Aunt Dimity: Detective (14 page)

“I'm doing what needs to be done to give my aunt and uncle peace of mind,” Nicholas answered calmly.

I spoke up. “We're trying to help Kit Smith, too. The police are treating him as a suspect.”

“Sweet Kit? A suspect in a murder inquiry?” Miranda rolled her eyes heavenward. “I thought we'd already scaled the heights of absurdity, but I can see we've a ways to go yet. What utter rot.”

“I'm with you,” I assured her. “But the police aren't, and the pressure's getting to Kit. If this case doesn't break soon, I'm afraid he will.”

“Poor lamb,” Miranda cooed. “First Mrs. Hooper picks on him and now the police.”

My ears pricked up. “You've heard the nasty story Mrs. Hooper concocted?”

“Had it straight from the source.” Miranda folded her legs beneath her and shook her hair back from her face. “She came here one day not long before she died. Brought me a potted geranium. She said she was being neighborly, but I knew what her game was the moment I laid eyes on her.”

“Did you invite her in?” Nicholas asked.

“Naturally. I knew I'd have to purify the place after she left, but her brand of pathology fascinates me.” Miranda stretched her arm out dramatically. “Evil incarnate, offering me a potted plant. I leapt at the chance to observe her at close quarters.” Miranda's gaze fell on me. “She sat where you're sitting now.”

Her gaze lingered long enough to make me acutely aware of how small the fat little sofa was. Nicholas couldn't help pressing his thigh against mine. There was nowhere else for it to go.

Miranda seemed to sense that it wasn't the fire's warmth alone that brought a flush to my cheeks. Her eyes twinkled merrily as she went on.

“We had a scrumptious chin-wag,” she said. “She'd been collecting tidbits, too, pinpricks of poison sprinkled judiciously into the chatter. Had I heard that Sally Pyne hated little boys? Did I know that Dick Peacock was engaged in shady dealings? What about Mr. Barlow's vicious terrier? Wouldn't I agree that Buster should, for safety's sake, be put down?”

“Good grief,” I muttered.

“The nonsense was presented so artfully, with so much charm, that I wanted to applaud.” Miranda's green eyes flashed. “Until she came to Kit. When she told me he'd taken advantage of Nell Harris, I simply had to laugh.”

“You laughed?” I said, nonplussed.

“What else could I do?” Miranda shrugged. “It was the best joke I'd heard in years. Sweet Kit assaulting Nell the Invincible? I think not.”

“Did you voice your opinion?” inquired Nicholas.

“I told Mrs. Hooper that I envied her,” Miranda replied. “Most gardeners are forced to labor over heaps of compost, but she could manure her geraniums simply by talking to them.”

I snickered, Nicholas grinned, and Miranda sighed with pleasure, as if reliving the memorable moment.

“I imagine she was offended,” Nicholas said dryly.

“It took a moment for the insult to register, but once it did, yes, she was offended.” Miranda studied the silver rings on her left hand. “That's when she began lecturing me on my morals.”

“Had she seen you visiting George Wetherhead?” I asked.

“Watching us was, apparently, her idea of early-morning entertainment,” said Miranda. “She had our schedule by heart. She accused me of corrupting an innocent.”

“She accused George of philandering,” I told her.

“Lovely!” Miranda clapped her hands. “Men like George so rarely get the chance to be seen as naughty boys.”

“He was pretty upset by it,” I said.

“Was he?” A puzzled frown crossed Miranda's face. She tilted her head back, as if giving the matter profound consideration, and murmured, “I wonder if
I
should be offended?”

Nicholas, too, looked upward, at the bundled herbs hanging from the rafters. His glance seemed perfunctory, but I felt his body tense as his gaze came to rest on a gap between two of the bundles.

He looked at Miranda. “How did you respond to Mrs. Hooper's accusation?”

Miranda shook her head mournfully. “I told her that jealousy was a sad emotion and that I'd be perfectly willing to step aside if she wanted George for herself.”

“You
didn't,
” I said, delighted.

“I
did.
” Miranda ran a finger along her skirt's patchwork seams. “That's when she began to discuss the unusual variety of plants in my garden. She was under the impression that I'd not only corrupted George's morals but introduced him to the demon weed as well.”

