Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 5

  On the plus side, people will be drawn to Bess. They always are. Her presence will make it easier for you to strike up conversations with strangers.

  I lifted my gaze from the page and stared into the fire. A day that had started so brightly had ended on a very dark note indeed. When I tried to imagine good-hearted, gentle Mrs. Craven standing over the body of a man she’d murdered in cold blood, I saw nothing but her hand moving calmly and steadily as she sewed stitch after perfect stitch. Was she a psychopath? Or was she delusional? I didn’t know what to believe.

  “Let me sleep on it,” I said, rubbing my forehead as I looked down at the journal. “I’ll make a decision in the morning.”

  I believe you’ve already made a decision.

  “Have I?” I said.

  Of course you have. You’ve decided to go to Old Cowerton, despite the difficulties such a trip will entail, because you’re incurably curious. You won’t be at peace with yourself until you know the truth about Mrs. Craven.

  I smiled ruefully. Aunt Dimity knew me too well.

  “You’re probably right,” I admitted, “but—” I broke off, interrupted by the doorbell.

  A late caller?

  “It’s not late,” I said, “but I clearly have a caller. I’d better find out who it is. I’ll talk to you later, Dimity.”

  I doubt it. You’ll be too busy packing.

  I laughed as the fine lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page, but when I thought of the task that lay before me, my laughter died.

  My neighbors and I swapped gossip on a daily basis, but the tidbits we exchanged were essentially harmless. We might do a little digging to find out why someone wasn’t speaking to someone else, but we didn’t pry open closet doors, searching for skeletons.

  I was about to embark on a search for an actual skeleton. If I found it, I would utterly ruin what little time Annabelle Craven had left on earth. What’s more, I’d disrupt the peace of a place I held dear. When the villagers realized how grossly they’d misjudged Mrs. Craven, they might begin to have doubts about one another. Finch’s timeless tranquillity would be tainted by suspicion and unease. The villagers might even begin to lock their doors.

  Even so, I couldn’t allow a murderer to live among my neighbors undetected. I didn’t want to investigate Mrs. Craven, but I had no choice. In my universe, homicide wasn’t an acceptable alternative to divorce. It was a crime without a statute of limitations.

  “No happy camping for me,” I said to Reginald as I returned the blue journal to its shelf. “I have a job to do.”

  My pink bunny’s eyes glimmered with sympathy as I left the study to answer the front door.

  Six

  I opened the door to find Bree Pym standing on my doorstep, loaded down with Bess’s diaper bag, toy bag, and insulated food bag.

  “I found these in the cloakroom,” she explained, patting the bags, “so I thought I’d bring them by.”

  “You’re an angel,” I said. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Bree dropped two of the bags on the floor in the front hall and hung her jacket on the coatrack. She brought the food bag to the kitchen, emptied it, and washed it out before taking a seat at the kitchen table.

  “I’d have been here sooner,” she said, “but I stayed behind to help Mr. Barlow dismantle the quilt frame and clean up the schoolhouse. You should have seen his face when I told him he could take your butterscotch brownies home with him. I thought he was going to yodel.”

  I smiled but said nothing as I laid the table for tea. I wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. When the kettle whistled, I filled the pot, carried it to the table, and sat across from Bree, but my mind was thirty miles away, in a tourist town where a pretty young woman had gotten away with murder.

  “It’s not like you to forget your baby stuff, Lori,” Bree observed. “It’s not like you to leave a village event without saying good-bye to everyone. And it’s definitely not like you to be so . . . mute.”

  “I guess I’m not myself this evening,” I said with a wan attempt at humor.

  “Why?” Bree asked, frowning worriedly. “Has something happened to Bill or the twins?”

  “As far as I know, they’re having tons of fun,” I said.

  “You must miss them,” said Bree. “I’m used to Jack running off on his lecture tours, but the house still seems a bit empty without him.”

  “I’m not pining for Bill and the boys,” I assured her. “I’m glad they’re having a good time.”

  “You don’t look glad,” she said, studying my expression. “You look like a rat died under your bed.” Her dark eyes widened. “Did a rat die under your bed?”

  “Nothing died under my bed,” I stated firmly.

  “Then tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

  “I’m fine, really,” I told her. “And, anyway, you won’t believe me.”

  “Of course I will,” she said. “Come on, Lori, spit it out. I won’t leave until you do. I’ll dog your steps for the rest of the evening. I’ll stand over your bed all night, staring down at you like a deranged ghost. I’ll—”

  “All right, all right,” I broke in, knowing when I was beaten. “I’ll tell you the whole story on one condition: You have to promise that you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to Jack—until I give you the go-ahead. I mean it, Bree. What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential.”

  “I’m not one of the Handmaidens,” she reminded me. “I know how to keep my trap shut. I kept it shut when we were looking for the lost prince, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” I said, recalling the strange journey Bree and I had shared less than a year after she’d moved to Finch. “To be honest, it’ll be a relief to get it off my chest. It’s just so weird. . . .”

  “I love weird,” Bree declared. “The weirder, the better. Bring it on.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Brace yourself.”

