“No, Dimity,” I said, grinning. “Lilian and the vicar seem to be the only people in Finch who weren’t up at dawn.”
Thank God for small favors. My dear Lori, your day has been full of sound and fury, but there’s no telling yet what it signifies. I shall be most interested to hear the results of your interview with Mrs. Taxman. Sleep well. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re bearding the lioness in her den tomorrow.
“Good night, Dimity.” I closed the journal and sat quietly with it resting on my lap.
It had been a long day, filled with unexpected twists and turns. I felt as if I’d opened a window on my neighbors’ secret lives. Each had something to hide, some reason to be ashamed, angry, or fearful, and each thought someone else had a better reason than his or her own to kill Mrs. Hooper. Finch had once appeared to me to be a quiet backwater. I knew now that it was roiling with turbulent undercurrents.
I slid the journal into its niche on the bookshelves, twiddled Reginald’s ears, and stood for a moment, gazing into the fire. I felt as if I’d opened a window on my marriage as well. Bill and I had never spoken openly about my wandering eye, nor had he ever before admitted to having one of his own. I welcomed the revelation and hoped it would stir us both to action. Our relationship had become too settled, too predictable. It needed a good shaking to keep it from a sinking under the weight of its own stability.
I hated to admit it, but I owed a debt of gratitude to the late and unlamented Pruneface Hooper. Her vile behavior and violent death had shed new light on my neighbors’ lives and, indirectly, on my own.
Chapter 17
Kitchen’s Emporium stood opposite Sally Pyne’s tearoom on the square. Its white-framed display window featured a tidy pyramid of baked-bean cans flanked by a shiny lawn mower and a bolt of chintz fabric. The unusual juxtaposition of items signaled to all comers that Kitchen’s Emporium was the most general of general stores. I’d long since ceased to be amazed by the variety of items Peggy Taxman stashed in her voluminous storeroom. Whether I needed a set of wrenches or a sack of flour, I could rest assured that the Emporium would provide.
The sun was peeking furtively from behind a wash of gray clouds when I bumped over the humpbacked bridge the following morning. It was Friday. I had one more day to spend with Nicholas before my husband returned home. I was looking forward to it.
Nicholas and I had agreed to meet at the Emporium at ten o’clock, but as I pulled into the square, I spotted him standing by the war memorial. He was dressed in his tweed blazer, creamy turtleneck, and dark brown trousers, but he carried his trench coat over his arm, as insurance. I parked the Rover in front of the Emporium, grabbed my jacket from the backseat, and walked over to join him.
“Sleep well?” he inquired when I’d stepped through the holly hedge.
“Very,” I replied. “You?”
“Not as well as I’d hoped.” He rocked back on his heels and peered up at the worn Celtic cross. “I had a lecture from my aunt last night.”
“Ah.” I, too, turned my attention to the cross. “About us?”
“Yes.” He glanced at me briefly, then clasped his hands behind his back and looked up again. “I explained to her that nothing untoward had happened between us, and she explained to me that anyone with a functioning brain could tell that something would happen if we didn’t exercise extreme caution.”
I gave the square’s façades a surly stare. “Does everyone in this town read auras?” I demanded petulantly. “Or are they all supremely gifted with that sixth sense you were telling me about?”
Nicholas’s smile was delightful but short-lived. He bowed his head and said somberly, “They read glances, Lori. They read gestures and tones of voice, and they’re not far wrong, are they?”
“No,” I admitted with a sigh. “They’re pretty much right on the money.”
Concern clouded Nicholas’s bright eyes. “I don’t want our association to cause trouble for you after I’ve gone.”
“There won’t be any trouble I can’t handle,” I assured him.
“And your husband?” Nicholas asked. “Will he be able to handle it?”
“Bill and I will be fine,” I said. “We’ll be better than fine, in fact. You can tell your aunt that you’ve been instrumental in bringing us closer together.”
“Have I?” He looked pleased but puzzled.
“Let’s just say that you’ve helped us open a new line of communication,” I told him, “one we’ve needed to open for quite some time.”