“Marijuana?” I said. “What made her think you grow pot?”

“My herbs, presumably.” Miranda swept a hand through the air to indicate the bundles overhead. “I cultivate medicinal plants, but to a woman with Mrs. Hooper's vicious imagination, any medicine that isn't dispensed by a chemist is automatically suspect.”

“Marijuana has therapeutic applications,” Nicholas pointed out.

“True.” Miranda went on speaking as she got up to toss more coal onto the fire. “Its use in treating glaucoma is well documented. It can also help to reduce nausea and increase appetite in people undergoing chemotherapy or radiation treatment. It can work the same way for people afflicted with AIDS. It's an extremely useful plant.”

“It must be frustrating to be unable to use it,” Nicholas commented.

“It is,” Miranda agreed. She dusted the palms of her hands together lightly and returned to her chair. “But its production must be specially licensed.”

“Do you have such a license, Miranda?” Nicholas asked.

“I do not,” she answered. “Which is why you'll find no marijuana on these premises.”

Nicholas said nothing. He merely turned his gaze to the gap in the hanging bundles of dried herbs.

“It is my belief, however,” Miranda continued, “that folk medicine belongs to the people, not to a medical board. I said as much to Mrs. Hooper when she threatened to bring the drug squad down on me.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “She threatened you, did she?”

“I'd insulted her twice in the course of one conversation, darling. She couldn't allow me to get away scot-free, could she, Seraphina?” Miranda scooped the black cat up from the ottoman. “She lost her temper—and her charm—and tried to frighten us. We told her to bring the drug squad to tea, didn't we, my sweet?” Miranda cradled Seraphina on her shoulder.

“I wonder . . .” Nicholas rubbed his jaw. “Do you think she threatened anyone else in Finch?”

“Everyone, I should imagine,” said Miranda. “She couldn't help herself. Her spirit was distorted, twisted, ravaged by fear. Fear makes some people timid—look at what it's done to poor George—but it turns others into devouring monsters.”

“What was she afraid of?” I asked.

“Everything, anything . . .” Miranda fluttered her fingers nonchalantly. “She needed to be in control of every situation, darling, and she used any means at her disposal to gain the upper hand.”

“Lies, threats, intimidation,” Nicholas murmured.

“That's not all.” Miranda's green eyes drifted lazily toward Nicholas. “Just ask Peggy Taxman.”

Nicholas stiffened, but his voice betrayed only a faint perplexity.

“I understood that Mrs. Taxman and Mrs. Hooper were old friends,” he said. “Aunt Lilian told me that they knew each other when they lived in Birmingham.”

“Peggy's distraught over Mrs. Hooper's death,” I added. “She visits the grave every day. Lilian told us that she must be spending a small fortune on flowers.”

Miranda tossed her head dismissively. “Guilt gelt and crocodile tears. If you ask me, she visits the grave in order to reassure herself that Mrs. Hooper is still dead.”

“You must know something we don't know,” Nicholas said. “Care to share it?”

Instead of answering directly, Miranda asked a question in return. “Did you know that Peggy allowed Mrs. Hooper to live in Crabtree Cottage gratis?” She rolled the
r
in
gratis
to give it extra emphasis.

“Peggy wasn't collecting rent?” I asked.

“I knew it would surprise you,” said Miranda.

I turned to Nicholas. “I've never known Peggy Taxman to give anything away for free.”

“She did this time.” Miranda nuzzled Seraphina's ears. “I overheard Peggy and her husband going at it one day in the Emporium's back room. Jasper was indignant. He wanted to know why Mrs. Hooper was living in the cottage free of charge. Not only that . . .” Miranda smiled lazily. “It seems the accounts weren't balancing properly. Certain sums of money had gone missing, and Jasper wanted to know what Peggy had done with them. The spat suggested a certain something to me. Can you guess what it is?”

I was stumped, but Nicholas wasn't.

“Blackmail,” he said promptly.

“You'd make a yummy constable.” Miranda puckered her lips in his direction. “So quick off the mark with deductions. But I'm afraid they'd make you trim your lovely hair, which in itself would be a crime.”

