Silence. “And?” I prompted.

Gordy took up the story. “Well, then Mrs. Hooper, who was the organizer, you see, told her she couldn’t collect money for a charity if it wasn’t registered, and made her close up her booth. Miss Openshaw was left with 227 catnip mice and nowhere to get rid of ’em. Ended up giving ’em to the shelter over in Ridley Ridge to give away with every cat adopted.”

“Is that it?”

Gordy and Zeke both looked surprised at my comment. “Caused quite a kerfuffle at the time,” Zeke said, and Gordy nodded in agreement.

Still, the devil’s pawn? Wasn’t that a little harsh over catnip mice? Maybe I just didn’t get the complicated nature of relationships in small towns.

Shilo and I ate our lunch, my head swimming with all the oddball people I was meeting. Autumn Vale was turning out to be one strange little burg, more entertaining than any street corner in the weirdest section of New York. Was it something in the water? Maybe I’d better stick to Perrier, I thought, pushing away my glass of tap water.

“Zeke, back to Dinah Hooper . . . I understand her son, Dinty, lived here with her for a while. When did he leave? And why?”

Gordy sniffed and crossed his arms, while Zeke ruminated for a long moment, then said, “You had to know Dinty. He was a troublesome sort. Him and Tom . . . they didn’t get along at all. Not at all.”

“Okay, so they didn’t get along. Is that why Dinty left town?”

“You could say that. I heard it all,” Gordy said. “Tom, in front of everyone, told Dinty he better keep his shifty eyes off Binny, or he’d give him what for. Dinty called her a name, Tom lit into him, and the next day Dinty packed up his Jeep and headed out of town. Dinah said he had talked about heading out west to Denver to get a job in construction. Autumn Vale didn’t have the right kind of opportunities for a guy like him.”

Zeke rolled his eyes. “Otisville is the only place with opportunities for a guy like that.”

“Otisville?”

“Federal prison,” Gordy filled in.

As Shilo chased down the last scraps of her pancakes, spearing them with little grunts of satisfaction, I rose, strolling over to Junior Bradley. I had no idea how to approach him, but didn’t want to miss the opportunity. “Hi,” I said, then had a brainstorm. I’d ask about my uncle’s desire to create a condo community, and whether zoning had been approved! It seemed like a great conversation starter. “I understand that you’re the local zoning commissioner. My name is Merry Wynter, the new owner of Wynter Castle. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment.” I was about to slide into the empty seat opposite him when he abruptly stood up, folding his newspaper and tucking it under his arm.

“I don’t talk business in public. Call and make an appointment,” he said, towering over me. He was a big guy. He thrust a card at me just before striding off, weaving through the variety-store section at the front.

Business card in hand, I stared off after him. What a grouch! I had hoped to start with the zoning, then slide in a couple of questions about his relationship with Tom Turner, but maybe it would be better if I did so in private. Hannah had presented him as a possible killer, though, so I sure wasn’t going alone. I’d drag someone with me, preferably male; maybe Jack McGill.

Junior Bradley didn’t look like someone I wanted to mess with, but I could understand why he didn’t want to talk in the local luncheonette. Talking business in the open in a small town was probably not a good policy unless you wanted that business spread through the gossip mill. Anyway, I was sure that Virgil would have heard about the fight between him and Tom, and questioned him about it. But it still would be worth my while to talk to Junior. I returned to my table but just shook my head when Shilo asked me what happened.

Gordy and Zeke ambled off, stopping at our table to say an awkward good-bye, as Gordy ogled a final eyeful of Shilo. Zeke angled for an invitation to the castle, and I brushed off his hints by saying that once I had some of the changes made and the cleanup accomplished, I’d be inviting the whole town to come have a look.

After lunch we headed back to Wynter Castle. Virgil and the team were still there, and I didn’t even want to think about what they were doing, or if they had removed Tom Turner’s poor, broken body. It was like this sore spot that I was avoiding touching or acknowledging, too awful to even think about. But as Shilo turned off the car—it always stuttered and yammered and banged before it actually shut down—Virgil headed toward us. We got out and waited, leaning on the hood.

“Your car is still hammering away,” I commented to Shilo. “You ought to have that thing looked at.”

She frowned and squinted at the car. “It’s getting worse. Oh well, if it breaks down, it breaks down.” Her insouciance was part of her charm.

“Ladies,” Virgil said, striding up to us. “I need to ask you a few questions.” He frowned and looked over at Shilo’s car. “You realize your car is making a funny noise?”

“Ignore it,” I said airily. “It always makes funny noises.”

He cocked his head. “Does it always yell ‘Help, help, help’?” He raced around to the trunk. “Open this up!” he yelled.

Shilo, eyes wide, got out her key, dashed to the rear of the car, and jiggled it in the lock. I joined them just as the trunk lid sprang open and we found a girl curled up in the trunk, gasping for air.

She clambered out and blasted us with an icy look. “I almost died in there!” she yelled.

Fists on his hips, Virgil glared at us. “You want to explain this?”

“I know you!” I said, pointing at the girl. “You’re Lizzie; I met you at Golden Acres. Shilo, why did you have Lizzie locked in your trunk?” I know I shouldn’t have said that; it made Shi look bad. But it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing she’s ever had in her trunk. I’m just saying . . . you never know with Shilo.

“I didn’t put her in there,” she said pointedly, and switched her glare to the girl. “Why were you in my trunk?”

Note she did not ask her how she got in there, she asked why. I told you about her car being a rattletrap, and that extended to the anti-theft system; a teething two-year-old could pop that lock.

“How should I know you didn’t have one of those lock-release thingies that are supposed to prevent people from dying in freaking car trunks,” Lizzie grumbled, brushing off her plaid skirt and black leggings. “You should clean it out, you know,” she said, pulling a wad of old gum out of her frizzy, dark hair. She tugged her hair back into an elastic. “It’s like a landfill site in there, and smells like a petting zoo.”

“Well, pardon me! I didn’t know anyone was moving in.”

Virgil had been monitoring the exchange with a wary look, which had now turned weary. “Lizzie, why did you climb in the trunk?”

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, duh . . . so I could come out here and get a good look at the castle. I’ve been out walking in these woods a lot,” she said, waving her hand around to take in the whole of the Wynter Woods, “but I’ve never been able to break into . . . uh . . .” She trailed off, and shifted gears, finishing with, “That is, I’ve never gotten to see the inside of the castle.”

She had a camera around her neck, a really good camera. I squinted at her with, I’ll admit it, some suspicion. I was remembering Gogi’s story about the girl having to do community service because she spray-painted on gravestones. “Why didn’t you just ask me if you could come out and have a look?”

She shrugged. Virgil’s puzzled gaze shifted from one of us to the next.

“Shi, why don’t you take her inside and feed her muffins,” I suggested, “while I talk to the sheriff.”

“Sure. Want to meet my bunny?” Shilo said, leading the girl away.

“As long as that’s not code for something weird,” Lizzie said, trudging after her.