At Home in Mitford (40 page)

“I’m speechless,” said Emma.

Alleluia, thought the rector.

“You know, you don’t look so good to me. Are you takin’ your medication?”

“I have to get it refilled. I’ll do that today.”

“Are you, ah, seein’ much of your neighbor?”

He could hardly believe what came out of his mouth. “Not nearly enough!” Where had such a remark come from? His words seemed to hang frozen in the air. He swiveled to the bookcase, feeling his face flush.

“You could fix that,” Emma said reasonably, much to his surprise. “I hear she cooks, she ought to have you over.” There was a meaningful pause. “Or, since you cook, why don’t you have her over?”

It gave him some pleasure, however small, to know that Emma Garrett was considerably behind the times.

When he made his now-daily visit to the Mitford jail, he noticed a stack of boxes near the front door.

“Shoes,” said Rodney. “We’ve had shoes pourin’ in here from all over th’ county. Old shoes, new shoes, black shoes, blue shoes. We’re run over with shoes. Th’ FBI’s goin’ to have t’ take George back t’ Connecticut with a U-Haul.”

“Tell ’im about the casseroles,” said Joe Joe.

“Seven casseroles,” said Rodney, reading from a list, “two blueberry pies, a pound of sliced turkey because he missed ’is Thanksgivin’ dinner, and a box of bridge mix from th’ drugstore. Let’s see, we’ve got cream horns and doughnuts from Winnie, a coconut cake from the help up at Miss Sadie’s, and a Bible from ah . . . what’s that name, Joe Joe?”

“Looks like Cynthia . . . Coppersmith.”

“We need a check-in counter,” said Rodney.

A clean-shaven George Gaynor was dressed in his new shirt and pants, sitting on the cot, writing. He stood up and smiled at the rector.

“How do you like that shave an’ haircut I give ’im?” asked Rodney, who was unlocking the cell door.

“You could put Joe Ivey clean out of business.”

“I’m glad to see you,” said George, who shook the rector’s hand with both of his own. He was looking very different from the gaunt, bearded man who had come down from the attic. “Any word on your dog?”

“Not a word.”

“I’d like to put up a reward, if Rodney will let me have my money. I had about two hundred dollars in my wallet.”

“Thank you, George. Thank you.”

“Make that two twenty-five,” said Joe Joe Guthrie, taking out his billfold.

“Why don’t we just get up a big reward fund, and I’ll keep it in my drawer,” said the police chief, hitching up his holster. “Money talks, you know.”

Before he made a visit to The Local, he made a call.

“Ron, we need to take care of Russell Jacks. Betty Craig has offered to nurse him in her home, which is good, and I expect he’ll need attention for at least three or four months. Whatever you can send, I’ll match.”

“You’ve done your share of matching,” said Ron Malcolm. “Let me know what it takes, and you’ll have it.”

“You’re a prince, my friend. Thank God for you! When do we look at renderings?”

“Could be summer before we see anything. The architect meets with Miss Sadie on Tuesday. Sometime in July, we ought to get a rough idea of square footage, how it’ll be sited, that kind of thing. Before it goes fast, Father, it always goes slow.”

“My love to Wilma,” said the rector.

On the way to The Local, he stopped by the Grill. “We’re gettin’ up a reward,” said Mule Skinner, who was sitting at the counter, counting. “Sixty-five, seventy-five, ninety-five, a hundred. . . .”

Esther Cunningham, who was having a cup of coffee and a piece of lemon pie at a table, raked through a large knitting bag for her checkbook. She gave Mule a check for fifty dollars. “In Mitford, we take care of our own,” she said proudly, reciting her long-established platform.

“You might as well put your money back in your pocket,” said one of the loan officers from the bank across the street. “That dog is long gone over the state line, if you want my thinkin’.”

“I personally don’t want it,” snapped Percy. He turned to Father Tim. “We’re goin’ to get ol’ Barnabas back, you just wait’n see.”

He found Avis Packard behind the meat counter, wearing a butcher’s apron that read
The World Famous Local: Fine Wines and Premium Meats.

“Avis, how’s that duckling you told me about at Uncle Billy’s art show?”

