“That would be wonderful!” she cried, touching my arm with a practiced club-lady grip. “Thanks, darling, for offering. The oldsters will love them, I’m sure! I’ll be in touch. I’ll come out to the castle tomorrow, shall I?’

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are staying at the castle, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I’ll come out tomorrow . . . oh, say in the early afternoon. I’ll pick up the muffins and you can give me a tour. I’m dying to see the place!” She sailed off down the sidewalk, waggling her fingers in the air behind her.

I stared down the street as some of the locals watched. Binny was in the bakery window, too, and I thought, uh-oh. If she overheard Gogi Grace asking me to bake for her . . . but there was an amused smile on the woman’s face. I smiled back, and Binny chuckled, then moved farther into the dim reaches of the bakery. Why did I have a feeling I wasn’t the first person to be manipulated by Mrs. Grace, when it came to taking care of her “oldsters,” as she called them?

I could have ignored her manipulation. I wasn’t afraid to. But it struck me that Mrs. Grace would be a valuable ally in the clannish town of Autumn Vale. She was the only person who had talked to me with any openness, besides McGill. She probably had a lot of connections in town. And she might even have answers about my uncle and Wynter Castle.

I finished up my shopping in the general store, buying way more than I had intended. Of course I tried to make a friend of the clerk, but she was polite and that was it. As I left, lugging several bags of stuff, I saw the clerk reach for the phone, and wondered if my complete shopping spree would be dissected over coffee among the locals. I wasn’t sure what they would make of muffin tins and maxi pads, but they could have at it.

When I returned “home,” I marched straight to the cavernous castle kitchen, depositing the bags of baked goods, and shopping bags filled with cleaning supplies, overripe bananas, muffins tins, paper muffin liners, and a heap of other staples. On my first tour, McGill had assured me that all the appliances worked, but other than the dirty microwave they didn’t look like they had ever been touched. With an order for two dozen muffins, I would put the oven to the test.

Hands on my hips, I looked around, studying the long expanse of galvanized steel countertop, punctuated by a professional-grade butcher-block section and a deep sink with sprayer attachment. The fridge, empty until now, was a huge, double-door model, probably only three or four years old. “What on earth were you planning, Uncle, and why didn’t you ever do it?” I said out loud. Trying to get into his octogenarian mind was impossible. Maybe the castle would eventually reveal his plans. I shivered. It was going to be strange living alone in this monstrosity. In fact, a lot of things were going to be strange, including trying to adjust to the enormous space. I was accustomed to a New York studio apartment of four hundred square feet. The castle kitchen alone was probably more than that, and the appliances were commercial grade. Maybe Melvyn was planning to convert the castle to an inn similar to what McGill and I envisioned?

The kitchen, at least, had been what was called in city lingo “sympathetically restored,” meaning the exposed stone wall had been left as is, and the fabulous, two-hundred-year-old features had been restored. It was longer than it was wide, and at one end was an enormous fireplace, original, I would bet, judging from the darkness of the bricks. The fireplace was surrounded by bare shelves, painted an antique blue sometime in the last twenty years; the shelving arched up over the empty mantel. But it all looked naked, and seemed soulless to me. The empty shelving was just one part of it, I supposed. What was a kitchen without food? Just another room.

I stared at it for a long minute, considering; what it needed was a seating area, somewhere to cuddle up to the warmth of the fire on a cold day. I would explore the castle and see if there were any suitable chairs, or a settee. If I was going to live here for a few months, I’d need to be comfortable. The shelves needed some rustic touches, maybe oil lamps, some pottery, even old cookbooks, as did the mantel. The working part of the kitchen was more modern: it had to be, for anyone to cook there. In the middle of those stainless steel appliances and work area, was a long, raised worktable with a pot rack overhead. Though it took up too much space in the center, it would be a useful work surface.

Suddenly overwhelmed, I slumped down on a stool and glanced around, tears filling my eyes. I was probably just tired and hungry, but all of a sudden I wondered how I was going to do this. What the hell was I doing in the middle of nowhere, in a castle that I had to find a way to sell? At thirty-nine, I was starting over with no clue of what I was supposed to be doing for the rest of my life, now that my career was busted and no one in the fashion industry would even trust me in their homes, much less working for them. I wasn’t being melodramatic in thinking my career was over, it was simple fact. Leatrice, spiteful and angry, had poisoned the fashion industry well. Even those who didn’t believe her lies just didn’t need to take that chance. I was alone, almost penniless, with a behemoth of a building as my only asset.

I shook off the weariness and depression, slipped on my loafers, and headed outside; fresh air or tea are my cure-alls. Defeat was not an option. Wynter Castle was amazing, but to be sellable it had to present as a viable property with great potential. The more I did to it, the more likely I would be to get a decent payday. With at least a million dollars or so that the castle could fetch if I worked hard, I could head back to the city and maybe start my own business. What kind of business, I wasn’t sure yet, but something.

The double oak door creaked shut behind me and I strolled to the edge of the flagged terrace, looking out over my land. My land. Weird. The castle grounds consisted of several acres (by my questionable judgment) of open land, surrounded by forest on all sides. The only exposed vista was down the laneway, but the lane then curved around a grove and disappeared in the trees.

I tried to visualize this landscape without the holes, but it was tough. I crossed a patch of the long, weedy grass and sidled up to one of the pits, staring down at the dirt and roots. It was at least six feet deep. What on earth was someone looking for? McGill theorized that it had to do with Binny Turner’s missing father, but could she really believe that Rusty Turner’s body was buried on the castle grounds? And that eighty-year-old Melvyn Wynter had managed to kill and bury the poor guy by himself? Sounded far-fetched to me.

And even if all that was true, how could Binny Turner be responsible for digging all of these holes?

As I glanced around, I noticed a pair of glowing eyes trained in my direction. Something moved on the edge of the forest, an animal watching me. I squinted and shaded my eyes with my hand. Whatever “it” was, it was orange. How many native animals are orange? I took a step in that direction, wondering what it would do; it melted back into the forest. Just then I heard rumbling in the distance. Earthquake? As I stared down the lane, a small excavator appeared from around the bend, followed by a disgraceful, rattletrap vehicle that I immediately recognized.

“Shilo,” I shrieked, jumping up and down in glee. I tore off toward the car, trotting to it, then alongside it as it made its way up the lane. My dearest friend in the world—well, one of just two or three—was waving and chirping happily as she tootled up the drive.

Chapter Four