Aunt Dimity Goes West (26 page)

“Hannah Lavery kept fighting the good fight right

up to the day she died,” I said.

Of course she did. She was indefatigable. There was a pause, as though Cyril was taking a moment to collect himself, then the flowery handwriting continued. As for the accidents that occurred after the mine closed, they, too, happened for entirely mundane reasons. Indeed, when I remember the foolhardy risks taken by those who explored the site, it seems incredible to me that

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so few were killed or injured. I would also point out that no accidents have occurred since the site was cleared.

“I agree with everything you’ve said,” I said stoutly.

“I’ve never believed that anything was wrong with the

Aerie.”

If you don’t wish to warn us about the curse, Mr. Pennyfeather, why have you made yourself known to us?

I’m afraid I have news that you may find a bit disturbing.

“Well?” I said eagerly. “What is it?”

Very well, then. Prepare yourselves for a shock. The Lord Stuart Mine has been reopened!

“Oh,” I said, unable to disguise my disappointment.

“I know that it’s been reopened, Mr. Pennyfeather.

Toby figured it out.”

You don’t seem disturbed by the knowledge.

“That’s probably because I’m not,” I admitted. “I’ll

keep the twins away from the danger zone and let

Danny Auerbach—the present owner—know about

it.The Lord Stuart is really his problem, not mine.”

I suppose it is. Forgive me for alarming you unnecessarily. My big news seems to be old news.

A sense of anticlimax lingered in the air, but only

for a moment. It had suddenly dawned on me that

Cyril Pennyfeather might be able to answer a question

I’d been asking almost from the moment I’d arrived in

Colorado.

Why had Florence Auerbach and James Blackwell

abandoned the Aerie? I no longer believed that they’d

been chased off by a bully, but while I still held out

Aunt Dimity Goes West

219

hopes for the curse as the root cause, Cyril’s unantici-

pated appearance suggested another explanation for

their flight. Had they run as if they’d seen a ghost be-

cause . . . they’d seen a ghost?

“Mr. Pennyfeather,” I said, “have you tried to con-

tact other people who’ve stayed at the Aerie?”

I have not. It would be a most imprudent thing to do. Not everyone would welcome me as warmly as you have, Lori. Most people would react like Miss Barrow’s cat if I revealed myself to them in any way.

I accepted his answer philosophically. After all, I

still had the curse to fall back on.

“Well, it’s their loss,” I declared. “I think you’re a

perfect gentleman.”

Thank you, Lori. I’ve always felt that there’s no need to forget one’s manners simply because one has lost one’s life.

In the interest of good manners, Mr. Pennyfeather, I must
point out that we are keeping Lori up rather later than we
should. Have you noticed the time, my dear?

I swung around to face the clock on the bedside

table and realized to my dismay that it was nearly half

past eleven.

“Whoops,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr.

Pennyfeather, but you’ll have to excuse me. If I know

Annelise—and I do—she and the twins will be back

from the ranch bright and early tomorrow morning,

and I don’t want to be groggy when they get here.”

I understand completely, Lori. Would you care to stay a while longer, Miss Westwood? I was rather hoping you’d explain radar to me.

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Nancy Atherton

It would be my pleasure, Mr. Pennyfeather, though I’ll
have to explain a great many other things first.

I smiled as I watched both sets of handwriting fade

from the page. Neither Cyril Pennyfeather nor Aunt

Dimity needed the journal to continue their conversa-

tion. I had a feeling that they’d communicate more

easily without it, which was just as well—Cyril had a

lot of catching up to do.

I left the blue journal on the chair, damped the fire,

and took Reginald to bed with me. My mind should

have been spinning like a top, but as my head hit the

pillow I felt nothing but a great sense of relief. My private demon seemed to be in full retreat, I had Cyril’s

reassurance that the Aerie was untainted by evil, and I

would never, for as long as I lived, have to break the

news to Toby that the queen of hocus-pocus—and her

cat—had been telling the truth.

Nineteen

I awoke refreshed and well rested at eight

o’clock the following morning, threw on

shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and a lightweight

cardigan, and met Toby in the kitchen for breakfast. It

was yet another picture-perfect Colorado day. The air

was crisp, the sky bluer than blue, and leftover rain-

drops hung like diamonds from the branches of every

tree.

I stayed in the kitchen after breakfast to assemble

the lasagna I intended to serve for lunch. I planned to

throw together an artichoke salad later, while the

lasagna was baking, but I asked Toby to run into town

to pick up a fresh loaf of crusty bread to serve with

the meal—I was unwilling to foist my first attempt

at high-altitude bread-baking on an unsuspecting

guest.

I’d just put a pitcher of sun tea out to brew on the

breakfast deck when Bill called. I flopped onto a cush-

ioned lounge chair and propped my feet on the railing

while I told him everything that had happened since

we’d last spoken. It was a joy to be able to speak freely about Cyril Pennyfeather to a tangible human being,

but Bill, bless his heart, was far more impressed by my

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ability to weather the thunderstorm than he was by

my encounter with the great beyond.

“Why should I be astonished by Cyril?” he asked,

when I teased him about his nonchalant reaction. “I was

sure that someone like him would show up sooner or

later. Dimity can’t be the only one of her kind in the

world, or in between worlds, or wherever she is.”

“Amanda Barrow would know the proper term,” I

said, laughing. “Think I should ask her?”

“Only if you want her to camp out on your

doorstep with her crystal ball for the remainder of

your vacation,” Bill said sardonically.

I wrinkled my nose. “Nah. Doesn’t sound appeal-

ing. I guess I’ll keep the news about Cyril between you

and me.”

“It’s too bad you can’t share it with Florence Auer-

bach,” said Bill. “If she had Cyril’s guarantee that the Aerie isn’t cursed, she might change her mind about

selling it.”

