Aunt Dimity Digs In (11 page)

“Won’t it?” I asked.

“We don’t need any more outsiders coming in here,” Francesca stated firmly. “There’s enough of them running round the village as it is.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said.

Francesca blushed. “I don’t mean you or the Buntings or such. Your kind don’t interfere. But Dr. Culver’ll interfere, right enough. He’ll be as bad as Mrs. Kitchen. Besides,” she continued, “I don’t hold with putting dead folks’ belongings in museums. It’s not right.”

“Didn’t your medallion come from a museum?” I asked.

“It did not,” she declared. “My father made the
phalera
with his own two hands. He’d never go poking and prying into dead folks’ things. Which is more than can be said for a puffed-up popinjay like Dr. Culver.”

Francesca’s burst of fury abated as she guided the car toward the square. “Bill rang,” she said, making conversation. “Said he and Derek Harris’d have supper at the pub tonight.”

I felt a stab of disappointment. I’d been looking forward to swapping gossip with my husband, and Francesca’s late addition was pure gold. If Adrian Culver really was planning to build a museum in Finch, Sally Pyne would have two extremely good reasons to steal the Gladwell pamphlet. An antiquities museum would help her business and at the same time serve as a perpetual irritant to her old foe, Peggy Kitchen.

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. Sally Pyne wasn’t the only one who’d benefit from having a museum in Finch. Christine Peacock’s pub would prosper. Katrina Graham would have a proper laboratory in which to conduct the experiments she’d cata loged to Simon in Peggy’s shop. And no self-respecting archaeologist would throw away a chance to name a museum after himself. If Adrian, Katrina, or Christine had gotten wind of the Gladwell pamphlet on Sunday night, they’d each have a good reason to make sure it never saw the light of day.

As the Mercedes rumbled through the square, I gazed at Bill’s bicycle and sighed. I couldn’t fault my husband for following my instructions, but I hoped he wouldn’t dawdle at the pub. I was champing at the bit to hear what Adrian had told him about the bishop—and to share with him my burgeoning suspicions.

 

Dinner had been marvelous: chilled cucumber soup, poached salmon with salad, and homemade lemon sorbet for dessert. I felt a pang of pity for Bill, who’d missed out on the feast, glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, and folded my hands to keep myself from fidgeting.

After supper, I’d taken the boys for a walk, bathed them, and put them to bed. I’d spent an hour or so in the kitchen with Francesca, discussing her terms of employment, a discussion that had consisted mostly of Francesca calmly stating her requirements and me saying okay.

Having dispensed with my duties as chatelaine, I’d stretched out on the couch in the living room to record the day’s events in Lilian Bunting’s red notebook. I wanted to be armed and ready when Bill came through the door.

Francesca sat in the chintz-covered armchair, hemming a skirt. When she glanced up, I nodded and smiled and silently ordered myself not to worry. Bill hadn’t told me when to expect him back from the pub, so he wasn’t late, exactly. His bicycle was equipped with lights and bristling with reflectors, so he’d be safe on the road after dark. There was no cause to—

A car’s headlights illuminated the bay window and I leapt to my feet. Francesca gave me an odd look as I dashed into the hallway, but I was past caring. It was too late in the evening for casual callers, but policemen bearing bad news—and mangled bicycles—might turn up at any time. Dreading dire revelations, I opened the front door and nearly fainted with relief when I saw Adrian Culver striding up the flagstone path.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said, “but I didn’t want you to lose sleep over Reginald.”

“Reginald?” I said stupidly.

He held my rabbit out for me to see. “Rainey pleads guilty to rabbit-napping. She asked me to return him to you. Unfortunately, I was detained—first by Mrs. Pyne, then by Mrs. Bunting, and finally, by Mrs. Kitchen.”

For a moment I forgot my own distress. “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer,” I said, taking custody of my pink bunny. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“It’s awfully late,” he said, hanging back.

“Don’t be silly,” I told him. “Francesca’s just brewed a fresh—” I broke off as understanding belatedly dawned. It would have dawned much sooner had I bothered to take note of Adrian’s appearance. He’d left his crumpled hat and rucksack at the schoolhouse and replaced his work-clothes with a pair of gray dress slacks, polished shoes, and an immaculate, though silently rumpled white shirt. If Reginald had been a wrist corsage, I’d have sworn it was prom night.

