Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree (3 page)

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said. “The villagers are pitching in to provide party fare. I don’t know what they’ll bring or when they’ll bring it, and I have a thousand other arrangements to make before their contributions start trickling in, so there’s bound to be a fair amount of chaos, but I’ll see to it that no one bothers you in here. Your study will be off limits during the party, too. I don’t want anyone rummaging through your desk.”

Willis, Sr.’s eyebrows rose. “Who would have the audacity to rummage through my desk?”

“Anyone who wants to know how much you paid for your collection of miniatures,” I replied bluntly. “The villagers have inquiring minds. It’s best to lead them not into temptation.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I will lock the study’s doors when I leave. It may also be advisable to drape a decorative swag across the bottom of the main staircase, to discourage exploration of the upper stories.”

“An excellent suggestion. I’ll ask the florist to take care of it.” I glanced at the cut-glass pitcher, wondering if a Handmaiden had dropped in to fuss over Willis, Sr., while I’d been fielding phone calls at the cottage. “Did Bill make the lemonade for you?”

“I cannot tell a lie,” said Willis, Sr., his gray eyes twinkling. “I made it. I squeezed the lemons, added the sugar, poured the water, and stirred in the ice without assistance of any kind. You may find it difficult to believe, my dear Lori, but I am not entirely helpless.”

“I don’t think you’re helpless,” I protested. “But if you get hungry—”

“I shall make a valiant attempt to find my way back to the kitchen,” Willis, Sr., interrupted, “where I have set aside a loaf of granary bread, a generous wedge of Stilton cheese, and a pair of ripe apples. I may be overly optimistic, Lori, but I believe that, with an effort, I will successfully avoid starvation.”

“I get it,” I said, smiling wryly. “Not helpless. Do you have your cell phone?”

“I do,” he said, patting his breast pocket, “and I promise to use it to contact you if the need arises. In the meantime, I beg you to dismiss me from your thoughts. You have far more important business to attend to.”

“You may have to attend to business, too,” I said. “Davina Trent called to tell me that she found another couple for you to interview—the Donovans. She said they’ll be here before nightfall.”

“‘Before nightfall’ is a rather elastic time frame,” Willis, Sr., observed, frowning. “Mrs. Trent is an exceptionally well-organized woman. I wonder why she was unable to be more precise?”

“I have no idea,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Maybe the Donovans will tell us. Keep an eye out for them, will you?” I gestured toward the windows. “You have a clear view of the drive from here. If you see a strange couple pull up in an unfamiliar car—”

“—I shall use my cell phone to notify you.” Willis, Sr., nodded patiently, then peered through the window closest to him. “Do the Donovans own a paneled van decorated with a floral motif?”

“A floral motif?” I followed his gaze and yelped, “It’s the florists! They’re early! And they’re supposed to use the
back
door! I’d better get out there before they drip water on your beautiful floors. I’ll touch base with you later, William.” I glanced darkly at the grimy painting, then sprinted for the entrance hall to begin what would be a very long day of trying to be in too many places at once.

By six o’clock, the flowers were in place, the champagne was chilling, the musicians were seated in the library, and the kitchen was filled to overflowing with an astonishing array of finger food, all of it provided by my industrious and highly motivated neighbors.

Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock had closed their art appraisal and restoration business for the day in order to construct exquisite canapés featuring caviar, foie gras, truffles, and other splendidly high-end ingredients. At the other end of the taste spectrum, Dick Peacock, the publican, had turned out sausage rolls by the score while his wife, Christine, had spent hours sticking toothpicks into bite-sized pieces of cheese and fruit.

Nineteen-year-old Bree Pym contributed miniature pavlovas, which made sense, since she was from New Zealand, and Emma Harris teamed up with Miranda Morrow, the village witch, to make low-fat, vegetarian hors d’oeuvres that, I feared, many would admire, but few would eat.

Lilian Bunting had recruited a dozen volunteers to work on a finger-sandwich assembly line in the old schoolhouse, which, under normal circumstances, served as the village hall. Her husband, Theodore Bunting, the mild-mannered vicar of St. George’s Church in Finch, presented the fruits of their labor to me along with a fervent prayer for deliverance from food poisoning. Although I prayed with him, I also made sure that perishable items were stored in the refrigerated truck I’d rented from a restaurant supply company in Upper Deeping. I was sure that God would understand. He was rather keen on helping those who helped themselves.

