Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (4 page)

I grinned sheepishly, but accepted the remark as a compliment. Like a pit bull, I was tenacious, and I could be fiercely territorial, something the Bowenists would find out if they were foolish enough to invade my village.

Three

M 
y departure from Crabtree Cottage coincided with the moving truck’s departure from Pussywillows. By the time it lumbered past me on its way out of the village, the tearoom had emptied and small knots of chattering villagers had formed on the green. I knew for a fact that my neighbors were discussing Mrs. Thistle’s furnishings, and though I longed to hear every delicious detail, I resisted the urge to join them and scurried across the green to my husband’s place of business, Wysteria Lodge.

Bill had transformed Wysteria Lodge into a thoroughly modern law office. He’d retained the undulating flagstone floors, the rough stone walls, the mullioned windows, and the gnarled vine that gave the lodge its rustic charm, but he’d filled the rooms with the tools of his trade—tons of legal tomes, mountains of paperwork, and the multitude of electronic devices that allowed him to serve his wealthy, international clientele from a modest building in a tiny English village.

Since Bill’s profession frequently took him away from home, it was a treat to pay him an impromptu visit in the middle of a workday. I found him behind his desk with a half-eaten apple in one hand, poring over a sheaf of densely printed legal papers. He dropped the apple when he saw me and came around the desk to envelop me in a hug.

My husband was a fine figure of a man, quite literally tall, dark, and handsome. He’d had a scraggly beard and a paunch when I’d first met him, but he’d gotten rid of both within a few years of our marriage, and replaced his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses with contact lenses. I’d loved Bill before his transformation and I would have gone on loving him if he hadn’t changed at all, but I had no strong desire to turn back the clock.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Did Mrs. Thistle pass muster? In my estimation,” he continued before I could answer, “she acquitted herself admirably in the furniture department: a tasteful collection of simple, solid antiques as well as a few custom-made pieces. What she didn’t inherit, she purchased from reputable craftsmen. Either way, I think it’s safe to assume that our new neighbor isn’t poor, which should make the vicar happy. If Mrs. Thistle is a churchgoer, she should be able to make a hefty donation to the church roof fund.”

I scrutinized him carefully. My husband had never displayed the tiniest crumb of curiosity about Mrs. Thistle. He had, in fact, teased me mercilessly for being overtly interested in her, yet here he was, delivering a learned dissertation on all things Thistle. I couldn’t imagine what had come over him.

“You didn’t watch them unload the moving truck, did you?” I asked.

“From start to finish,” he said with gusto. “First the rugs, then the furniture, and finally, the boxes.” He heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Boxes are cruelly tantalizing. Do they contain songbooks, ferrets, clown shoes? It’s impossible to tell. Our new neighbor prolonged the agony by bringing with her quite a few boxes—far too many for a small place like Pussywillows—which led me to my first deduction.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Mrs. Thistle is downsizing from a much larger home, but hasn’t yet realized what downsizing means,” Bill replied. “Which leads, in turn, to my second deduction.”

“Out with it, Sherlock,” I said with a bemused smile.

“The next few bring-and-buy sales will enjoy an infusion of new wares as Mrs. Thistle gradually unloads the items she can’t squeeze into the cottage. They should be quality items, too, if the furniture’s anything to go by, which will make for a nice change from the
chipped teacups, the stained ashtrays, and the hideous lamps offered at the last few sales.” He cocked his head to one side and eyed me expectantly. “Well? How did I do? Will I be able to hold my own in the pub?”

I laughed delightedly and gave him a kiss.

“You could go toe-to-toe with Peggy Taxman,” I assured him, “and she’s the busiest busybody in Finch.”

Peggy Taxman ran the Emporium, the greengrocer’s shop, and nearly every village event. Since she also ran the post office and had unlimited access to postcards, semi-translucent envelopes, and return addresses, she knew a lot more about her neighbors’ private affairs than she should have and maintained an air of omniscience the rest of us both envied and despised.

“I’m no Peggy Taxman,” Bill said humbly, “but I try.”

He left his perch on the desk and drew me over to sit beside him on a button-backed leather sofa he used occasionally for client consultations but more often for post-lunch power naps.

