Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin
Page 11
I wonder why Gabriel is so eager to help you? He knows you’re married, doesn’t he?
“Yes,” I said, and hastened to explain, “It’s not what you think, Dimity. Gabriel’s still getting over a messy divorce—his wife ran off with an economics professor a year ago so he’s not interested in romance at the moment. He’s devoted to his cat, but he’s put a wall up when it comes to women. He’s too twitchy to even think about flirting.”
My dear Lori, if you managed to learn so many intimate details about Gabriel’s love life in a single day, I have no doubt that you’ll find Kenneth before the week is out. You’ve clearly taken to heart Finch’s unspoken motto: Nosiness is its own reward.
I smiled sheepishly. “I can’t help being interested in Gabriel. Miss Beacham was, too. Mr. Mehta told us that she would have found the right woman for Gabriel, if she’d had the chance, but she didn’t live long enough. It’s too bad. He’s a nice guy and he seems so lonely.”
We create our own loneliness, Lori.
I recalled Gabriel’s last words to me, in the parking lot behind Miss Beacham’s building, and the sadness in his voice when he’d spoken them.
“I don’t think Gabriel knew he was creating his,” I said. “It just sort of happened, partly because his marriage blew up in his face, and partly because . . . well, because in his world it’s normal to live on tiny islands, cut off from each other. He doesn’t seem to like it, though. No matter what he says, I think he’s pretty miserable.”
It seems that Miss Beacham left another project unfinished, my dear, one every bit as important as finding Kenneth.
I had to read the sentence twice before Dimity’s sly implication leapt out at me.
“Forget it, Dimity,” I protested. “I’m no matchmaker.”
You can learn to be one. Unless, of course, you want Gabriel to go on being miserable, which I doubt. It’s not a difficult role to play, Lori. You’re going to be spending a fair amount of time with Gabriel over the next few days, and you never know who you’ll meet along the way. Simply keep your eyes and ears open, and be ready to nudge things in the right direction.
“I couldn’t possibly . . . ,” I sputtered, but Dimity’s handwriting was already fading from the page. I closed the journal and returned it to the shelf, then stood with arms folded, shaking my head.
“No way,” I said to Reginald. Hamish didn’t appear to be listening. “I refuse to turn into one of those interfering women who poke their noses into everyone else’s business. I am not Mrs. Mehta.”
I stamped my foot to emphasize my resolve, and kept it for all of three seconds, when a small, underused part of my brain began thoughtfully to review the limited list of Finch’s youngish single women. Mrs. Mehta would have been proud.
“All set?” he said.
I nodded, and off we went down St. Cuthbert Lane. Much to my dismay, and without my consent or cooperation, the interfering Mrs. Mehta in my head began immediately to pair Gabriel with every unmarried woman I knew. To shut her up, I asked, “Are you still letting Stanley roam at night?”
“He refuses to leave,” said Gabriel. “Now that he has a steady supply of Miss Beacham’s gourmet cat food, he’s content to stay indoors. When I think of the amount of dry food he’s been forced to choke down over the years, I feel like an abusive parent.”
“Stanley would be pleased to hear it,” I said. “My friend Emma tells me that cats have a finely honed knack for guilt-tripping. Stanley didn’t look underfed to me.”
“That’s because Miss Beacham was supplementing his diet,” Gabriel said gloomily.
“Are you okay?” I asked, stopping. “You’re not letting Stanley get to you, are you?”
“It’s not Stanley,” he said. “It’s something else, something so petty that I’m embarrassed to tell you about it.”
“My dear Gabriel,” I said, “nothing you can say will shock me. I am the queen of petty.”
He shuffled his feet and said, without meeting my eyes, “I’m jealous of Miss Beacham. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But true. I’ve known Mr. Mehta for four years, but he still thinks of me as nothing more than a good customer. I’m sure the other shopkeepers will say the same thing—I’m a familiar face, but Miss Beacham was a cherished friend. I’m envious.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. “Petty enough for you?”
