Aunt Dimity Goes West (13 page)

as an assortment of vivid “alpine” flowers.

Most of Bluebird’s businesses were located on

Stafford Avenue, one block over from the highway that

split the town in two.The buildings were made of wood

or brick, in a Victorian style that suggested they’d been built before the turn of the last century.Whatever their original purposes, the buildings now housed a mixture

of useful shops and places favored by travelers.

The hardware store stood beside Eric’s Mountain

Bikes, the grocery beside the Mother Lode Antique

Mall, the post office beside an art gallery featuring

watercolors by local artist Claudia Lechat. Sweet

Jenny’s Ice Cream Emporium specialized in Olde

Tyme Fudge and Crazy Chris’s Camping Supplies of-

fered special deals on bait to those who fished Lake

Matula or the trout streams that ran through the Vul-

gamore Valley.

Toby and I stopped at Dandy Don’s Discount Phar-

macy & Gifts, where I bought a handful of postcards

depicting mountain scenes similar to those we’d seen

during our hikes. Since I was a great believer in sup-

porting local businesses, I didn’t even try to resist

Aunt Dimity Goes West

103

padding my order with a packet of columbine seeds

for Emma, a pair of gilded aspen-leaf earrings for

Annelise, a pair of suede moccasins for me, and two

adorable stuffed animals—buffalo—to remind Rob

and Will of their first visit to the Wild West.

Tourists weren’t exactly thronging the sidewalks

on Stafford Avenue, but a fair number of them were

moseying in and out of the shops, slurping ice-cream

cones, studying maps, or snapping photographs of

one another behind the hitching post in front of Alt-

man’s Saloon, home of the world-famous altman’s

burger. As I watched a family group posing for the

camera, I thought of what a shame it would be if a big-

mouthed bonehead like Dick Major spoiled their fun

with rude remarks or crude gestures.

I was pleased to see that a real effort had been

made to dress up the main drag. Baskets filled with

multicolored pansies hung from the old-fashioned,

cast-iron street lamps, and wooden benches with

fancy scrollwork arms and legs sat next to many

of the store entrances. A large banner strung across

the street proclaimed bluebird gold rush days

july 8-9-10 in bold print, but I had eyes only for a

modest wooden sign hanging above a storefront on

our right.

“Caroline’s Cafe,” I said, pointing to the sign. “Let’s

go in. I could do with a cold drink, and you can intro-

duce me to Carrie Vyne. I’d like to tell her how much

we’ve enjoyed everything we’ve tried from her cafe.”

“After you,” said Toby.

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Nancy Atherton

Tinkling bells jingled as he pulled the lace-curtained

door open for me. I stepped inside, stopped short, and

peered around the room in wonder. Caroline’s Cafe

reminded me so poignantly of the tearoom back in

Finch, with its charmingly mismatched china, chairs,

and tables, that a wave of homesickness threatened to

overwhelm me.

“Where’s Carrie Vyne?” I whispered to Toby.

“Behind the bakery counter,” he whispered back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, and breathed a sigh of relief as

we made our way to an unoccupied table.

If Carrie Vyne had looked like Sally Pyne, the pro-

prietress of Finch’s one and only tearoom, I would

have fainted dead away right then and there. Fortu-

nately, she didn’t. Both women were middle-aged, but

while Sally was short and round, Carrie was tall and

stately. Sally’s garish tracksuits were a favorite topic of caustic conversation in Finch, but Carrie would have

aroused no comment at all, being tastefully dressed

in blue jeans, sneakers, and a pale-pink, short-sleeved

cotton blouse. And Sally wore her iron-gray hair

clipped quite short while Carrie wore her white hair in

soft waves that framed a lined but very kindly face.

“Back again,Toby?” she said, coming to our table to

fill our water glasses. Her voice was light and musical, quite unlike Sally Pyne’s staccato bark.

“Where else would I go for my midmorning

munchies?” Toby responded, with a grin. He drew a

hand through the air between Carrie Vyne and me.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

105

“Carrie, this is Lori Shepherd. Lori, this is Carrie.

