Aunt Dimity: Detective (19 page)

I knew that Aunt Dimity, for one, would agree with me. She'd found it strange that Nicholas would go to such great lengths to discover who'd murdered a woman he'd never known—
a woman with whom he had no personal connection.
As Aunt Dimity's words came back to me, a startling idea took shape in my mind:

What if Nicholas
had
a personal connection?

I walked over to stand beside him in the open doorway. I studied his profile carefully before asking, “Are you . . . Peggy Taxman's son?”

A broad, authentically amused grin split Nicholas's face as he laughed out loud. “I know I'm not stripling youth, Lori—I believe your first words to me were that I was
not
a child—but do I really look as if I'm in my
fifties?
”

I did a rough calculation in my head and immediately wished I'd done so before speaking.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, blushing. “Arithmetic never was my strong suit.”

He was still grinning as he leaned back against the door and asked, “What on earth made you think that I might be Mrs. Taxman's long-lost son?”

I shrugged. “You seem so determined to find out who killed Mrs. Hooper. I thought for a minute that it might have been a smokescreen for finding out who your birth mother was.”

“You suspect me of hidden agendas? Alas, the numbers are against you.” He spoke lightly, but the momentary flash of amusement had faded from his eyes. He looked out at the graveyard. “I'm sorry, Lori. I've been a dreary companion today.”

I decided then and there to clap a lid on my reservations about his illicit use of police files. Nicholas didn't need to hear a word of criticism from me. He was being hard enough on himself.

“No problem,” I said easily. “I'm a woman. I can deal with mood swings.”

I'd hoped the quip might restore his good humor, but his expression grew more somber still.

“I realize that my intensity disturbs you,” he said, “but I need you to trust me for a little while longer. We're nearly there.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

He contemplated the churchyard in silence. “The Pyms' gingerbread,” he said finally. “There's only one recipient with whom we haven't spoken.”

“Mr. Barlow.” A flutter of excitement passed through me. “Are we going up north to track him down?”

Nicholas eyed me skeptically. “I'm not entirely convinced that your husband would be keen on the idea of us running off together.”

“Probably not,” I agreed, deflated. “What
are
we going to do, then?”

“We're going to wait.”

Nicholas motioned for me to precede him into the south porch and followed after me, closing the door behind him. We left the porch together and ambled side by side down the gravel path toward the lych-gate. Fat clouds raced across the clearing sky as the churchyard's rain-dappled grass rippled and swayed.

I felt as restless as the rippling grass. I was no better at waiting than I was at arithmetic, but we didn't seem to have much choice. We'd discovered strong motives and weak alibis among our chief suspects but not a single witness to account for what had happened in the front window of Crabtree Cottage on the morning Pruneface Hooper had met her maker. Mr. Barlow was our last chance, and until he returned from his journey, we could do nothing but twiddle our thumbs.

As we turned into Saint George's Lane, I invited Nicholas to spend the afternoon at the cottage with me and the twins, hoping Will and Rob might succeed where I'd failed and lift his gloomy spirits. He declined, however, saying that he had to run down to London to attend to some personal business.

“Nothing's wrong, I hope,” I said.

“I've a . . . doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon,” he said, looking straight ahead. “Just routine. I scheduled it months ago. I'll be back in time for the committee meeting tomorrow evening, though.” He glanced at me. “I'm counting on you to be there, too.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Aunt Lilian appointed a select group of villagers to the committee,” he informed me. “It's composed of the Taxmans, the Peacocks, Mrs. Pyne, Mr. Wetherhead, and Ms. Morrow.”

“Miranda—?” I broke off and smiled wryly as comprehension dawned. Either the committee had been intentionally stuffed with suspects or Lilian Bunting had decided to make a name for herself as the only vicar's wife in England to appoint a pagan to an Easter vigil committee. “Do I detect a stage manager's swagger in your walk, Mr. Fox?”

“It was Aunt Lilian's idea,” he protested. “She thought it would be instructive to hold such a gathering now that you and I have, let us say, opened new lines of communication in Finch.”