“Come in,” I said unsteadily. I put Reg on the hall table and ushered Adrian into the living room. “Francesca, look who’s here.”

“Evening, Dr. Culver.” Francesca picked up her sewing basket and got to her feet. “It’s late. I think I’ll go up.”

Adrian wilted visibly as Francesca strode past us, but perked up again when she stopped short.

“You’ve a button missing,” she said to him. She made it sound like an accusation.

“Have I?” Adrian peered down at his shirt, dismayed.

Francesca was not the sort of woman who could let an empty buttonhole stay empty. She heaved an exasperated sigh and began to rummage through her sewing basket. She retrieved a threaded needle and a white button, then turned to Adrian. The reproachful look she gave him was exactly what she’d use on Rob or Will in the future, if they ever returned home from the playground without their sneakers. “Hold still,” she ordered.

I’m convinced that Adrian Culver held his breath, though his heart must have been thundering. With a twist of her wrist, Francesca slipped the fingers of her left hand inside his shirt to hold the button in place while her right hand plied the needle back and forth. Her movements were brisk and businesslike, but her head was bent low, her coil of dark hair mere inches from Adrian’s lips.

Adrian peered down at her woozily. “I can’t help but admire your . . . medallion,” he said. “It’s a miniature
phalera,
isn’t it?”

“Never mind about my
phalera.
” Francesca snipped the thread short. “You just keep track of your buttons.”

“ Th-thank you, Miss Sciaparelli.” Adrian fumbled with his shirtfront as she gathered up her basket and stalked out of the room.

I waited for the fumes of unrequited passion to dissipate, then gently guided Adrian to the couch. I poured a cup of tea and wrapped his hands around it, but the warmth failed to recall him from the land of the lovesick. He was, in my judgment, ripe for interrogation.

“It was kind of you to return Reg to me this evening,” I began, “especially when you have so much else on your mind—organizing the schoolhouse, excavating Scrag End field, planning your museum . . .”

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding vaguely. “ There’s quite a lot to do, but—” He straightened abruptly. “Museum? What museum?”

“The Culver Institute,” I said helpfully.

“ The . . . the
Culver Institute?
” Incomprehension gave way to sudden laughter. “Oh, dear,” he said, placing his teacup on the end table, “how flattering. I presume you’ve been speaking with Rainey’s grandmother.”

“Indirectly,” I said. “She seems to have gotten the impression that you’re planning to build a museum in Finch.”

“I may have mentioned it in passing,” Adrian admitted candidly, “as a very long-range, very remote possibility—a dream, if you like. As I told you this afternoon, however, it’s far too soon to plan anything of that magnitude. We’ve scarcely begun to explore Scrag End. Apart from that, I’d never name a museum after—” He broke off as another set of headlights flared across the bow windows. “Is that a car?”

I was already halfway to the door. I flung it open just in time to see Derek Harris, all six foot four of him, trying to keep my husband from toppling into the lilac bushes.

“Evening, Lori,” Derek called, leaning Bill against the door of his pickup truck.

Bill’s head rose slowly from his chest. He smiled sweetly. “ ’Lo, love,” he said.

“What on earth—” I began.

“ Think we’d best get him inside,” Derek suggested.

Adrian Culver stepped past me. “May I be of assistance?”

Bill favored Adrian with a toothy grin. “ ’Lo, love,” he repeated.

I stood aside as Derek and Adrian maneuvered my husband into the hallway, where they propped him against the wall. He seemed content to lean there, humming quietly to himself.

Adrian’s gray eyes had filled with compassion, and I suddenly remembered that he hadn’t been paying attention when I’d told him that the “expat Yank barrister” he’d met in the pub was my husband.

“I’ll be off,” Adrian said.

I shook my head. “No, wait, I can explain—”

“No need, Lori.” Adrian gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze and departed.

I closed the door and rounded on Derek. “What have you done to my husband?”

Bill cleared his throat. “Pegger . . . Peggry . . . Peg gle . . .”

“Peggy Kitchen,” Derek translated, “brought her petition round to the pub this evening. She spotted Bill and me having supper, came over to ask if Bill’d worked out the legal solution you’d promised her.”

