered him, at last, after all their fights, and buried him somewhere on the property.

Then on an icy day in late November, an early frost slicking the road on the rocky ridge, Melvyn was driving; no one ever knew where or why so early in the morning. It was thought that he lost control on a bend and went off a cliff, his car exploding in flames when it hit the bottom, near the river.

“But I knew Melvyn fairly well,” Gogi said, leaning across the table. “Why was he driving that time of morning? Even though he’d gone a little peculiar, he still knew he was getting on, and that his skills weren’t what they used to be. And where was he going? I just don’t believe he was out there alone. Or if he was, that he went off that cliff by accident.”

“Are you implying that he was murdered?”

She nodded and pursed her lips, sitting back in her chair. “But no one, not even my own son, will take it seriously.”

Chapter Six

I HATED TO say it, but had to. “Maybe that’s because it’s not murder.”

Gogi shrugged, an elegant insouciance in her manner. “I suppose no one will ever know, but I’ll always believe Melvyn’s death wasn’t an accident.”

There was no real answer to that, and we sat in awkward silence for a long minute. “I’m curious about Binny Turner, the owner of the bake shop,” I finally said as I got up to make a pot of tea. I was coffeed out, and needed my caffeine in a gentler form. “I get the impression she won’t make anything she deems ‘ordinary.’ What gives with that?”

“What are you talking about?” Shilo asked.

We both explained Binny Turner’s bake shop to Shilo, who said, “She made the focaccia we had for breakfast? Why doesn’t she just open a bakery in New York? I’d sure go there.” Shilo, like many models, loves to eat, and irritatingly does not gain an ounce. Superfast metabolism, she’s always said.

“She seems to have a mission to get the people of Autumn Vale to broaden their tastes.”

Gogi smiled and nodded. “Her dad put her through cooking school and she apprenticed for a year in Paris. But she’d get a lot more people in if she made some other goods, like muffins and peanut butter cookies.”

“She seemed pretty busy.”

“Only because she sells her wares for too little. If she sold them for what they were worth, no one would come in.”

“Hmm, you’re right there,” I agreed. “But costs must be a lot lower here than if she had a shop in Manhattan.”

“Maybe. She lived with her mom for most of her life, but after her dad offered to put her through school, they got closer.”

“And then he disappeared. Must be tough on her.”

Gogi shook her head, and said, “I feel for the girl, I really do.” She watched me get up and toss a tea bag into a saucepan, and said, “Merry, why don’t you open that housewarming gift I brought?”

“Okay,” I said, and retrieved it. I set it on the table and took the gorgeous, pink gauze bow off the large robin’s egg–blue box, then lifted the lid. There, nestled in pink tissue, was a teapot—and not just any teapot, but a real Brown Betty. I lifted it from the box and smiled.

Shilo stared at it, her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, while Gogi watched.

“Thank you,” I said, not trusting the steadiness of my voice to say more.

“Do you like it?”

“I do. So much!”

“Do you know what it is?” she asked.

Shilo laughed out loud. “Who doesn’t know what a teapot is? Do you think we’re from the Antarctic or something?”

Gogi stifled a laugh while I shot my friend a look. “It’s a Brown Betty,” I answered. “It looks just like the one my grandmother used to make tea for all her Village cronies in our apartment in New York. Every Friday afternoon, her old friends would come around and they would have tea and ‘muffings,’ as I called them when I was little.” My vision blurred, and before I knew it I was sobbing, great wrenching, embarrassing sobs.

“Oh, no, what did I . . . is she okay?” I heard Gogi say.

“I don’t know,” Shilo said. “I’ve never seen her do this before, not even when her husband died!”

Two sets of arms were soon around me, and I just let it all go, the years of pent-up anguish that I had been holding onto even through my most recent tribulations, the accusations of theft leveled at me by someone I had once considered a friend. Stupid that a teapot finally broke my control, but that’s what happened. To my surprise I could feel and hear that the other two women were sniffling and sobbing, too.

After a minute, I blindly reached out and someone—probably Gogi, because Shilo was never prepared for anything—pressed a tissue into my hand. I dabbed my eyes, carefully pressing the tissue under them to staunch the flow of tears and keep the inevitable trails of mascara to a minimum, then blew my nose.

“Feel better?” Gogi said, her lovely pale eyes on mine. She smiled gently.

I could see no evidence that she had wept, and wondered if I was wrong after all. Shilo had tears still pooling in her eyes as she mournfully gazed over at me. I took a deep breath, cradled the Brown Betty in my arms, and said, “You know what? I do feel better.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t apologize for crying,” Gogi said. “I’ve always wondered why men think of crying as a weakness, when it is what helps women vent, then stand up and do what needs to be done. It’s a sign of strength, not weakness.”

“Then I must be a really strong woman,” Shilo said with a long sniff.

Gogi handed her another tissue, and my friend blew her nose. “So what happened to your grandmother’s Brown Betty?” the older woman asked.