“I'll be there,” I promised.

“Good.” Nicholas flicked his hair back from his face and gazed soberly toward the square. “I expect it to be an extraordinary meeting in every sense of the word.”

Chapter 21

I stopped at Anscombe Manor on the way home to have a word with Kit. I found him leaning on the paddock gate, dressed in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, a quilted nylon vest, and muddy work boots.

His gaze was fixed on Rocinante, Nell's chestnut mare, who was galloping around the paddock and tossing her head excitedly. He was so absorbed in her boisterous antics that he didn't notice me until I rested my arms beside his on the top bar of the gate.

“Hey, Kit,” I said, smiling up at him. “How're you doing?”

“Much better,” he replied.

I nodded toward Rosie. “She seems happy.”

“The farrier came today,” he said. “She's trying out her new shoes.”

While Kit watched the mare prance, I studied him. The haunted, harried look had vanished from his violet eyes. His hands rested loosely on the five-barred wooden gate, and a contented smile played upon his delicately curved lips. He seemed utterly at peace.

“You look great,” I commented. “Have the nasty phone calls stopped?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Don't know. Emma won't allow me to answer the telephone.”

“Any more visits from the police?” I asked.

He rested his chin on his arms. “Emma's solicitor has frightened them off.”

“What about Nell?” I inquired. “Are you still getting letters from her?”

“She's using rosewater now,” he said tranquilly. “It makes a change from lavender.”

I gave him a questioning glance. “That's okay with you?”

“Look.” Kit stretched out his arm and pointed across the pasture to an extremely muddy young man who'd emerged from a drainage ditch, carrying a shovel. “Annelise's brother, Lucca.”

I knew Lucca. He was twenty years old, soft-spoken, hardworking, and built like Michelangelo's
David.
His tousled black curls framed a face that rivaled Kit's for beauty, and his eyes were nearly as blue as Nell's.

“Emma's hired him to help me put in a new drainage system.” Kit waved to Lucca, and the young man waved back. “He'll be here for Easter and all through the summer.”

“In other words,” I said, “Lucca will be here when Nell's home from school.”

“Precisely,” said Kit.

It wasn't every stepmother who'd hire one gorgeous man to distract her stepdaughter from another, but Emma clearly felt that desperate times called for desperate measures. I gave her full marks for creativity. Her ploy might not work in the long run—Kit would be a hard act for any young man to follow—but its short-term effects were good enough for me. Emma had taken the pressure off Kit, erected a protective wall around him, and applied the balm of her own serenity to his troubled spirit. I couldn't have left my friend in better hands.

“I hope Emma's persuaded you to drop the idea of going to Norfolk,” I said.

“Norfolk?” Kit swung his arm up and around me, and pulled me close to his side. “I love Anscombe Manor. I love my job. I have friends here who love me.” He planted a gentle kiss on my brow. “Why would I give all of that up because of a spiteful woman and a moonstruck schoolgirl?”

As he fed my words back to me, a weight seemed to slip from my shoulders. Though I'd claimed from the start to be defending Kit, the truth was that I needed him. His sweet nature calmed and nourished my turbulent one. His essential goodness was like a beacon guiding me through a world that at times seemed very dark. If Kit had left Anscombe Manor, he would have left an irreparable hole in my soul.

I knew now that he would stay, no matter what. Whether Nicholas and I succeeded in nailing the murderer or failed miserably, Kit would go on being a part of my life. A wave of relief and gratitude filled my heart to overflowing.

“You wouldn't dare leave,” I managed, fighting sudden tears, “because you know I'd come after you and drag you back by the scruff of your neck.”

“My fierce angel,” he murmured. He ruffled my hair, then rested his arms once more on the gate. “Emma tells me you've been wielding your burning sword on my behalf.”

“Nicholas did most of the wielding,” I said quickly, and told him what Nicholas and I had discovered about the good people of Finch. Kit was deeply touched to learn that so many of his neighbors had gone on believing in him despite Mrs. Hooper's wicked attempts to blacken his name.

