Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (16 page)

“If she changes her mind, she’ll post a notice on the schoolhouse board,” I informed them.

All five of us jumped in alarm as the front door banged open and Peggy Taxman sailed into the room.

“Lori!” she thundered. “What’s going on? I went to the trouble of finding Judith Crosby’s telephone number in the Chipping Norton directory, but when I rang her, she hung up on me!”

“She was probably tending to Sally,” I said.

“It takes time and energy to nurse a woman in Sally’s state,” Opal reasoned. “I’m sure that Judith doesn’t have a moment to spare for
frivolous
telephone calls.”

“Her patient’s welfare must come first,” Millicent agreed primly.

“If I were her,” said Selena, “I certainly wouldn’t put up with people pestering me.”

“I wasn’t
pestering
her,” Peggy bellowed, her eyes flashing dangerously behind her pointy glasses. “I rang to ask if Sally was feeling better.”

“She was at death’s door yesterday,” said Opal. “I sincerely doubt that there’s been any change in her condition since then.”

Peggy muttered something under her breath, then turned her wrath on me again.

“Didn’t you see me waving at you this morning?” she demanded.

“I saw you,” I admitted. “But I couldn’t do anything about it. William’s client refused to stop.”

“Shame on you, Peggy,” Opal said crossly. “You had no business waving at William’s client.”

“None at all,” said Selena. “You were there when William asked us to respect his guest’s privacy.”

Peggy scowled. “William’s guest looks foreign to me.
Mexican.
”

“Does he?” Millicent asked avidly. She gave me a guilty, sidelong glance, then glowered at Peggy. “A notion you should keep to yourself, Peggy Taxman.”

“Someone’s been paying a little too much attention to Sally’s endless tales about her trip,” said Selena, looking down her nose at Peggy. “For all we know, William’s client could be Spanish or Peruvian or something else altogether.”

“It’s a pity Sally isn’t here,” said Millicent. “She’d be able to tell us whether he’s Mexican or not.”

“Ladies,” Opal said reprovingly, “William’s client is none of our business. I agree with Millicent. We should keep our opinions about him to ourselves. If his identity is leaked to the press, goodness knows what might happen.”

“We don’t want the pub overrun by reporters,” said Millicent, “and we certainly don’t want lorry-loads of photographers pointing their long lenses at Fairworth.”

“In that case, you should be having it out with Elspeth Binney, not me,” Peggy boomed. “
She
was the one on the bridge with the
telescope
.”

Opal gasped. “A telescope?”

“As if you didn’t know,” Peggy said scornfully.

“How could we?” Selena protested. “We’ve only just got back from Upper Deeping.”

“Monday’s our painting class,” said Opal. “En plein air with Mr. Shuttleworth, remember? Such a nice man and so talented. He says I have a gift for—”

“Did Elspeth
really
have a telescope?” Selena broke in impatiently.

“Did she
see
anything? ” asked Millicent.

“Birds,” I put in. “She was bird-watching.”

The four women eyed me with naked incredulity, then made for the door.

“I wish I could stay and chat, but my garden needs weeding,” said Opal.

“I have to clean my paintbrushes,” said Millicent.

“I have a letter to write,” said Selena.

“I have to get back to the Emporium,” Peggy roared.

They bustled out of Wysteria Lodge and across the green diagonally, picking up Mr. Barlow, George Wetherhead, Christine Peacock, and Miranda Morrow along the way. Bill strode to the window to survey their progress.

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding. “Their trajectory will place them at Dove Cottage in less than thirty seconds.”

“Dove Cottage,” I said, wholly unsurprised. “Elspeth Binney’s house.”

“I hope Elspeth has a big pot of tea ready,” said Bill. “She’s about to receive eight extremely chatty visitors. Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall?”

“If they keep fighting among themselves, they’ll never figure out who Henrique really is.” I glanced at my watch. “William guessed that our neighbors would slow me down. It’s past time for me to pick up the boys. Kit and Nell won’t let them starve, but a mother should make lunch for her own children, don’t you think? Will you join us?”

“I’ll grab a bite to eat at the pub,” said Bill, “after which I will close my curtains and pile my filing cabinets against the door. It’s the only way I’ll get any work done today.”