  I filled her cup and mine, folded my hands on the table, and for the second time in less than an hour, recounted Mrs. Craven’s disturbing tale. By the time I finished, Bree was frowning so hard that her eyebrows nearly touched.

  “Mrs. Craven? A stone-cold killer?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Told you so,” I said wistfully.

  “It’s impossible,” she said.

  “It’s improbable,” I countered, “but it’s not impossible.”

  “She’s a sweet little old lady,” Bree protested.

  “She wasn’t a sweet little old lady back then,” I pointed out. “She was an unhappy teenager. Unhappy teenagers have been known to do terrible things.”

  “What does Bill think?” Bree demanded.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t told him about the late Mr. Trotter and I don’t intend to. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “As an attorney, he’d be required by law to take the story to the police,” I explained, “and I don’t want to involve the police until I figure out whether Mrs. Craven was telling the truth or indulging in wishful thinking or displaying symptoms of senility.”

  “How will you decide?” she asked. “Are you planning to strap Mrs. Craven to a lie detector?”

  “No,” I said. “Bess and I are going to spend a few days in Old Cowerton. If I can find someone who knew Mrs. Craven back then, I may be able to nail down a few facts.”

  “They may be unpleasant facts,” Bree cautioned. “What’ll you do if you find out that she really did kill her husband?”

  “That’s when I’ll talk to Bill,” I said.

  Bree drained her cup, smacked her lips, and eyed me determinedly.

  “Well,” she said, “you and Bess aren’t going to Old Cowerton alone. I’m coming with you.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Bree, but I can’t let you—”

>   “Try and stop me,” she interrupted. “What kind of friend would I be if I sat at home while you and Bess did all the legwork?”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I shouldn’t be doing the legwork. The police should be doing the legwork. I should have gone straight to them with my story. If I find out that Mrs. Craven murdered her first husband, I could be accused of withholding information or aiding and abetting or being an accessory after the fact.”

  “Sounds serious,” Bree said with mock solemnity.

  “It is serious,” I insisted. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have told me about Mrs. Craven,” she pointed out.

  “You gave me no choice!” I exclaimed.

  “Get used to it,” she said, “because you have no choice about whether I’m coming with you or not. You’re stuck with me, Lori. If there’s trouble to be faced, we’ll face it together. Besides . . .” Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously as she leaned over her teacup and murmured, “I’m dying to see Mrs. Craven’s rosebushes.”

  I snickered involuntarily and Bree grinned.

  “It’s not funny,” I scolded.

  “It’s a little funny,” she countered.

  “All right,” I admitted, “it’s a little funny.”

  I gazed gratefully at Bree, feeling as if she’d lifted the weight of the world from my shoulders. If anyone could keep my spirits up during my bizarre investigation, I thought, she could.

  “We’ll need a cover story,” she said, getting down to business. “How about: We’re going on a girls-only getaway inspired by Bill’s camping trip?”

  “Works for me,” I said. “I’ll try it out on Amelia when I ask her to look after Stanley. We’ll also need a place to stay in Old Cowerton—preferably a family-friendly place. I hate it when people give Bess the stink eye for doing what toddlers do.”

  “Family friendly, check,” said Bree, as if she were making a mental list. “Cost?”

  “Not an issue,” I said, silently thanking Aunt Dimity. “And I’ll foot the bill.”

  “No, you won’t,” she objected.

  “Yes, I will,” I told her.

  “When the time comes, I’ll arm-wrestle you for my half of it,” she concluded. “How long will we be away?”

  “I want to get back before Bill and the boys come home,” I said. “If we leave tomorrow, we’ll have”—I glanced at the wall calendar—“six full days at our disposal.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow’s Sunday,” said Bree. “We’ll get plenty of stink eyes if we’re not in church. And the vicar will probably cry.”

  “We’ll go to the early service,” I suggested.

  “Good idea,” she said, nodding. “Hardly anyone goes to the early service, so we won’t be expected to spend an hour chatting in the churchyard afterward.”

  “I’ll pick you up on the way to Finch,” I said, “and we’ll leave from St. George’s.”

  “Right.” Bree pulled her cell phone out of her pocket with a flourish and sat back in her chair. “I’ll find a place to stay. If Old Cowerton really is a tourist town, it shouldn’t be too hard to make a reservation somewhere. Early April isn’t the height of tourist season.”

  “It’s Easter break, though,” I said. “The town may be crawling with families.”

  “Leave it to me,” she said.

  While Bree tapped and swiped, I picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed Amelia’s number the old-fashioned way.

  “Lori!” Amelia exclaimed upon hearing my voice. “What a pleasant coincidence. I was about to ring you for a final report on the quilting bee.”

  “The quilt’s done,” I informed her, “except for a few finishing touches Mrs. Craven can add on her own.”

  “Three cheers for Finch,” she crowed. “That quilt will fetch an absolute fortune at the church fete.”

  “No doubt,” I agreed, and pressed on. “I have a favor to ask of you, Amelia. Would you mind taking care of Stanley for a few days? Bree and I have decided to take Bess with us on a girls’ getaway.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “Why should the boys have all the fun? And, yes, of course I’ll look after Stanley. You know how fond I am of him. When are you leaving?”

