Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (11 page)

As I paused to chew on a thumbnail, Aunt Dimity’s familiar copperplate flowed confidently across the page.

There is nothing wrong with William’s brain, Lori. First of all, it’s grossly inaccurate to say that he “jumped” into hiring the Donovans. You told me yourself that he reviewed their applications thoroughly before engaging them.

“He did,” I acknowledged grudgingly. “But what about the rest of it?”

I would blame William’s atypical behavior on retirement rather than paint fumes. Active men tend to fear retirement, Lori. They’re ill-equipped to deal with leisure time and they detest the notion of pursuing meaningless hobbies. They prefer diversions that stimulate the imagination and challenge the mind. Having finished one major project—the renovation of Fairworth House—

“Fairworth isn’t finished,” I interjected. “There’s lots of landscaping left to do and he still has to rebuild those ruined outbuildings.”

Landscaping and construction projects are absorbing in their own ways, but they can’t compete with the thrill of the human drama. William is and always will be an attorney, Lori. He enjoys pitting his wits against another’s.

“He drew up wills and did estate planning for rich people,” I said. “How much wit-pitting does that take?”

A great deal, I promise you, especially when one is dealing with clients as fractious and exacting as William’s. As I was saying ... having finished one major project, William looked for another. Sally appeared as if by magic and served him a compelling human predicament on a plate. Is it any wonder that he “jumped” into the role of Lady Sarah’s American cousin? What could possibly be more exhilarating than an attempt to pull the wool over the eyes of an entire village, not to mention those of the unsuspecting Señor Cocinero?

“William’s having fun,” I said, as comprehension dawned. “
That’s
why he’s whistling.”

You have seen the light at last, Lori. William is having the time of his life refining and implementing my original plan for safeguarding Sally’s reputation. I suspect that it appeals to him because of its novelty as well as its complexity. It’s unlike anything he’s ever done before.

“How do you explain his sheep fixation?” I asked.

I refute the word
fixation.
William is simply planning ahead. Remember, Lori, Señor Cocinero will be gone by Wednesday. When the grand charade comes to an end, William will move on to his sheep project.

“Sheep aren’t part of the thrilling human drama,” I objected. “If what you’re saying is true, Dimity, the sheep project won’t be enough to satisfy William.” I groaned softly. “Will I have to engineer a never-ending series of human dramas to keep my father-in-law happy?”

I doubt it. The villagers—and the Handmaidens in particular—are more than capable of providing William with all of the human drama he requires.

I laughed. “I can’t argue with you, Dimity. Life in Finch is full of drama.” I glanced at the dust sheet-wrapped painting Bill had deposited in the study. “Life in Fairworth House is becoming more interesting, too, and not only because of the grand charade. It’s possible that someone stole the brass compass from the billiards room.”

The compass recovered from the old stables?

“That’s the one,” I confirmed.

Have you asked the twins if they know where it is?

“Are you accusing my sons of theft?” I asked, knowing full well that Aunt Dimity would never do such a thing.

Don’t be absurd, Lori. Seven-year-old grandsons don’t steal from their grandfather. They borrow. The brass compass is just the sort of gadget that would captivate a pair of intrepid little explorers like Will and Rob. If I were you, I’d ask them about it in the morning.

“I’ll hold off until I speak with William,” I said. “He thinks Deirdre Donovan, the patron saint of housekeepers, took the compass to the kitchen for cleaning. I don’t know why she would,” I added. “I polished it myself last week and when I saw it last night, it was perfectly clean and shiny. But I guess my standards aren’t as high as hers.”

Do I detect a note of peevishness in your voice, my dear?

“Probably,” I admitted. I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, then burst out, “Have you ever met someone who’s good at everything, Dimity? Deirdre’s a brainy, attractive neat-freak who can cook. It’s enormously irritating.”

Indeed it is. I’m sure you’ll agree, however, that it’s better for William to have a multitalented housekeeper than a useless one.

“I suppose so,” I conceded. “But it’s still irritating.” A yawn escaped me and I glanced at the clock. “Time for me to hit the hay, Dimity. I have to be in Finch early tomorrow, to get a jump on Henrique Watch.”