Lori’s the woman I told you about, Carrie. The one

who’s staying at the Aerie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lori,” she said.

“Likewise,” I said. “
Very
pleased.We’ve loved everything Toby’s brought up from the cafe—the scones,

the jams, the croissant sandwiches. You’re a brilliant

baker and a wonderful cook.”

“Why, thank you,” said Carrie, blushing rosily. “Are

you enjoying your stay at the Aerie?”

“I am,” I said. “I wish my sons were here so that I

could introduce them to you, but they’re spending the

day at the Brockman Ranch.”

“I’ve heard they’re good little riders,” said Carrie.

I almost said, “Of course you have,” but caught my-

self just in time. I was delighted to know that Carrie

Vyne had her ear to the rail, but I didn’t want to risk

insulting her by implying that she was a gossip.

“They do okay,” I acknowledged.

“Better than okay, I’d say,” said Carrie. “From

what I’ve heard, they’ll be roping calves before the

week’s out.”

“Oh, Lord, I hope not,” I said weakly.

“Brett’ll watch over them,” Carrie said reassur-

ingly. She finished filling our glasses and left the water pitcher on the table for us to use. “What can I get for

you, Lori? I already know what I’m going to bring

Toby, but what kind of snack would you like?”

“I’ll have whatever Toby’s having,” I said.

“Won’t take but a minute.”

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Nancy Atherton

Carrie returned to the bakery counter and came

back five minutes later with two tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade, two small, mismatched plates, and a larger

plate filled with cookies that looked disturbingly

familiar.

“Calico Cookies!” Toby exclaimed. “My favorites!

Thank you, Carrie.What’s in them today?”

“You tell me,” she said with a wink and went to

serve another customer.

Toby seized a cookie, took a large bite, and chewed

slowly, with a look of deep concentration on his face.

“Chocolate chips,” he murmured, “dried cranberries,

and . . . sliced almonds?” He came out of his trance and gestured for me to sample a cookie, explaining, “Carrie

adds different goodies to the basic recipe every time, so you never know what you’ll find. But she always leaves

out the coconut when I’m in town. She knows I can’t

stand coconut.”

I stared at the cookies as though they were hand

grenades. If Toby was telling the truth—and I had no

reason to think he wasn’t—then Carrie Vyne’s Calico

Cookies could quite easily be mistaken for Sally Pyne’s

Crazy Quilt Cookies, right down to the absence of

coconut. I raised a cookie slowly to my lips, bit into it, tasted the familiar blend of sweet, tangy, and faintly

spicy flavors, and lowered it gingerly to my plate.

“Do you know where she got the recipe?” I asked,

my voice trembling slightly.

“I think she made it up,” said Toby. “Aren’t they

great?”

Aunt Dimity Goes West

107

“They’re great,” I said, and turned to look over my

shoulder as the front door’s bells jingled and a large

woman with a weathered face and rhinestone-studded

glasses barreled into the cafe.

Toby followed my gaze, heaved a small sigh, and

muttered, “Buckle your seat belt. Maggie Flaxton has

arrived.”

“Carrie!” bellowed Maggie Flaxton. “Why don’t you

have a sign in your window for Gold Rush Days? How

are we going to draw a crowd if we don’t advertise?”

“The banner is working fine,” Carrie answered

mildly. “All of my customers ask about the festival.”

The large woman sniffed doubtfully and rounded

on me. “What about you? Did
you
ask about the

festival?”

“I only just got here,” I said, fighting the urge to

snap to attention. “I was
going
to ask—”

“You’re up at the Auerbach place, aren’t you?”

Maggie Flaxton interrupted.

“Y-yes,” I managed, cowed by her commanding

voice.

“I don’t suppose you’ll stay long,” she roared. “None

of them do, and who can blame them? I wouldn’t spend

five minutes there if I could help it. But if you’re still around in July, we could use your help. It’s all hands on deck during Gold Rush Days.Toby’s running the wood-splitting contest.” She turned back to Carrie Vyne. “I

want to see a sign in your window before the day is

out, Carrie.”