“It’s not petty to want to be liked,” I said. “But you can’t expect it to happen on its own. You have to make an effort. Miss Beacham did. She treated me as someone worth knowing, and it’s pretty clear that she treated everyone else the same way.”
“I’m not sure I want to make the effort,” Gabriel murmured. “I’m not like Miss Beacham. I’m not sure I have room in my life for so many new friends.”
“Room in your life, or in your heart?” I asked.
“Both, I suppose,” he admitted.
His words brought to mind my early days at St. Benedict’s, when I’d done my best to avoid men I didn’t want to know, and the change that had come over me when I’d finally forced myself to reach out to them. I tilted my head to one side and smiled.
“The funny thing about hearts,” I said, “is that the more you use them, the bigger they get. You can’t fill them up, Gabriel. They just keep expanding.” I punched him gently in the shoulder. “Give it a try. What’ve you got to lose besides your anonymity?” Before I could stop myself, I found myself adding, “It might help if you’d stop shrieking inwardly every time a pretty woman looks at you.”
“Sorry?” said Gabriel, taken aback.
“Uh, n-nothing,” I stammered. “Just be a little more friendly, that’s all. A little more open.”
“You make it sound easy,” he said.
“It gets easier with practice,” I told him as we moved on. “Consider today your first lesson. I’ll let you take the lead in our interviews. You may surprise yourself.”
We’d wait for a lull in customer traffic to enter a shop, the shopkeeper would call out “Good morning!” and instead of responding by rote Gabriel would say, “Not such a good morning for me, I’m afraid. I just heard the sad news about poor Miss Beacham. She and I lived in the same building, you know.” And that would be enough, more than enough, to get the ball rolling, sometimes in unexpected directions.
“How am I doing?” Gabriel asked as we left the bakery.
“Just fine,” I replied. “That bit about Mr. Blascoe’s bunions was really interesting. I wouldn’t have thought to ask him about his feet.”
“It seemed natural to me,” said Gabriel. “Bakers spend a lot of time on their feet. I’m not being too nosy, am I?”
“You’re doing great,” I assured him, recalling Finch’s unspoken motto. “Don’t stop now.”
The next three hours were filled with fascinating chatter about dogs’ ailments, neighbors’ quirks, and grandchildren’s triumphs, but produced nothing whatsoever about Kenneth. Although the shopkeepers were eager to talk about Miss Beacham, their stories were strikingly similar to the ones we’d heard from Mr. Mehta and Father Musgrove.
All of them had been helped by Miss Beacham in thoughtful, personal ways and had received bequests of varying amounts. All remembered her raisin bread fondly. All were sincerely distressed by the news of her death and anxious to attend the memorial service at St. Paul’s. None had any information to offer about her brother, and when Gabriel asked if she’d had a job, he received uniformly blank looks.
“Must’ve done,” said Mr. Jensen, the bearded owner of the computer repair shop. “She passed my window twice a day, morning and evening, except for weekends. Always waved a hello and more often than not stepped in for a chat. Stands to reason she must’ve worked somewhere, but—and it’s funny, now that I think of it—I don’t know where. She wasn’t the sort of woman who talked overmuch about herself.”
“Maybe she was a spy,” Gabriel muttered as we left Mr. Jensen’s shop. “Maybe she wasn’t allowed to talk about herself.”
“Right,” I said.
“Beacham must be an assumed name.” I paused to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Are you all right?” Gabriel asked.
“I can feel a headache coming on,” I said. “It’s all the noise and the traffic. I’m not used to it.”
Gabriel drew me into a dim, narrow passageway that separated Mr. Jensen’s computer shop from the café on the corner. “You need a break and so do I. Fortunately”—he consulted the list—“our last stop is Woolery’s Café, which is well within staggering distance.” He patted the wall opposite Mr. Jensen’s. “I’ve eaten here many times, but I’ve never spoken with the owner.”
“He’s in for a treat.” I smiled and was about to step out of the passageway when a pair of strong hands seized me from behind and jerked me into the shadows.
“Hey!” I shouted.
“Hey!” shouted Gabriel, and before I had time to panic, he grabbed my assailant, slammed him against the passageway’s brick wall, and pinned him there with a forearm across the throat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.