I wish you the best of luck, Lori, and the quickest of reflexes. You’ll have to move fast to keep Peggy Taxman from flinging herself in front of Señor Cocinero’s car.

I chuckled as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and returned it to its shelf. After saying good night to Reginald, I banked the fire, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs.

As I climbed into bed beside Bill, I made a mental note to ask Deirdre to air Fairworth House thoroughly before the week was out. Though Aunt Dimity had convinced me that Willis, Sr., was as sane as he’d ever been, I wanted to make sure he stayed that way.

Willis, Sr., telephoned during breakfast on Monday morning to let me know that the missing compass had, as he’d suspected, been taken to the kitchen by Deirdre Donovan, who’d subjected it to a rigorous scrubbing, using an environmentally sound polishing paste of her own invention. I suppressed the urge to hiss like a spiteful cat and asked how Lady Sarah was holding up.

“She is understandably overwhelmed by the situation,” he informed me. “But I believe she will calm down by the time Señor Cocinero arrives. Mrs. Donovan is taking great pains to put her at ease, as am I, naturally.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I spot Henrique,” I said, and hung up.

“Is Sally suffering from stage fright?” Bill asked from the kitchen table.

“Pas devant les enfants,”
I said, giving him a warning look.

“What’s ‘not in front of the children’?” Will asked brightly.

I did a double take, then demanded, “Since when do you speak French?”

“Nell’s teaching us,” Rob replied.
“On parle Français bien ici.”

“What’s ‘not in front of the children’?” Will repeated.

“What’s stage fright?” Rob joined in.

“Your father will explain everything to you on the way to Anscombe Manor,” I said. It was a cop-out, but a justified cop-out. Bill should have known better than to mention Sally in front of the boys.

“Is Daddy taking us to the stables?” asked Will.

“He’ll drop you off on his way to work,” I replied. “Mummy has to run some errands.”

Before my budding francophones could come up with another way to throw me for a loop, I ordered them to put their dishes in the sink, wash their hands, and get ready for their riding lessons. Bill hung his head sheepishly after they’d left the kitchen.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ll have to be more careful of what I say when I’m around Will and Rob. I sometimes forget how sharp they are.”

“You can make up for it by putting the painting in my Mini,” I said. My aged Morris Mini was too small to accomodate the boys’ booster seats, but it was useful for short, child-free journeys.

“Consider it done,” Bill said, getting to his feet. “What’s on tap for the rest of the day?”

“I’ve arranged a play date with Annie Hodge,” I said. “She’ll bring Piero over this afternoon. I thought it would be an acceptable substitute for a trip to Grandpa’s.”

“Great idea,” he said. “When should I expect you at the office?”

“It depends on how much time I have to kill,” I replied. “And that depends on when Henrique shows up.”

“I won’t get any work done until he does,” said Bill. “I’ll be lurking near my windows all morning, looking for a stranger in a strange car.”

“You and everyone else in Finch,” I said. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It’ll be a miracle if we pull this off.”

Bill and the boys set out in the Rover shortly after seven. I finished loading the dishwasher, then ran upstairs to select an appropriate costume. Since I was supposed to be related to the wealthy and gracious Lady Sarah Pyne, I donned a pretty lavender dress and a pair of white sandals instead of my usual T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. After running a comb through my hair and making sure that Stanley’s water bowl was full, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the hall table and headed into the village in my Mini.

As I putt-putted along the winding lane, I thought of how lucky Señor Cocinero was to be wending his way toward Fairworth House on such a perfect summer day. Small birds flitted in and out of the hedgerows, gorging themselves on seeds and berries, lambs romped in grassy pastures, and seagulls circled stands of ripe barley that rippled like golden seas in the passing breeze. It would be hot and humid later on, and thunderstorms might roll in, but the morning air was like a tonic.

I crossed the humpbacked bridge and noted that the lights were on in Wysteria Lodge, the vine-bedecked stone building that housed Bill’s high-tech office. It was too early for the tearoom, the pub, the Emporium, and the greengrocer’s shop to open, but curtains twitched in every cottage I passed. In Finch, it was worth interrupting one’s breakfast to keep tabs on one’s neighbors. As I approached Crabtree Cottage, I recalled its previous occupant, a disagreeable woman whose curtains had never stopped twitching, and thanked heaven that Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock had taken her place.

