Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (4 page)

“Or preparing to swim the Channel,” chimed in Elspeth Binney.

“Flying a rocket ship to the moon, more like,” said Selena Buxton, snickering.

“I reckon she’s ill,” said Mr. Barlow, Finch’s kindhearted handyman. “Only thing that would keep her away.”

“Do you think it could be something ... tropical?” George Wetherhead asked worriedly. The shy model-train enthusiast did not have a robust constitution.

“Malaria, perhaps?” Opal Taylor offered hopefully. Opal resented Sally’s success at the summer bake sale. “Or cholera?”

“Could be dengue fever,” Grant Tavistock proposed. “Charles and I read an article about it last week.
Dreadful
disease. One bite from an infected mosquito and you’re done for.
No cure
,” he concluded somberly.

“N-no c-cure?” George Wetherhead stammered, his eyes like saucers.

“Most likely it’s Montezuma’s Revenge,” said Mr. Barlow. “Sally ate some queer things over there—tacos and tamales and such. Bound to catch up with her sooner or later.”

“Hold on!” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the clamor. “I can tell you why Sally’s not here. She telephoned me this afternoon to tell me that she couldn’t come to the party because she has a sore throat, a cough, and a stuffy nose. She has a summer cold, that’s all, and I’m grateful to her for not sharing it with William’s guests.”

“A cold?” my audience murmured disappointedly.

“Poor old Sally,” said Christine, shaking her head.

“It’s a good thing she’s got her granddaughter staying with her,” said Dick. “Girl’s as bright as a button. Rainey’ll have no trouble managing the teashop while Sally’s under the weather.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to see if Rainey needs a hand with anything,” said Mr. Barlow.

“I’ll brew a slippery elm bark tisane for Sally,” said Miranda. “Very soothing for the throat.”

My mundane solution to what had been an intriguing mystery took the wind out of everyone’s sails. They exchanged a few more ideas on how best to help Sally, then wandered off, leaving me once more alone with the Taxmans. Peggy, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the debate, waited for the others to disperse, then let out a derisive snort.

“Ha!” she said, tossing her head. “A summer cold, my aunt Fanny! You can believe what you want, Lori Shepherd, but I know why Sally’s afraid to show her face in decent company.”

“Do you?” I said, mystified.

“It’s the
letter
,” she said, leaning close to me.

“I see.” I nodded wisely. “What letter?”

“The letter she picked up at the post office this morning,” Peggy explained in what was, for her, an undertone. “The letter with the
Mexican stamp
! Blushed like a bride when I handed it to her. Opened it on the spot. I expected her to make a great show of reading it aloud, but instead she turned twenty shades of red, went white as a ghost, stuffed it back into the envelope, and trotted off without saying a word. And now she’s not here.” Peggy folded her massive arms and peered down at me through her glittering glasses. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“She sounded sick to me,” I said hesitantly.

“She’s faking,” Peggy barked. “I told her that no good ever comes of foreign travel, but would she listen?” Peggy pursed her lips. “Mark my words, Lori, our Sally has done something she oughtn’t.”

“What sort of something?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Peggy acknowledged. “But I will. I’ll winkle the truth out of
La Señora
. I always do!”

A manic gleam lit Peggy’s eyes as she sailed out of the billiards room. Jasper gave me a helpless look, then trailed meekly after her.

I had less than a minute to contemplate Peggy’s tantalizing news before a trio of out-of-town guests—Sir Percy Pelham, Adrian Culver, and Nicholas Fox—swept me into the library, demanding that I show them the finest volumes in Willis, Sr.’s collection. I used the knowledge I’d acquired as a rare-book bibliographer to satisfy their curiosity, then allowed myself to drift aimlessly through the party’s swirls and eddies. I ended up in the conservatory with Bill and his English cousins, Lucy and Gerald, both of whom worked for the family law firm. When they started talking shop, I excused myself and stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

A soft breeze cooled my brow as I strolled away from the brightly lit house, and the cheerful cacophony of music, laughter, and talk dwindled to a distant hum. I was about to release a profoundly satisfied sigh when a hand clamped onto my wrist and dragged me into the darkness.

No one but my assailant heard me scream.