“N-n-nothing, mister,” my attacker stammered. “D-d-didn’t mean no harm.”
“So you grab women off the street for fun, do you?” Gabriel snapped.
“I wasn’t g-g-grabbing women,” said the man. “I was g-g-grabbing the missus.”
The last word caught my attention. I peered past Gabriel at the man’s scruffy clothes and his terrified eyes, and recognized one of Julian Bright’s flock.
“Blinker?” I said.
“Y-y-yes, missus,” he said. “It’s B-B-Blinker.”
“Gabriel,” I said, “let him go.”
Gabriel looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Do you know this creep?”
“He’s not a creep,” I said. “He’s a friend. A bashful friend. Let him go.”
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Gabriel growled at the man, and stood back.
Blinker crumpled into his customary groveling, hand-wringing position. His head was in constant motion, turning from side to side, as if watching for enemies, and his rheumy eyes twitched nervously with each turn.
“Blinker,” I said quietly, “this is my friend Gabriel Ashcroft. Gabriel, this is Blinker McKay.”
Both men mumbled something that sounded like an extremely insincere “Pleased to meet you.”
I turned to Gabriel. “Would you mind leaving Blinker and me alone for a minute? He’s not comfortable around strangers.”
“You’re sure?” Gabriel said doubtfully, and when I nodded, he moved to the mouth of the passageway, where he could keep an eye on me and my strange companion.
“Okay, Blinker,” I said, “we’re alone now. What’s up?”
“Father Bright says I was to come find you,” he said, head bowed, as though speaking to his shoes.
“You did a good job,” I said. “Here I am.”
“Only, I don’t come round this corner no more,” said Blinker nervously. “Used to, but not no more.”
The comment explained why he’d crept up on me instead of approaching me openly. When a panhandler abandoned a regular beat, it was usually because he’d been driven off by shopkeepers, policemen, or a bullying competitor. Someone had scared Blinker so badly that he was unwilling to show his face on Travertine Road.
“No one will bother you while you’re with me,” I told him.
“What about him?” Blinker said, shooting a fearful glance at Gabriel.
“He knows you’re my friend,” I said. “He won’t hurt you.”
Blinker’s gaze returned to his shoes. “Father Bright says I was to talk to you.”
“About Miss Beacham?” I ventured hopefully.
“Father Bright told us you was looking for her brother,” he said.
My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my voice calm. “Do you know where her brother is?”
Blinker shook his head.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“I know about her,” he said. “Used to come by here regular, she did. Always a pound for old Blinker. Sometimes a packet of bread—homemade bread, with raisins. Talked to me, she did. ‘How are you today?’ and ‘I hope you’re warm enough’ and ‘See you on Monday.’ Like that.”
“See you on Monday,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Did she come here on weekends?”
“Didn’t work weekends,” said Blinker. “Monday through Friday, regular as clockwork.”
My heart did another little dance. “Do you know where she worked?”
“Yes, missus. Across from the café, in the building with the green door,” said Blinker. “That’s all I know, missus. Father Bright says I was to tell you.”
“I’ll let Father Bright know that you told me, Blinker.” I took a five-pound note from my shoulder bag and passed it to him. “Thanks for finding me.”
Blinker stuffed the cash in his pocket, then raised his head slightly. “She dead, is she?”
“Yes, she is,” I said. “She died four days ago, in hospital.”
“Thought she would,” said Blinker. “She looked it. Big eyes, you know, and her face so pale. Pity. Always a pound for old Blinker, and a kind word.” He was silent for a moment, then he lifted his head again. “She wouldn’t mind me coming to her funeral, would she, missus?”
“No,” I said. “She’d want you to be there, but the funeral’s been put off for a while. I’ll let you know when it’s going to take place.” I started to put a hand on his shoulder, but quickly withdrew it. Blinker tended to panic when touched. “Do you want me to come with you until you feel safe, Blinker?”
“No, missus. I know the back ways. I’ll be all right.” Blinker twitched and nodded and shuffled off down the passage, away from the cacophony of Travertine Road.