  “Directly after church tomorrow,” I said. “I’m afraid Bess and I won’t make it to Sunday brunch.”

  Sunday brunch was a family institution at Fairworth House. I regretted missing it, but I couldn’t in good conscience delay our departure until dinnertime, which was when Willis, Sr.’s Sunday brunches usually ended.

  “William will be disappointed,” Amelia acknowledged, “but I’ll break it to him gently. If the weather’s fine, I might even persuade him to come with me to see the gardens at Hidcote. I’ve heard the daffodils are spectacular this year. Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said with incomplete honesty. Though I knew we’d be in Old Cowerton, I didn’t yet know where we’d stay. “But I’ll bring my cell phone with me so we can keep in touch.”

  “Don’t worry about keeping in touch,” she said. “Don’t worry about Stanley or the cottage or anything at all. Have a wonderful, worry-free holiday. We’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Thank you, Amelia,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Remember to take lots of photos!”

  “I will,” I promised, but as I said good-bye, I had to stifle another morbid snicker. What kind of photos, I wondered, did one take when engaged in a corpse hunt? I could only hope that Bree and I wouldn’t end up posing for mug shots.

  I hung up the phone and turned to find my young friend looking mightily pleased with herself.

  “We’re staying at the White Hart Hotel,” she announced, “a historic, five-star hostelry centrally located on Old Cowerton’s high street. The White Hart has a walled garden, a restaurant, a pub, twenty-four-hour room service, an indoor swimming pool, a spa—”

  “It has a spa?” I interrupted.

  “Wait,” she told me. “It gets better.”

  “What’s better than a spa?” I asked.

  “A fully equipped, two-bedroom family suite,” she answered. “I reserved a cot, a playpen, a high chair, and a changing table for Bess.”

  “I’ll bring disinfectant,” I said.

  “Lori, it’s a five-star hotel,” Bree said patiently. “It wouldn’t have five stars if it loaned disease-ridden baby furniture to its guests.”

  “I’ll bring disinfectant,” I repeated.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, shrugging. “The White Hart also offers the services of a board-certified nanny.”

  “We won’t need a nanny,” I said flatly.

  “It’s nice to have backup,” said Bree. “There’s no check-in time, by the way. Our suite will be ready for us whenever we arrive.”

  “How on earth did you manage to find a family suite in a tourist town during Easter break?” I asked.

  “Charm,” she replied, “and an excellent credit rating.”

  “Well done,” I said, clapping her on the back. “If I weren’t dreading our trip, I’d look forward to it.”

  The kitchen telephone rang. I answered it and heard my husband’s voice broken into a series of truncated syllables that resembled Morse code. I couldn’t understand more than a morsel of the fractured conversation that followed, but I did my best to convey our cover story to him before the call was abruptly cut off.

  “Bill?” queried Bree.

  “For all I know, it could have been the president of Peru,” I said. “Cell phones are handy, but they’ll never replace landlines. I’ll call him from Old Cowerton. Maybe the reception will be better there. Are you hungry? I could scramble some eggs.”

  “Thanks,” said Bree, “but Mr. Barlow and I polished off Christine Pe
acock’s sausage rolls before we left the schoolhouse.” She stood. “I’m going home to pack.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I groaned, putting a hand to my forehead. “I forgot about packing.”

  “Look on the bright side,” said Bree. “You won’t have to pack Bess’s cot!”

  “Thanks, Bree,” I said. “Thanks for bringing Bess’s bags home and for finding the perfect hotel and for reserving the baby furniture and for . . . for everything. I’ll sleep much better tonight, knowing that you’re coming with us.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said lightly. “I should be thanking you. I’ve always wanted to be a gumshoe.”

  I walked her to the front door and waved her off, then ran upstairs to look in on Bess. She was still catching up on her beauty sleep, so I let her be and began the gargantuan task of assembling everything I would need for a six-day trip with a toddler.

  After loading Bess’s three-wheeled, all-terrain pram into the Range Rover and carrying several suitcases filled with baby gear downstairs, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the table in the front hall and went to the study.

  “Reginald,” I said, “Bess and I are taking a short and, I fear, necessary holiday with Bree Pym. Amelia will look after the cottage while we’re gone, but I’m leaving you in charge of the study. If Bill calls, take a message.”

  I took my bunny from his special niche and gave him a hug, then put him back where he belonged and reached for the blue journal. I slipped the journal into my shoulder bag, but I didn’t open it.

  I was too busy packing.

  Seven

  Bree was standing by her gate when I stopped to pick her up on Sunday morning. Although she hadn’t removed her nose ring, she’d transformed her spiky hairdo into a demure pixie cut and dressed in an unusually subdued manner, if a beige trench coat, a voluminous floral-print neck scarf, a kelly-green day pack, black jeans, navy socks, and violet clogs could be called subdued.

  I heard her chuntering under her breath as she added her modest nylon carryall to the gear I’d stowed in the Range Rover’s cargo compartment, but after she climbed into the passenger seat and said a cheery hello to Bess, she expressed herself with perfect clarity.