“We could do it.” They spoke at the same moment; it was eerie.

“Could you? It wouldn’t take you away from . . . from other things?”

“Nah, stuff can wait,” Zeke said, shoving his hands in his saggy-jeans pocket.

I was truly relieved. “You would be doing me a huge favor,” I said, and meant every word of it. “But I don’t know the first thing about machinery. It is a really big property, and . . . what about a mower? What kind would you use for a property like that?”

“We might be able to come up with something,” Gordy said. “My uncle’s a farmer out your way, and I could borrow his hay mower, if the grass is that long.”

“It is. I don’t think it’s been cut all summer. The place looks abandoned.” I quickly pulled a card out of my purse and wrote my cell phone number on the back as well as the castle landline. I handed it to them, and Zeke took it.

“What day of the week is it?” I asked, suddenly aware that I had, in the twilight zone of Autumn Vale and Wynter Castle, lost track.

“Friday,” they intoned together.

“Okay, call me,” I said. “I appreciate your help, guys!” I had a few more things to do in town, among them a visit to the post office to arrange continued forwarding of my mail. The post office building, one of the streetscape oldies squashed in together along Abenaki, was opposite Binny’s Bakery, so I strolled across the quiet street and walked in, a buzzer triggered by my entrance sounding somewhere.

There was a counter across the room, and along one wall a bank of post office boxes stacked from small at the top to large at the bottom. Dinah Hooper was there, pulling a wad of envelopes out of one of the medium-sized post office boxes. She turned and smiled. “Hey, fancy meeting you here!” she said.

“I just left you waiting for Gogi!”

“She was delayed at the home. One of her clients is very ill,” she said. Her expression saddened, and there was a glimmer of tears on her face. “I don’t know how she manages it—emotionally, I mean. I do what I can at Golden Acres, read to some of the residents and help them with their taxes, but it’s hard for me. My mother passed away five years ago this week, and I still think about her every day. Being there reminds me of her.”

“I know how you feel. My mom and my grandmother died within six months of each other. That was eighteen years ago, and I still miss them.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said, stuffing the envelopes in a cloth bag and touching my arm in a gesture of sympathy. “And here I am moaning about losing my mother when I was in my fifties!”

“It’s hard no matter the age,” I said.

“I’d better go,” she said with a watery half-smile, “before I get any more morose!”

As Dinah exited, I turned to the woman at the postal counter, who had been listening in with unabashed curiosity. “Hi. How are you today?” I asked.

“I’m just great,” she said with a huge grin plastered on her broad face. She leaned on the counter, her plump arms folded. “You’re the girl who inherited the Wynter Castle, right?”

“I am.”

“Figured you’d be in here sooner or later. Everybody comes to see the postwoman, you know.”

Minnie, a woman in her mid-sixties, I judged, and as broad as she was tall, befriended me swiftly; she seemed hungry for a fresh face, and gossiped relentlessly about many of the folks I had come to know. Doc English was a hoot, but a lot smarter than anyone took him for. Dinah Hooper was one of those women who seem doomed for unlucky lives. Virgil Grace was a mama’s boy, and his mom was a bad woman to cross.

“Gogi Grace? What do you mean?” I asked, startled by her assertion.

She looked from left to right, as if there was a crowd waiting to listen in, and leaned across the counter, fixing her gaze on mine. “The woman’s got money. How do you think she came into it?”

I shook my head.

“Inherited. Husbands number one and two!” She held up two fingers like a peace sign.

“I didn’t know that. Which one did she have her kids with?”

“Husband number one. He didn’t leave her a lot of dough, but the insurance after he died? That paid for the big house. It was husband number two who had the money. When he died . . .” She let out a low whistle and widened her pouchy eyes. “How do you think she afforded the renovations for Golden Acres? That cost mucho dinero, inherited from numero duo.”

I felt bad gossiping about Gogi; I’ve been on the nasty end of tittle-tattle. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I said, “I’m here to see about having my mail forwarded from my old address for six months. I figure I’ll be here at least that long fixing up Wynter Castle.”

She straightened and instantly became professional. I filled out the forms and paid with my debit card, finishing up just as another customer came into the post office. I slipped out with a wave good-bye, figuring I’d be the next topic of conversation. Minnie was a talker, and I’d make a mental note to remember that. I wasn’t sure what she was implying about Gogi, but I was going to erase the postmistress’s insinuations from my mind.

With renewed energy and determination, I headed off to the library. I got lucky; as I had remembered, Friday was an open day, and not only were there a couple of patrons, one of them was Lizzie. Perfect. “Hi, Hannah,” I said, to the diminutive librarian. She waved, then went back to her conversation with Isadore Openshaw, who was piling books up on a table. Lizzie was covertly watching me, as she leafed through a magazine featuring Amy Gulick photographs. I sat down at the table opposite her. “Still suspended?” She nodded. “You busy tomorrow?” I asked, noting the kohl around her eyes, and the bloodred lipstick. The girl was going emo, it seemed, if that’s what they still called it. It was called Goth, when I was a kid. If she was trying to frighten folks away, she was probably in the wrong town. Weird was a way of life in Autumn Vale.

“Why?” she asked, staring down at the page.

Good for her; she had learned to be suspicious of open questions like that. It took me a long time to learn they usually preceded requests to help someone move, or bury a body. And yes, I did get asked to help someone bury a body once; a friend’s beloved dog had died, and she couldn’t bear to do it alone, and yes, I did help her. We cried and drank wine together afterward. If I ever needed help burying a body, she promised she’d come through for me. I had her phone number with me at all times.

“I was wondering if you would come out to the castle tomorrow and show me where that abandoned camp in the woods is. You can take all the pictures you want, I just need you to guide me, since you obviously know the woods better than I do.”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “But I’ll need a ride out to your place.”

“If I can’t get Jack McGill to do it, I’ll pick you up myself. You don’t mind McGill, do you?” I suddenly remembered that she was fifteen, and might have an opinion on her chauffeur.

“No, he’s cool.”

So far, my day was proving to be useful, more than I even imagined in my midnight maunderings. I turned my attention toward Isadore Openshaw and Hannah. I wanted to ask Hannah some questions about Tom, but they would just have to wait. Ms. Openshaw, morose bank teller, was piling books up at a crazy rate. Was she really going to read them all?

I examined the spines. The Tao of Meow. The History of Greed. Women Who Love Too Much. The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. The Secret.

Wow, what a mixed bag! Maybe Isadore Openshaw was a self-help junkie. I’ve known women like that, who seemed to think all they needed was one more self-help book and they’d be happy. Just one more book and they’d discover what was wrong with them, why people kept crapping on them. I could have told her there was no “secret.” Mostly we create our own reality, it was true, but not always. Sometimes bad stuff just happens, and the only thing you can do is try to move on.