He hesitated. “Not really, but shoot.”

“What happened? All I know is he slid off the road on an icy, November morning.”

“That’s pretty much all we know, too. Old Mel was in his eighties, and his eyesight was not the best. Regardless, he seemed to have taken it in his head to drive the highway at six or so in the morning.”

“It would have been dark at that time.”

Virgil nodded. “We were having a cold snap. The road was practically frozen over.”

“Do you know where he was going?”

“Silvio mentioned that Mel told him he was heading to Rochester for some reason. That’s all I know.”

“So it was just an accident?” I thought of Gogi’s suspicions, and wondered what was behind them. It seemed simple enough to me; an elderly man with poor sight on an icy highway in the dark. It sounded like a recipe for trouble.

“I have no reason to think it was anything else.”

“Where’s the car?”

“Our impound lot. It’s damaged beyond recovery.”

“How did the call come in? What time of day was it?” I asked.

“Early. It was about six a.m. when we got the call from a citizen who was passing by and saw a car off the road. They were concerned, and told us where to find the car.”

“Who was it who called?”

“Not my place to tell you, Miss Wynter. The caller wished to remain anonymous unless called to give evidence at an inquest.”

“And? When is the inquest?”

“We haven’t scheduled it yet. I haven’t gathered all the information I need.”

“Why not?”

No answer from the stone-faced cop. He was being deliberately difficult, and I eyed him with suspicion. Something else clicked in at that moment. I didn’t recall any mention of an insurance settlement in the accident case, so it was not closed, not by any means. “You’re not convinced it was an accident,” I said, suddenly sure of my conclusion. “And you don’t want an inquest until you know the truth. Why? Was there any damage not accounted for by the accident?” I saw by his expression that I had nailed it.

“We’re investigating. I haven’t closed the books on it yet.”

“So there is something about the car-accident theory that doesn’t ring true to you.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Miss Wynter,” he said, his tone frosty, “I said, I’m still investigating. I have no concrete proof that it was anything more than an accident, but there are a couple of minor scrapes of black paint on the back bumper that trouble me. Mel was not a great driver, however. For all I know they could be from a fender bender in the parking lot of a Wegmans in Buffalo!” He stood and walked to his office door, holding it open for me. “And that is all I have to say.”

But as I passed, he grabbed my elbow.

“Merry . . . Miss Wynter, please be careful,” he said, his gaze intense, his voice a growl that sent shivers down to my toes. “I don’t like the idea of you out there at the castle with a killer on the loose. Please reconsider staying in town.”

I pulled away from him, tugged down my jacket—I was dressed for professionalism in a skirt suit—and headed out to the car, where Shilo, out of the car now, sat on a curb, waiting. We got back in and I let Shilo off at Jack McGill’s office—she and the lanky Lothario were getting along like a house afire, it seemed to me—and found a parking spot outside of Binny’s Bakery.

Okay, I thought, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, so I had gone to the police station and demanded to know what they took from the castle. Check that off on the list, and note a big, fat nothing beside what I had learned, other than the fact that Virgil Grace was cute, in uniform or out, and had a sexy voice. Oh, and that my uncle may have been murdered in a hit-and-run accident. Maybe Gogi was right after all, to be concerned.

I stopped at the bakery and told Binny I would be back later to bake—I was going to try some chocolate-walnut and prune Danish muffins—but right then I was going to track down Dinah and find out what, if anything, she could tell me about the financial troubles between my uncle and Rusty Turner. Binny gave me Dinah’s address.

She lived in a little apartment over Crazy Lady Antiques and Collectibles, one of the shops on Abenaki, Binny had told me. I walked down the street toward it, not even sure of what I needed to know, or what to ask Dinah. I guess I was trying to figure out where everyone fit in the scheme of things in Autumn Vale, New York. It was as if three jigsaw puzzles had been tossed into a box together, and none of the pieces I was collecting came from the same one.

As I remembered from my first morning in Autumn Vale, Crazy Lady Antiques and Collectibles was the last shop in a line of conjoined downtown building faces, all brick, some painted, some left natural, and most windows boarded up this far down the block. I had never stopped to look in the window. Wow. I stared in openmouthed awe. There was a jumble of stuff packed into the store window, from petit point dining chairs to a gigantic plant stand in the shape of a dragon. There was new junk, old crap, antiques, and kitsch all sharing space, jammed cheek to jowl as my grandmother used to say.

But I wasn’t there to browse, I was looking for the door to Dinah Hooper’s apartment. I searched to the right and to the left on the old, brick building facade, where there ought to be a door opening to reveal a staircase. In fact, there should be a mailbox or buzzer or something indicating the upstairs apartment, shouldn’t there?

From what Binny had told me, Dinah Hooper had shown up in Autumn Vale two years or so prior. Binny was not in town then; she was still exploring the world of baked goods by apprenticing in a Paris boulangerie. Dinah, following a friend, had come to Autumn Vale looking for a fresh start, apparently, and soon found work at Turner Construction as office manager. She had swiftly moved on to become the boss’s girlfriend, and made new friends in town.

Binny appreciated the kindness she saw in Dinah, and the good care she took of Rusty, who was on several different types of medication. Dinah regulated them, and made sure he kept his doctor’s appointments. In the months before he disappeared, his health had actually improved considerably, Binny said. That was why she was having so much trouble figuring out what had happened to him. Dinah was firm in her belief that Rusty was not dead, but had just left town for some reason, though she claimed not to know why.

Stymied, I stood and frowned at the storefront. Darned if I could find a doorway. I was being watched, too, not just by some of the fine citizens of Autumn Vale from across the street, but also by a woman in the window. Aha! It was the odd woman in purple, Janice Grover, the woman I had first seen in the library and then later at Vale Variety and Lunch. She gestured to me to come in. I stepped up and opened the door, a chime hung over it announcing my entry.

“I’m looking for Dinah Hooper,” I said, as I squeezed past a shelf that was in the way. “I was told her apartment is above the shop?”

“Sure is.” The woman eyed me up and down. “What do you want with her?”

“Why?” I asked.

She grinned. “Now, that isn’t supposed to be what you say. You’re supposed to answer me. Most people do, if you surprise them with a direct question.”

“I’m not most people.” I looked around the shop. It was as crammed full as the front window. “Where did you get all this?”

“Estate sales, closeouts, bargain-basements. Liquidations. Garage sales, flea markets, the dump.” She adjusted a stack of dusty teacups on a shelf. “My husband says I never saw a sale I couldn’t wipe out.”

“Your husband . . .” I searched my memory. “Oh yes! Your husband is the Grand T-something of the Brotherhood of Falcons.”

“Grand Tiercel. And the head of the local Old Duffers chapter—though they never get off their fat behinds to golf—and bank manager. Man never stops going to meetings. You’d think he was afraid to come home!”