“I don’t know Mrs. Hooper very well. She comes to Golden Acres sometimes. She used to have her son take people for walks . . . you know, push their wheelchair down the block and back.” Hannah chuckled. “That was no fun for Dinty, nor the resident!”

“Why not?”

“You had to know Dinty Hooper. He was a grumpy guy. When he finally took off, everyone in Autumn Vale heaved a sigh of relief.”

“You must talk to Miss Openshaw quite a lot, given all the books she borrows. What do you know about her?”

“Let’s see, she lives alone since her brother died, except for her cats. She works at the bank, pretty much the only teller other than a part-time girl who works on Fridays.”

“Does she drive?” I asked, remembering her on her bike up near Wynter Castle.

“She rides a bike everywhere.”

“But you don’t know for sure that she doesn’t know how to drive.”

“I guess not.”

I watched a pair of elderly women stroll arm in arm down the sidewalk, one with a cane. My mind wandered, and I wondered what my mother and grandmother would have been like had they lived. Would my grandma be one of these octo-or nonagenarians, living for muffins and tea, and Random Quote Day? I’d love to be able to visit my grandma, do crafts and drink tea with her, take her for car rides.

My mother would be in her sixties, and probably still protesting. What would she think of my inheriting Wynter Castle and trying to maximize some profit from it? I wish she were around to tell me what it was she had against Melvyn Wynter. Once things settled down—and by “things” I meant two murder investigations on my property—I wanted to talk to Doc English again about my uncle, learn more about him.

A van pulled up to the curb and a middle-aged woman hopped out of the passenger side and waved.

“I have to go,” Hannah said. “That’s my mom.”

I probably had more to ask her, but my mind was fuzzy and I was confused. “Bye, Hannah. I’ll talk to you again soon!”

“Call me if you have any more questions!” She motored down the sidewalk and around to a lift in the back, waving as she centered herself on the lift and trundled into the back of the van.

As Hannah and her parents headed off, Gogi Grace came down the sidewalk and sat down beside me. She looked calm and serene, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Are you okay?” I asked, watching her face.

She nodded. “The doctor is coming to pronounce death. I’m keeping an eye out for him.”

“So . . . the patient died?”

“It was just a matter of time. She slipped away peacefully ten minutes ago.” One tear escaped and raced down her cheek, marking a pale trail in her matte foundation.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “I’m all right. Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

We spoke of my and Lizzie’s discovery of the body in the woods, and she frowned over that. Autumn Vale had occasional missing persons, she said, and those who just left town for greener pastures. That was a fairly common occurrence. But she agreed with me that it was more likely that the dead fellow was a hiker who had either run afoul of a friend he was with, or died of natural causes. The sheriff had told me his head was bashed in, though, so definitely murder. I also told her about meeting Helen Johnson in the bakeshop, along with Isadore.

“They’re both in my book club,” Gogi said. “Helen goes for Christian and Amish romance novels.”

“Amish romance novels?” I said, eyebrows high.

“Oh, yes, they’re very popular with the ladies of the Methodist church. Isadore, on the other hand, reads a bit of everything, kind of a literary omnivore.”

“I noticed. What is that woman’s deal?” I asked. “She always seems so . . . tense.” I explained about my visit to the bank.

“She has a lot of responsibility on her plate. I think she takes her job very seriously.”

“She pretty much said that Simon Grover wouldn’t know how to open the bank without her there.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I want to find out about my uncle’s dealings with the Autumn Vale Community Bank . . . you know, whether there were any outstanding loans, or anything like that. Isadore is either stonewalling me, doesn’t like me, or . . . I don’t know.”

My cell phone chimed and I jumped. It wasn’t a sound I was used to hearing in the dead zone that was Autumn Vale. It was Dr. Ling, telling me that Becket was going to be all right. He was exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, but recovering rapidly. I could take him home.

I sat staring at the phone for a moment. “I guess I have a cat,” I finally said.

“Let me think about things,” Gogi said, “and try to figure out if there are any details I should have shared with Virgil. He really is trying to solve this, you know. Tom was his friend. He doesn’t show it, but this has upset him badly.”

A big, black car pulled up to the home, and an older gentleman got out, grabbing an old-fashioned doctor’s bag from the backseat along with a briefcase.

“That’s the doctor,” Gogi said. She stood, and I did, too. She reached out and pulled me into a hug, then held me away from her. “I hope you figure out a way to stay in Autumn Vale, Merry. This is a good place to live. It took me a while to see that, but I finally did.”

As she met the doctor, hugging him briefly—she was definitely a hugger—and then walked up the path with him, I remembered what the postmistress had implied, but dismissed it. Gogi Grace had not knocked off her husbands for the insurance money and inheritance. It was patently ridiculous.

Chapter Twenty-three

AT THE VET’S office, I was given Becket’s collar and the bill. I paid Dr. Ling’s assistant using a credit card; I needed to save my cash to pay for local labor, because I didn’t think Gordy and Zeke—if they ever decided to come out to work at the castle—would take MasterCard. I bought a case of cat food, too, and litter and a box. It was all in the backseat, while Becket snoozed on the towel on the passenger seat. The vet said he was still weak and would need several days to fully recover. I petted his head and he opened one eye, meowing weakly.

As I drove through town, I noticed Simon Grover getting into what I presumed was his car. It was a vintage, black Lincoln with some dull-black paint concealing what looked like old damage on one side. Damage, on Simon Grover’s black car. It gave me food for thought, I can tell you, since I was still puzzling out the first assignment given to me in Autumn Vale by Gogi Grace: to find out if my uncle was murdered.

I followed Simon out of town—not on purpose, but we were evidently both going the same way—wondering where he and his wife lived. We ascended up and out of Autumn Vale, me following him, still not on purpose. When he finally turned off the highway, though, I was curious, so I turned, too, and followed him at a discreet distance. After a while I wondered, was he even going home? I could be following him all the way to Rochester to visit his troubled son, Booker. That was not a good idea with a sick cat on the front seat. I was slowing, ready to do a U-turn, when I saw him pull into a drive some distance down the road.

This was where the bank manager and Janice lived? It was a side-split ranch house with a double garage, tidy and modern. I had pictured a woman like Janice Grover rattling around in a great, shambling Victorian, stuff everywhere, her love of junk evident in her home, as it was in her shop.