I winced. I’d forgotten to warn Bill about the lies I’d spun to keep Peggy away from the schoolhouse.

“Never fear,” Derek went on. “Bill’s a lawyer. Knows how to improvise. Told Peggy that in order to have enough time to explore the appropriate legal avenues he’d be forced to give up morris dancing.”

“No . . . more . . . danshing,” Bill stated, fairly firmly.

“Quite right, Bill, no more dancing.” Derek patted Bill’s shoulder. “That’s why Peggy assigned you to the mead-tasting committee for the Harvest Festival. Said it’d take up less of your valuable time.”

“Mead.” Bill giggled softly.

“Bill doesn’t know the first thing about mead,” I said, bewildered.

Bill tried again. “I tol’, tol’, tol’ . . .”

“ That’s what he told Peggy,” Derek interjected. “And that’s why Peggy took it upon herself to educate your husband’s palate. Had him sample all twelve jugs of Dick Peacock’s finest mead.”

Bill made a complicated attempt to hold up twelve fingers.

I groaned.

“Chris called me away to help her fit the new pub sign with hooks,” said Derek. “By the time I got back, Bill was blotto. Took some time to persuade him that his bed would be more comfy than the floor. Took even longer to pry him off of that blasted bicycle. And there’s something else. . . .” Derek put an arm out to keep Bill from sliding down the wall. “Peggy pulled me aside and told me some crackbrained story about Francesca and that Culver chap getting up to no good in the churchyard.”

I gaped at him, bereft of speech.

“Told her not to be a damned fool,” Derek assured me. “Why on earth would Francesca use the churchyard when she has a perfectly comfortable—”

“Derek!”
I exclaimed indignantly.

“ Thought that would bring you round.” Derek grinned briefly. “In point of fact, I told Peggy that if she went about talking nonsense about my friends, she’d have to find another handyman. And since I’m the only man in the kingdom who understands her drains, I doubt we’ll hear any more out of her.” He nodded toward Bill. “Upstairs?”

“Please.” As I stood there watching Derek cart my drunken husband off to bed, my indignation gave way to a simmering rage. “ That woman,” I growled. “ That woman must be stopped.”

10.

If a hundred Gladwell pamphlets had slithered through my mail slot the following morning, I’d have tossed them on the hearth and set them blazing. I was no longer interested in closing down Adrian’s dig. I wanted him to occupy the schoolhouse forever. I was a little out of charity with Peggy Kitchen. And so was Bill.

“May I kill her, Lori? Please? Just this once?”

I wiped his greenish face with a cool washcloth. “Only if you get to her before I do, my darling.”

Bill smiled serenely, pushed himself up on his elbows, and was violently sick in the bedside bucket thoughtfully provided by Francesca.

I cleaned him up, got him settled, and went downstairs. As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I noticed Francesca standing in the doorway to the study, a rag in one hand, a jar of furniture polish in the other. She seemed oddly flustered.

“Lori? Would you come in here, please?”

I felt a tiny flutter of alarm as I followed her into the study. The room showed signs of a recent cleaning. The hearth had been swept, the ivy-covered windows were spotless, and the tall leather armchairs gleamed dully in the light from the mantelshelf lamps. Will and Rob observed our entrance solemnly from their bouncy chairs on the far side of the room.

When she reached the wooden desk beneath the windows, Francesca pointed to a bookshelf on her right. “A book fell from that shelf as you were coming down the stairs. It nearly hit me in the head.”

“Oh, dear.” I didn’t have to pretend to be dismayed as I walked over to lay a hand along the blue journal’s spine. I did, however, have to keep myself from screeching when the book nudged my palm. “I . . . I should have warned you.”

“Warned me about what?” Francesca asked.

I leaned my full weight on the book. “It’s an old cottage,” I babbled. “The walls are crooked. The floors are uneven. Sometimes . . . when someone comes down the stairs . . . books fall off the shelves.”

“But that’s dangerous,” Francesca scolded. “What if the book had hit one of the boys?”

“She’d never . . .” I cleared my throat. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s take the boys to the living room, just to be on the safe side.”

Francesca complied, but as we were leaving the study, carrying one baby-filled bouncy chair apiece, she gave me a sidelong look. “How did you know it was the blue book that fell?” she asked.