“I’ll call you as soon as I spot Henrique,” I said, and hung up.
“Is Sally suffering from stage fright?” Bill asked from the kitchen table.
“Pas devant les enfants,” I said, giving him a warning look.
“What’s ‘not in front of the children’?” Will asked brightly.
I did a double take, then demanded, “Since when do you speak French?”
“Nell’s teaching us,” Rob replied. “On parle Français bien ici.”
“What’s ‘not in front of the children’?” Will repeated.
“What’s stage fright?” Rob joined in.
“Your father will explain everything to you on the way to Anscombe Manor,” I said. It was a cop-out, but a justified cop-out. Bill should have known better than to mention Sally in front of the boys.
“Is Daddy taking us to the stables?” asked Will.
“He’ll drop you off on his way to work,” I replied. “Mummy has to run some errands.”
Before my budding francophones could come up with another way to throw me for a loop, I ordered them to put their dishes in the sink, wash their hands, and get ready for their riding lessons. Bill hung his head sheepishly after they’d left the kitchen.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’ll have to be more careful of what I say when I’m around Will and Rob. I sometimes forget how sharp they are.”
“You can make up for it by putting the painting in my Mini,” I said. My aged Morris Mini was too small to accomodate the boys’ booster seats, but it was useful for short, child-free journeys.
“Consider it done,” Bill said, getting to his feet. “What’s on tap for the rest of the day?”
“I’ve arranged a play date with Annie Hodge,” I said. “She’ll bring Piero over this afternoon. I thought it would be an acceptable substitute for a trip to Grandpa’s.”
“Great idea,” he said. “When should I expect you at the office?”
“It depends on how much time I have to kill,” I replied. “And that depends on when Henrique shows up.”
“I won’t get any work done until he does,” said Bill. “I’ll be lurking near my windows all morning, looking for a stranger in a strange car.”
“You and everyone else in Finch,” I said. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It’ll be a miracle if we pull this off.”
Bill and the boys set out in the Rover shortly after seven. I finished loading the dishwasher, then ran upstairs to select an appropriate costume. Since I was supposed to be related to the wealthy and gracious Lady Sarah Pyne, I donned a pretty lavender dress and a pair of white sandals instead of my usual T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. After running a comb through my hair and making sure that Stanley’s water bowl was full, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the hall table and headed into the village in my Mini.
As I putt-putted along the winding lane, I thought of how lucky Señor Cocinero was to be wending his way toward Fairworth House on such a perfect summer day. Small birds flitted in and out of the hedgerows, gorging themselves on seeds and berries, lambs romped in grassy pastures, and seagulls circled stands of ripe barley that rippled like golden seas in the passing breeze. It would be hot and humid later on, and thunderstorms might roll in, but the morning air was like a tonic.
I crossed the humpbacked bridge and noted that the lights were on in Wysteria Lodge, the vine-bedecked stone building that housed Bill’s high-tech office. It was too early for the tearoom, the pub, the Emporium, and the greengrocer’s shop to open, but curtains twitched in every cottage I passed. In Finch, it was worth interrupting one’s breakfast to keep tabs on one’s neighbors. As I approached Crabtree Cottage, I recalled its previous occupant, a disagreeable woman whose curtains had never stopped twitching, and thanked heaven that Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock had taken her place.
The alterations Charles and Grant had made to Crabtree Cottage weren’t apparent from the outside, but the interior was much changed. The front parlor, with its marvelous bay window overlooking the village green, had been converted into an office for Charles, the art appraiser, while the upstairs front bedroom had been fashioned into a well-ventilated workroom for Grant, the restoration expert. The two lived in rooms at the rear of the cottage, where they could be near the private oasis of their walled garden.
Charles, who was tall, portly, and balding, answered the doorbell clad in bedroom slippers, striped pajamas, and a lavishly embroidered black silk bathrobe, with a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand and Goya, his golden Pomeranian, cradled in the crook of his arm.
“Lori,” he said, looking both sleepy and mildly surprised. “We didn’t expect you to rise with the sun. Grant!” he called over his shoulder. “Lori’s here!”
