When Elizabeth Winchester turned from the kitchen counter holding two steaming mugs of coffee, she found her path blocked by her caretaker, a twenty-six-year-old, former juvenile delinquent who stood six feet eight inches tall and could bench press a quarter of a ton.  Wolf MacKerracher’s arms were crossed over his massive chest and he showed no sign of yielding.

 “I saw you with him,” he said.

 Although Wolf’s expression seemed impenetrable, Elizabeth knew he was struggling to quell his hurt and rage only by the way his eyes pinched in the corners. 

 Elizabeth sighed. If only she could tell him, ask for his counsel as she often did in serious matters.  But, no.  She would have to handle this herself and hope their lives would not unravel in the next few days.   

 As she tried to go around Wolf, he prevented it by posturing in that way he had as a youth to intimidate social workers and psychologists, to keep them from probing too deeply.  Elizabeth was simply too tired to get into it with him. She hadn’t slept at all last night, which meant her thinking was fuzzy. Even when her mind was clear, she had never been clever enough to hide anything from Wolf, who relentlessly looked for cues in people to anticipate their next moves.

 He kept his distance—or rather, kept others at a distance, which was not difficult given his menacing demeanor and conspicuous physical strength (he had no real neck; his shoulder muscles extended to just below his ears).

Some people in the village of Rock Ridge thought Wolf was either Native American or one of the many Ecuadorian laborers in the area because of his long, neatly trimmed, straight black hair, deep tan, and habit of rarely uttering a word. Those with more vivid imaginations referred to Wolf as the Boogeyman of Rock Ridge, circulating apocryphal tales about evil deeds he had committed.  But it was the most affluent residents in the town, tucked away in large white clapboard homes surrounded by terraced patios and gardens, who, perhaps, most accurately described Wolf as town matriarch Elizabeth Winchester’s “Great Experiment.”

 And this morning, the experiment was not going well.

 Elizabeth looked up at Wolf with a steady, no-nonsense eye.  She may have been a foot shorter and nearly two generations older, but she would not tolerate being held hostage at her own kitchen counter. 

 She stepped to the side and went around her caretaker, setting the mugs on the table where each of them usually sat.

 Wolf moved silently next her.  He waited expectantly.

Elizabeth turned to him and searched his face.

 “Wolf,” she said.

 He waited.  She said nothing more.

Wolf raised his fists and brought them down just to the side of Elizabeth, banging the old wooden trestle table with such force the mugs jumped and the coffee sloshed out onto the table.

 Elizabeth did not flinch.

 “Tell me.”  Wolf’s voice was hoarse, and his words came out in a furious rush.

 Elizabeth took a deep breath, which she held for an inordinately long moment.  Then she pursed her lips in that stubborn Yankee manner of hers and shook her head.

 “I will not,” she said.

Their eyes met and both realized they were at a stalemate.

“Damn you!” Wolf said, banging the table again.

 He stepped back and took in a sharp breath.

 The kitchen clock struck eight chimes.

 When Elizabeth said nothing more, Wolf dropped his arms to his side.

“You should have left me locked up,” he said, his deep voice resonating through the kitchen.

 Elizabeth moved close to Wolf and put a hand gently on his shoulder.

 Just at that moment, Elizabeth’s twenty-four-year-old nephew Alex, a journalist visiting from New York City, shuffled into the kitchen. His sandy hair stuck out in all directions and only one side of his wrinkled Oxford shirt was tucked into his jeans.

 “Who got locked out?” he said.

 Alex started to yawn and stretch but stopped short when he saw Elizabeth’s hand on Wolf’s shoulder.

He frowned. He stared at the hand. Then his eyes traveled over to look Wolf squarely in the face.

 Well, well, well . . . Ingratiating yourself with my wealthy widowed aunt, are you, buddy?

 Elizabeth slowly, in a defeated manner, let her hand drop to her side.

 Wolf glared at Alex. Then he moved silently between nephew and aunt and sat at the table, his presence resonating like a thundercloud through a valley.

 “No one was locked out, Alex,” Elizabeth said in a clipped tone.

 She picked up her mug and used her cloth napkin to mop up the sloshed coffee.  Then she sat down next to Wolf.

 Elizabeth looked at her nephew and sighed.

 “Pour yourself some coffee, and do try to tame your hair a little.”

 Alex ruffled his hair, which resulted in little improvement. Hair gel was the only thing that could control his cowlicks, but he had forgotten to pack that when he left the city.

 He stood at the counter for a moment and looked out the kitchen window. His mind was awhirl with thoughts—and none of them good.

 What was the deal with Weirdo Wolf being all cozy with Aunt Lizzie?

