“Don’t go mentioning Turner Wynter around Binny,” Gordy said, joining us at the curb.

“There’s a lot of bad feelings there,” Zeke added. “Tom was sure in a tizzy about it all, the lawsuits and such. Don’t know what’ll happen now that they’re all dead.”

“I’ve heard about the lawsuits; what were they about?” I asked, interested in the gossips’ take on the situation.

Gordy and Zeke explained in their tag-team manner that there was once a plan for Turner Wynter to develop Wynter Acres, using some of the land attached to Wynter Castle. It devolved into lawsuits slung at each other, with both Rusty Turner and Melvyn Wynter claiming that the other man had cheated him. Other than that, they didn’t appear to know the details of who sued who, or about any possible resolution.

“Y’know, you’ll probably have to settle the lawsuit,” Zeke said, hitching his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “Along with Binny.”

“Me?” I squawked, taken aback. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“Your land now, your lawsuit,” Gordy said, rocking back on his heels.

“But there’s no one left to continue against!” Shilo exclaimed.

I saw both young guys shutter like blinds, and their gaze became shifty.

“I guess that’s so, isn’t it, Zeke?” Gordy said.

“Mighty interesting, that,” Zeke said. “Mighty interesting.”

And with that, the two cast me one long, thoughtful look, and ambled off down the sidewalk with their heads together, chattering like gibbons. Great. I felt like I was now back in the center of some kind of local suspicion.

“We’re going to visit a certain lawyer,” I said to Shilo.

Silvio was in, and Shilo and I entered, but this time he seemed out of sorts. “What do you want this time, Miss Wynter?”

And he had been so friendly last time! “I take it you’ve heard about Tom Turner’s death in my yard?” I said, steeling myself against hurrying in the face of his irritation.

He nodded.

“People are suspicious, it seems, of my connection to the whole case because of those darned lawsuits. Can’t we resolve things, now that it’s all water under the bridge?”

He sighed heavily, very much the put-upon legal eagle. “There is nothing I can do about it, I told you. Nothing to do with me.”

“The point is, it is a complication in the estate.”

“Yes. It’s unfortunate. Rusty and Mel started out working together on Wynter Acres, and it all seemed so promising. It was to be a housing development meant to attract retiring baby boomers who wanted to live in the country but have the convenience of condo living. Then Mel accused Rusty of cheating him and it all went to hell in a handbasket. Though I could not get legally involved, I was trying hard to mediate between those two bullheaded, old men.”

“Until Rusty disappeared and Melvyn died.”

He nodded. “I don’t even know where everything stands. It’s all in limbo until we know the legal determination in Rusty’s death or disappearance.”

“In other words, it could go on forever,” I said. “What does that mean to my wanting to sell the estate?”

He shrugged.

Anger was building up in me. “So you can’t even tell me if I’ll be able to sell the estate, is that it?”

“Oh, you should be able to sell, but there will be conditions attached to the sale.”

Great. Buyers just love conditions. His next appointment, a young woman, entered, and we were forced to leave, me feeling kind of huffy about the whole thing.

“We may as well find this library folks keep telling me about,” I said. Shilo and I walked the streets of Autumn Vale, the locals watching and whispering about our every step.

Finally, along a side street in the downtown section, up a sloped alley, I saw the sign I had noticed before, hanging out from the building. Autumn Vale Library it read, in curly script that looked hand painted. According to the placard attached to the wall it was open, so Shilo and I strolled up the wheelchair access ramp to the door and entered to the sound of weeping.

Shilo gripped my elbow, as full of consternation at the woeful, echoing sounds as I. It was like the place was haunted by a mournful ghost. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I looked around the cavernous, gray room lined with bookshelves, most not above shoulder height, and finally saw what looked like a desk.

We approached. Behind the desk was a girl in a wheelchair. I say “girl” because at first glance she appeared to be no more than ten or eleven. But on closer inspection, as she turned red-rimmed eyes—beautiful, luminous, huge eyes—toward me, I could see within them a woman’s full measure of pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked my voice faltering.

She stared at me for a long moment, then said, “When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of a book, but translated into a better language.”

Shilo said “Huh?”

But I’d heard or read the quotation before. I closed my eyes; it took me a moment, but I finally replied with the next, more famous part of it, my voice softly echoing up into the gray shadows of the library’s upper reaches. “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” It was from a prose piece written by John Donne, and was the source of Hemingway’s most famous title.

The girl bowed her head for a long moment, and we were silent. But she looked up, and said, “It’s true, isn’t it? He’s dead. Tom Turner is gone.”

“You were friend of Tom’s,” I said.

She nodded, her large, gray eyes fixed on me. “He was a good man, despite what others say. Despite what you may think.”

“You mean because of my run-in with him?”

She nodded.

“You know who I am.”

She nodded again.

“I just wanted him to stop digging holes on my property,” I said, on a sigh. “I really wish it hadn’t ended this way. I’m sure you feel the same.”

“I do . . . I’m so s-sad! That’s where he died, isn’t it?” Her breath caught on a sob, but she was trying to be brave. I could tell.

It was my turn to nod.

Shilo was looking back and forth between us. “I think I’m going for a walk,” she said.

Once Shi was gone, the girl said, “I suppose you’re here to learn about the Wynters of Wynter Castle.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I said. “That can wait. Why don’t we talk about Tom Turner, first. I know so little about him or anyone here. You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. What’s your name?”

“Hannah,” she said. “It means ‘God has favored me.’”

She smiled through tears, and she was beautiful. I pulled a chair over to sit beside her, and we talked. Hannah was a little person, tiny of frame and fragile as a bird, with pale skin like bone china. But her heart was huge, too big for her small frame, and she seemed filled with an eager grace. I don’t know how else to express it. A beautiful yearning poured from her, expanding to fill the dim recesses of her library.

“How did you come to work here, in the library?”

“It’s my library; I applied for a grant, I talked them into it, and I got the place renovated. I’ve always loved reading,” she said. “When I was a kid, I read a book The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak. It opened up the world to me. I’ve been to Cameroon with Gerald Durrell, and to Yorkshire with James Herriot. Isak Dinesen showed me Kenya. I’ve been around the world with books as my traveling cloak.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “I’ve lived and breathed in Regency England with Jane Austen. I’ve walked the Yorkshire moors with Emily Brontë and the streets of Victorian London with Charles Dickens. Books are a marvelous transport. Tell me about why you were crying for Tom Turner.”

Her smile illuminated the shadows. “We were going to be married.”

Chapter Ten