I heard the mingled thump of feet and patter of paws running down stairs and Grant appeared at Charles’s side, accompanied by Matisse, his friendly Maltese. Grant, unlike Charles, was short and lean, with a healthy crop of salt-and-pepper hair. He was also fully dressed, in a crisp white shirt, chinos, and loafers. His smile was, as always, warm and welcoming.
“Finish your toast, Charles,” he said kindly, patting his partner’s arm. “I”ll look after Lori.” As Charles trudged back to the kitchen, Grant continued, “Charles is an incurable night owl. He won’t really be awake until noon. You’re looking very bonny this morning. What’s the occasion?”
The question didn’t catch me unawares. I’d known that the sight of me wearing a dress on a weekday morning would intrigue my neighbors, and I’d prepared a cover story accordingly.
“William’s client,” I said simply. “I’m meeting him today.”
“Ah, yes, the mystery man.” Grant folded his arms and bent his head closer to mine, saying quietly, “You couldn’t give me the tiniest hint about him, could you? I swear it won’t go any farther than Charles’s ear.”
“No can do,” I said flatly. “Believe me, you’re not missing anything. He’s the biggest bore ever born.”
“Even so ...” Grant read my closed expression and shrugged. “All right, I’ll drop it, but I won’t be the last person to pester you about Mr. Anonymous. Everyone’s dying to know who he is.” He looked past me at the Mini. “Is my new patient in the car? Shall I fetch it?”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, squatting to rub Matisse’s tummy. “But be careful. The broken glass in the frame will bite you if you let it.”
Grant pulled the dust sheet-swathed painting out of the Mini’s backseat and suggested that I come with him to his workroom. Since the workroom’s window would give me an even better view of the village than the bay window in Charles’s office, I followed Grant upstairs, with Matisse pattering perkily after us.
Grant placed the painting on a large white table in the center of the room and unwrapped it. He stuffed the filthy dust sheet into a paper bag, then scrubbed the grime from his hands. After donning a pair of white cotton gloves, he switched on a high-power angle lamp and examined his “new patient” through a magnifying glass.
I stood at the window, scrutinizing the village with equal interest.
“I’ve seen this sort of damage before,” he murmured. “The poor thing must have hung in a room with a smoky fireplace.”
Score one for Deirdre, I thought sourly.
“I can’t date it precisely,” Grant went on, “but the frame suggests a work from the late Victorian era.”
His estimated date, unsurprisingly, matched Deirdre’s.
“And it’s not a painting,” Grant added.
“What is it?” I asked, still looking out the window.
“I’m ... not ... sure,” he said ruminatively, bending low over the nonpainting. “I can detect small images of some sort accompanied by calligraphy. Unfortunately, I can’t make out the images or the words.”
“Fascinating,” I said absently.
Grant straightened. “Once I remove the soot, we’ll know where we stand in terms of restoration work. I’ll get started on it right away and do as much a
s I can before Charles and I leave for London this afternoon.”
I wheeled around to face him. An impromptu excursion to London merited my full attention.
“What’s happening in London?” I asked.
“We’ve been invited to attend a gallery opening tonight,” he replied, “and we’ll take in a show tomorrow night. We won’t be back until Wednesday. A friend is letting us use his flat while we’re in town.”
“Will you take Goya and Matisse with you?” I asked.
“Naturally,” he said. “They adore our little jaunts to London.”
“Lucky puppies,” I said, and nodded at the painting. “Thanks for tackling the job, Grant. I think it’s a waste of time, but William doesn’t, and it’s his masterpiece.”
“You are a philistine, Lori,” Grant scolded. He swept a hand over the white table. “You can’t pass judgment on a work of art you can’t see. My ministrations may uncover a vital link to Fairworth’s past. Even if it has little or no monetary value, it should be preserved and cherished.”
“If you preserve it, William will cherish it,” I said, laughing, but as I turned back to the window, the laughter died in my throat.
A silver Audi was parked in front of Wysteria Lodge. No one in Finch owned a silver Audi.