“I assume you reached the same conclusion,” Nicholas said patiently.

“Mrs. Hooper was a charter member of Backstabbers Anonymous,” Miranda declared. “The only thing she used friends for was target practice.”

“Mrs. Hooper was blackmailing Peggy?” I said, scrambling to catch up.

“Well done, Lori. Slow but steady wins the race.” Miranda spoke lightly, but her eyes were deadly serious. “I believe that Mrs. Hooper threatened to reveal something Peggy didn't want broadcast, some naughtiness from the good old days in Birmingham, perhaps. Peggy thought Crabtree Cottage would buy her old chum's silence, but I'll wager that Mrs. Hooper wanted more.”

“Hence the missing sums of money,” said Nicholas.

“Malevolent creatures like Mrs. Hooper always want more.” Miranda returned Seraphina to the ottoman. “Ignorant people call them witches. I can think of a more appropriate term.”

“Thank you, Miranda.” Nicholas got to his feet and put a hand out to help me to mine. “I've enjoyed our conversation.”

“I spoke to you for Kit's sake,” Miranda stated flatly. “I've glimpsed his spirit, too, and it's pure as the driven snow. I won't have him harassed.”

“I'm grateful nonetheless,” said Nicholas. “I hope we'll meet again.”

“You can bring the drug squad with you to tea.” Miranda's green eyes twinkled as she walked us to the door. They twinkled more happily still when Nicholas held my jacket for me while I slipped into it.

“It's a pity Mrs. Hooper died when she did,” she commented. “She would have had a field day with the two of you.” She paused. “But in your case, my pets, I wonder . . . Would she have been lying?”

“Miranda,” I began, but Nicholas interrupted.

“She's teasing us, Lori,” he said. “Aren't you, Miranda?”

“I read auras, darling,” she replied. “And yours is . . . most revealing.”

 

 

When we reached the thorn hedge, Nicholas paused for another look at Briar Cottage.

“You're convinced that Miranda had marijuana hanging from the rafters.” I tried to sound businesslike, as if Nicholas's aura was of no concern to me. “You think she got rid of it after Mrs. Hooper issued her threats.”

“It's a distinct possibility,” Nicholas allowed. “As Mr. Wetherhead pointed out, witches know how to protect themselves. Our witch seems to have protected herself by employing the simple expedient of covering her tracks.”

“Can we scratch her from our list of murder suspects?” I asked.

“Definitely.” Nicholas opened the squeaky gate. “If Miranda Morrow had killed Mrs. Hooper, the coroner's verdict would have been natural causes.”

Chapter 16

Nicholas and I agreed to put off speaking with Peggy Taxman until the next day. My energy was beginning to flag and I still had a three-mile bike ride ahead of me. By the time I reached the cottage, I knew I'd be in desperate need of a hot bath, a hearty lunch, and a long nap.

Nicholas, too, was in need of a break. We'd accumulated a lot of information in a short amount of time. He wanted to spend the rest of the day cogitating and, I suspected, enjoying a pleasant doze in the vicar's study.

I left him at the vicarage and went to collect my things from Wysteria Lodge. I let myself in through the front door this time. It didn't matter much if people saw me. My cover was already blown.

The moment I entered the office, I made a beeline for the desk, picked up the telephone, and punched in Bill's London number. I wanted to tell him about the stakeout and the morning's interviews, but most of all, I wanted to hear his voice. My head, and probably my aura, were too full of Nicholas. I needed to reclaim space for my husband.

The conversation didn't go quite as smoothly as I'd planned.

Bill was relieved to hear that I'd survived the stakeout unscathed and let me ramble on at length about George Wetherhead, Miranda Morrow, and Peggy Taxman. In the course of my rambling, however, I somehow strayed onto a path I'd intended to avoid.

“Bill,” I said, swiveling in his desk chair to face the window, “when you get back, you're going to hear a lot of talk about me and Nicholas. It's nonsense, of course, but—”

“Is it?” There was a pause. “You're not possessed by a demonic spirit again, are you?”

“Huh?”

“If I remember correctly, that's what happened to you up in Northumberland last fall, when you—”