Aunt Dimity Goes West (12 page)

“Lori?” Bill’s voice came through as clearly as if he

were standing beside me. “I finally managed to get

ahold of Danny.”

“Did you find out what happened at Christmas?” I

asked eagerly.

“Not exactly,” Bill answered. “Apparently
Florence

insisted on leaving.”

“Who’s Florence?” I asked.

“Danny’s wife,” said Bill. “She refused to explain why

she wanted to leave, and she isn’t the sort of woman you cross-examine, so Danny doesn’t know what happened.

Whatever it was, Florence has taken such a dislike to the Aerie that she refuses to go back there. In fact, Danny’s put the place on the market.”

“The Aerie’s for
sale
?” I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s what property developers do, Lori,” said Bill.

“Build and sell.”

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Nancy Atherton

I looked around the great room and shook my head.

Feathers, bones, and interesting bits of wood, the har-

vest of many family hikes, had been lovingly arranged

in the rustic cabinets. Rambunctious children had left

their marks on the comfy furniture. Family meals had

been prepared in the kitchen and eaten around the large

dining table. It took no imagination whatsoever to

picture Danny, his wife, sons, and daughter gathered

around the fireplace, singing Christmas carols, roasting marshmallows, and sipping hot apple cider.

“Not the Aerie,” I said firmly. “He didn’t build the

Aerie to sell. It’s Danny’s tree house, Bill.”

“His what?” said Bill.

“His pride and joy,” I clarified. “If you ask me, the

Aerie’s as important to him as the cottage is to us. I

can’t believe he’s selling it. When did it go on the

market?”

“Just after Christmas,” said Bill.

“What are we supposed to do if prospective buyers

show up?” I asked. “Hide in the woods until they leave?”

“Danny’s put everything on hold while you’re

there,” said Bill. “To tell you the truth, he’s having a hard time attracting buyers. He’s lowered the price

twice in the past six months, but no one’s made him

an offer. I think he’s beginning to regret his decision to build in such an out-of-the-way place.”

“It’s a
beautiful
place,” I insisted.

“But it’s not Aspen,” said Bill.

“It’s
better
than Aspen. It would break Danny’s heart to sell the Aerie,” I said sadly, and at that

Aunt Dimity Goes West

95

moment my own heart hardened. I didn’t know what

had happened to spoil the Aerie for Florence Auer-

bach, but I was determined to find out. If Dick Major

was to blame, I’d find a way to make him mind his

manners. I knew what it was like to be forced to leave

a place I loved. I didn’t want the same thing to happen

to Danny and his family.

“Danny told me about the sale in confidence,” Bill

was saying, “so don’t mention it to anyone, all right?”

“Does Toby know?” I asked.

“Toby Cooper?” said Bill. “I doubt it.”

“But Toby was planning to spend the whole sum-

mer here,” I said. “If Danny sells the Aerie after we

leave,Toby will be out of a job.”

“Danny hasn’t had a nibble in six months,” Bill said

patiently. “Unless a miracle happens, Toby will be able to keep his job until it’s time for him to go back to school.”

“I hope so,” I said worriedly.

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Bill. “It’s an

unfortunate situation, but try not to dwell on it, Lori.

You’re there to enjoy yourself. I don’t want you to

get your knickers in a twist about something that’s

beyond your control.”

My knickers were already in a twist, and I was far

from convinced that the situation was beyond my con-

trol, but I knew better than to say as much to Bill.

He’d only feel guilty for upsetting me.

“Are you at the ranch?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “but you won’t believe who I saw

there. . . .”

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Nancy Atherton

Bill’s reaction to my descriptions of Belle and Brett

Whitcombe was even more infuriatingly blasé than Aunt

Dimity’s had been. He seemed to think I’d perceived a

strong resemblance between them and Kit and Nell

simply because I was homesick. I was so incensed by his

patronizing tone that I vowed to take photographs of

Belle and Brett the next time I went to the ranch in or-

der to document my claims.