“I can’t see myself trying to explain Cyril to a com-

plete stranger,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll just have to find another way of convincing Florence.”

“Are you sure this curse business isn’t bothering

you?” Bill asked suspiciously.

“Do I sound bothered?” I asked back.

“You sound great,” Bill admitted.

“I sound even better in person,” I said, sighing. “I

wish we were talking face-to-face.”

“You may get your wish sooner than you expect,”

said Bill.

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223

I carefully removed my feet from the deck railing

and sat forward in the lounge chair. “What do you

mean?”

“I mean that I have to fly to Boston next week to

confer with Father about a few clients,” he replied. “If all goes well, I should be in Colorado in ten days.”

“Oh,
Bill
. . .” I grinned so hard I nearly strained my face. “That’s
brilliant.
Will and Rob will do back-flips when they see you, but be warned—they’ll run

you ragged, showing you the sights.”

“Don’t tell them I’m coming,” Bill cautioned. “I

don’t want them to be disappointed if I’m delayed.”

“I won’t say a word. It’ll be a big surprise.” I perked

up even more as another happy thought occurred to

me. “Just think, Bill, I’ll actually have a chance to prove to you that the Bluebird doppelgangers aren’t a product of my homesick imagination.”

“I look forward to meeting every one of them,” said

Bill. “With the possible exception of Maggie Flaxton.”

With an especially cheery good-bye, he rang off. I

sat for a moment, savoring my good fortune, then

went to the laundry room, where I sang cowboy songs

at the top of my lungs while I folded the clean laundry.

Toby returned a short time later with a loaf of Carrie

Vyne’s Italian bread and a box full of her exquisite

lemon tarts.

“The twins and I can dig into the Calico Cookies

after lunch,” he informed me. “But I thought the ladies

might prefer a more sophisticated dessert.”

“You are a pearl beyond price,” I told him, beaming.

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Nancy Atherton

“I’m not bad,” he agreed complacently.

Brett Whitcombe brought Annelise and the twins

back to the Aerie at half past nine.The three prodigals

had already eaten breakfast at the ranch, so they went

straight to their rooms to change into fresh clothes.

Annelise emerged first, wearing beige shorts, a short-

sleeved cotton blouse, the aspen-leaf earrings, and a

big smile.

Will and Rob were distracted by the stuffed-toy

buffalo I’d left in their tent, but I eventually managed to get them into clean shorts and T-shirts. They

thought the geodes were the coolest things they’d ever

seen, apart from the
real
baby buffalo they’d seen at the ranch, but after examining the sparkling crystals

and telling me all about their day in the saddle and

their stormy night in the bunkhouse, they were ready

to tackle the next adventure.

“We’re going fishing,” Will announced.

“Excellent,” said Toby. “We’ll go up to Willie Brown

Creek, see if we can hook a few rainbows.”

“We don’t want
rainbows,
” Rob objected. “We want
fish.
”

“Rainbows
are
fish,” said Toby. “Come on, I’ll tell you all about rainbow trout while we pick out some poles.”

When Toby and the twins had left the great room,

Annelise beckoned to me to join her at the breakfast

bar. I could tell by her expression that something was

troubling her, so I quickly took a seat beside her.

“I wanted to have a word with you before I went

off again with the boys,” she began.

Aunt Dimity Goes West

225

I nodded, wondering what was wrong.

“I put the idea of fishing into the boys’ heads,” she

went on.

“It’s a great idea,” I said. “They love to fish.”

“Yes,” said Annelise, “but I put the idea of fishing

into their heads because I think they should have a few

days off from the ranch.”

“Problems?” I said quietly.

“As a matter of fact—” She broke off as the men-

folk returned to the great room, bristling with fishing

poles. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

“I’ll come with you. You can tell me on the way.” I got

up, intending to change into my hiking boots, but I’d

moved no more than a few steps away from Annelise

when the doorbell rang. I stopped short and looked

toward the foyer in surprise. “Who on earth can
that
be?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Annelise, shrugging. “I didn’t

even know we had a doorbell.”

“It can’t be Mrs. Blanding,” I said, glancing at my

watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. She’s not supposed to be

here until noon.”

“Maybe she decided to come early,” Annelise sug-

gested.

“Two hours early?” I said doubtfully.

Toby strode across the great room to peer through

the window wall. “There’s a pickup parked out front,

but I don’t recognize it.”

The doorbell rang again.

Toby turned toward me and squared his shoulders

protectively. “Do you want me to answer it?”

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Nancy Atherton

I looked from the twins, who were dancing impa-

tiently from foot to foot, to Annelise, who was clearly

anxious to get going before Will or Rob started cast-

ing for trout in the kitchen sink, and reluctantly shook my head.

“No, you guys run along,” I said. “I know how to

get to the creek. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Toby glanced once more at the mystery truck, then

led the others to the mudroom behind the kitchen.

The mudroom door opened onto the trail that would

take them to Willie Brown Creek, so when I heard the

door open and close, I knew they were on their way.

The doorbell rang again, and I felt a surge of an-

noyance with the ringer for interrupting my conversa-

tion with Annelise. If there’d been problems at the

ranch, I wanted to hear about them, not waste time

with a casual caller. As I hastened into the foyer and

flung the front door open, I was already devising ways

to get rid of the man I found standing on the doorstep.

He was short and stocky, with short, dark hair,

green eyes, and a face so deeply tanned it looked like

leather. His faded black T-shirt fit snugly across his

muscular shoulders, but hung loosely over the waist-

band of his faded jeans, and his work boots were dusty

and well broken in. He looked as though he might be

in his early thirties.

“May I help you?” I said crisply.

“ ’Morning,” he said. His voice was deep and reso-