Shilo stared at her, openmouthed. The woman tugged her shapeless dress down over her hips and clumped over to her bicycle, kicking up gravel.
“What were you doing down there?” I repeated.
“This is where your uncle died, you know,” she said, pointing down the hill, her mousy hair fluttering out of a tight bun. “Now, you tell me why his car went off the road right there?”
“It was early morning, still dark in November. He was an old man with bad sight. The road was icy—”
“No it was not! It was not icy!” Her voice shook.
“Okay,” I said, puzzled by her vehemence. “What are you trying to say?”
She righted her bike and got on.
“Wait! Don’t go yet,” I said, standing in front of her, both hands out in a “stop” gesture. I wasn’t going to let her put me off with her verbal surprise attack. “What are you implying? Why are you here? Were you looking for something down there?”
“No,” she said, hopping off, wheeling the bike around me, and hopping back on—she was very agile for an older woman wearing a dress—and cycling down the hill, back toward the village.
“What is going on?” I yelled after her. She picked up speed and disappeared around the bend of one of the switchbacks in the road. “This whole town is wacko,” I grumbled, moving over to where she had emerged. I looked down the hill and saw nothing but her path, and the broken saplings.
“What do you think she meant, talking about it not being icy on the morning your uncle died?” Shilo came up beside me and stared down the hill.
“Good question.” I thought about it. Someone—who was it?—had said that Melvyn was headed to Rochester that morning. But if he had been headed to Rochester or anywhere away from town, he would not have been on this winding road heading into Autumn Vale. Where was he going in town? And why? “I just don’t know.” We headed back to the castle.
It rained heavily overnight and into the morning, but it finally began to clear midmorning. It was almost noon when I took a cup of coffee out to survey the property, before McGill and Lizzie arrived. In the distance I saw that spot of orange again, closer this time. And he wasn’t moving. I watched for a while but the animal still didn’t move.
I’d seen the orange cat often enough since I’d been at the castle, but never for too long. He had come closer each time, but never close enough for me to go up to him. He usually melted back into the woods, as if he wanted me to follow him. If it really was Uncle Melvyn’s ginger cat, Becket, then he was one remarkable dude to live for ten months on his own. My friend joined me outside.
“Shi, do you think that’s Becket?” I asked, pointing to the lump of orange. Suddenly it did move and it sat up, staring toward me. I handed my coffee cup to Shilo. “Just wait . . . don’t follow me. I’m going to try to get closer.” Over the next twenty minutes, I approached ever nearer to the cat, inching closer and closer. He looked like he was ready to bolt, but he didn’t.
McGill roared up to the castle in his Smart car and screeched to a halt. Lizzie bolted out of the car, whirling and yelling—loud enough that even across the field I could hear her clearly—at McGill, “You’re an idiot, you know that?” She stomped into the castle.
The cat streaked away, limping. Damn! There was probably something wrong with his paw or leg, and that was why it had stayed as I approached. I returned to the courtyard in front of the castle where Shilo and McGill were in conversation. “What the heck happened?” I said, now in a peeved mood.
McGill shrugged. “I was just telling Shilo, I don’t have a clue. I was making conversation, and she suddenly howled like a banshee!”
“What exactly did you say?” Shilo asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, McGill, you have to remember,” I pleaded.
“He asked me if I was planning on taking photography in college,” Lizzie said. She had emerged from the castle and stood on the top step, arms crossed, a sullen look on her face.
Shilo, McGill, and I exchanged puzzled looks. I piped up, “And that was a rotten thing to say because . . . ?”
“Well, duh! I’m never going to be able to go to college. How will I? My grades suck, my grandma is old and poor, and my mom is a whore. It’s never going to happen!”
That was a whole lot of trouble unloaded right there. But I picked the one thing I did know about. “Lizzie, hold on!” I said, hand out in a pacifying gesture. “You say your grades suck? How bad?”
“Some Bs, more Cs. Why?”
I hesitated, then said, “You know, those applying for arts scholarships don’t always need great grades in academics. Art schools are more focused on performance. If you’re good—and I already know you’re a great photographer—they will primarily consider your portfolio of work when determining scholarships. And you’ve got time to think about it and plan.”
“Really?”
“Really. Come on in, both of you, and have lunch before we get started.” I cast one look at the field, but Becket was gone. Now I was worried about him. If he had an injury and it got infected . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
We had soup and muffins, my go-to meal for any occasion, and then McGill powered up the Bobcat—Virgil had cleared the way for him to use the excavator rather than trying to get another one—and moved across the open section of the property to the back edge of the field. He was starting with the farthest holes this time and moving back toward the castle. At least now I knew there would be no new holes. I chastised myself as soon as I thought that, but it was true.
“Are you coming with Lizzie and me, Shi?” I asked.
She bit her lip and cast her gaze out toward McGill. I was surprised. My friend was quirky and flighty. No man had ever been able to pin her down, but in this case, McGill didn’t even seem to be trying. He was smitten, clearly, but she was, too. I didn’t see the attraction, but she knew him much better than I did by now.
“Decision time,” I prompted.
“Nah, I’ll stay and do the dishes. You two go on.”
We set out across the field, wading through the long grass that I hoped would soon be gone, the growl of the Bobcat fading as we got to the woods and moved past the damp, tall weeds along the edge. Lizzie hadn’t said a word for a half hour. I told her about my uncle’s cat, and my fear that he was hurt.
“If you see him, tell me. I’m worried about him.” There appeared to be a couple of old paths through the woods—they branched out and zigzagged across each other—and Lizzie hesitated, frowning and bringing her camera up to her eye. Then she set off down one path. I doubted she knew where she was going, but I made a mental note of where we had come in, and followed.
Some trees had tags, I was surprised to see, and some even had plaques down at their base, obscured through the years by plant material. I knelt and uncovered a few, as we went. The variety was astounding, with several different types of each species of tree. There wasn’t even just one kind of oak; according to the plaques, there was burr oak, black oak, English oak, and more. Who knew? But the arboretum, if that’s what this was, was badly overgrown; even I could tell that. And the trees had been planted too close together, it seemed to me, as if the planner hadn’t considered the size of the trees as they grew. There were dead trees that would need to be cut down and removed.
After a half hour of walking and no talking, I finally asked, “Do you truly know where we’re going?”
“Yeah.”
We wandered for another twenty minutes though, before I finally had a sense that she was following a path she recognized. It had probably taken her time to get her bearings, because she would not have ever entered the woods from the castle grounds before. There was a path from the road, she said, and that is how she always got in. The forest thinned, more light from overhead leaking through the canopy. We came to a small clearing, and there, as she had said, was a wretched, moldy, nylon tarp half fallen over a thick, mossy log. A mildewed and broken tent was on the opposite side of a fire pit from the tarp. The fire pit—just a ring of rocks—held the remains of charcoaled logs, burned tins, and other refuse.