“Sorry, Grant,” I said, dashing toward the staircase. “Gotta run. Have a great time in London!”
“Your dust cloth!” Grant called, holding the paper bag out to me.
“Keep it!” I called over my shoulder.
Grant Tavistock was no fool. As I scurried out of the workroom, he darted to the window to find out what had caught my eye. I could feel him and many other people watching me as I hurried across the green, but it wasn’t the sense of being observed that rattled me. It was the telltale jingling sound made by the sleigh bells attached to the Emporium’s front door as it swung open.
Peggy Taxman had finished her breakfast.
Nine
Big ships take longer than small ones to work up a head of steam. Since Peggy Taxman outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, she stood no chance of reaching the Audi before I did, but even I couldn’t get to it as quickly as Bill. He popped out of Wysteria Lodge like a jack-in-the-box and bent to speak to the driver through the car’s open window.
“No se preocupe, Señor Cocinero,” he was saying as I skidded to a halt next to him. “My wife will be glad to show you the way to Fairworth House.”
“It is too much trouble,” the driver protested in heavily accented but fluent English. “I could not ask such a favor.”
“Nonsense!” I gasped and slid into the passenger’s seat so fast that I nearly squashed the Panama hat that was sitting there. I snatched the hat from the seat and held it in my lap as I slammed the door. “I insist on guiding you. It’s a courtesy we extend to all of our visitors,” I went on, glancing nervously at Peggy Taxman’s looming figure. “Over the bridge and first turn on the left. Let’s not keep Lady Sarah waiting, Señor. “Vámonos!”
“De acuerdo!” he responded amiably and drove off before Peggy was halfway across the green. “You and your husband are most kind.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said, ignoring Peggy’s attempts to flag us down. “Lady Sarah is very dear to us. Any friend of hers is a friend of ours.”
Señor Cocinero expressed what I assumed to be his gratitude in a string of words that meant nothing to me.
“Forgive me, Señor,” I said, “but I speak very little Spanish.”
“Forgive me,” he countered. “When in England, I should speak English, no?”
“Sí,” I said distractedly as I watched Peggy’s furious face recede in the rearview mirror. It had been a close-run thing, but Willis, Sr.’s foresight and Bill’s vigilance had prevented the empress from cornering her quarry. Weak with relief, I leaned back in my seat and took a good look at Sally Pyne’s amigo.
As Willis, Sr., had predicted, Henrique didn’t resemble your average pink-faced Englishman. His swarthy complexion, black mustache, and black, wavy hair made me think of sunny beaches and swaying palm trees rather than hedge-lined lanes and sturdy oaks. He had a round, craggy face webbed with laugh lines, and his dark eyes twinkled genially beneath heavy black brows. His white suit was tailored to fit his short, pudgy body, his black shoes shone, and he wore a gold signet ring on the pinkie finger of his right hand. Though he would never find work as a male model, it was easy to see why Sally had found him so attractive. His voice was deep and rich and he emanated an air of old-world charm.
“You are related to Lady Sarah?” he inquired as we crossed the bridge.
“Only by marriage,” I said. “My father-in-law, William Willis, is her cousin. He comes to see us every summer, but he stays with Lady Sarah because Bill and I don’t have enough room for him in our cottage.”
“Lady Sarah tells me that, to her neighbors, she is known as Sally of Finch,” he said. “I am surprised to hear you use her title.”
“The whole family does,” I said, “out of respect.”
“I am glad,” said Henrique. “Lady Sarah, she deserves this respect. You are a close family?”
“We are,” I said. “Very close.”
“I like this very much,” he said. “I am not as lucky as you. My wife died ten years ago and my children live far away. Life is lonely without them. You are fortunate to have those you love near you.”
I was so touched by his story that I almost forgot where we were going.
“We turn here, Señor Cocinero,” I said hastily.
“You must call me Henrique,” he said, executing a neat left-hand turn into Willis, Sr.’s drive. “As you say, Lady Sarah’s friends are my friends, and friends are not so formal.”