“Glad to be of service,” he said.
“As for everyone else . . .” A demon must have whispered in my ear at that moment because I couldn’t keep myself from leaning forward and smooching Nicholas full on the lips. “There,” I said, stepping back in triumph. “Now we’ve really given them something to talk about.”
Nicholas gaped at me, nonplussed, then threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a wicked woman, Lori Shepherd.”
“I’m performing a public service,” I declared airily. “They’ve been too wrapped up in themselves and Mrs. Hooper for too long. Let ’em sink their teeth into me for a change. I can take it—and so can Bill.”
“I sincerely hope so, for your sake.” Nicholas touched his mouth, then shook a finger at me. “But you must never, ever, do that again. As I told you, I’m not—”
“—beyond temptation. I know.” I cocked my head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “But I think I may be.” I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. “Come on, old bean. We’ve got a lioness to beard.”
The jangle of sleigh bells announced our arrival at the Emporium. Nicholas closed the bell-adorned door behind us as I paused to survey the shop. A computerized cash register had replaced the Emporium’s ancient model, but nothing else had changed since I’d last been there.
To our right stood a long wooden counter with a grilled window at the far end, denoting the post office. The space to our left was filled with shelves and racks holding a colorful array of groceries, toiletries, and assorted odds and ends. A small brown door at the rear of the shop led to Peggy’s wondrous storeroom.
Jasper Taxman perched on a wooden stool behind the counter. He and Peggy could still be considered newlyweds, since they’d been married for less than a year, but he looked as if he’d always been behind the counter of Peggy’s shop.
He was extraordinarily nondescript—his brown suit and tie matched his brown hair and eyes—but a passionate heart beat beneath his bland exterior. He’d astonished the village once, by breaking the law to keep Peggy from leaving Finch. I had little doubt that he’d do it again, to keep her from going to prison.
He stood as Nicholas and I approached the counter.
“Good morning, Mr. Taxman,” I said. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lilian Bunting’s nephew. May I introduce Nicholas Fox?”
I wasn’t surprised that Jasper had allowed me to make the introduction without interruption. Peggy’s husband was as reticent as he was nondescript. I pitied the poor policeman who’d tried to question him.
“How do you do?” he said, nodding to Nicholas.
“Very well indeed, sir,” said Nicholas. “And you?”
Mr. Taxman stepped forward to face Nicholas across the counter. “I am extremely worried about my wife.”
Now I was surprised. Mr. Taxman rarely offered information of any kind to anyone. For him to comment on such a personal subject to a complete stranger was, to my knowledge, unprecedented.
“Sally Pyne tells me that you’re making an informal inquiry into the death of Prunella Hooper,” Mr. Taxman went on. “I would urge you to speak with my wife.”
“Why?” asked Nicholas.
Mr. Taxman gazed down at the counter in silence. When he looked up again, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes were dark with apprehension. “Peggy isn’t behaving . . . normally, Mr. Fox. She hasn’t behaved normally since Mrs. Hooper came to Finch, and now that Mrs. Hooper is dead, her behavior continues to be . . . abnorma
l.”
Nicholas laid his trench coat across the counter. “Can you tell us what you mean by abnormal?”
Mr. Taxman glanced toward the front entrance, as if to reassure himself that we wouldn’t be disturbed. When he saw no customers peering through the display window, he gave Nicholas his full attention once again.
“My wife has run the Emporium successfully for eleven years,” he began. “It’s not been easy for her. Competitors in surrounding towns spring up every day, tempting her regulars to shop elsewhere.”
Nicholas looked over his shoulder at the bulging shelves. “Her business appears to be doing well.”
“It’s doing well,” said Mr. Taxman, “because Peggy keeps a tight hold on the purse strings. I was a professional accountant before my retirement, but there’s nothing I could teach my wife about money management.”
“Does your wife’s abnormal behavior have something to do with money?” Nicholas prompted.