The alterations Charles and Grant had made to Crabtree Cottage weren’t apparent from the outside, but the interior was much changed. The front parlor, with its marvelous bay window overlooking the village green, had been converted into an office for Charles, the art appraiser, while the upstairs front bedroom had been fashioned into a well-ventilated workroom for Grant, the restoration expert. The two lived in rooms at the rear of the cottage, where they could be near the private oasis of their walled garden.

Charles, who was tall, portly, and balding, answered the doorbell clad in bedroom slippers, striped pajamas, and a lavishly embroidered black silk bathrobe, with a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand and Goya, his golden Pomeranian, cradled in the crook of his arm.

“Lori,” he said, looking both sleepy and mildly surprised. “We didn’t expect you to rise with the sun. Grant!” he called over his shoulder. “Lori’s here!”

I heard the mingled thump of feet and patter of paws running down stairs and Grant appeared at Charles’s side, accompanied by Matisse, his friendly Maltese. Grant, unlike Charles, was short and lean, with a healthy crop of salt-and-pepper hair. He was also fully dressed, in a crisp white shirt, chinos, and loafers. His smile was, as always, warm and welcoming.

“Finish your toast, Charles,” he said kindly, patting his partner’s arm. “I”ll look after Lori.” As Charles trudged back to the kitchen, Grant continued, “Charles is an incurable night owl. He won’t really be awake until noon. You’re looking very bonny this morning. What’s the occasion?”

The question didn’t catch me unawares. I’d known that the sight of me wearing a dress on a weekday morning would intrigue my neighbors, and I’d prepared a cover story accordingly.

“William’s client,” I said simply. “I’m meeting him today.”

“Ah, yes, the mystery man.” Grant folded his arms and bent his head closer to mine, saying quietly, “You couldn’t give me the tiniest hint about him, could you? I swear it won’t go any farther than Charles’s ear.”

“No can do,” I said flatly. “Believe me, you’re not missing anything. He’s the biggest bore ever born.”

“Even so ...” Grant read my closed expression and shrugged. “All right, I’ll drop it, but I won’t be the last person to pester you about Mr. Anonymous. Everyone’s dying to know who he is.” He looked past me at the Mini. “Is my new patient in the car? Shall I fetch it?”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, squatting to rub Matisse’s tummy. “But be careful. The broken glass in the frame will bite you if you let it.”

Grant pulled the dust sheet-swathed painting out of the Mini’s backseat and suggested that I come with him to his workroom. Since the workroom’s window would give me an even better view of the village than the bay window in Charles’s office, I followed Grant upstairs, with Matisse pattering perkily after us.

Grant placed the painting on a large white table in the center of the room and unwrapped it. He stuffed the filthy dust sheet into a paper bag, then scrubbed the grime from his hands. After donning a pair of white cotton gloves, he switched on a high-power angle lamp and examined his “new patient” through a magnifying glass.

I stood at the window, scrutinizing the village with equal interest.

“I’ve seen this sort of damage before,” he murmured. “The poor thing must have hung in a room with a smoky fireplace.”

Score one for Deirdre, I thought sourly.

“I can’t date it precisely,” Grant went on, “but the frame suggests a work from the late Victorian era.”

His estimated date, unsurprisingly, matched Deirdre’s.

“And it’s not a painting,” Grant added.

“What is it?” I asked, still looking out the window.

“I’m ... not ... sure,” he said ruminatively, bending low over the nonpainting. “I can detect small images of some sort accompanied by calligraphy. Unfortunately, I can’t make out the images or the words.”

“Fascinating,” I said absently.

Grant straightened. “Once I remove the soot, we’ll know where we stand in terms of restoration work. I’ll get started on it right away and do as much as I can before Charles and I leave for London this afternoon.”

I wheeled around to face him. An impromptu excursion to London merited my full attention.

“What’s happening in London?” I asked.

“We’ve been invited to attend a gallery opening tonight,” he replied, “and we’ll take in a show tomorrow night. We won’t be back until Wednesday. A friend is letting us use his flat while we’re in town.”