Three

“Stop screeching, Lori!” said a voice. “It’s me!
Me!
”

“R-Rainey?” I pressed a hand to my breast and stared wide-eyed at the long, narrow, and very anxious face of Sally Pyne’s auburn-haired granddaughter. “For pity’s sake, Rainey, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“I know and I’m sorry,” she said earnestly, “but I couldn’t think of any other way to speak with you privately.”

Rainey Dawson was dressed like a cat burglar, in sneakers, dark jeans, and a black, hooded sweatshirt. She spoke in an urgent whisper as she pulled me deeper into the shadows cast by an ancient chestnut tree. Though she was a slender teenager, she had a grip like a lumberjack’s.

“I can think of a dozen ways to talk to me,” I said sternly, when we came to a halt, “beginning with the telephone.”

“People eavesdrop on telephone calls,” she retorted. “You know how
they
are.”

Rainey didn’t have to explain who “they” were.

“I realize that your grandmother’s friends can be a bit intrusive at times,” I conceded diplomatically, “but they don’t eavesdrop at the cottage. We can talk there tomorrow, after I come home from church.”

“No, we
can’t
.” She shook her head vehemently. “I have to speak with you
tonight
.”

“What’s wrong?” I said, suddenly alert. “Does your grandmother need a doctor or”—my heart constricted—“an ambulance?”

“Gran’s not sick!” Rainey exclaimed. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to keep herself from shouting again, then spoke in a feverish whisper. “It was all
playacting
, Lori! Gran doesn’t need a
doctor
. She needs
William
.”

I blinked at her incredulously for a moment, then said through gritted teeth, “Rainey, if you frightened me half to death for the sole purpose of telling me that your grandmother is secretly pining for my father-in-law—”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted. She glanced furtively toward the house before continuing, “Gran’s gotten herself into the most frightful pickle, Lori, and she needs William’s help to get out of it.”

“What kind of pickle?” I asked.

“The kind only
Gran
could get herself into,” Rainey replied, with a touch of asperity.

“Is she in some legal difficulty?” I asked. It seemed reasonable to assume that a villager at odds with the law might seek advice from an experienced attorney like Willis, Sr., whether he was retired or not. My guess, unfortunately, went wide of the mark.

“If only.”
The girl groaned miserably. “I’m afraid it’s much more complicated than that.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if Sally’s complicated problem had something to do with her mysterious Mexican correspondent but Rainey jumped in before I could speak.

“It’ll be much easier if Gran explains,” she said. “Can she come here to see William after the party’s over?”

“The party won’t be over until dawn,” I warned her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Gran won’t get a wink of sleep tonight anyway. She’s too upset. You can ring the tearoom after your guests have gone home.” She shifted restlessly from foot to foot as she added, “Gran’s in a dreadful state, Lori. She has to see William
tonight
.”

“Okay,” I said, recognizing desperation when I saw it. “I’ll ask William to wait up for her and I’ll call the tearoom as soon as the coast is clear.”

“Thank you!” Rainey flung her slender arms around me in a grateful hug, then stepped back. “I’d better go. Honestly, Lori, when Gran goes off the rails, she
really
goes off the rails!”

As she faded silently into the darkness, I wondered if any of my guests could teach me the Spanish word for
pickle
.

The housewarming party ended much sooner than I’d predicted, out of consideration, no doubt, for Willis, Sr.’s advanced years. The locals, who tended to be early risers, were gone by half past ten and the last of the out-of-towners said their farewells just after eleven. A small group of close friends stuck around to help me and the Oxford crew with the cleanup effort, but by midnight, Bill, Willis, Sr., and I had the house to ourselves.

I called Kit Smith for an update on Will and Rob and to let him know that Bill and I would return to the cottage as soon as Willis, Sr., had retired for the evening. Kit assured me that the boys were sleeping soundly and that he and Nell would wait up for us.

Willis, Sr., had consented to receive Sally Pyne in his study. Bill had earned the right to sit in on the meeting by informing us—a bit smugly—that the Spanish word for Sally’s particular type of pickle was
“el aprieto.”
I was there because wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.

Our rendezvous with Sally had a cloak-and-dagger air to it, so I closed the drapes and dimmed the lights in the study while Willis, Sr., took his place behind his walnut desk and Bill seated himself in the leather armchair near the west-facing windows. I was about to make the prearranged telephone call to the tearoom when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll answer it,” I said. “It’s probably Chad and Rupert, looking for a bigger tip.”