“It has everything to do with money.” Mr. Taxman rubbed his furrowed brow. “Peggy allowed Prunella Hooper to live in Crabtree Cottage free of charge. She removed sums of money from the till without accounting for them properly. She’s throwing money away on flowers to put on Prunella Hooper’s grave. It’s not like her to be so frivolous, sir, not like her at all.”
Nicholas inclined his head toward Mr. Taxman. “Did you mention any of this to the police?”
Jasper lowered his eyes. “It was none of their business. My wife had nothing to do with Mrs. Hooper’s death.”
“Was your wife with you that morning?” Nicholas asked.
“She was in the storeroom, taking inventory.” Mr. Taxman gestured toward the brown door. “She’d been up all night.”
It was an evasive reply, but Nicholas didn’t push. Instead, he addressed what was, to me, a more interesting subject.
“What do you know of Mrs. Hooper?”
Mr. Taxman shrugged. “She and Peggy grew up together in Birmingham. They lived on the same street, went to the same schools, worked at the same shop. They lost track of each other after Peggy married Mr. Kitchen, her first husband, but when Mrs. Hooper’s husband died last year, she contacted Peggy.”
“I see.” Nicholas pursed his lips. “Did your wife invite Mrs. Hooper to live in Crabtree Cottage?”
Mr. Taxman lifted his palms toward the ceiling. “I don’t know whose idea it was for Mrs. Hooper to come to Finch,” he said, “but I wish to God she’d stayed away.”
“Mr. Taxman, I don’t mean to offend you,” said Nicholas, “but your wife’s pattern of behavior suggests that she may have been subjected to some form of blackmail by Mrs. Hooper. Has such a possibility presented itself to you?”
“It has,” admitted Mr. Taxman. “But I have no idea what kind of hold Mrs. Hooper might have had over my wife. Peggy is a formidable woman, but she’s led a blameless life. She has strict moral standards and a keen sense of social responsibility. She’s been a pillar of every community she’s called home.” He looked at me. “Ask Lori if you don’t believe me. Peggy’s dedicated her life to Finch, hasn’t she, Lori?”
I could have said a word or two about Peggy’s strict moral standards—Kit had felt their sharp end, as had Nicholas and I—but decided to comment only on her community spirit.
“We depend on Peggy,” I told Nicholas. “She organizes nearly every activity in the village.”
Nicholas gazed at Mr. Taxman reflectively. “Have you broached the subject of blackmail with your wife?”
“I’ve tried.” Mr. Taxman seemed to wilt. “Peggy won’t talk to me. She won’t tell me what’s troubling her.” He looked imploringly at Nicholas. “Please, Mr. Fox, make her talk to you. Sally Pyne said you could charm water from a rock. Please make my wife tell you what she won’t tell me.”
Nicholas studied Mr. Taxman’s face before saying, “It may be something you don’t want to hear.”
“I don’t care!” Mr. Taxman cried. He laid his palms flat on the counter as if to steady himself. “I will stand by my wife no matter what, but until I know what’s wrong, I can do nothing to help her. Please, sir, help me to help my wife.”
Nicholas looked at the brown door at the rear of the shop. “Is she here?”
Mr. Taxman shook his head. “She’s at the churchyard, visiting that vile woman’s grave. She was there for more than an hour yesterday.”
“I can’t promise anything.” Nicholas put a hand on Mr. Taxman’s shoulder. “But I’ll speak with your wife.”
Mr. Taxman stood straight, smoothed his tie, and responded with dignity, “Thank you, Mr. Fox. That’s all I ask.”
Chapter 18
A freshening breeze ruffled Nicholas’s hair as we entered Saint George’s Lane. He slipped into his trench coat, and I pulled on my jacket. Although no rain was falling, the rising wind gave fair warning that another April shower would soon be drenching Finch.
“You’re awfully quiet,” I said to Nicholas as we passed the old schoolhouse. “Are you worried about confronting Peggy?” I smiled wryly. “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble getting her to talk.”
“You’re counting on my charming ways, of course,” he muttered.
I glanced at him sharply. His hair had fallen forward to hide his face, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice.
