“I did. I was his legal representative in estate matters.”

“Why did he leave the castle to me?”

Silvio shrugged. “You’re his niece.”

“I know, but my mom had been estranged from him for well over thirty years. I’m just surprised that he still wanted me to have it.” I watched his face as his gaze shifted away.

He leaned back in his chair and plaited his fingers over his paunch. “One thing you may not know about Melvyn: the family name was important to him. He had me do research. He was pleased that despite your marriage, you kept the name Wynter.”

“But I didn’t. Not really. I took my husband’s name, but when he died I went back to Wynter.” I would have kept his name—I had loved being Mrs. Merry Paradiso—but I went back to my maiden name at the request of his family, who had never been fond of me. His mother blamed me for his staying in the States and dying here.

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

“If he had you do research on me, why didn’t he contact me? I don’t get it.”

The lawyer gazed at me for a long minute. “You know, death catches us all unaware, even an eighty-something-year-old man. I think he planned to contact you once he got a few things sorted out.”

“A few . . . what, like the lawsuits between him and Rusty Turner?”

“You’ve heard about that, huh?”

“Did you represent one of the men? Which one?”

“I was not able to represent either gentleman, since it would have been a conflict of interest in this particular case,” he said, threading his fingers together, the heavy ring on his wedding finger tripping up the action.

“Why?”

“I drew up the partnership papers, so it would have been deemed that I had special knowledge of Rusty’s business that would not necessarily be the case in the general run of things.”

“Who did my uncle use?”

“He retained a lawyer from Ridley Ridge, a very competent fellow . . . can’t recall his name right now.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed. I had hoped for some information on the state of the lawsuits. Well, I had yet to go through my uncle’s papers; maybe I’d find more information there. “What was the nature of my uncle and Rusty Turner’s partnership?”

“Pretty simple, kind of an exploratory company to figure out if it was worthwhile to develop your uncle’s land for a condo neighborhood. That’s all I know,” he said firmly.

Given his desperate plans to try to monetize the Wynter estate, probably so he could keep the castle running, I wondered how Uncle Melvyn would feel about my plan to sell it. Nothing I could do about that, though. I couldn’t keep it. “I’m curious about Wynter Castle. If I’m going to sell it, it might help to write up a little history, you know, of anything important or interesting that happened there. Do you know anything about it?”

“Not a thing. I married into Autumn Vale; my wife is from around here, but I’m not. If you want to know more, maybe you should go to the library. The girl who runs it is a local.”

Now to broach a more delicate subject. “Mr. Silvio, I have heard some local talk that Melvyn was responsible for Rusty Turner’s death, or at least his disappearance.”

“Pfah!” he said, with a wave of one broad, ringed hand. “Gossip. People like to speculate, you know? Melvyn would never have done something like that.”

Okay, now for the even touchier part. “It has been suggested, too, that maybe Melvyn was murdered by the same person responsible for Mr. Turner’s disappearance.”

He sat up straight and glared at me across the desk. “Miss Wynter, I think you’ve been listening to a lot of small-town folk who are bored and find that speculating about murder makes their day more interesting. End of story. Poor old Melvyn was heading to Rochester. He told me he was going to go one day, and I told him to wait until the weather got better, but he was a stubborn old bird and his eyesight wasn’t so good.”

He could be right about bored locals speculating. Even Gogi Grace, as levelheaded as she seemed, could just be in it for the titillation. How much did I truly know about anyone in Autumn Vale? I stood and stuck my hand out. “Thank you for your time today, Mr. Silvio. May I come back if I have further questions about the estate?”

“Sure!” he said, reaching across and taking my hand. “Come back any time. I always like to see a pretty face.”

I smiled automatically at the intended compliment and showed myself to the door. I walked out of the house slash office building and looked up and down the street. I was just steps away from Abenaki Avenue, so I strolled toward it, getting my bearings as I went. Autumn Vale was indeed a “vale,” located in a valley between two rocky prominences. Maybe that was why cell phones did not seem to work, nor did the GPS in my rental.

Or maybe it was just that Autumn Vale is a truly weird little place. I stood at the corner of Abenaki and Wallace and watched the locals go by. There was an assortment of colorful individuals. One elderly fellow wearing an obvious yellowish wig came out of a variety store with a pack of cigarettes. He lifted the wig, balanced a few dollar bills on his bald pate, and plopped the toupee back down. Cool wallet.

I also recognized the old guy I had frightened the first morning in the village, when I mentioned Wynter Castle. He shuffled along, this time wearing a woman’s straw sun bonnet and a pink plaid sweater. I wondered if he was one of Gogi’s folks.

As I stood observing, I saw a big guy in a red-and-black-plaid jacket and unlaced boots strolling down the street. I was close enough that I had a good look at his face, and could see some long, angry-looking scratches from his temple down across his cheek. Interested in anyone showing such wounds, I sprinted to the sidewalk and followed him right up to Binny’s Bakery and inside.

“Binny!” he yelled, and hammered on the counter.

I turned my back and examined the wall of teapots as a group of elderly ladies, all bundled up in woolen coats and hats—overkill on a coolish but still mild September day, but then, I wasn’t eighty years old—entered and crowded around the pastry counter, oohing and aahing over the selection. Maybe Binny had something there about refining the locals’ palates, one pfeffernusse at a time.

The baker came out from the back, politely greeted the group of ladies, and then said, “Tom, do you have to yell and beat on the counter? What do you want?”

“Dinah left me a message; she said to tell you that she lost her key to the office, and could you lend her yours?”

“Why?” Binny asked. “She’s not even working there anymore.”

I half turned around and watched.

“Don’t ask me why she needs it. She just told me to get it.” He put out his hand, palm up, and waggling his fingers. “Hand it over!”

“No! Tell her she can ask me herself if it’s that important.” She turned to her customers and began to help them choose their treats.

The penny dropped and I got who this was. I said, “You’re Tom Turner!”

He looked me over, with a frown. He was a big enough fellow, dressed in stained work pants and dirt-encrusted boots. “Yeah, who are you?”

“Merry Wynter; I own Wynter Castle. Let me guess,” I said eyeing the long, red scratches down his face. “You got those lovely marks when you started up an excavator on my property to dig some more huge holes, and got attacked by a cat!”

His face got red enough to match the scratches and he loomed over me. “What are you talking about?”

“Tom, don’t talk to her!” Binny said, her voice shaking. She watched me, her dark eyes wide with fear. “Don’t say anything.”

“Why not? Afraid he’ll incriminate himself?” I said, trying to egg him on into a confession. “What are you guys looking for on my property? You don’t honestly think my ancient uncle Melvyn did away with your dad and buried him there?”

“You better shut up,” Tom bellowed.