Aunt Dimity: Detective (11 page)

He stepped closer to me. “I know what we agreed, but I couldn't wait.” He came closer still, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my skin. “Is that . . . a rabbit you're holding?”

I looked down at my pink-flannel chaperon, mortified. I started to explain that I'd been nervous and in need of moral support, but soon gave up and bowed my head, murmuring morosely, “It's not something you would understand.”

“I understand what it is to be alone and afraid during a stakeout,” Nicholas said softly. He lifted my chin with his fingertips. “It was wise of you to bring a talisman.”

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep myself from reaching up to smooth away the scattered raindrops sparkling like tears on Nicholas's face. If Reginald hadn't been there, I might have smoothed them away with my lips.

“W-what couldn't wait?” I managed, shoving my free hand firmly into my trouser pocket.

His fingers lingered briefly beneath my chin, then fell away. “George Wetherhead is with a woman,” he whispered. “She was wearing a hooded cape when she entered his house, so I couldn't see her clearly, but I'm certain that you'll know who she is.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, his bright eyes dancing, “she lives across the street from my aunt and uncle.”

My brain seized for a moment. “M-Miranda Morrow?” I sputtered. “George Wetherhead is having an affair with
Finch's witch?
”

Chapter 12

Miranda Morrow was a tall and shapely strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties who practiced telephone witchcraft for a living. She had a flat in London but spent a good part of the year at Briar Cottage, which stood directly across Saint George's Lane from the vicarage.

Mr. Wetherhead, by contrast, was a short and balding man in his mid-fifties who ran a train museum to augment his disability pension. He never went to London; in truth, he spent so much of his time creating miniature landscapes for his toy trains that he seldom left his home, which stood between the old schoolhouse and the vicarage.

“Miranda Morrow and George Wetherhead?” My mind reeled. “I don't believe it.”

“Then come and see for yourself,” Nicholas coaxed. “If we hurry, we may catch her as she's leaving.”

I grabbed my jacket and threw caution to the wind. The rumor mill would grind itself into dust if Nicholas and I were seen together, but I couldn't pass up the chance to find out for myself if Finch had spawned the most improbable pair of lovers in the history of affection.

Reginald, however, remained behind. I didn't want the added burden of the daypack, and with Nicholas at my side, I feared no one.

Nicholas extinguished the candle and led the way through the back door. From that point on, it was all I could do to keep up with him. I'd assumed we'd take the river path to George Wetherhead's house, but Nicholas had reconnoitered a more direct route. The fact that his shortcut involved hopping walls, ducking branches, and squeezing through a hedgerow didn't bother him. He moved as lithely as a panther and used simple hand gestures to signal changes in speed and direction.

I scampered after him as swiftly as I could, the rain and my sore muscles forgotten in the exhilaration of the chase. I felt as if I were flying.

We slowed when we reached the old schoolhouse, then crept stealthily to the far corner of the schoolyard wall. George Wetherhead's house stood not ten yards from us, its windows shrouded with heavy drapes.

We worked our way along the wall until we had an unobstructed view of the front door, but Nicholas wasn't content to watch from a distance. He darted forward and moved from window to window, searching for a gap in the curtains.

I was appalled. I had no intention of playing Peeping Tom, and I didn't think Nicholas should, either. When he motioned for me to join him near a side window, I went forward to express my displeasure.

I'd just tweaked the sleeve of his windbreaker when I heard the sound of Miranda Morrow's fruity voice coming from inside the house.

“Six o'clock, darling. Time for me to go. If you'll take up your trousers . . . I think you've had enough for one morning, don't you?”

I recoiled, grabbed Nicholas's arm, and yanked him away from the window. I shook my head vehemently to indicate that his days as a voyeur were over, and we retreated to the back of the house. Having identified Miranda's inimitable voice, I no longer needed to watch the front door for her departure.