“You’ve no idea how sick I am of my charming ways,” he went on. “Has it occurred to you that I use charm as a tool, a weapon, a means of betrayal? I’m singularly adept at it. I’m so charming that I sometimes disgust myself.”
I stopped short, taken aback by his outburst. “Nicholas,” I said, “what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” He swung around to face me. “I trick people into liking me, then trick them into giving themselves away. I’m nothing but smoke and mirrors, Lori—that’s what’s wrong. Mr. Wetherhead had me pegged from the start. I’m no better than Mrs. Hooper.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Nicholas cut me off.
“The secrets we’ve uncovered so far have been relatively harmless, but this”—he pointed toward the churchyard—“this is different. Mrs. Taxman is concealing a secret that may destroy her life, and her husband—her husband—is begging me to find out what it is.” He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and stared angrily at the ground. “I’ll do as he asks—all that charm won’t go to waste—but I don’t have to feel good about it.”
I cast a cautious glance up and down the lane before asking, sotto voce, “Do you think Peggy killed Mrs. Hooper?”
“I don’t know.” He kicked a stone across the lane. “At the moment, I don’t particularly care.”
I took my lower lip between my teeth and peered up at Nicholas anxiously. Our search for truth had affected him more deeply than I’d realized. While I’d been questioning his scruples, he’d been subjecting his behavior to a scathing examination that had filled him with self-contempt. I was ashamed of myself for doubting him, and although I wanted badly to continue the search, I didn’t want to do so at his expense.
“We can stop now,” I offered. “We can leave Peggy to the police.”
“The police?” Nicholas gave a hollow laugh. “You and I have discovered more in four days than the police have in a fortnight. They’re at such a loss that they’re leaning on Kit Smith, who, as far as I can tell, is the least likely suspect in the whole of England, barring the queen.” He hunched his shoulders against the wind and sighed resignedly. “No. It’s down to us, Lori. It’s down to me.”
As much as I wanted to move on to the churchyard, I knew I couldn’t take another step without finding a way to console my troubled friend.
“Listen to me, Nicholas.” I reached up to push his hair back from his face. “You may think you’re a manipulative creep, but I beg to differ. My sons don’t care for manipulative creeps, and they’re crazy about you.” I caught his gaze and held it. “Ruth and Louise Pym are no slouches, either, when it comes to judging a man, and they think you’re the bee’s knees.”
“The bee’s knees?” he echoed, the faint ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“The cat’s meow,” I confirmed. I peered over his shoulder at the vicarage before murmuring confidentially, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I think you’re kind of special, too.”
The ghost of a smile winked out, and I hurried on, wishing I hadn’t alluded to the magnetism between us. “If you use charm to get people to talk, so what? It’s better than using a truncheon.”
“A truncheon would be more honest,” he said heavily.
“It would also leave a lot more bruises,” I retorted. “Has it occurred to you that your guilt is what makes you different from Mrs. Hooper? Unlike her, you have a conscience, and although that still small voice can be a pain in the neck at times, I’d rather be with a man who listens to it than one who tells it to shut the heck up.” I took hold of his arm and gave him a gentle shake. “You’re not nearly as rotten as you seem to think you are, Nicholas. Hardly anyone is.”
He gripped my hand. “I wonder if you’ll still feel the same way when—”
“Don’t look now,” I interrupted, pulling my hand away, “But I think you’re in for another lecture.”
The door to the vicarage had opened, and Lilian Bunting had emerged. She strode to the gate, her navy-blue sweater flapping in the breeze, and eyed us both severely before telling Nicholas that he was wanted urgently on the telephone.
“Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll be at the churchyard with Peggy.”
Nicholas made for the vicarage and I trotted up the lane before Lilian could begin to lecture me.
By the time I reached Saint George’s, no one was standing beside Mrs. Hooper’s grave. I leaned over the low stone wall and saw that a fresh bouquet had been added to the others, but Peggy Taxman was nowhere in sight. When a flurry of fat drops spattered the bouquet’s cellophane wrapping, I decided to duck into the church to avoid the coming deluge. I knew that Nicholas would have no trouble figuring out where I was.
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