 Alex realized he didn’t know much about this joker who had moved into the cottage out back while he was in his last year of boarding school. That’s when Uncle Henry had put the addition on the barn. His uncle was smart that way; the cottage would be an “addition” rather than a “new structure” and have a much easier time getting through zoning. Not that anyone on P&Z would have opposed such a prominent person—a Winchester.

 The only other fact about this miserable setup Alex could remember was that Wolf had moved here straight from juvenile hall. This piece of information bounced up and down in the forefront of his brain like a swimmer preparing for a dive. And whatever Wolf’s crime, it must have been a biggie because even his late Uncle Henry, a judge with connections in the appellate court, could not arrange to spring him before his eighteenth birthday.

 Alex shook his head to clear his brain. He made a mental note to ask around town about Wolf.

 He rummaged through a corner cabinet and found his favorite mug, the one from the Spy Museum with the cryptic message that appeared only when the mug was filled with hot liquid. He poured his coffee and flopped down on the chair across from his aunt.

 He smiled at her, mentally trying to eliminate any rays of good karma from reaching the Wolfman sitting next to her. 

Alex sipped tentatively, remembering just how hot percolated coffee could be.

 “Well,” he said jovially. “I sure need a good blast of java this morning. I feel like a train wreck.”

 Alex ran his hand through his hair.

 “How do you people get any sleep around here?” he continued. “Until around midnight it’s a cacophony of peepers and bullfrogs—there isn’t a pond on the estate, is there, Aunt Lizzie?  I’m sure I heard bullfrogs.”

 Elizabeth didn’t respond.

 Alex, who was on a roll with his own thoughts, didn’t notice her preoccupation.

 “After the amphibians finally settled down, it was deathly quiet—a country anomaly, I’m sure,” he said. “That continued for a couple of hours. I was afraid to shut my eyes because I couldn’t shake the feeling I was sleeping in a coffin.”

 “Oh, Alex, really,” said Elizabeth, shaking her head. “You sound like a five-year old!”

 Alex took a swig of coffee and choked because it was so hot.

 “Damn!  Why do I always do that?”

 He laughed and reached for his aunt’s napkin, which he found soggy with coffee.

 “Ewww!” 

 He held up the napkin with two fingers and intentionally dropped it directly in front of Wolf. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 “Then,” Alex said, undeterred, “there was some god-awful sound emanating from the woods around two in the morning. It sounded like a woman being hacked to death.”

  Alex set his mug down sharply.

 “Say,” he said. “Do you think maybe a woman was being murdered—and by the creep who broke in here the other night?”

 “Screech owl,” Wolf said, without further explanation.

 “Well,” Alex said, ignoring Wolf, “I would certainly lock up if someone had just broken into my house, snuck around while I was sleeping, and then made off with the family jewels.”

  “‘Sneaked,’ Alex, not ‘snuck,’” said Elizabeth. “And whoever broke in Friday night stole books from me, not jewels.”

 “Huh. Well in the city, people don’t break in; they just knife you on the street and are done with it. And only if you’re stupid enough to be in the wrong neighborhood or out at the wrong time,” said Alex. “But here—in the sticks of Connecticut—I went to bed last night wondering if some jacker was going to slit my throat.”

             “Oh, I am quite certain no one would ever break into your apartment, Alex,” said Elizabeth dryly, envisioning his tiny and cluttered bachelor pad.

 “Well,” Alex said, sulkily, “Somebody did break into this house and could have had his pick of the prized Winchester possessions.”

  “You make this sound like the Hermitage,” Elizabeth said.

 Alex was starting to feel he had made a mistake coming to Connecticut for a full week.  He had been so glum and at loose ends lately.  When Aunt Lizzie suggested he come to celebrate his birthday and fall foliage, he felt certain the break would cheer him up. Instead, he found his aunt unusually testy and distracted.

 Alex wished he had driven his Mustang to Connecticut rather than taken the train. That way, he would have had the freedom to—to what?   

 There was nowhere to go; just one farm or forest after another. Everything closed by nine. The idea of “nightlife” in New England was raccoons getting into the garbage. Waving around some sparklers from last year’s stockpile of Fourth of July party favors. Watching the mosquitos alight on your forearm and suck your blood.

 Alex laughed out loud.

 Maybe a little break-in, a little excitement in the woods isn’t so bad, he thought, and then realized he had actually spoken the words.

 He looked at his aunt, then at Creepy Caretaker, and found they were both giving him a hard look.

 He ran his hand through his hair again. His stomach burbled and he realized how hungry he was.

 “Anything good to eat, Aunt Lizzie?”

 Wolf shook his head and muttered something.

 Elizabeth’s face softened. She pointed to a tin on the counter—a round tin with a worn winter’s scene on the lid.

