But Mr. Lawyer Silvio . . . I hadn’t even put him in the mix until now. Far from trying to put a stop to the back-and-forth lawsuits between the two old men, as he said he was doing, it appeared—or so the bank manager said—that he had been spurring both men on. But why? The answer that made sense was, to make as much money as he could with the fees he would accrue from one or the other. But Silvio had already told me he represented neither man in the lawsuits, since that would be a conflict of interest.
Did I believe him? It should be easy enough to find out the truth. Or maybe he was making money off the discord somehow. Could I really see Silvio creeping across my property in the middle of the night wielding a crowbar and cracking Tom Turner over the head? I wouldn’t put it past him, especially the creeping part. One thing I had to keep in mind when dealing with anyone was, there could be motives that I just wasn’t seeing because I had not been in town long enough. That went for Mr. Silvio, too. He had not always been an Autumn Vale citizen, but maybe he had been there long enough to have a grudge against Tom Turner. Hannah had said Tom was doing something for a lawyer. If that was Silvio, maybe whatever it was went wrong? Did Tom find something out and threaten Silvio with it?
I had a lot of questions, and very few answers. I wandered outside. McGill was still hard at work, despite it getting darker by the minute and the grim scene of police vans and patrol cars. Shilo talked earnestly to one of the investigators, Miss State Police Khaki Uniform.
The sheriff saw me and approached, full tilt. “Didn’t McGill tell you I wanted to talk to you?”
“Yes, he did.” I looked up at him, examining the line of scruff along his jaw. “If this is twenty questions, it’s my turn. Did you know that you constantly have an unpleasant look on your face? One of these days, you’re going to turn into a grumpy old man with a peptic ulcer.”
I turned away and watched McGill push dirt into a hole not that far away from us. He had been working steady, making progress while I mooned around weeping to old friends on the phone, talking to a hypertensive bank manager, and washing mugs.
The sheriff settled his expression some, and said, “Well, I just thought you’d like to be the first to know. We don’t think the dead body is Rusty Turner.”
I actually felt a leap of joy at that; one thing poor Binny would not have to deal with. But the question remained. “Who else could it be?”
“We’re still working on that. The medical examiner might be able to tell us more.”
I watched Sheriff Grace’s profile; he was a good-looking man, no doubt about it. But his permanent scowl damaged that, and I was serious about him ending up with a peptic ulcer if he didn’t watch it. Looking at it from his viewpoint though, this was serious business and nothing to smile about. And these folks were his friends and neighbors. “You know, it’s probably just the body of some hiker who got lost, set up camp, and had a heart attack in his sleep.”
“I wish I thought that,” he said. “But he has blunt-force trauma to the head, from what the ME says, and in his pockets he had some stuff that makes me think he’s local. I just can’t figure out who the hell it could be.”
Local, and not Rusty Turner. “What did he have in his pockets? A card from a local business? A takeout menu from Vale Variety and Lunch? He could have that kind of stuff and still just be a transient passing through.”
Virgil shook his head, and I knew he wouldn’t or couldn’t answer me.
“It’s getting too dark to do anything, so we’re packing it in. But we came across the other site you and Lizzie found, and we’ve got it cordoned off. We’ll have a team here tomorrow morning to investigate it, in case it holds any answers.”
“Okay.” I watched as he stalked off.
Shilo joined me as the officers packed up and departed.
I told her I had spoken to Pish, and she was happy about that. I then threaded my arm through hers and we reentered the castle. “You and I have a lot to talk over,” I said. “Starting with the fact that I have discovered who Lizzie Proctor is, or at least, who her father is, supposedly. Shilo, Binny Turner has a niece.”
“What? You mean . . . ?”
“Yup. Tom Turner was Lizzie’s father.”
“Wow. Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Neither did I.”
Chapter Twenty-one
I WOKE UP the next day sure of a few things. First, I needed to speak to Junior Bradley again and try to find out what he and Tom Turner had really been fighting about. At the same time, I needed to know about the faulty plats and plans I found at Turner Construction. Who approved them? Who loaned the company money for construction based on them? What lawsuits were truly extant when Melvyn died? Did it have anything to do with those faulty plans, I wondered.
I also needed to get a handle on who I thought might have killed Tom Turner. Despite everyone’s belief in Virgil Grace’s ability to solve the murder, I could not just stand by and wait. After all, nine months later he still had not figured out if my uncle’s “accident” was really an accident. Maybe I could even help, with an outsider’s viewpoint. I wondered what the buzz was in town, especially now, with this body we found yesterday.
As Shilo snored on the other side of the Jack and Jill bathroom door, I showered and dressed comfortably in jeans and a soft, V-neck T-shirt. Then, cup of coffee in hand, I exited the front door, descended from the terrace, and walked down the weedy drive to try to get a better view of the castle and decide what needed to be done first. I turned and squinted, looking over my inheritance. As I had begun to realize, I was going to be at Wynter Castle longer than I had anticipated, and had better start planning for a winter spent in upstate. But I had a couple months of outdoor time left before the unpredictable winds of November set in.
The exterior itself was attractive: old, cut stone, square facade with a turreted look to the rounded extensions at either end, and Gothic-arched windows. The entrance, centered on the long, flagged terrace that wrapped around the ballroom on the west side of the castle, was bland, though, even with those amazing oak doors. It needed something to set it off, to make it stand out. Maybe gardens or potted plants and statuary. The terrace, I had discovered, extended all the way along the far side, and the ballroom’s French doors opened out onto it. That, too, needed something to break up the long expanse.
How was I going to afford any of the upgrades needed? I had to make or borrow enough money to bring Wynter Castle up to a degree of attractiveness for potential buyers. The property would only appeal to someone who could afford to gamble. Wynter Castle was too far away from New York City to make it a spa retreat, and there was absolutely nothing nearby to make it a desirable destination from a tourist’s aspect. Investors would cringe. It needed a buyer with imagination and bucks.
I turned away and wandered the property near the castle, avoiding what I now thought of as the death hole, where crime-scene tape still fluttered from hastily erected fence posts. It was only early September, but after a couple of very cool nights the leaves were beginning to get that desiccated look from late-summer stress and nearly autumn change coming on. A blue jay shrieked at me from a cluster of brushy shrubs that had grown up in the long grass.