“We call this the library.”

A pudgy teenager with dark, frizzy hair pulled back in a tight ponytail carried in a tray laden with cups, sugar, milk, and spoons. She set it on the table in the corner. When she straightened, she noticed Gogi, and her sullen expression, mouth turned down in resentment, changed to one of uncertainty.

“Pardon me a moment,” Gogi said, then crossed the room and took her aside, speaking to her for a few minutes. The girl nodded, wiped away a tear, and nodded again. When they were done, the girl impulsively reached out and hugged Gogi. After that, her expression lighter, she went to each lady and gentleman in the room and offered tea or coffee.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Gogi watched the girl for a long moment, then drew me aside. “I wouldn’t normally say anything; I try not to let people become prejudiced before they meet her, you know. She’s here on community service,” she murmured. She met my gaze, and answered the question in my eyes. “Graffiti. She was caught in the cemetery spray-painting awful slogans on gravestones.”

“Is this the right place for her?” I asked, a little shocked that they would put her with the elderly.

“Oh, I think so, with careful supervision, of course. In fact, I asked for her. I followed the case in the local paper, and when I learned that she had been abandoned by her mother and left in the care of her grandmother, who no longer could control her, I knew she was going to end up in a group home. I was afraid she’d never learn or understand why she was angry. She needs to figure that out if she’s going to get past it.”

I was silent for a long minute as I watched the girl caught by one old gentleman, who grabbed her arm and asked her something. She looked like she was ready to flee, but one look from Gogi kept her in place. She sat down, and before long the old man was talking to her intently, and she was listening. Truly listening; I could tell.

“That’s Hubert Dread. He has the most interesting stories. Not all of them are true, but they are interesting.”

“So, you think her graffiti problem was a result of . . .” I raised my eyebrows, a question in my tone.

“Fear. Anger. She was raging against living with an old woman who didn’t understand her, and yet at the same time she was afraid of losing her grandma.” Gogi sighed and shook her head. “That’s an oversimplification, and I don’t mean to play armchair psychiatrist, but it’s a beginning. She seems a little better already. It was a gamble; working here could have made her more angry, but it’s turning out the way I hoped.”

As Gogi led me to an alcove to sit, an old man wandered in, the one wearing the sunbonnet.

“He does live here!” I said. “Who is that fellow?”

“Well, actually, that is someone I’d like you to meet,” Gogi said. She went to him and took his arm, saying something as she led him over. “Merry, this is Doc English. Doc, this is Merry Wynter, Melvyn’s niece, the one who inherited the castle.”

His pouched blue eyes, filmed by cataracts, lit up and he put one gnarled hand on my arm. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You’re the one asked me where Wynter Castle was a few days ago. Scared the crap out of me; I thought you were a ghost, that early in the morning.”

I glanced at Gogi, then back at the old guy. “Doc, you do know you’re wearing a lady’s straw sunbonnet, right?” I said. I didn’t mention the pink-plaid sweater.

He grinned, his own real teeth a kind of yellow and spotty collection in his mouth. “I sure do. Nice girl, the nurse this morning, but she said I’d get a melanoma if I didn’t wear a hat. So I grabbed the first one I saw. Then she said I’d catch cold if I didn’t wear a sweater, so I borrowed hers. Then I headed out for my constitutional. If I walk every day,” he explained to me, “I’ll never lose the ability.”

I chuckled. He had a point, and an interesting one it was. That explained the random selection of headgear.

“You’re the one made us the muffins, hey?” he said, eyeing me. “You making more?”

“I am.”

“Bran’s good . . . keeps the pooper working . . . but what about carrot?”

“I love carrot! I’ll make some for the next batch.”

“Doc, Merry had some questions about Melvyn. Could she ask you about her uncle?”

“Sure. Get me some coffee instead of that colored water the girl is bringing around, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Chapter Eight

"I’LL GET HIM some of my private stash,” Gogi said. “We share a love of cappuccino!” She trotted away, her paisley scarf fluttering behind her.

“What do you want to know?” Doc asked, after I made sure he was comfortable in an armchair by the wall of books.

I thought about it for a minute. What did I want to know? “What was my uncle like? I only met him once, and that was just for a few minutes.”

“Yeah, your mother was a pip, hey? Didn’t take to old Mel too good.”

“So you knew about my very brief trip here,” I said, and he nodded, his expression neutral. “Do you know why they argued?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

The young girl, done with her conversation with the old fellow, brought the tray of mugs around and asked if we wanted a drink. I said yes, but Gogi came back into the lounge at that moment with a special mug for Doc.

“Here you go; don’t say I never do anything for you,” she said, dropping him a wink. “You two okay here?”

I nodded as the girl brought me a mug of coffee. “Thank you,” I said, and she offered a hint of a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lizzie,” she said.

“Well, thank you, Lizzie, I appreciate the coffee.”

The girl went on to the next set of folks. Gogi nodded. “Okay, I’ve got a lot to do before lunch; if you two are comfortable, I’ll see you again, right?”

“I’ll have another batch of muffins for you tomorrow,” I said. “Two dozen carrot and the same of apple spice, maybe.”

Doc sipped his coffee and closed his eyes. “Good stuff. Just what the doc ordered,” he muttered. When he opened his eyes, he fixed his gaze on me. “You look a lot like your mother.”

“You saw her?”

“Nah, saw photos. Mel kept one in his room of you with your mom and dad.”

I knew the photo he meant; there weren’t that many. It was of me and my parents on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. My father I only remembered vaguely as a shadowy, comforting figure. “My dad spent time at the castle, didn’t he?”

“He was a great kid,” Doc said with a reminiscent grin, showing his yellowed teeth. “Broke his arm jumping off the parapet once; thought he could fly.”

“Honestly?” I was uneasily aware that my knowledge of my dad was so sketchy, I didn’t even know whether he was normally a daredevil kind of guy. A little overwhelmed, I blinked back tears, which had begun to well.

Doc regarded me with sympathy in his old, rheumy eyes. He had surrendered the sun hat, but still had on the pink-plaid sweater. I cleared my throat, but found I couldn’t say another word for the moment.

“You know, we don’t hafta talk about it all at once,” he said, and patted my hand. “You can come back and ask about your pop another time. ’Bout Melvyn, too. Why don’t we talk about the castle, first? You planning on keeping it?”

“I don’t see how I can. What would I do with it? How could I afford to keep it?” Even if I wanted to stay in remote Autumn Vale, I thought, but did not add.