My husband and I exchanged kisses as well as keys and I took off in the Rover, leaving an electrified gaggle of villagers in my wake.

Thirteen

I called Willis, Sr., on my way to Anscombe Manor to let him know that I’d routed Elspeth Binney from her observation post.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will maintain a state of heightened vigilance nonetheless. Individuals who own binoculars may be inspired to imitate the observant Mrs. Binney.” He paused before saying meditatively, “I begin to think we were wrong to emphasize my client’s need for anonymity. The mystery surrounding him has done nothing but stimulate the villagers’ curiosity.”

“It doesn’t take much to stimulate the villagers’ curiosity,” I said dryly, “but you’re right. We’d have been better off if we’d told them that your client is”—I picked a name out of thin air—“Tim Thomson, a taxidermist from Topeka. Even they couldn’t get excited about a guy who stuffs dead animals for a living.”

“Perhaps you could drop a few hints to that effect? ” Willis, Sr., suggested.

“I could,” I said, “but it doesn’t really jibe with the story we’ve already established. Why would a taxidermist from Topeka insist on anonymity?”

Willis, Sr., answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Mr. Thomson has chosen to revise his last will and testament in a private and remote setting because he does not want his adult children—two wastrel sons and an ungrateful daughter—to learn that he has disinherited them. Will that do?”

“Absolutely,” I said, bedazzled by his inventiveness. “You have a knack for improvisation, William.”

“I have, alas, handled many similar cases in my time,” said Willis, Sr. “It required very little imagination to superimpose them on our taxidermist.”

“Where are Sally and Henrique?” I asked. “Since you’re speaking freely, I assume they’re not with you.”

“Lady Sarah and Señor Cocinero are enjoying a friendly game of billiards,” he replied, “but I believe they will retire shortly for a siesta.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I am not entirely convinced that they will retire to separate rooms.”

“They will,” I said reassuringly. “It’s been a tiring day for both of them, and there comes a time in everyone’s life when napping is more important than canoodling.”

“I hope devoutly that you are correct,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Lori, but I am required elsewhere. Mrs. Donovan wishes to discuss the dinner menu with me. Such as it is.”

The thought of
not
having to partake in a meal consisting of badly cooked pig parts cheered me greatly as I turned into Anscombe Manor’s curving drive.

Rob and Will were blissfully unaware of my tardiness when I pulled up to the stables, and Nell and Kit were refreshingly incurious about the happenings at Fairworth House. Emma Harris, whom I hadn’t seen since the night of the housewarming party, turned out to be the toughest challenge I faced at Anscombe Manor.

“Lori,” she said, as I strapped Rob into his booster seat. “I’ve been hearing the most bizarre rumors about William’s houseguest.”

“What else is new?” I said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Is it true that he’s a Colombian drug lord working out a secret deal with the C.I.A.?” she asked. “Or is he a Brazilian movie star in the midst of a messy divorce from his fifth wife? Or could he possibly be an Argentinean football player negotiating a new contract behind his coach’s back?”

I straightened so abruptly that I banged my head on the car roof. Years of experience with the village grapevine had failed to prepare me for such a prodigious outpouring of utter rubbish.

“He’s none of the above,” I said indignantly, rubbing my battered head. “Listen, Emma, you’re my best friend, so I won’t lie to you. I’m not at liberty to tell you who William’s guest is, but you can take it from me that he isn’t a crime lord, an actor, or an athlete.”

“Okay,” she said equably. “Will you ever reveal the truth to me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not my secret to reveal.”

“Fair enough.” She leaned closer, her blue-gray eyes twinkling. “I can’t wait to hear what the villagers come up with next.”

“I can’t imagine anything more outrageous than a Colombian drug lord,” I said.

“Ah, but
they
can,” she said happily.

I rolled my eyes in response, called good-bye to Kit and Nell, and climbed into the Rover, wondering how many other ludicrous rumors would surface before I could squelch them with the taxidermist story.

I changed into a cotton blouse, a pair of shorts, and my good old grubby sneakers as soon as we reached the cottage, then tossed the boys into the tub for a bubbly scrub before I helped them to dress in clean clothes. I could tolerate a whiff of horse, but after their riding lessons, my sons tended to smell like a whole herd.