I saved Peggy's story for last. Nicholas had promised to keep it confidential, but I refused to conceal the truth from Kit. He'd been persecuted and reviled by Peggy Taxman. He deserved to know why.

His response was characteristically magnanimous.

“What an amazing woman,” he marveled. “To build a rich and rewarding life after suffering so many crushing blows . . . What fortitude.”

I thought he was being a tad overgenerous and reminded him acerbically that Peggy had been willing to throw him to the wolves to save her own hide.

“She was afraid,” he said simply. “She was being manipulated and threatened by a truly evil woman. I can't be angry with her.”

“You can't be angry with anyone,” I teased.

He smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Lori, for—”

“Don't thank me,” I said abruptly. “Thank Nicholas. He was in the driver's seat. I just went along for the ride.”

Kit arched an eyebrow.

“It's true,” I insisted. “And I really do want you to thank him. Out loud and to his face. He needs to hear it.”

Kit heard the urgency in my voice. He regarded me solemnly and put a hand to his breast.

“I will thank Nicholas,” he promised. “Out loud and to his face.”

I averted my gaze, half-embarrassed by my earnestness, and saw Lucca striding across the paddock toward the gate. He greeted me warmly, asked after his sister, and requested Kit's assistance in the ditch.

I left the men to their work and went in search of Emma. She and I had a lot of catching up to do. I hadn't seen her since I'd returned from the States, and I wanted to thank her for taking such good care of Kit.

When I found her—in a closet, squatting beside a cardboard box—I scarcely recognized her. For as long as I could remember, Emma Harris had been short and generously built, with gray-blond hair hanging to her waist. Her hair scarcely touched her earlobes now, and while she was still short, her build was no longer quite so generous.

“Emma?” I said, gazing down at her. “Have you lost weight?”

“Thirty pounds,” she replied, looking up from the box. “I'm going to lose twenty more before I'm satisfied. Want a kitten?”

She moved aside, and I peered over her shoulder at Katisha, Nell's calico cat, who was nursing five new additions to the family.

“The boys would love a kitten,” I said, “but I'd better check with Bill first.”

“Just say the word.” Emma came out of the closet, closed the door, and led the way to her large and pleasantly cluttered kitchen.

“I didn't know you were trying to lose weight,” I said. “What inspired you?”

“My jodhpurs,” Emma replied. “I split the seam when I went riding on Christmas Day. I took it as a sign that it was time to take my weight seriously.”

She looked wonderful. As she put the kettle on and set a pair of earthenware mugs on the refectory table, I detected a fine glow to her skin, fresh energy in her step, and an unmistakable gleam of accomplishment in her blue-gray eyes.

“I like your hair,” I said.

“It dries faster.” Emma had a very practical turn of mind. “But enough about me. I want to know what you've been up to. I've been hearing all sorts of spicy rumors about you and the Buntings' nephew. . . .”

With a groan that was part chuckle, I sank onto a chair and began at the beginning. I gave Emma an abbreviated version of Peggy Taxman's tale, but by the time we'd finished analyzing everyone else's pecadilloes, she'd filled the two mugs with peppermint tea and placed a pot of creamed honey within my reach. I waited until she was sitting down to explain about Nicholas.

There were things you could tell a best friend that you couldn't tell a husband or an aunt, and I told them all to Emma. I knew she wouldn't judge me or repeat my words to another living soul. She was the sort of friend Prunella Hooper had only pretended to be.

“Nicholas sounds intriguing,” Emma observed, when I'd finally fallen silent. “He wouldn't appeal to you if he weren't. You like complicated men.” She sipped her tea and gazed into the middle distance. “I wonder what brought on this morning's meltdown? It seems to me that there could be more to it than a tender conscience.”

I drank my tea and considered Emma's comment carefully. My friend was as insightful as she was trustworthy. It wouldn't be the first time she'd picked up a cue I'd missed, and sure enough, as I reviewed the many conversations I'd had with Nicholas, a pattern began to emerge.