Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (14 page)

Eleven

When I thought of brunch, I thought of strawberry-stuffed french toast, Belgian waffles, fluffy omelets, eggs benedict, spinach frittatas, poached salmon with dill sauce, and baskets of homemade muffins still warm from the oven. I pictured chafing dishes arrayed in a neat row on a linen-draped sideboard, along with gleaming glass pitchers of juice, milk, and perhaps a light alcoholic beverage or two.

I was mildly confused, therefore, when I saw nothing on the teak table in the conservatory but four place settings featuring four mysterious domed plates. As Deirdre removed each dome, it became clear to me that she had, willingly or unwillingly, colluded with my father-in-law in depriving Henrique of the high-end cuisine Sally had so dearly wished to serve him. Willis, Sr., might not want Henrique to suffer the ill effects of food poisoning, but he was not above giving his unwanted guest a monumental case of heartburn.

Each plate was loaded from rim to rim with a traditional English breakfast known as a fry-up because it consisted of fried eggs, fried bacon, fried sausages, fried tomatoes, fried bread, fried mushrooms, and a puddle of tinned beans in tomato sauce. When cooked properly, a fry-up could be a tasty, if heart-attack inducing, meal, but Deirdre had evidently received orders to do her worst.

The eggs were like rubber, the sausages were burned, the tomatoes had been reduced to pulp, and the whole awful mess was awash in a slowly congealing lake of melted lard. A toast rack filled with cold, hard pieces of charred toast sat beside each place setting, and instead of mimosas or even straight champagne, Deirdre filled our cups with tea that could have—and should have—been used to stain furniture.

It must have pained Deirdre to prepare such a dreadful meal, but she maintained a neutral expression as she hovered nearby with a teapot, ready to refill our cups. Sally stared disconsolately at the unappetizing farrago on her plate, heaved a melancholy sigh, and gave Willis, Sr., a reproachful glance before turning to address Henrique.

“I hope you don’t mind—,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Fantastico!”
he cried, grinning from ear to ear. “This is the English fry-up of which I have heard so much. You make me feel not like the visitor but like the real Englishman. It is too thoughtful of you, Lady Sarah, to welcome me in this way.
Gracias y salud!
”

Without pausing to consider the consequences, he seized his knife and fork and began wolfing down his greasy feast as if he had waited his entire life to savor such delicacies. Sally, cheered by his ebullient reaction, began to clear her own plate. Though Willis, Sr., concealed his emotions admirably, I could tell by a slight tightening of his lips that he hadn’t expected his scheme to backfire so spectacularly.

While he and I toyed with our food in silence, Sally and Henrique paused between mouthfuls to share tenderhearted reminiscences of the time they’d spent together in Mexico.

“I asked Mrs. Donovan to serve brunch in the conservatory because I thought the ferns would remind you of Mexico,” Sally said to him. “Do you remember the ferns that grew along the wall near the café? And the jasmine? I can’t smell jasmine now without thinking of the
arroz con pollo
we had there.”

“And the walk we took after,” said Henrique.

“The moonlight on the sea,” said Sally.

“The moonlight in your eyes,” said Henrique.

“Oh, Henrique,” Sally cooed, blushing.

Willis, Sr., could have hurled mud pies at them and they would have remained lost in their own moonlit, jasmine-scented world. Recognizing defeat, he laid down his fork and turned to me.

“Were you able to transport my painting to Crabtree Cottage this morning?” he inquired.

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” I replied. “But Grant doesn’t think it’s a painting. He’s not sure what it is, but he told me that it contains a mixture of calligraphy and painted images. He could see a few letters through the grime, but he couldn’t distinguish any words.”

“Calligraphy? ” Willis, Sr.’s face brightened. “Most intriguing. I wonder what it could be?”

“No idea,” I said, “but it piqued Grant’s curiosity.”

“As it has piqued mine,” said Willis, Sr. “Did he estimate the amount of time he will need to complete the cleaning process?”

“He’ll get started on it today,” I said, “but he won’t be able to do any more work on it until he and Charles get back from London.”

“How long will they remain in London?” asked Willis, Sr.

“Not long. They’re taking a culture break,” I explained. “You know the sort of thing—a gallery opening, a West End musical. They leave this afternoon and they’ll be back in Finch on Wednesday.”

