Nancy Atherton (27 page)

that they had something for me. After exchanging significant looks

with Bill, who promised not to say a word while they were gone,

they left the room. They returned a short time later bearing a tiny

gold crown, a little red cape, and a minuscule silver scepter.

“They’re for Reginald,” said Will, laying the scepter and the

cape beside my plate.

“King Reginald,” Rob corrected, handing the crown to me.

“We found a stall dedicated entirely to costumes for stuffed

animals,” Bill informed me. “I was tempted to buy a cape for Stanley. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff we saw there.”

I would have believed it, since I’d discovered the stall the day

before, but I wasn’t going to spoil the fun by saying so. I gave the

boys big hugs and many kisses, and beamed happily at Bill. The

crown they’d presented to me was more precious by far than King

Wilfred’s would ever be.

We trooped into the study to hold a coronation, and ate our

strawberries in the living room, attended by King Reginald and his

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

177

bodyguards, Flame and Fireball. His powder-pink Majesty’s presence inspired a game of Kings and Queens—a card game similar to

Go Fish—and then it was off to bed for my little ones.

By nine o’clock, my extremely tired husband and I were stretched

out on the couch facing each other, with our heads propped on

cushions and our legs entwined. Stanley was curled into a sleepy

ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. The playing cards had been put

away, my wench garb had been hung up to dry, the dishwasher was

running, Flame and Fireball were keeping watch over the twins,

and King Reginald had returned to his realm in the study. A companionable silence had settled over the living room, broken only by

the steady hum of Stanley’s purr. All was well in our world.

“So,” said Bill. “How was your day?”

I couldn’t help smiling. Not many men were as forbearing as Bill.

Instead of demanding an immediate explanation from his hysterical

wife, he’d waited until the storm had passed, then asked for one indirectly. It was good to be reminded of his finer qualities just then,

when I was about to throw myself open to his caustic wit. Dreading

the trial-by-sarcasm to come, I took a deep breath and answered his

deceptively simple question.

“It sort of started yesterday morning,” I began, “after you and

the boys left for Anscombe Manor. I was standing in the back garden when I heard a saw. . . .”

I made a clean breast of everything, from the sound of the

handsaw to my failure to search Edmond’s shed. I told him about

the parapet and the quintain, the crown and the cannon, Edmond

and Mirabel, and my fruitless quest for the crown. Bill’s jaw muscles tightened alarmingly when I described my unfortunate encounter with Randy Jack, but he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t say a

word until I’d finished.

“Are you all right?” he asked, after I’d fallen silent.

I knew what he meant, and nodded.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Grossed out, but fine.”

“Do you want me to have a word with him?” Bill asked.

178 Nancy Atherton

“I’d like you to put him on an island filled with strong, fastidious women,” I said. “He’d come back a changed man.”

“I’m serious,” said Bill.

“I know you are, and I love you for it, but a word won’t penetrate his cast-iron ego,” I said. “If he comes within ten feet of me

again, you have my permission to punch his lights out, okay?”

“Okay,” said Bill, but his jaw muscles still looked a bit tense.

“What about the rest of my story?” I said, hoping to lighten his

mood. “Go ahead, have a good laugh. Tease me about my overactive imagination. Tell me I’ve been on another vampire hunt. I can

take it.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said. “You’re not on another

vampire hunt.”

“Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m on a
dragon
hunt, right? Good

punch line, Bill.”

“There’s no punch line, Lori,” said Bill, gazing levelly at me.

“You’ve been right all along. Someone is trying to harm Calvin

Malvern.”

It was the last thing in the world I’d expected to hear from my

husband. I blinked at him in disbelief and said hesitantly, “The assassination plot is . . .
real
?”

“It’s real,” said Bill. “Horace Malvern told me about it just before the fair closed today. You haven’t been imagining things, love.

Someone deliberately weakened the struts supporting the parapet. Someone tampered with the cannon early in the morning,

long before the teenaged boys stopped to look at it. Horace didn’t

know about the quintain’s rope, but he won’t be surprised when I

tell him what you saw. And the king’s crown was stolen from his

motor home.”

I frowned. “Jinks told me—”

“Jinks is under strict orders to quash rumors,” Bill informed me.

“The entire royal court has been ordered to keep mum about the

situation. Calvin refuses to listen to his uncle. He won’t call in the

police or hire bodyguards or move into the farmhouse, where he’d

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

179

be less vulnerable. I think he’s afraid that the fair will be shut down

if word gets out that someone is trying to kill him.”

“The fair should be shut down,” I said earnestly. “What if an innocent bystander gets hurt? What if you or the twins end up in the

line of fire?”

“The fair can’t be closed without Calvin’s cooperation,” Bill informed me. “And he’s not cooperating. He’s written off everything

that’s happened as an accident or a prank. It’s a pity you lost the

quintain rope.”

“Yeah, I know.” I gazed past him at the bow window that overlooked our front garden, and thought of the traffic that had clogged

our lane. The fair’s popularity meant that Calvin’s wasn’t the only

life in danger. “I hate to say it, Bill, but I think we have a responsibility to go to the newspapers with the story. It’s a matter of public

safety.”

“I agree, but I’d like to hold off for a few days,” said Bill. “Horace has hired a private investigator. If the PI can collar the perpetrator before the fair opens next weekend, there’ll be no need to

shut it down.”

“I should tell the investigator what I’ve learned about Edmond

Deland,” I said.