“You’re lookin’ at it,” said Avis, who reached into his meat case and held up a duckling. “Less grease, more flavor, corn-fed, no chemicals. And there’s a big, fine liver in here to make you a pâté as smooth as silk.”

The bard of foodstuff, that was Avis Packard.

“Four point two pounds. Just right for two people. And if I was you,” said Avis, speaking confidentially, “I’d put a nice, crisp champagne behind this dinner.”

“Wrap it up,” said the rector, who felt dimly troubled that he hadn’t yet extended his proposed invitation for Saturday evening.

He’d seen Olivia, who was sitting up and looking nearly herself again. The swelling had gone down, and Hoppy was ready to send her home on Sunday. Though still lacking energy, she would be able, he said, to walk around the house and even go shopping for an hour or two with Mrs. Kershaw.

An enormous relief, he thought. And so was his visit to Russell Jacks, who would be moving to Betty Craig’s trim, small house above the hospital, sometime next week. Two triumphs. Two victories.

He’d had a call from Marge Owen, who wanted Dooley for the weekend. Perfect timing, in more ways than one, for that meant he could concentrate more fully on his Easter sermon, two Sundays hence. A call to Rodney assured him that George might be allowed to sit between a couple of officers in the eleven o’clock Easter congregation, assuming the FBI had not yet picked him up. “I reckon they think we’ve took ’im to raise,” said Rodney, who could not fathom the red tape of federal bureaus.

At five o’clock on Friday, as Dooley was packing for Meadowgate, Miss Sadie called.

“Are your ears burning?” she asked, brightly.

“Well, let’s see. No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, they should be! Louella and I have talked about you the livelong day.”

“Miss Sadie, I’m shocked that you can’t find anything better to talk about.”

“You know what we decided?”

“To string Japanese lanterns around the lawn at Fernbank and have a spring gala.”

She laughed with delight. “Guess again.”

“Let’s see . . . to hire a chauffeur and drive to Charlotte for a day of shopping.”

“Never!” said Miss Sadie. “One more guess.”

“This is too hard. Wait a minute. You’ve decided to have me up for lunch.”

“Exactly. But you’d never guess the best part.”

“Please don’t make me try.”

“We’re going to give Rodney Underwood a little something for the reward fund.”

“Well, now . . .”

“A thousand dollars!”

“Miss Sadie!”

“Yes, indeed, and don’t even thank me for it. Louella prayed and I prayed, and we both got the same message.”

“Are you sure about the sum? You’re sure he didn’t say a hundred? Decimals can be tricky.”

“We’re sure. With all our hearts, we want you to have your Barnabas back. We’re just broken-hearted about this hideous crime. To think this could happen in Mitford, and in broad daylight.”

“I’m grateful for your concern . . . more than I can say.”

“Then you’ll come for lunch on Easter, you and Dooley?”

“Consider it done!” he told his oldest parishioner.

After Dooley had gone, he found the ecru lace cloth that a former bishop’s wife had given Lord’s Chapel. He would use that over the rose-colored damask that Puny had laundered after Christmas.

He would call Jena at Mitford Blossoms first thing in the morning and order . . . what? Roses, of course.

He polished the brass candlesticks that Walter and Katherine had given him for his fortieth birthday. Forty! He could scarcely remember anything about that turning point, except that he thought he was getting old. Now, he knew the truth. Forty was not old, not in the least. It was sixty that was old, and sixty-one was coming straight at him. He decided not to think further on this sore subject.

He would make something simple to serve before dinner. Perhaps the pâté. But he did not, at all costs, want to seem . . . what was it he did not want to seem? Forward, perhaps, as if the evening had been too carefully arranged.

He put the tablecloths on and set out his grandmother’s Haviland china and the napkins. Then he went to his study to plan the rest of the meal. For dessert, he thought, maybe pears. Poached in a sauce of coffee and sugar, brandy, and chocolate.

When should he call? Or, should he knock on her door and invite her in person? He got up and paced the floor, feeling a burning sensation in his stomach. An ulcer, surely! And right before having company for dinner.

Why should he do anything more than simply pick up the phone and call his neighbor? He had certainly done it in the past, without thinking twice. This was not a good sign.

He walked into the kitchen and looked around vaguely. Then he went upstairs and peered down upon Cynthia’s small house. He saw Violet sitting on the roof.