“Calligraphy,” Willis, Sr., said meditatively. “You must admit that it was worth saving such an unusual artifact, Lori. It will be a pleasurable challenge to answer the questions it engenders. Who created it? What message does the calligraphy convey?”

“I’m just happy it’s out of your study,” I said. “It probably left smudges all over the floor.”

“Mrs. Donovan removed every trace.” Willis, Sr., smiled at Deirdre. “One would never know that the artifact had been there.”

“Delicioso,”
said Henrique. He mopped the last vestiges of lard from his plate with a morsel of cold toast, popped it into his mouth, and wiped his glistening lips with his grease-stained napkin. “I am enchanted by your English cuisine.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Sally.

“Shall we now take the tour of your beautiful home, Lady Sarah?” he proposed, pushing his chair back from the table. “Lori tells me of your wish to be my guide. I am keen to see your treasures and to hear your many marvelous stories about the ancestors who came before you.”

“M-my ancestors?” Sally stammered, looking to Willis, Sr., for help.

“The Pynes were great collectors,” he said smoothly. “Señor Cocinero will, I am certain, be fascinated by the objets d’art they acquired during their many trips abroad.”

“Trips abroad,” Sally repeated intently, as if filing the information away for future use. A frown of concentration creased her forehead, then she turned to smile indulgently at Henrique. “I’ve been dying to take you round the place, Henrique. You won’t believe what my ancestors got up to on their grand tours of France and Italy. All that wine, you know ...”

Henrique rose to pull out Sally’s chair, then followed her into the dining room and out of sight. Deirdre immediately began to collect their dishes, as if she were eager to erase the evidence of a meal that failed so dismally to showcase her refined culinary skills.

“Sally may not know much about objets d’art,” I said to Willis, Sr., “but she knows what happens when people get squiffy. I have a feeling that she’ll avoid talking about Fairworth and focus on her fictitious ancestors’ drunken revels on the continent.”

“Lady Sarah is a resourceful woman,” said Willis, Sr. “I have no doubt that she will use her imagination to camouflage her lack of knowledge. Mrs. Donovan,” he went on, “if I might speak with you for a moment?”

“Of course, sir.” Deirdre stopped what she was doing and faced him.

“Thank you for preparing the meal I asked you to prepare,” he said. “That it did not achieve its goal is not your fault. You did your best.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I still think it’s a good idea to present Mr. Cocinero with substandard cuisine while he’s here. We’re bound to hit on something he won’t be able to choke down. May I recommend pig’s trotters for dinner?”

Willis, Sr., groaned softly, but nodded. “It is worth a try, Mrs. Donovan. You may serve pig’s trotters for dinner.”

“We’ll skip afternoon tea altogether,” Deirdre continued, as if she’d already mapped out her assault on Henrique’s digestive system. “For breakfast tomorrow, watery porridge. Tripe for lunch and a reprise of pig’s trotters for dinner. I’ll have to send Declan out for the tripe and the trotters, sir. I have none on hand.”

“I should hope not,” murmured Willis, Sr.

“Ring Hodge Farm,” I said to Deirdre. “Burt and Annie Hodge keep a few pigs. Their number’s in the phone book.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

He gestured toward our untouched plates. “You may take these away. They have served their purpose.”

Deirdre departed with the dirty dishes, but Willis, Sr., and I lingered at the table.

“I spoke with Lady Sarah about the furniture,” he said. “She categorically denies rearranging the settee in the morning room and the chair in the drawing room.”

“They didn’t move themselves,” I said. “Have you asked Deirdre if she shifted them?”

“I have not yet had the opportunity,” he replied. “It took some time to convince Lady Sarah to rescind her approval of Señor Cocinero’s extended stay.”

“You gave him an extra day,” I pointed out.

“It was all I could do to deny him
six
extra days,” Willis, Sr., returned. “Lady Sarah was not cooperative.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose it is possible that Mrs. Donovan is responsible for the inadvertent alteration of my rooms. She is an enthusiastic cleaner. She did not retire until the small hours last night.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The elevator,” he replied. “If I concentrate, I can hear its hum from my room. Since I had some trouble falling asleep last night, I heard Mrs. Donovan utilize the elevator to return to her quarters at two fifty-seven a.m.”