“I’ll fi ll him in,” said Bill. “Horace wants to limit the number of

people who know about the investigation, so keep it to yourself,

will you? The PI’s job will be ten times harder if his presence on the

case becomes common knowledge.”

“Mum’s the word.” I rested my head on the cushion and gazed

up at the ceiling. “I hope Mr. Private Investigator is good at his

job. Will and Rob will be crushed if the fair closes after its first

weekend.”

Bill sat up, swung his legs over the side of the couch, and peered

at me intently. “Now that Horace has hired a professional detective,

I want you to promise me that you’ll stop your investigation, Lori.

No more snooping around on your own. No more following Edmond Deland or sneaking into his tent or eavesdropping on his

180 Nancy Atherton

conversations. There’s no telling what the perpetrator might do if

he felt threatened by you. He might . . .” Bill took a shaky breath

before adding steadily, “The boys need their mother. And I need

my wife.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” I said, taking his hands in

mine. “I promise to stop sneaking around, but I can’t promise to

stop listening to people. I’m an unregenerate eavesdropper. It’s too

late to change the habits of a lifetime.”

“All right. I won’t expect miracles.” Bill managed a smile, but

squeezed my hands to drive home his point. “Listen if you must,

but don’t act on what you hear. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

“Back to work tomorrow.” Bill groaned as he got to his feet,

then yawned hugely and stretched. “I’m off to bed. The boys wore

me out today. I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”

“Any trips on the schedule this week?” I asked.

As an international attorney who specialized in estate planning

for the fabulously wealthy, Bill spent a lot of time flying all over Europe to meet with his demanding clients. It was a rare treat to have

him at home for more than two weeks in a row.

“None planned,” he replied, “but you know how it is. If a client

kicks the bucket unexpectedly, I’ll be summoned to sort out the

paperwork.”

“Let’s hope everyone stays healthy, then.” I rose from the couch

and put my arms around his neck. “I like having you here.”

“That’s good, because I like being here.” He pulled me into a

long good-night kiss, then murmured, “Coming to bed?”

“In a little while,” I said. “I want to—”

“—report to Aunt Dimity,” he finished for me. “Try not to stay up

too late.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “You’ve had a very long day.”

Nineteen

T he satisfaction of knowing that I hadn’t imagined the assassination plot vanquished my need for sleep. I strode

confidently into the study, curtsied politely to King Reginald, lit a fire in the hearth, and settled into the tall armchair with

the blue journal. I was wide-awake and ready to chat until dawn

with Aunt Dimity.

“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you. You’re simply not going to believe it!”

I smiled wryly as Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned copperplate

curled gracefully across the blank page.

Why shouldn’t I believe you, my dear? I’ve never doubted your veracity

before—except on a few occasions when I had reason to believe that you

were withholding details about your unfortunate interactions with certain

good-looking men.

“There aren’t any good-looking men in the picture this time,” I

assured her. “Except for Bill, of course.”

I’m extremely pleased—and relieved and somewhat surprised—to hear

it. Well? What is your incredible news? Out with it!

“Hold on,” I said, disconcerting myself. “Before I give you the

big news, I should probably tell you what happened after church

this morning. It’s pretty incredible all by itself.”

I’m never bored by news of Finch.

“You definitely won’t be bored,” I told her. “Today will go down

in the annals of Finch as the day of too many tourists. . . .”

I was anxious to move on to Bill’s gratifying revelations, so I

sped through a description of the havoc wrought on the village by the

tourist tornado, gave a thumbnail sketch of the cleanup campaign

instigated by Calvin Malvern, and outlined the schemes Horace

182 Nancy Atherton

Malvern had implemented to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring again. Aunt Dimity listened without comment until I’d

finished. Then the handwriting began fl owing again.

You’ve left me quite breathless, Lori. As I’m sure the tourists left Finch.

“The villagers were completely overwhelmed by the barbarian

invasion,” I said. “And when the guys from the fair showed up, they

were overwhelmed in a different way. They may erect a statue of

King Wilfred on the village green. Without him, we’d still be picking candy wrappers out of George Wetherhead’s front garden.”

Has Mr. Wetherhead found the courage to emerge from his house yet?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll fi nd out tomorrow. I have to

stop by the Emporium to pick up some milk.”

While you’re in the village, please ask after the vicar as well. It was

brave of him to face a horde of blundering louts on his own, but it may take

him several days to recover.

“I’ll drop in at the vicarage to make sure he’s okay,” I promised.

I’ll also be interested to hear if Peggy Taxman’s display window has

been replaced.

“Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it has,” I said, then added wryly,

“Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it’s been replaced with a
better
window.”

She certainly wouldn’t hesitate to demand one. I do hope that Miranda

Morrow has been thanked properly for replanting the flower beds around the

war memorial. And you must find out if the pub sign has been repaired. You

should be able to tell whether or not Horace’s police officers have done their

job as soon as you enter the village.

“True,” I said. “If the village looks like a shipwreck, a couple of

constables are going to fi nd themselves in hot water with Horace.”

I shifted restlessly in the chair. “Do you mind if we leave the village

for a little while and return to the fair?”

Not at all. I assume your incredible news has something to do with the

fair and I’m eager to hear it.

I gazed down at the page with an air of quiet triumph and announced, “I was right about the assassination attempts, Dimity. I

was right from start to finish. I wasn’t imagining things or reading

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183

too much into situations or jumping to conclusions. My instincts

told me that something was out of kilter at King Wilfred’s Faire,

and they were spot on.”

Your instincts have always been quite sound, Lori. It’s your imagination