“Then you must call me Lori,” I said.
“A pretty name for a pretty señora,” he said, smiling. “You are not English, I think.”
“Bill and I are American,” I said, “but we’ve lived in England for so many years that it’s become our second home.”
“It is good to feel at home when one lives overseas,” said Henrique. “And what a beautiful home Lady Sarah has. Is this indeed Fairworth House? Estupendo! Es un paraiso!”
I didn’t know exactly what he’d said, but I’d caught the gist. Bathed in sunlight and framed by the drive’s leafy trees, Fairworth did look like a paradise. I was too preoccupied to appreciate it, however, because it had just dawned on me that I’d forgotten to warn Willis, Sr., of Henrique’s imminent arrival. I could only hope that Bill had called ahead from Wysteria Lodge. If Henrique caught Lady Sarah practicing her deportment, he might wonder what was going on.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “That’s Fairworth House.”
“The gardens have been hurt by drought, perhaps?” he said, gazing at the immature plants sprouting from mulch the landscapers had laid less than a week before the housewarming party.
“Lady Sarah is trying something new,” I improvised, wondering if Sally had even noticed the gardens. “She likes to experiment with color and texture and, um, scent.”
“Ah,” said Henrique, nodding his understanding. “Lady Sarah has the restless spirit of a true artist.”
“We never know what she’ll do next,” I said, with feeling.
A curtain in the attic apartment twitched as Henrique and I got out of the car, so I knew that at least one of the Donovans had noted our arrival. I hoped the lookout would use the staircase instead of the elevator to alert the others. The elevator was convenient, but slow.
I handed Henrique his hat, we climbed the steps to the front door, and I rang the bell while he stood back with a look of pleasant anticipation in his dark eyes. A moment later, Deirdre opened the door, with Declan at her side. I couldn’t tell which one of them had raced down from the apartment because neither seemed flustered or short of breath. Deirdre was dressed in what seemed to be her housekeeper’s uniform—a full-skirted white shirtdress and black snood—and Declan was wearing another short-sleeved shirt with a pair of khaki t
rousers. They both appeared to be as fresh as daisies.
Deirdre began to greet Henrique in fluent Spanish, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“Muchas gracias, Señora,” he said, “but I prefer to speak English while I am here. I need the practice.”
“No, you don’t,” I chided him. “You speak English beautifully.”
“I would like to speak it better,” said Henrique, “which requires practice.” He smiled at Deirdre. “Please, indulge me.”
“As you wish, Mr. Cocinero,” she said.
“If I might have your car key, sir?” said Declan, stepping forward. “I’ll see to your luggage and move your vehicle to the garage. We don’t want to leave it sitting unprotected in the hot sun.”
“The sun is much hotter in my country, young man,” said Henrique, “but I take your point.”
Henrique dropped a folded five-pound note into Declan’s hand along with the car key. Declan seemed surprised by the gift, but he tucked it into his pocket and said nothing as he ran off to look after the Audi.
Having successfully delivered Henrique into Deirdre’s safekeeping, I could have excused myself and returned to the village on foot to pick up the Mini, but I didn’t want to spoil a lovely morning by butting heads with Peggy Taxman, who would drop whatever she was doing in order to reprimand me—loudly and publicly—for ignoring her attempts to foil our escape. Given a choice between a contentious confrontation with an irate empress and a ringside seat at the romantic reunion of Sally Pyne and her Mexican gentleman, I did not hesitate to choose the latter.
“If you’ll follow me?” said Deirdre. “Lady Sarah is expecting you.”
Henrique removed his hat and allowed Deirdre and me to proceed him into the entrance hall. His courtliness would, I knew, find favor with Willis, Sr., who exuded a similar brand of old-world charm. Deirdre relieved Henrique of his hat, knocked twice on the morning room door, opened it, announced us, and stood to attention just inside the doorway. When Henrique motioned for me to go ahead of him, I was treated to an unimpeded view of the opening scene in Aunt Dimity’s drama.
Aunt Dimity and the Family Tree Page 9