Nicholas slipped nimbly over the wall that separated George Wetherhead's back garden from the Buntings' and made for the French doors that gave access to the vicar's study. I clambered over the wall less gracefully, landed up to my ankles in what appeared to be a small lake, and remembered too late that I'd used up my allotment of dry clothing. With a heavy sigh, I waded ashore and followed Nicholas up the stone steps to the glass-paned doors.

Bill and I had spent many a pleasant evening in the book-lined study at the rear of the vicarage. Its furnishings were as shabby—and as comfortable—as an old bathrobe, but they didn't deserve to be treated shabbily. I wrung out my puddle-soaked trouser cuffs and took off my sopping sneakers before entering the room.

By the time I came inside, Nicholas had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his windbreaker, lit a fire in the fireplace, and retrieved a pair of cotton towels as well as a woolen blanket from his aunt's linen closet. He placed my sneakers beside his shoes near the fire and nodded toward the green velvet sofa that faced the vicar's armchair across the hearth.

“Have a seat,” he said. “You must be chilled to the bone.”

“There's no need to fuss.” I sat on the sofa and held my hand out for a towel. “I'm
fine.
”

Nicholas smiled wryly as he wrapped the woolen blanket around my shoulders. We spent a moment in companionable silence, toweling our hair while the fire leapt and crackled and warmed the room. When my short curls and his long locks were sufficiently blotted, Nicholas took the damp towels away and returned with two large mugs of hot cocoa. He presented one to me, sat in the vicar's armchair, and held his stockinged feet out to the fire.

I swung my legs up on the couch, to put my own feet within drying distance of the flames, and eyed Nicholas speculatively as I sipped the steaming cocoa.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said. “What did you think you were doing, looking in on them like that?”

“I was confirming a hunch,” he replied.

“What hunch?” I asked.

“One of recent vintage. It came to me when you mentioned Ms. Morrow's profession.” He peered at me quizzically over the rim of his mug. “What do you think they were doing back there?”

“It seemed pretty clear to me,” I mumbled, blushing.

“You didn't even look,” he objected.

“I didn't
want
to look,” I retorted.

Nicholas shook an index finger at me. “Never theorize in advance of the facts, Lori. It's fatal to any investigation.”

“Okay, Chief Inspector,” I said sarcastically. “Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw”—Nicholas paused for dramatic effect, then went on matter-of-factly—“a skilled physiotherapist ministering to a patient.”

My mouth fell open, and Nicholas grinned.

“I saw Ms. Morrow administering a therapeutic massage to Mr. Wetherhead,” he clarified. “Her manner was that of a highly competent and professional therapist. She was using a portable massage table and a kit stocked with what I assume to be herbal oils of her own devising.” He finished his cocoa and set the mug aside. “Witchcraft is, among other things, a healing profession.”

“A therapeutic massage,” I repeated, as whole piggy banks of pennies began to drop. “Miranda's been working on George's injured hip. That's why he doesn't need a cane anymore.”

“It may also explain the clandestine nature of her visits,” Nicholas said. “A hip injury would require manipulations of fairly intimate parts of the anatomy. Mr. Wetherhead might permit them to ease his suffering, but he might at the same time find them rather embarrassing.”

“He would,” I stated firmly. “Especially since it's a woman doing the manipulating, and not just any woman, but an attractive, unmarried witch. The poor guy . . .” I cupped the mug between my hands. “He was so afraid of scandal that he scheduled his treatments in a way that sparked the very rumors he was afraid of.” I finished my cocoa and placed the mug on the small table at the head of the couch. “Dick Peacock's going to be sadly disappointed when the truth comes out.”

“Speaking of Mr. Peacock . . . ,” Nicholas prompted.

I told him about the van, the cardboard boxes, and the packet Dick had given to the driver. I was proud of myself for remembering the van's plate number without referring to my scribbled note.

“Mrs. Pyne was telling the truth,” said Nicholas, “and Mr. Peacock was concealing it.”

“I think he's buying smuggled liquor,” I said.

