Bran New Death (A Merry Muffin Mystery) by Victoria Hamilton Page B

again, supposedly Becket, Uncle Melvyn’s faithful companion. But I was too distracted by the magnificence of the forest, and by a realization that struck me as I stood and stared. A pattern emerged in my vision. The trees were mostly lined up in perfect rows, like marching soldiers. “I wonder if the Wynter family planted all of these trees,” I said, pointing out the straight lines to Shilo.
    “That sure doesn’t look natural.” She shivered.
    Doc English had said my grandfather and Uncle Melvyn had planted trees. Could this forest be the results of their labor? “Someday I’d like to take a walk in there.”
    “Some
day
,” Shilo agreed, “but not tonight.”
    It was getting dark and the moon was rising. The cool breeze had become cold. “Okay,” I said and laughed, linking my arm through hers. “We’ll head back now.”
    I made us cocoa, and we drank it, then headed upstairs. As we got ready for bed, I told her about my day—we kept both ends of the Jack and Jill bathroom open to talk to each other, then closed it at night—and my run-in with Tom Turner. “I don’t know what is up with him. Big galoot.” Uneasy, I looked out my window at the Bobcat excavator, and beyond to the black woods. “I wish McGill wouldn’t leave the excavator here. It’s like an invitation.”
    “Can’t be helped,” Shilo said. “It’s too slow to drive it back and forth from town, and he doesn’t have a trailer to carry it. He’s locked it down. That’s the best he can do.”
    “I know. Good night, sweetie.” I waved to her, grateful beyond words for her companionship, and closed my door, collapsing in bed and burrowing my face in sweet-smelling linen. It was weird living with someone else’s stuff, but in a week or so I’d have all my belongings from the storage locker in Manhattan. The castle, as big and cavernous as it was, was beginning to feel like home, since I had constructed a bedroom “nest” with some of my familiar stuff around me, and was working on the same for the kitchen. I was undecided if my increasing comfort in Wynter Castle was a good thing or a bad thing.
    Despite the peace of falling asleep after a vigorous day, my dreams were tumultuous; in them I confronted various weird folks, asking them about my father as a child. Then I was running across the lawn of the castle, dodging huge holes made by giant badgers. I could feel them underground. It was like a scene from
Tremors
, a movie that always makes me laugh when I catch it on late-night TV.
    And then I woke up. I could still hear and feel the rumble. I dashed to the window, but didn’t see anything. Was it an earthquake, maybe? It wasn’t loud, just a faint vibration. I flung on a housecoat and slippers, and dashed downstairs, through the kitchen and out the pantry door. It takes a lot longer to do that than it does to say it in such a big place. “Darn it!” I yelled. The Bobcat was in action, and someone was digging another damn hole!
    I raced back into the kitchen, fished around in my purse to find my cell phone, realized it was either dead or not getting a signal, and grabbed the wall phone receiver, dialing nine-one-one. I yelled my location and emergency, and said that Virgil Grace, sheriff of the Autumn Vale police department, was well aware of the problem. I slammed the phone down and dashed back to the door.
    The Bobcat motor was still going, but the operator had stopped digging. Fury was building up in me. Had the coward taken off, leaving the vehicle running? I stood in the open door. No movement. I heard a loud caterwauling a ways off. Maybe that was my feline stalker.
    I waited and watched. Still nothing. Finally fed up, I stormed outside toward the excavator, the scent of newly turned earth strong in the air. “Tom Turner, come on out and fight like a man!” I yelled like an idiot. I stopped a ways away. There was no one in the driver’s seat. What the heck?
    Just then, the sheriff’s car screamed up my drive,