I waited until he faded into the shadows, then joined Gabriel.
“You have colorful friends,” he observed.
“Wait till you meet Big Al,” I told him.
“Do you actually know someone named Big Al?” Gabriel said in disbelief.
“I make his bed twice a week,” I replied. “Sometimes I serve him breakfast.”
Gabriel just stared.
I laughed. “I work as a volunteer at Julian Bright’s homeless shelter. It’s jam-packed with colorful characters.”
“Do any of them have normal names?” Gabriel asked.
“Probably,” I answered, “but they prefer to use their street names.”
“Did Blinker come by simply to pass the time of day,” said Gabriel, “or did he grab you for a specific reason?”
“You’re going to love this,” I said, and beckoned him to follow me. When we stood in front of Woolery’s Café, I nodded at the shiny, forest-green door of the cream-colored Georgian building directly across the street. “Blinker told me that Miss Beacham used to work there. She went through that green door every day, except for weekends.”
Gabriel had gone as still as stone. “Good grief,” he said faintly.
“Lucky I have such colorful chums, isn’t it?” I said. “Without Blinker we might never have—”
“Lori,” Gabriel interrupted, with an odd smile, “read the brass plaque beside the door.”
I shaded my eyes, followed his gaze, and felt goose bumps rise all up and down my arms.
There, incised in elegant copperplate on the dully gleaming plaque, were the words:
Twelve
“She ... she worked for them?” I squeaked.
“If you believe Blinker,” said Gabriel.
“I have no reason not to,” I said. “I mean, the building’s where it should be—at the end of the route you outlined on the map. And if Miss Beacham worked for anyone in Oxford, it would be for a law firm, right? But not for one split second did it ever occur to me that she might have worked for Mr. Moss.” I pointed an accusing finger at the green door. “Why didn’t the old coot tell me?”
Gabriel reached over to lower my arm. “I can understand your indignation, Lori, but let’s not draw attention to ourselves.”
“If Miss Beacham was an employee as well as a valued client, it would put Mr. Moss in a doubly awkward position, as far as confidentiality goes. We’ll have to go in there, of course, but . . .” Gabriel rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then took me by the elbow and steered me into the café. “We’ll strategize over lunch.”
Woolery’s was not the café I would have chosen for lunch. A dark cave lined with sweet-scented grasses would have suited my throbbing head better. Woolery’s was detestably bright and cheerful, with window-walls overlooking the busy street. I selected a table with a good view of Pratchett & Moss’s offices while Gabriel foraged for food at the self-service counter. He returned with two glasses of water and two complicated sandwiches that seemed to contain many vegetables and some kind of cheese.
“Bad news,” he reported. “Mr. Woolery emigrated to Australia six weeks ago. The café’s changed management, and the old staff is gone. The name Beacham doesn’t ring a bell with any of the new people.”
“Blinker’s tip came just in time,” I said, and tore into my sandwich. My headache retreated once I’d started eating, but my amazement kept growing. When I’d dabbed up the last crumb of whole-grain bread, I murmured, “Miss Beacham worked for Pratchett and Moss. I can’t believe it.”
“You also can’t go in there,” said Gabriel, nodding toward the green door.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because we have to be sneaky,” Gabriel explained.
“I can be sneaky,” I said.
“Not with Mr. Moss, you can’t,” said Gabriel. “Tell me honestly, Lori: Would you be able to face him right now without giving him a piece of your mind?”
“If you taped my mouth shut,” I muttered.
“Your murderous glances would still boil his brains.” Gabriel chuckled. “Apart from that, you’ve spoken with him on the telephone. You have a distinctive voice as well as an American accent. He’d know who you were the moment you spoke, and if past experience is anything to go by, he’d refuse to tell you anything about Kenneth. I, on the other hand, have neither met nor spoken with Mr. Moss. He doesn’t know me from Adam. I’ll have a much better chance of catching him off guard if I go alone. I’ll pretend to be a prospective client, possibly one sent by Miss Beacham. I’ll decide when I get there.”