“When did you develop an interest in Mrs. Thistle?” I asked.

“When I realized that she would be the main topic of conversation in Finch for the next few weeks,” Bill said. “I didn’t wish to seem ill informed. But you must have seen more than I did.” He gestured toward his windows. “The view from here isn’t nearly as good as the view from the tearoom.”

“How did you know I was in the tearoom?” I asked.

“Where else would you be on moving day?” he retorted. “I also saw you sprint across the green after you dumped the groceries in the Rover.”

“I didn’t sprint,” I protested.

“You sprinted like a manic gazelle,” Bill said imperturbably, “which leads me to believe that you landed a window seat. So? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What happened? Concussion? Narcolepsy? Hysterical blindness? Or did the Handmaidens wrestle you to the floor because you were blocking their view?”

“None of the above,” I replied, smiling. “I didn’t see anything because I left the tearoom before the movers opened the truck.”

“Impossible,” said Bill. “I’d have noticed if you’d…” His voice trailed off and he frowned in concentration. “I had to leave the window for a few minutes to take a call from Gerard Delacroix. He rang as the movers pulled up to Pussywillows.”

“That’s when I left the tearoom,” I confirmed. “Grant and Charles reacted oddly when they spotted Mrs. Thistle, so when they took off for Crabtree Cottage, I took off after them. I knew in my bones that they had some sort of inside knowledge about her and I wanted to know what it was.”

“Did your hunch pay off?” Bill asked.

“I hit the jackpot.” I swung around on the sofa to face him. “Have you ever heard of an English artist named Mae Bowen?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve never met the woman and I don’t know much about her, but Father owns one of her paintings.”

“Does he?” I said, very much surprised. “Have I seen it?”

“I doubt it,” said Bill. “Father keeps it upstairs, in his private sitting room. It’s a pretty thing. No, I take it back. It’s more than pretty. It’s…” He caught his breath and left the sentence hanging, as if he, like Grant, couldn’t find the right words to describe Bowen’s work. “Why are you asking me about Mae Bowen?”

“Brace yourself for a major news flash,” I warned him. “According to Grant and Charles, Amelia Thistle is Mae Bowen.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “Are they sure?”

“They’re positive,” I said. “They’ve seen her in person several times. Here…” I pulled the exhibition brochures from my pocket and handed them to Bill. “Take a look at the photos and tell me what you think.”

Bill studied the black-and-white photographs in silence, then stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“I can’t argue with Grant or Charles,” he said. “I’ve spent the past two hours ogling Mrs. Thistle. She does seem to be a dead ringer for Mae Bowen.” He passed the brochures back to me and peered speculatively toward the windows. “How strange. Why would Mae Bowen pretend to be someone she isn’t?”

“To preserve her privacy. Charles and Grant explained it all to me,” I said and went on in a rush, “Through no fault of her own, Bowen has attracted a cult following, a rabid pack of New Age crazies who call themselves Bowenists and pester her, like a gang of spiritual paparazzi. One of them bought a farm across from her gated estate—”

“So I was right,” Bill interrupted. “She
is
downsizing.”

“In a major way,” I said, nodding. “According to Grant, her old house was the size of Fairworth. The gates ensured her privacy, but one of her followers bought a farm nearby to make it easier for the rest of the gang to camp out on her doorstep. Now that she’s here, Grant and Charles are afraid her acolytes will overrun Finch and turn it into a crazies commune.”

“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” Bill said. “The woman moved here under an assumed name. How will her fans find her?”

“Fan is short for fanatic,” I reminded him, “and fanatics don’t rest until they track down the object of their obsession. I think we can count on their showing up in Finch at some point and I dread to think of what will happen when they do.” I gripped his arm. “Remember what it was like during the Renaissance Fair, when the tourists trashed the green? The Bowenists will be a hundred times worse because they won’t be passing through—they’ll want to stay. Are there any legal maneuvers we can use to keep Mae Bowen’s fans from ruining Finch?”

“We could erect barricades, issue village passports, and hire security guards to man checkpoints,” Bill suggested.

“Are you serious?” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Of course I’m not serious,” he said, with an exasperated chuckle. “We can’t build a wall around Finch and we wouldn’t want to.”