“Don’t let Annelise catch you at it,” Bill advised.

“She’ll confiscate your camera and make you sit in the

corner until you promise to behave yourself. I’ll speak

with you again tomorrow, love.”

I could have sworn I heard him chuckle as he ended

the call.

I was in a somewhat grumpy mood when I re-

turned to the breakfast deck, but Toby restored my

cheerfulness by asking if I planned to attend church in

Bluebird the following day. I told him that I could

think of no better way to spend my first Sunday morn-

ing in Colorado.

A church lawn after Sunday services was, in my

experience, a splendid spot to fish for local gossip.

Although Toby had dealt my pet theory a blow by plac-

ing Dick Major in Bluebird well before Christmas, I

remained certain that the town bully had had something

to do with James Blackwell’s departure as well as the

Auerbachs’. I was determined to get the dirt on him be-

fore the week was out.

<

Aunt Dimity Goes West

97

My fishing expedition was, alas, delayed by one day

because Will and Rob insisted on attending the cow-

boy church at the Brockman Ranch, which turned out

to be an all-day affair.After the guitar-twanging, yodelfilled service came the huge picnic lunch, then a rodeo

in which my sons demonstrated trick riding skills I

didn’t know they possessed and wished I’d never seen.

I managed to keep smiling during their bravura per-

formance, but I gripped the bleacher seat so hard I lost all feeling in my fingers.

The rodeo went on until the evening barbecue,

which was followed by a bonfire, the singing of many

cowboy songs, and the dramatic recitation of cow-

boy poetry. As we were getting ready to leave, Brett

Whitcombe offered to pick up the boys and Annelise

the next morning and bring them to the ranch for

another day of riding.

After conferring with Annelise, I accepted the

offer gratefully. I knew that the twins would be

perfectly content to spend the rest of their vacation in the saddle. I’d also noted that Annelise, levelheaded

though she was, was thoroughly enjoying her first

taste of cowboy charm.

It was approaching midnight when we returned to

the Aerie with a pair of sleepy-headed but happy little

cowpokes as well as a dozen covertly taken photo-

graphs of Brett and Belle. If I’d known how to use a

laptop computer to transmit images, I would have

e-mailed them directly to Bill.

Nine

O ur late-night festivities had not the slightest

impact on Will or Rob. They crawled out of

their tent bright and early on Monday morn-

ing, pulled on their freshly laundered riding clothes,

and chattered like magpies with their father when he

called at nine o’clock. After a quick breakfast, they

stood by the window wall to keep watch for Brett

Whitcombe’s truck. He showed up at nine forty-five

and took off with Annelise and the twins, leaving me

and Toby to our own devices.

“Would it be okay if we went into Bluebird today?”

I asked Toby as we loaded the dishwasher. “I’d like to

explore the town.”

“Sounds good to me.” He closed the dishwasher

and leaned back against it, with his arms folded across

his chest and a challenging gleam in his eyes. “Walk or

drive?”

“Walk,” I said bravely. “Unless you think it’s too far.”

“It’s not too far,” he said. “If we go by the easiest

trail, it’ll take us twenty minutes to get there, tops.

You won’t even break a sweat.”

“Only because we’ll be going downhill,” I pointed

out.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

99

“You can handle it, Lori,” Toby said bracingly.

“Grab your hat and pull on your hiking boots. It’s

another beautiful day in Colorado.”

As far as I could tell, every day was beautiful in

Colorado. I hadn’t seen a cloud in the sky since we’d

arrived, and the snow that had filled me with dread at

the airport had disappeared from all but the shadiest

nooks in the forest. Even though it was barely ten

o’clock in the morning, it was already warm enough

for me to dress in shorts and a T-shirt, but I took the

precaution of adding a rain jacket to Toby’s day pack

before we took off, bearing in mind his oft-repeated,

though still unproven, warning that mountain weather

was nothing if not changeable.