The Handmaidens produced so many pastries that Willis, Sr., could have opened his own bake shop. Elspeth Binney, a retired schoolteacher, turned out hundreds of pastel-colored petits fours. Millicent Scroggins, a retired secretary, made madeleines, macaroons, and meringues. Selena Buxton, a retired wedding planner, delivered a variety of dainty fruit tartlets. Opal Taylor, who had the unfair advantage of being a retired professional cook, outdid them all by baking batch after batch of vol-au-vents filled with everything from smoked oysters to curried prawns.

The only villager missing in action was Sally Pyne, the energetic, grandmother-shaped widow who owned the village tearoom. When I heard Sally’s hoarse voice and rasping cough on the telephone, I told her to go back to bed and to stay there. Her sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Rainey Dawson, was on hand to look after her, but even so, the timing of Sally’s illness couldn’t have been worse. She and Rainey would miss the party, which would be a great disappointment to them both. I was disappointed, too, because Sally would have been a model guest—she was the only widow in town who’d shown no interest in seducing my father-in-law.

The kitchen crew and the waitstaff I’d hired at great expense through a catering firm in Oxford arrived at half past six to set up food stations and to learn the layout of the ground floor. A young man named Chad appointed himself head butler and took up his post in the entrance hall, while his friend Rupert volunteered to act as car valet, a position that hadn’t even occurred to me. Though Fairworth still smelled of fresh paint and damp plaster, we were as ready as we could be to welcome our guests. At seven fifteen, Willis, Sr., who’d exchanged his casual flannels for an immaculate black three-piece suit, gave me my marching orders.

I made a mad dash for the cottage, where, much to my delight, I found a pair of freshly bathed and neatly dressed little boys as well as a dapper husband. I took a quick shower, passed a blow dryer over my dark, curly hair, and slipped into the summery forget-me-not-blue silk dress I’d had made for the occasion.

Bill forced me to take a calming breath before he would allow me to join Rob and Will in our canary-yellow Range Rover. After I was seated, he took his place behind the wheel, paused to caress my cheek lightly with his hand, then hit the gas and gunned it all the way to Fairworth House while the boys egged him on from the backseat.

Rupert took Bill’s car keys, Chad opened the front door, and Willis, Sr., greeted us in the high-ceilinged entrance hall. As we strolled into the morning room, I heard the faint strains of a Mozart concerto floating toward me from the library, breathed in the heady scent of tuberoses, and smiled as one fresh-faced young woman offered the adults champagne, another offered sparkling cider to the children, and still another presented us with a gleaming silver salver dotted with delicate canapés. I took a glass of champagne and turned to Willis, Sr., but before I could salute him, he raised his glass to me.

“To the heroine of the hour,” he said.

“To Hurricane Lori,” Bill added.

“To Mummy!” the twins chorused.

I blushed happily, accepted their accolades, and allowed myself to savor the first moment of peace I’d had all day.

It would also be the last.

By half past eight, I understood why houses had ballrooms. Parties confined to one space were easier to monitor than parties spread through many separate chambers.

Since Fairworth House lacked a ballroom, I had to wander from one room to the next to reassure myself that everyone was having a good time. Fortunately, the rooms were connected to the main corridor and to one another by a series of arched doorways, which made it relatively easy for me to circulate. The buzz of lively conversation, the frequent outbursts of laughter, and the glow emanating from Willis, Sr.’s face as he welcomed family and friends eventually convinced me that all was well.

At nine o’clock I handed my hostess duties over to Emma Harris and Lilian Bunting—the most sensible women present—and threw myself into the challenging task of convincing my two thoroughly overexcited sons that it was time for them to go to bed. After much discussion, Will and Rob agreed to return to the cottage with newly-weds Nell and Kit Smith, who’d volunteered to babysit. Since Kit and Nell got along well with the twins, and since they still preferred each other’s company to anyone else’s, they were perfectly content to leave Fairworth House behind and enjoy a quiet evening at the cottage.