“It’ll be there,” Carrie promised resignedly.

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Nancy Atherton

“It had better be,” shouted Maggie. “I can’t do

everything myself, you know.” Frowning fiercely, she

spun on her heel and stomped out of the cafe.

“Whew,” said Toby, leaning his head on his hand.

“She could rule the world if she put her mind to it,

Maggie could.”

“Does she run the grocery?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Toby, “and everything else in town. How

did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” I replied.

I popped the rest of the cookie into my mouth and

told myself sternly
not
to tell Toby that Bluebird’s Maggie Flaxton was very like Finch’s Peggy Taxman.

I’d promised Aunt Dimity that I wouldn’t mention

doppelgangers to anyone, and I intended to keep my

promise, but apart from that, I didn’t want Toby to

think that the sun had fried my brains.

“I wonder why she wouldn’t spend five minutes at

the Aerie?” I said.

“I don’t,” said Toby, with a wry smile. “The Aerie’s

too far away from town for her liking. Maggie prefers

to crack her whip at close range.”

A moment later the bells jingled again and a small

balding man put his head cautiously into the cafe.

“It’s all right, Greg,” Carrie called to him. “Maggie’s

gone.”

“Greg Wilstead,” Toby murmured, for my benefit.

“The shyest man in Bluebird.”

“Lori,” Carrie said brightly, looking in my

direction, “if your boys are interested in trains, you

Aunt Dimity Goes West

109

should bring them to visit Greg.You’ve got an amaz-

ing set of tracks laid out in your garage, haven’t you

Greg?”

The little man ducked his head, mumbled some-

thing incoherent, and refused to meet my eyes.

“Thanks, Carrie, I’ll keep it in mind,” I said

dazedly, envisioning the shy and balding George

Wetherhead, Finch’s local expert on railroads.

“Lori’s staying up at the Auerbach place,” Carrie

added.

Greg Wilstead’s head came up and he peered at

me, his eyes wide with something that closely resem-

bled horror.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, and left the cafe

without buying so much as a bread roll.

“What was
that
about?” I said, looking after him.

“Don’t know,” said Toby. “Drink your lemonade,

Lori. It’s squeezed fresh every morning.”

I’d taken only a sip of the lemonade, which was

splendidly refreshing, when the jingling bells an-

nounced the arrival of a middle-aged, deeply tanned,

and extremely overweight couple dressed in brightly

colored T-shirts and baggy shorts. They went straight

to the bakery counter and ordered a dozen dough-

nuts, a dozen elephant ears, and a dozen blackberry

tarts to go. While they waited for Carrie to put their

order together, they turned to survey the cafe. Their

faces lit up when they saw Toby.

“Howdy,Tobe,” called the woman.

“How the heck are you,Tobe?” said the man.

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Nancy Atherton

“Just fine. Pull up some chairs while you’re wait-

ing.” Toby turned to me as the couple joined us at our

table. “Nick and Arlene Altman run Bluebird’s most

popular watering hole, Lori.”

“Altman’s Saloon?” I guessed. “Home of the world-

famous Altman’s burger?”

“That’s right,” said Nick proudly. “Arlene makes

the biggest, juiciest burgers in the Rockies.”

“We run a family-friendly bar, Lori,” Arlene in-

formed me. “Feel free to bring your little ones with

you any time.”

“And their good-looking nanny,” Nick put in.

“Heard all about her from the boys at the Brockman.”

“Men,”
said Arlene, clucking her tongue.

“I’m sure Tobe’s told you that I make my own

beer,” Nick said, ignoring his wife and turning toward

me. “Are you a beer drinker, Lori?”

Behind him, Toby and Arlene were shaking their

heads frantically.

“Uh, no,” I said, reading the signal. “In fact, I don’t

drink much at all.”

“You may start if you stay at the Aerie too long,”

said Nick, chuckling.

“Our order’s ready, Nick,” said Arlene, and they

heaved themselves to their feet.

“Nice to meet you, Lori,” said Nick. “You be care-

ful up there, you hear?”

“Hush, Nick,” said Arlene. “Pay no attention to my