“We’ve made a big urn of coffee, and I have some muffins and other things for folks to eat. If you would like to spread the word, everyone is welcome.”
He eyed me and nodded. “Okay. That’s real nice of you.”
“But?”
“Look, I know you’ve been asking questions in town. Stop. Now.”
I watched his eyes, trying to decide what to say. “Maybe you’ll answer a couple of questions for me; then I won’t have to ask other people.”
He sighed and looked skyward. I’d swear there was a hint of a smile on his lips. He looked down at me, his expression softening. “You can ask, anyway.”
Which of all the jumbled thoughts and questions in my head were most important? Maybe if I was a real investigator, those things would fall into order. First things first. I took a deep breath. “Is that body in the tent Rusty Turner?”
“It’s male, that’s about all we know.”
“So it’s possible. Is there anyone else local it could be?”
“No one has been reported missing.”
“Oh.” But I squinted up at him, realizing he hadn’t really answered my question and wasn’t going to. The state police female deputy strolled toward us. Darn. I had a lot more questions.
“Sheriff Grace, we need you for a few minutes,” she said.
“I had a couple of more questions,” I said. “Can we talk later?”
He nodded, then walked away with the deputy.
McGill knew all of the Autumn Vale deputies and even some of the state police officers, and he was introducing Shilo around to them. I should probably join them, I thought, but remembered I had not yet checked off one more thing on my list. I went inside, grabbed the cordless phone, and curled up in one of the cozy chairs Shilo and I had hauled in to the kitchen by the fireplace. I dialed a number from memory, a sudden, desperate need to hear one voice making my movements hasty.
“Hello?” came that familiar, dear, warm voice on the phone.
I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty
“WHO IS THIS? What’s wrong?”
I hadn’t expected to react like I did, and I could hear the panic in my dear friend’s voice. “Pish, it’s all right, it’s me!” I burbled, my tone thick and strange.
“Who . . . Merry? Is that you?”
“Yes!”
“Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you for a week! The stupid phone company keeps saying your line is disconnected. Then I tried your cell phone, but it kept going to voice mail or saying you were unavailable. I tried calling Shilo, but she’s gone, too. I thought an alien had kidnapped you both. Or one of her gypsy relatives. Are you okay, sweetie?”
I took a deep breath, put my head back and closed my eyes, bathing in the flood of his concern. “Yes, Pish, I’m fine. You know the castle I inherited? Well, that’s where I am. I gave up my apartment in the city and moved here.”
“And you didn’t tell me? How could you? Oh, Merry, I thought we were better friends than that!” He always spoke in italics, and in person the emphasis was exaggerated by fluttering hands. All designed to disarm and disorient, I believe, because his laser-focus, blue-eyed gaze is enough to alarm the unwary.
Pish is one of the sweetest people I have ever met, but his goodness is enhanced by a tart sense of humor and well-developed regard for the ridiculous. He’d adore Autumn Vale. What the good people of this town would think of him, I didn’t know. I could picture him in his beautiful Central Park West condo, which he shared with his querulous, elderly mother. He’d be sitting in front of a fireplace as I was, on a cool, September evening, but there would be a crackling fire in his; he’d be drinking cognac and reading Faulkner, or quaffing brandy and chuckling over Tennessee Williams, or sipping pinot noir and leafing through Escoffier. I could hear a recording of Domingo’s version of “Nessun Dorma” in the background, the rich voice rolling through the airwaves.
I sighed. “Darling, it is because I love you that I couldn’t tell you I was moving out of New York. It would have broken my heart to see you upset. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“What about Shilo? Do you know where she is?”
“I called her the morning I arrived, and she took it as an invitation, so she tootled up here in that dreadful vehicle she calls a car.” There was silence for a long moment, and I knew his feelings were hurt that I had called her and not him.
“That is just like our darling scatterbrain,” he said, his tone dry. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, though I’ll hold a grudge for a while and make you suffer.”
“I miss you,” I said, realizing how true that was. I met Pish through Miguel. He was my husband’s financial advisor, a wise decision that had left me a wealthyish widow, which I reversed with my own stupidity. However, my bad-decision days were over. I was not one of those sad folk who stagger from awful situation to awful situation. “I wish you were here right now.”
“Describe the castle, darling. I have been dying to hear about it ever since you inherited it! The real estate listing did it no justice, I’ll bet,” he said.
He, dear man, had advised me right away to go see my inheritance, but I was in the middle of the Leatrice drama at that point, and couldn’t leave New York. That was my excuse, anyway. I was just stunned by the development and afraid of what I’d find. I told Pish all about the castle, and my multitude of troubles, from Tom Turner’s murder up to and including the body in the tent in the arboretum. As I talked, police officers and professionals came and went, grabbing mugs of coffee and handfuls of muffins and treats from the baskets of Binny’s Bakery items. I waited until the kitchen was empty of others, then finally said, “Pish, I called you to check in, and I’m sorry you’ve been worried, but I also have some questions.”
I filled him in on our trip to the Turner Construction trailer, and my discoveries about the shoddy plat and grade school–level renderings of the Wynter Acres plan. Then I told him about what Shilo had discovered: the regular large cash deposits to Turner Construction accounts in the Autumn Vale Community Bank that had no discernible source, given that work had all but stopped in recent months.
“Who would have had the ability to deposit in the account?” he asked.
“Since Rusty’s been gone? Probably just Tom and Dinah.”
“Dinah was not married to Rusty Turner, is that right?”
“No, nor living with him,” I said, beginning to see what he was asking. I thought about our conversation, how Dinah had more or less given up on working at Turner Construction since before Tom died. She seemed a little desperate to find a way to make money. And yet she said she hadn’t been taking a wage from Turner Construction in the last few months. Why, if there was a large amount of money there, as there seemed to be? Did she know where it came from or not? Did she refuse to touch it or take her wage because of the money’s origins? If it was Tom’s, I supposed that would make sense. I shared my thoughts with Pish.
“I don’t want to say too much, my dear, but it sounds to me as if Tom Turner had found a way to make money that had nothing to do with construction, and it may have led to his death.”