By the time I finished attending to my sons, the party was in full swing. A beaming Willis, Sr., was holding court in the drawing room, surrounded by new friends and old. Emma, who looked unusually alert, had positioned herself just behind him, but Lilian was nowhere to be found. When I ran into Bill in the billiards room, I asked if he knew where she was.

“Lilian’s in the kitchen,” he told me, “reading the riot act to the Handmaidens.”

My stomach clenched. “Why? What did they do?”

“The minute you went upstairs they barged into the kitchen to fill trays with their own special goodies,” he said. “Then they began to stalk Father. I shudder to think what would have happened if they’d caught up with him simultaneously.”

“Dear Lord,” I said, putting a hand to my forehead. “It would have been total war.”

“Total war,” Bill repeated gravely. “Vol-au-vents splattered on the ceiling, tartlets zipping through the air, innocent bystanders laid low by flying macaroons ...” His words trailed off in a gurgle of laughter.

I dropped my hand and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Have you ever tried to remove curried prawns from a freshly plastered ceiling medallion?”

“No,” Bill replied, grinning, “and thanks to Lilian, I won’t have to. She spotted danger approaching, headed it off, and herded the offenders into the kitchen for a refresher course on good manners.”

“Leaving Emma to look after William,” I said, as comprehension dawned.

“You chose his bodyguards well,” said Bill. “I don’t think the Handmaidens will cause any more trouble. Uh-oh.” He looked past me and murmured, “Speaking of trouble ...”

I swung around to see Peggy Taxman step through from the library into the billiards room. She scanned the room hastily, as though she were searching for someone, then made a beeline straight for me.

“Time to check on Father, I think.” Bill spun on his heels and beat a hasty retreat to the drawing room.

“Coward,”
I said under my breath, but I smiled as I said it.

I couldn’t blame Bill for steering clear of Peggy Taxman. Peggy was a formidable woman, a mover and shaker who ruled Finch with an iron hand and a stentorian voice. She ran the post office, the general store, and the greengrocer’s shop, and she had a nasty habit of “volunteering” people to serve on the committees she invariably chaired. Village life would have come to a standstill without her, but no one could deny that she was officious, opinionated, overbearing, and, quite frankly, terrifying. When Peggy Taxman’s majestic bosom and her rhinestone-studded glasses hove into view, most men—and many women—ran for cover.

“Hello, Peggy,” I said brightly, bending sideways to smile at the nondescript man trailing in her wake. “I see you’ve brought your husband. Good to see you, Jasper. I’m glad both of you could come.”

Jasper murmured something inaudible, but Peggy made up for his reticence by thundering, “Well, of course we came! Wouldn’t have missed it for the world! Which is more than I can say for a certain friend of ours who is conspicuous by her absence.”

“I noticed it, too,” said Millicent Scroggins, appearing as if out of thin air at Peggy’s elbow. “Haven’t seen her all evening.”

“Nor have I,” said Charles Bellingham, coming up behind Millicent.

A circle of neighbors coalesced around our little group, drawn by Finch’s special brand of social magnetism, and the conversation began to gather speed.

“We’re trying to solve an intriguing mystery,” Charles explained to the newcomers. “Where is
La Señora
?”

The villagers had referred to Sally Pyne as
“La Señora”
ever since she’d returned in late June from a trip to Mexico. Sally had won the ten-day, all-expenses-paid vacation by entering a contest in a travel magazine. Her friends might have been pleased for her if she hadn’t spent the rest of the summer boring them stupid with her tales of adventure. To be sure, her stories were exciting. She had, apparently, kayaked across a laguna, swum in a subterranean river, zip-lined across a sinkhole, petted a stingray while snorkeling near a coral reef, and climbed the tallest Mayan pyramid in the world, among a great many other things. The trouble was, no one believed a word of it. Sally was a brilliant pastry chef and a champion gossipmonger, but an athlete she was not.

“I can’t imagine
La Señora
missing a fiesta like this,” Charles Bellingham commented, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Perhaps you should have served tequila, Lori.”

“And hired a mariachi band,” Grant Tavistock put in. “Chamber music may be too tame for her now.”

“Maybe she’s in training for the Olympics,” Christine Peacock suggested, rolling her eyes.

“Or getting ready to conquer Everest,” said Dick Peacock.