“It's possible.” Nicholas wriggled his toes as if savoring the fire's warmth. “It's not easy to keep a pub going in a place as small as Finch. Mr. Peacock wouldn't be the first landlord to cut costs by stocking his bar with tax-free brew.”

“Sally Pyne seems to know what he's doing,” I pointed out, “and she doesn't seem to mind. Pruneface, on the other hand, may not have been so tolerant.”

Nicholas tilted his head back and recited, “There's taking an interest and there's poking your damned nose in places where it has no business being.” He pursed his lips. “Mrs. Hooper seems to have poked her nose into Mr. Peacock's business as well as Mr. Wetherhead's.”

“She probably spied on both of them from Crabtree Cottage.” I curled my legs under me, drew the blanket over my lap, and leaned back against the sofa's velvet arm. “I wonder if she threatened to expose them?”

“If she did,” said Nicholas, “it would give both men a motive for murder. Her wagging tongue would have threatened Mr. Peacock's livelihood and Mr. Wetherhead's health.”

I gazed unhappily into the fire. Aunt Dimity believed that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to something regrettable Mrs. Hooper had said or done. Threatening one's neighbors was nothing if not regrettable. Had one of the men snapped? Dick Peacock was as strong as he was large. A glancing blow from him would be enough to crack Prunella Hooper's skull.

And George Wetherhead's three-pronged cane was an undeniably blunt instrument.

I glanced over at Nicholas. He was staring at the dancing flames and slowly combing his fingers through his hair. The vagrant gold strands gleamed in the firelight, and his eyes shone like liquid opals.

“Doesn't it get in the way?” I asked.

He came out of his reverie. “Sorry?”

“Your hair,” I said. “Doesn't it get in the way when you're karate-chopping people?”

“Perfect vision isn't essential if one hones one's other senses.” He sat forward in his chair. “Close your eyes.”

I closed them.

“Listen,” he instructed, “not with your ears alone but with your entire body. Try to locate me.”

I cheated at first and focused on my sense of hearing, but Nicholas in stockinged feet on a Turkish carpet, however threadbare, made not a sound.

I closed my eyes more tightly and widened my focus until I felt as if I were listening with my skin. This time I felt a tingle, as if an electrical field surrounding me had been subtly altered. I raised my hand, reached out, and seemed to touch spun silk. I opened my eyes to find my fingers tangled in Nicholas's hair.

He was on his knees beside me. He gazed at me in silence for a moment, then brought his shadowed face so close to mine that I caught the scents of wood smoke and rain lingering on his skin.

“Your sixth sense can alert you to many things,” he said softly. “Not only physical sensation but emotion, intention . . . It can help you to avoid danger if you trust it.”

We were alone in the study. No nosy neighbors were keeping watch, and Reginald was in Wysteria Lodge. I let my fingers trail through his hair.

Nicholas caught his breath and gathered my hand in his, murmuring, “Not a good idea.”

“Sorry,” I said, but made no attempt to withdraw my hand.

“Don't apologize,” he said. “It's been hovering in the air for a while. We may as well admit it.” He ran his thumb along the back of my hand and lightly stroked each finger. “I won't deny that I'm drawn to you, Lori, but we have to leave it there. Anything else would be too . . . complicated. For you. Not only because you're married, but because you live here. This is your home. I'm merely passing through.”

“Right.” A wave of regret tumbled through me and I ducked my head to hide my confusion. Nicholas was talking common sense. I was the one with my head in the clouds.

He released my hand and sat back on his heels. “There's a palpable charge between us, Lori. It crackles every time our eyes meet. What are we going to do about it?”

“Ground it,” I said unsteadily, “and move on.”

“I hope we can, because we've serious work ahead of us”—his fingertips grazed my cheek—“and I'm not beyond temptation.”

The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and Lilian Bunting entered the study, clad in bedroom slippers and a quilted dressing gown. She looked from me, reclining on the sofa beneath a rumpled blanket, to Nicholas, kneeling closely by my side, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I could ask if you've been here all night,” she said, “but I'm not sure I want to know the answer.”