“Give it to them,” said Bill. “They did a great job.”

Having bestowed a princely sum upon each member of the Oxford contingent, I was prepared to argue the point, but Willis, Sr., intervened.

“It is most likely Grant Tavistock,” he said. He gestured to the grimy painting that had been found in the ruined stables. “I spoke with Mr. Tavistock earlier this evening and he agreed to take my neglected masterpiece to his studio for cleaning and evaluation. I imagine he has returned to fulfill his promise. He did not have his car with him at the time of the party, you see, and he could hardly carry the painting to Finch in his arms.”

“He’ll have to carry it to his car,” I said grimly. “I don’t want to get my new dress filthy.”

“I am certain that he will oblige you,” said Willis, Sr. “It is a lovely dress.”

“Thank you, William.” I curtseyed in a ladylike manner, then hiked up my lovely dress and set off for the entrance hall at a distinctly unladylike jog.

I didn’t care for the painting in Willis, Sr.’s study. I had, in fact, developed a strong antipathy toward it, not only because it had tried to slice my hand open, but because it had left sooty streaks and smudges on carpets, walls, and anyone who handled it. Willis, Sr.’s “neglected masterpiece” was, quite literally, a dirty picture, and I resented it for soiling his pristine residence. I was so eager for Grant to take it away that I flung open the front door and began to thank him from the bottom of my heart before I realized that I wasn’t speaking to Grant.

A pair of total strangers stood on the doorstep, smiling tentatively at me.

“Good evening,” said the man.

“Hello,” said the woman.

“We’re the Donovans,” said the man.

“The Donovans?” I stared at him blankly until the name finally clicked into place. “Oh! The Donovans! Davina Trent’s Donovans! From the employment agency!”

“That’s right,” said the woman. “I’m Deirdre.”

“And I’m Declan,” said the man.

“I’m Lori Shepherd,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Deirdre shook my proffered hand, saying, “Mrs. Trent has told us so much about you, Ms. Shepherd. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope you’ll accept our sincere and heartfelt apologies for arriving at such an inconvenient hour. We had car trouble.”

“And our mobiles died,” Declan added, holding up his cell phone.

“And we kept missing the turnoff,” Deirdre went on.

“And by the time we sorted ourselves out, night had fallen,” said Declan. “We would have waited until tomorrow to keep our appointment, but we couldn’t find a guesthouse or a hotel.”

“We’re not familiar with the area,” Deirdre interjected.

“So we came ahead on the off-chance that someone would still be awake,” said Declan. “When we saw lights in the ground-floor windows, we thought ...” He gazed at me imploringly.

“Better late than never,” I said, moved as much by their fervor as by their plight. “Won’t you come in?”

I studied the Donovans closely as they walked into the entrance hall. They appeared to be in their early thirties, a factor that might count against them, given Willis, Sr.’s preference for a mature couple. Declan was a stocky redhead with a barrel chest, light blue eyes, and a round, freckled face. His black suit, white shirt, and black tie needed pressing, but his untidiness was understandable, given the circumstances. He spoke with an unmistakable Irish accent.

Deirdre Donovan was another kettle of fish altogether. She was slender and almost a full head taller than Declan, and her accent was pure upper-class English. She was dressed ordinarily enough, in a short-sleeved summer dress and low-heeled pumps, but her looks were far from ordinary. She had a creamy complexion, high cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and shapely lips. Her eyes were a rich, dark brown and their unusual almond shape was accentuated by a prominent mole near the corner of her right eye. She wore her luxuriant chestnut hair in a perfectly coifed French roll that seemed to add length to her swanlike neck, and she carried herself with the unconscious grace of a ballerina.

Deirdre must have sensed my scrutiny because a bashful smile suddenly lit her face.

“I haven’t had a chance to freshen up for hours,” she said, glancing guiltily at the scuff marks on her shoes.

“You look fine to me,” I said, blushing. It was embarrassing to be caught staring at anyone, much less at a woman I’d just met. “But my opinion doesn’t count because I don’t live here. Fairworth House belongs to my father-in-law, William Willis, so you’ll need his approval, not mine. Come with me and I’ll introduce you to him. If you stay on, you’ll have to get used to calling me Lori,” I added, as the pair followed me out of the entrance hall and up the central corridor. “Everyone does.”