“Wouldn’t we?” I said, releasing his arm.

“No, we wouldn’t,” he said. “There are laws against trespassing, harassment, loitering, littering, and so forth, but if the Bowenists behave themselves, our hands will be tied. We can’t ask the police to arrest a group of peaceful visitors.”

“What if they try to buy property near here?” I asked.

“Our hands are still tied,” Bill said firmly. “The law doesn’t allow us to pick and choose our neighbors, Lori. If it did, Peggy Taxman would have nowhere to live.”

I sighed forlornly and flopped back on the sofa.

“In that case,” I said, “we’ll have to rely on Plan A.”

“Which is?” Bill inquired.

“Amelia Thistle is Amelia Thistle,” I said firmly. “If anyone asks, we’ve never heard of Mae Bowen.”

“Mae who?” said Bill, feigning ignorance.

I acknowledged his jest with a wan smile.

“It won’t work forever,” I said, “but if Grant and Charles and you and I keep Amelia Thistle’s true identity to ourselves, we may be able to keep Finch safe…for a while.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better go. I haven’t had lunch yet and the laundry awaits.”

“As do my clients.” Bill got to his feet and pulled me to mine. “Be of good cheer, my love. The worst hardly ever comes to pass.”

“As a lawyer,” I said bleakly, “you should know better.”

Four

H 
ad I known what the day would bring, I would have parked my Range Rover directly in front of Bill’s office. As it was, I’d parked it near the Emporium, which meant that I would have to cross the green to reach it.

I faced the journey with no little trepidation. I was certain that Millicent Scroggins had broadcast Grant’s facetious explanation for our exit from the tearoom, which meant that my neighbors had had ample time to digest his tale and to decide, quite rightly, that it was a big fat lie. I fully expected one or more of them to fling truth-seeking missiles at me as I made my way to the car, and I wasn’t in the mood to dodge them.

Much to my relief, the attack failed to materialize. By the time I left Wysteria Lodge, the knots of chattering villagers had dispersed, and though a few curtains twitched as I strode across the leaf-strewn grass, I made it to the Rover unmolested. I climbed in, shoved the key into the ignition, and sped away before the boldest of my inquisitors could abandon their chores and interrogate me.

I planned to drive straight home, toss a load of laundry into the washing machine, and sit down to a much-needed bite of lunch, but when the gated entrance to my father-in-law’s estate came into view, I slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Though my stomach was rumbling, I was overcome by a sudden craving to know more about Mae Bowen.

What kind of woman, I asked myself, could inspire a philosophy, attract a cult following, and silence both Grant Tavistock and my husband? What was it about her work that sparked faraway looks and faltering speech in two strikingly intelligent and exceptionally
articulate men? More to the point: Would her paintings have the same effect on me?

According to Charles Bellingham, one had to “stand before an original Bowen to fully comprehend her brilliance.” Since the only original Bowen within my reach belonged to my father-in-law, I clicked the gate-opener clipped to the Rover’s sun visor and turned onto the tree-lined drive leading to Fairworth House.

Lunch, I decided, could wait. I would first appease my appetite for art.

Fairworth House was a relatively modest eighteenth-century Georgian mansion. A succession of former owners had allowed it to fall into disrepair, but my father-in-law had rescued it from oblivion and restored it to its former glory. I often thought that Fairworth had a lot in common with its present owner. Like Willis, Sr., it was restrained, elegant, and immaculate.

I parked the Rover on the graveled apron in front of the house and ran up the front stairs to ring the doorbell. Deirdre Donovan answered it, clad in the crisp white shirtdress that served as her housekeeper’s uniform. Deirdre was a tall, exotic beauty, with chestnut hair, almond-shaped eyes, and an air of competence I valued highly. I slept better at night, knowing that Willis, Sr., had someone of her caliber to look after him.

I stepped into the entrance hall and handed my jacket to Deirdre to hang in the cloakroom. I could have hung it there without her help, but Deirdre had strict rules about who should and shouldn’t enter the cloakroom. Bill claimed that the cloakroom was the nerve center of Deirdre’s top secret security system, but he knew as well as I did that Deirdre merely regarded coat management as part of her job.