Divine intervention!

He went downstairs to his desk. “Cynthia,” he said, when she answered the phone, “I’ve just seen Violet sitting on your roof.”

“No!”

“Yes. And licking her paws.”

“Oh, how horrid. First the basement, now the roof. I can’t keep up with her for a minute. And licking her paws! It sounds like she’s killed a bird. I’m telling you the truth, I wish I had a dog!”

That’s a thought. “Shall I bring her down for you?”

“No! She can just sit up there till the cows come home. I mean, yes, would you?”

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

She met him at the back door.

That she looked stunning, he saw at once, would be an understatement. Her dress was the color of a clematis he’d once had, so blue it was nearly purple. He found that it did something extraordinary to her eyes.

“Hello!” she said, smiling. “You’re so wonderful to come. I just hate that you’ll have to drag my old wooden ladder out, it’s heavy as a truck.”

There was no way he could not notice her perfume. Like wisteria, something from a garden.

“It’s no problem at all. I know right where it is, from the time Violet got caught in the heating vent.”

“Where was she when you looked?”

“When last spotted, she was somewhere over your bedroom.”

“Do you think it would help to try coaxing her down? I just opened a can of her favorite dinner.”

“We could try that.”

She dashed into the kitchen and brought out a malodorous brown lump in a dish. Even so, something caught at his heart, for it was suppertime for Barnabas, as well.

“Ugh, it’s liver,” she said, waving it above her head and calling, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“I don’t believe you have to hold it up,” said the rector, taking the dish from her, “I believe the odor will, ah, rise of itself.”

“Oh, dear,” said Cynthia, straightening her dress and consulting her watch. “Violet, you wretch,” she called toward the roof, “come down at once!”

He could say something like, Cynthia, I was thinking you might pop over to dinner tomorrow evening. Of course, it would have to be an early evening, because of services on Sunday. . . .

“Six-thirty!” said Cynthia with exasperation, looking again at her watch. “Oh, dear. I’ve been invited to the country club tonight.”

“Well, then, let me take care of this, and you go ahead.”

“That would be perfect, just perfect! How kind of you, how very good. I’ll do something for you, I promise.”

“But you already have. In fact, I was wondering if you might come to—”

“There’s the bell. Would you like to say hello to Andrew Gregory?”

Andrew Gregory!

“Ah, no,” he said, hoarsely, “I’ll just carry on with the rescue.”

“You’re so lovely, Father. Just toss her in the back door, I never lock it. Well, then, bye,” she said, blowing a kiss his way, and going quickly down the hall to her front door.

He went as quickly to the basement and found the heavy ladder. There was no need to spend precious time calling a vagrant cat.

He carried the ladder to the porch, climbed to the roof, and at once saw Violet curled happily next to the chimney.

He heard the Mercedes engine start and the car pull slowly away from the curb. From where he was standing, he saw Cynthia looking up anxiously, but she didn’t see him.

His heart beat dully.

“Violet, you wretch,” he said.

There were many things he did not like to feel. But feeling foolish was at the very top of the list. No question.

It had all happened too suddenly. There had been Emma’s unexpected comment and the surprising realization that he missed seeing Cynthia. Then he’d impulsively raced to The Local, for no sensible reason whatsoever, and had ended up doing the whole thing backward. Clearly, he should have invited first, and planned second. In any case, that was hardly the point. The point was Andrew Gregory. Tall, suave, handsome Andrew Gregory.

After tossing Violet in the back door, as suggested, he went home to a house that felt hollow as a tomb. No maverick dog to leap up with joy at his arrival. No boy with a cowlick that needed wetting down, or hot chocolate to fix, or homework to check.

He would never admit it to Avis, but he put the duck in the freezer. Freezing a fresh, local, corn-fed duckling would verge on being a type of moral crime, he supposed.

He paced the living room and looked blankly out the door, then wandered through the dining room and stared at the table, which looked forlorn, somehow, for all the old lace and rose damask.

The cold wind that blew in with flurries of snow on Maundy Thursday made the bare, stripped altar seem even more appalling to the spirit. The congregation left the evening service in silence, not speaking until they passed through the lych-gates facing Old Church Lane.