 Alex’s eyes lit up.

 That tin could contain only one thing.

 He bolted to the counter, picked up the tin, and stripped its lid off. There, in perfect uniform rounds were his favorite flaky old-fashioned sugar and cinnamon biscuits—a secret recipe of the Winchester family. He had never tasted anything quite like it, although he had sampled many a fine thing from the bakeries in New York.

 He stationed his nose an inch from the pastry and, after one long ecstatic sniff, Alex forgave his aunt all her quirky grumpiness of the past twenty-four hours.

 “My favorite!” he said. “Thank you, Aunt Lizzie.”

 She smiled at him, obviously pleased.

 Alex plucked three paper napkins out of the holder on the counter and brought the tin to the table. He unplugged the percolator and offered more to Elizabeth and—only because of his impeccable manners—to Wolf. His aunt shook her head and Wolf didn’t respond so Alex shrugged, refilled his own mug, then plugged in the percolator and left it on the counter. He sat back down across from his aunt.

 Elizabeth ran her hand over the marred wood table and said, “We really should see about having this refinished.”

 “We?” Wolf said, sharply. “We?”

 He gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white.

 “You just told me there is no ‘we.’”

 Alex froze, mid-biscuit to mouth, and looked from Wolf to Elizabeth and back again. They were looking at each other and playing a game of Who Blinks First. Neither one of them seemed to know he was alive. And hungry.

 Alex found it very disconcerting to attempt to swallow dry biscuit, no matter how tasty, when people were shouting at each other. But he was happy to hear there was no “we” between them, and decided to ignore the two other people at the table and enjoy his breakfast.

 The biscuit crumbled—fresh!—so he flipped the tin’s lid upside down to use as a plate, and hovered over it as he ate.

The moments passed as the antique school clock tick-tick-ticked.

 Wolf continued to brood while Elizabeth sat with her hands in her lap.

 Cheery bunch.

 Five minutes and three biscuits later, Alex tapped a sticky finger on the table. He was now fully caffeinated and his journalistic mind was starting to kick into gear.

 “Aunt Lizzie, how do you know that’s all they took?”

 Alex wiped his hands on his napkin; his fingers were wonderfully sticky and coated with sugar.

 The others hadn’t touched their coffees, so he didn’t bother to ask if they wanted more. He got up and refilled his own mug.

 “I mean, who breaks in for books?” Alex said. “Are you sure they weren’t valuable, Aunt Lizzie?  Think of the book rings connected to New York’s famed Book Row—six city blocks of booksellers sitting cheek-by-jowl, many of whom contracted with thieves to methodically shake down personal and public libraries throughout the eastern seaboard.”

  He tipped his head, thinking.

 “But here?” he said. “At a private estate, down a long driveway, in Eastbejeezus Nowhere, Connecticut?  How would they know what you had?”

 Alex dusted his hands off.

 “It doesn’t make sense.”

 “No, it doesn’t,” Wolf said.

 As surprised as he was to get support from Wolf, Alex didn’t invite any more contributions to a conversation that he felt was a private Winchester matter. 

 “You need an alarm system, Aunt Lizzie,” Alex said, decisively. “Or a dog.”

 “I have Wolf to look out for me,” she said, pointedly.

 Wolf stared down at his coffee mug.

“Huh,” said Alex, wagging a finger across the table at Wolf.  “Well, somebody wasn’t caretaking—or taking care—night before last.”

 He laughed at his own cleverness.

 Alex stopped short when Wolf’s eyes took on that psycho-killer look you see in all the best horror films. The hair stood up on the back of Alex’s neck. He was tempted to show Wolf a mouthful of white biscuit, but he knew Aunt Lizzie would bean him for such a sophomoric gesture.

 Alex tipped back in his chair and looked over at his aunt. He worried about her living alone. His uncle, who had died six years ago, had prided himself in running a “tight ship,” as he would say, but it seemed the estate was about to run aground.

 Maybe it was good timing for a visit after all.

 “How about I look into an alarm system for you while I’m here?” said Alex.

 Wolf slapped the table with his beefy palms and shoved his chair back. He glared at Alex then stood slowly, menacingly.

 Elizabeth stood and put her hand on Wolf’s arm.

 He violently shook her off and slammed out the kitchen door.

 “Charming fellow, Aunt Lizzie,” said Alex.

 He yawned and stretched.

 “If I thought he were one to ever have cracked the cover of a book,” he continued, “I’d say the dark cloud of suspicion might hang over him.”

 Elizabeth’s eyes lingered on the back door. 

 She turned to her darling nephew, the fair-haired favorite and very last of the Winchesters, and said, “Shut up, Alex.”  And walked out of the room.