“I have.” She folded her small hands together on her narrow lap and looked down at them, twisting a filigree silver ring around on one finger as she spoke. “Tom has not always been . . . circumspect. He’s made a lot of people angry.”
“Junior Bradley, for one.”
“Right, but others, too. I didn’t remember this until just yesterday, but he and Dinah Hooper had an argument one day in the middle of the street.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know,” she said, distress on her pretty, little face. “They were too far away, and there was no one around them.”
“Okay, anyone else?”
She glanced up and down the walk, and leaned toward me. “He . . . he had a big fight with Mr. Grover, the bank manager.”
“Really?” I thought about the genial Simon Grover, who had not seemed the type for a heated disagreement. I hadn’t seen him crossed, though. “Did you hear any of it?”
She nodded vigorously. “I didn’t remember until just yesterday—I’ve been so upset—but it was something about Turner Construction’s account at the bank, and Mr. Grover was telling him that it must have been a mistake on Tom’s part, because his bank didn’t make errors.”
That sounded kind of innocuous, and not like a fight that could lead to murder. She may have read that in my expression, because she shrugged. It was all she had. I considered something Pish had said to me, though, about the funny business with the accounts at Turner Construction; he had said it sounded like either drug peddling or a money-laundering scheme. I knew that some small businesses had made their revenue stream more robust by using their accounts to launder money.
So, was Tom involved in the funny business going on at Turner Construction? From my brief acquaintance with him, he seemed more the drug-peddling type than a money-scam guy, but there was no saying he hadn’t been doing both. Was he fiddling with the accounts in concert with Dinah Hooper? Or had he and his father been doing it behind her back, and she found out, but was trying to distance herself? Was Mr. Grover upbraiding Tom about the problems with the bank accounts? Confusing.
“Hannah, can I ask you a few questions about people you might know?”
She brightened. “Sure!”
I pondered for a moment. Where to start? Somewhere off the beaten path. “Do you know Lizzie’s mother?”
She turned pink and ducked her head. “Uh, I know of her. Tom knew her.”
How much did she know, or guess? “Did he . . . know her well?”
Hannah put her chin up and, soft gray eyes glittering, said, “Why don’t you come right out and ask, Merry? I don’t know for sure, but . . . but I think Lizzie might be Tom’s daughter. Is that what you’re fishing for?”
I was stunned into silence.
“She looks so much like him!” Hannah continued, a soft smile lifting her lips. “And even her expressions . . .” She trailed off and looked away.
I nodded. “Lizzie’s mom pretty much confirmed that yesterday when I took the kid back to her grandmother’s place. But Lizzie doesn’t know it yet. And I don’t think anyone ought to tell her until we know who killed Tom, at least.”
Hannah sighed and slumped a bit. “I’m glad,” she said. “A bit of Tom will still be in the world.” Her eyes welled, but she dashed the tears away with her finger, then fished around for a tissue, blotting her eyes. “What else do you want to know?”
“What does Isadore Openshaw have against Dinah Hooper?”
“What do you mean?”
I told her about Miss Openshaw’s anger toward the woman, expressed in the Vale Variety and Lunch.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said with a frown.
“Has Dinah ever done anything to her? Other than the catnip-mice incident at last year’s Autumn Vale Harvest Fair, I mean?”
“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.”