I drove back the way I had come, past lonely farms and isolated houses that looked deserted, out to an open area. Instead of trying to find Wynter Castle, I’d concentrate on the nearby town of Autumn Vale. Anyone who had negotiated the intricacies of the London tube and the Paris Métro should be able to find a town in upstate New York. Laying my actual paper map on the passenger’s seat beside me, I followed the highway, coming to a river. The map was being a good Boy Scout and telling me the absolute truth; it certainly seemed more trustworthy than the disembodied voice that kept telling me to turn right in fifty feet, when there was no right turn available. The road I wanted departed from the river and descended steeply to another branch of the same river. That was where the GPS had begun to malfunction, confusing me hopelessly. But now the map started to lie to me, just like the GPS had; none of the road names I was seeing on signs appeared on the map. Hmm.

I’d ignore the road names and just drive. Following a hard-packed dirt road overarched by tall poplars that swayed above, I found Butler Lane, which according to the map should have been Wynter Lane. Hoping I was on the right track, I began to descend and wound along a treed road until the vista finally opened out onto a picturesque view of a village below me, which a signpost announced was Autumn Vale.

“Eureka,” I shouted and pounded my fist on the steering wheel. I paused and gazed at the village, still sleeping in the dawn mist. It was a unique experience, like looking down at a model-train town; among the leafy green, I could spot the main street, a solid line of Victorian shops and businesses, all gray, stone buildings, it appeared from a distance, and then roads leading away from it, lined with redbrick homes and gleaming, white-clapboard frame houses, punctuated by civic buildings, construction yards, and the occasional massive garden plot. Now that was what I expected from upstate New York! Maybe there would be an occasional bed-and-breakfast, and perhaps even a quaint inn or two. I was hoping at the least for a cutesy café with some decent food.

My stomach grumbled, but I put it down to too many muffins and not enough real food. I should have packed a bologna sandwich, but muffins are my go-to comfort food. That was the last thing I’d done in my little studio apartment in Manhattan: make a dozen muffins to share with my neighbors. Of course, muffins were also responsible for much of my trouble with Leatrice, but that story can wait.

Buck up, Merry, I told myself. First things first, and that was finding someone who could direct me to Wynter Castle: Jack McGill, the real estate agent, or the lawyer, Mr. Andrew Silvio, or someone. It was a little early for a realtor or lawyer though, just six forty-five a.m. by my diamond watch, so anyone who could give me the directions to Wynter Castle would be fine.

I pulled into a parking spot in front of a hardware store (closed), and got out, looking up and down Abenaki, the street that appeared to be the main—or only—business section of Autumn Vale. I needed someplace open to ask directions. The streetscape was adorable, with commercial buildings like ones I’d seen in miniature, painted by skillful craftspeople. Stone fronts with big, glass, bow windows, clapboard-sided shops with gingerbread trim dripping from the eaves; but the reality was a little more grim than the picture-perfect image of small town America. What I hadn’t seen from a distance were the multitude of boarded-up windows.

All crammed together as they were, the shops seemed like good friends who leaned on each other for support in tough times. I walked past a bank (closed), beauty salon (closed), a clothing store (boarded up), a convenience store (closed) and another clothing store, an antique shop, another antique shop, a café, a nail salon, and a dog groomers: boarded up, closed, boarded up, closed, closed, and on vacation. The opposite side of the street appeared to be much the same story. Wasn’t anything open? A cool breeze fluttered down the street, chasing a few stray leaves along the sidewalk. I shivered. The early morning air was misty and damp, and my short-sleeved blouse inadequate. What I needed was a Starbucks.

Aha! I perked up when I saw, across the street, a beckoning Open sign in the window of Binny’s Bakery; glowing blue and red neon cheered me immeasurably. I crossed the street, climbed the three steps, and opened the door, triggering a chirpy bell to ring. A yeasty smell and moist warmth enveloped me. Fresh bread! And something else familiar . . . olive oil, rosemary, and cheese? Having eaten four carrot muffins since midnight and nothing else, something not sweet appealed.

A young woman wiped her floury hands on her floury apron and approached the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked, looking me over like I was an alien life-form.

I glanced around the bakery, and was riveted by the shelves lining one whole wall. Teapots! Hundreds and hundreds of teapots! I truly was home, in one sense. I smiled, as I turned toward her. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine. Can I help you?”

The woman didn’t sound fine. Her mouth had a natural downturn, unfortunate in someone so young and attractive, I thought, noting dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that was confined in a net.

“You have a wonderful place, here. There is no better smell on earth than fresh-baked bread, is there? And teapots; you have an amazing collection.”

The teapots ranged from a marvelous Mount Rushmore—impractical, but very collectible—to a chintz, porcelain beauty that I lusted after. My not-so-secret passion is collecting teapots in a variety of shapes, sizes, and prints. That’s what was in at least twenty of the boxes at the Manhattan Mini Storage: 253 teapots, about half of them miniatures. Another ten boxes held teacups, an uncounted number.

I pointed to an elderly beauty. “That ornate one . . . it’s Italian, right? Majolica? And the other one, with the roses and cherubs . . . that’s Capodimonte.”

Sighing, the woman rolled her eyes. “Look, not to be rude, but I have a million things to do. The focaccia is almost ready to come out of the oven.” She glanced over her shoulder at a timer, then back to me. “How can I help you?”

I scanned the others—there were English and Chinese teapots, art deco shapes, utilitarian designs, and fanciful animal shapes—but I didn’t have time to look them over, as the baker was getting impatient. No small talk, then. Too bad. I’m the master of small talk. In the modeling world, it pays to know how to schmooze, no matter what your position. First as a model, then a stylist, and then, finally, as a personal assistant to a model, being nice to hair stylists, makeup artists, set decorators, assistants, gofers, photographers, and everyone in between had paid off.

“I need directions,” I said, holding up the printed map, flapping it around. “This seems to be useless, since none of the roads around here have the names listed on the map.”

The woman cracked her first smile. “It’s a conspiracy,” she said with a short laugh. “Town council and the county can’t agree. The names get changed every year or so. You’d think they didn’t want anyone to find us. What are you looking for?”

Finally, some friendliness! “I’m trying to find Wynter Castle, on Exeter Road.”

The woman’s smile died swiftly. “You don’t want to go out there. All you’ll find at Wynter Castle is death.” She turned away as the oven timer binged a warning.

“What do you mean?”

She bustled around in the back, taking a tray out of the oven and banging it down on the counter.

“Hello?” I hollered. “What do you mean by that?” She wouldn’t come back, ignoring me completely, so I stalked out of the place, winding up on the sidewalk again, looking up and down the street.