“She didn’t get to bed until three in the morning?” I said, astonished.

“As I said, she is an enthusiastic cleaner,” said Willis, Sr.

Deirdre reappeared with two dessert plates and a cut-glass bowl filled with bunches of sweet muscat grapes, which she placed on the table.

“To cleanse the palate,” she announced.

“We didn’t eat anything,” I reminded her.

“You inhaled the grease,” she said with an apologetic smile.

“Mrs. Donovan,” said Willis, Sr., helping himself to a small bunch of grapes. “Did you for some reason feel the need to rearrange my furniture last night?”

“Your furniture?” said Deirdre, looking puzzled.

“I refer to the Chippendale armchair in the drawing room,” said Willis, Sr., “and to the settee in the living room. They are not where they were yesterday.”

She frowned for a moment before her face cleared. “Ah, yes, now I remember. I had to move the armchair in order to sweep the floor properly. Did I forget to put it back? I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“And the settee?” said Willis, Sr. “It
was
near the windows. It is now near the fireplace.”

“Sunlight fades fabrics, sir,” Deirdre replied readily. “After I opened the drapes in the morning room, I moved the settee away from the windows to protect its upholstery.”

“An unnecessary precaution,” Willis, Sr., said gently. “The windows throughout Fairworth have been treated with a substance that blocks the sun’s harmful rays.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know about the windows,” said Deirdre. “I’ll put everything back where it belongs.”

“Thank you,” said Willis, Sr. “I took great pains to arrange the rooms just so. I would prefer them to stay that way.”

“Of course, sir,” said Deirdre.

“Well, gang,” I said, looking at my watch, “I’d like to while away the morning, nibbling on grapes, but I can’t. Lunchtime approaches and I’ll have to swap cars with Bill before I fetch the boys from Anscombe Manor. Bill drove the Rover this morning, so he has the twins’ booster seats,” I explained to Willis, Sr.

“Mr. Donovan will drive you to the village,” he said.

“I can walk,” I told him.

“Please allow Mr. Donovan to drive you,” said Willis, Sr. “It will save time. Our inquisitive neighbors may delay your departure from the village and I do not want my grandsons to miss their midday meal. I would share it with them if I could,” he added wistfully.

“He’ll be gone by Thursday,” I soothed.

“Declan will bring the car around in five minutes,” said Deirdre, and she bustled off to speak with her mate.

“Car?” I said, after she’d gone. “What car? I thought the Donovans drove a beat-up old van.”

“I have given Mr. Donovan my permission to drive my Jaguar,” said Willis, Sr. “His Renault is unsafe as well as unsightly.” He plucked a grape from the bunch on his plate. “I have asked my man in London to purchase a suitable utility vehicle for the Donovans.”

“You’re buying a car for them?” I said, taken aback.

“I am buying a car for the estate. My sedan was not designed to transport hay bales or garden manure.” Willis, Sr., popped the grape into his mouth and got to his feet. “I will walk with you to the entrance hall, my dear, but I must part with you there and go in search of Lady Sarah and her guest. If I leave them alone for too long, Lady Sarah will undoubtedly forget that
she
is a fictitious character.”

Twelve

Declan was waiting for me beside the gleaming midnight-blue Jaguar when I emerged from Fairworth House. He’d exchanged his working attire for a more decorous ensemble of dark trousers, black shoes, and a clean white shirt. He snapped to attention when I came down the stairs, and opened the car’s rear door for me, as if he expected me to sit in the backseat while he drove.

“I’ll sit up front with you,” I said, walking past him. “You’re not my chauffeur and I’m not a diva.”

“The true nobility sit where they wish,” he said good-naturedly and ran around me to open the front door with a flourish.

I caught a faint whiff of horse as Declan took his place in the driver’s seat, and recalled that when I’d last seen him, he’d been mucking out the stables. He’d evidently had enough time to change his clothes before bringing the car around, but not enough time to shower. Far from bothering me, the horsey scent made me think of my horse-loving sons and brought to mind an item I’d failed to mention to Willis, Sr.

“By the way,” I said as we cruised slowly down the tree-lined drive, “I told Señor Cocinero that a neighbor is boarding Lady Sarah’s horses while she finishes renovating her stables. It seemed like a good way to head off any questions he might have about why the stables are unoccupied at the moment.”