The trail to town started at the western edge of the

Aerie’s clearing. It was wide and smooth and carpeted

with pine needles that smelled like incense in the

splashes of hot sunlight falling through the sheltering

trees.

“We’re on the Lord Stuart Trail,” Toby informed

me. “There used to be a narrow gauge rail line run-

ning along here, linking the mine head to the process-

ing mill in Bluebird.”

“Was the Lord Stuart Mine a big operation?” I

asked.

“Biggest in the valley,” said Toby. “Granddad told

me that it employed a couple hundred men, all told.

They used to walk along the sides of the track on their

way to the mine from their lodgings in Bluebird. The

Lord Stuart Trail was a major thoroughfare in its day.”

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Nancy Atherton

“No wonder it’s so easy,” I said. “I
like
major thoroughfares.”

“I knew you would,” said Toby, with a satisfied nod.

A profusion of wildflowers bloomed in unkempt

tangles along the well-trodden path. I tried to memo-

rize the flowers’ colorful names as Toby pointed them

out—Orange Sneezeweed,Witches Thimble, Shooting

Star, Fairy Trumpet—but when he reached Rosy

Pussytoes, I burst out laughing.

“Rosy Pussytoes?” I exclaimed. “You’ve got to be

kidding.”

“That’s what it’s called,” Toby insisted. “There are

Alpine Pussytoes as well. In fact, if you stick
alpine
in front of any plant’s name, you won’t go far wrong.

Alpine sunflower, alpine lily, alpine clover—”

“Alpine magnolia,” I put in, “alpine eucalyptus—”

“—alpine palm tree, alpine rutabaga,” he continued.

By the time we reached alpine bougainvillea, we

were giggling so hard that we had to stop walking.

While I leaned against a fir tree to catch my breath, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had a good giggle since

I’d been shot. Bill had been as caring as any human

being could be, and my best friend Emma had been

wonderfully sympathetic, but Toby, who knew noth-

ing of my harrowing brush with death, was giving me

something I hadn’t realized I needed: a healthy dose of

silliness. I felt a rush of gratitude toward him as we

continued downhill.

The Lord Stuart Trail was so pretty and we were

having such a good time that it came as something as a

Aunt Dimity Goes West

101

letdown when we finally reached the edge of town and

the paved surface of Lake Street. The first house we

saw would have had a lovely view of Lake Matula if it

hadn’t been surrounded by piles of highly unattractive

junk. I stared in dismay at rusty bedsprings, an assort-

ment of old washing machines, several rotting mat-

tresses, a couch covered in split vinyl, a car radiator, and a myriad of other items that would no doubt fas-cinate some future archaeologist but which filled me

with revulsion.

“Don’t judge Bluebird by Dick Major’s house,”

Toby advised.

“Dick Major lives here?” I stopped dead in my

tracks and swung around for a closer look at the

house. The roof seemed to be intact, but the paint on

the walls was peeling badly and most of the windows

were boarded up. “What a slob.”

Toby hushed me and tugged gently on my elbow.

“Keep your voice down and keep moving, please,

Lori. I haven’t had a run-in with Dick yet, and I don’t

want to push my luck.”

“Sorry,” I said, but as we walked away, I kept look-

ing over my shoulder. It was hard to believe that any-

one would willingly live in the midst of such a mess.

“What does he do for a living? Collect garbage?”

“No idea,” Toby replied.

“If you ask me, his next-door neighbor moved just

to get away from the smell of moldy mattress,” I com-

mented.

“Could be,” said Toby and increased our pace.

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Nancy Atherton

The houses became progressively tidier as we

walked on. None reached the level of tidiness rou-

tinely maintained in Finch, but there was a certain

careworn charm to most of them. I was particularly

fond of a tiny Victorian cottage that had been painted

lavender with bright purple trim. Its picket-fenced

front garden was overflowing with a shaggy collection

of lupines, columbines, and fluttering poppies as well