While I prepared a simple, wholesome, and grease-free lunch, Will and Rob regaled me with a blow-by-blow account of a morning spent mastering the emergency dismount maneuver. Though images of my precious babes tumbling repeatedly from their saddles would haunt me for days to come, I did my maternal duty and concealed my abject terror with a show of enthusiasm.

I helped myself to a grilled chicken burger and some creamy cucumber salad and watched contentedly as the twins devoured theirs. I would never be a gourmet chef of Deirdre Donovan’s caliber, but it was comforting to know that my family thought my cooking was first-rate.

“Can we go to Grandpa’s after lunch?” Will asked.

“We cannot,” I replied. “Grandpa has company and you will, too. Don’t you remember? Piero Hodge is coming over to play.”

“I like Piero,” Rob said, with a judicious nod. “He ate a worm once.”

“Not a
whole
worm,” Will temporized. “Just a bite.”

“Why?” I asked, grimacing.

“Clive Pickle dared him to,” Rob explained.

“Poor worm,” I said sadly.

“It’s okay, Mummy,” said Will. “The worm was dead.”

“You console me,” I said, stifling an urge to gag. “Does Clive Pickle dare you to do silly things?”

“All the time,” said Rob. “But we ignore him.”

“Daddy says Clive Pickle isn’t worth listening to,” Will declared.

“Clever Daddy,” I said and got to my feet. It is a truth universally acknowledged that small boys will tell revolting tales, but I tried not to encourage the habit, especially during mealtimes. “Dishes in the sink, please, and teeth brushed. Piero will be here in two ticks.”

While Rob and Will were upstairs staging sword fights with their toothbrushes, I slipped into the study and read the application forms Davina Trent had faxed to me on Saturday morning. I then picked up the telephone and called Mrs. Trent.

“How thoroughly did you vet the Donovans?” I asked, after we’d exchanged the usual pleasantries.

“Quite thoroughly,” she replied. “I conducted personal interviews with their university tutors and with more than a dozen people who stayed at their guesthouse in the west of Ireland. No one had a bad word to say about them. Indeed, I was left with the impression that the Donovans are intelligent, hardworking, and eager to please.”

“Why did they sell the guesthouse?” I asked.

“The building developed structural flaws they couldn’t afford to repair,” Mrs. Trent replied. “When they realized they were in over their heads, they cut their losses and started afresh. I spoke with the estate agent who handled the sale for them. It was quite straightforward and aboveboard. Why do you ask, Ms. Shepherd? Has there been a problem?”

“No,” I said. “They just seem a tad overqualified for their positions.”

“In these difficult times, many people have been forced to take jobs they would normally pass up,” said Mrs. Trent, “but I can assure you that the Donovans haven’t settled for second best. They specifically requested placement in a country house such as your father-in-law’s. In fact, it was the only type of employment they would consider.”

“I see,” I said.

“Mr. Willis expressed his complete satisfaction with the Donovans in his telephone call to me,” Mrs. Trent went on, “but if you’ve discovered some fault—”

“I haven’t,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pick holes in the Donovans. I have no reason to complain about them. I guess I’m just being an overprotective daughter-in-law.”

“I understand,” she said. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction. Is there anything else I can help you with, Ms. Shepherd?”

I told her there wasn’t, thanked her, and hung up, feeling strangely dissatisfied.

“Davina Trent and William may adore the Donovans,” I said to Reginald, “but I choose to reserve judgment. Oxford scholars don’t jump at the chance to clean toilets and stables for anyone but themselves. They just don’t.”

My pink bunny said nothing, but I could tell by the tilt of his ears that he agreed with me.

I would have liked to discuss the matter with Aunt Dimity, but there was no time. I’d scarcely finished speaking to Reginald when the doorbell summoned me to the front hall to welcome Annie Hodge and her worm-eating son. Will and Rob promptly thundered downstairs and proposed an expedition to the narrow stream that ran along the bottom of our meadow. After securing parental permission, they whisked Piero to the garden shed, to arm him and themselves with nets and buckets, then galloped through the garden and across the flower-strewn meadow to the brook. Annie and I followed at a more sedate pace.

“I see three wet boys in our future,” I proclaimed portentously.

“No prizes for that prediction,” she said, smiling. “It’s such a hot day, I may wade in with them.”