Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse

by Nancy Atherton

  With another bow, and a swift smile for Bess, he left the suite.

  I watched him go, then turned to look at Bree.

  “Well,” I said, “we can’t say we weren’t warned.”

  “‘Outsiders must tread carefully’?” Bree repeated incredulously. “It’s like something out of a spy novel.”

  “Francesco has obviously heard some dodgy stories about Annabelle,” I said.

  “Too bad he kept them to himself,” said Bree.

  “Maybe he’s afraid to repeat them,” I said. “You know what they say about sleeping dogs. If you wake them, you may get bitten.”

  Bree folded her arms and eyed me speculatively. “So . . . what do we do next?”

  I dropped my shoulder bag on the coffee table and sat in one of the chintz-covered armchairs. “We do exactly what I said we’d do. We let Bess settle into her new surroundings, then we have brunch.”

  “At the Willows Café?” Bree asked hopefully.

  “Where else?” I replied.

  “I knew you wouldn’t back down!” she crowed.

  I smiled grimly as Bree pumped her fist in triumph. Francesco had no doubt meant well, I told myself, but I hadn’t come to Old Cowerton to hide out at the White Hart Hotel. I was a Finch-trained snoop. If I had to, I’d wade through a whole kennel of sleeping dogs to awaken the truth about Annabelle Craven’s dubious past.

  Eight

  I called Amelia to let her know where we were staying, then tried several times to reach my husband. After listening to a sequence of strange crackling noises followed by fast busy signals, I gave up, tucked my cell phone into my shoulder bag, and vowed to try again later.

  We left by the garden door. Had I been on vacation, I would have paused to admire the hotel’s display of spring blossoms, and I would have cried out in delight at the sight of the flowering cherry tree, but I couldn’t allow myself to stop and smell the hyacinths. I had a job to do, so I put my head down and got on with it.

  Bess wasn’t thrilled to be confined to her pram, but clean diapers and the companionship of her fluffy Friesian reconciled her to her fate. Impressed by Bess’s massive vocabulary, Bree had dubbed the cow “Moo.”

  It quickly became apparent that Francesco hadn’t been joking when he’d said that all of Old Cowerton welcomed babies. We were stopped several times on the high street by passing strangers, most of whom were old ladies who gazed lovingly at Bess and told me how lucky I was to have such a charming daughter. I would have asked them if they remembered a woman named Annabelle Trotter, but they moved on before Bree or I could start a conversation.

  Our stop-and-go stroll down the high street brought us to the Willows Café at twenty minutes past eleven. Mr. Nash’s after-church haunt was far more modern than Finch’s quaint tearoom. Though located in a lovely old building, the Willows Café was sleek, uncluttered, and brightly lit. It was also seething with holiday makers, most of whom were studying maps or leafing through guidebooks. Even so, we had no trouble spotting the elderly gentleman dining alone at a table near the front windows. We arrived just in time to replace a family that was vacating the table next to his.

  A gangly, red-haired young waitress named Megan brought a high chair to our table before we asked for one, and she didn’t flinch when I ordered steamed vegetables, mashed parsnips, shredded chicken, and a fruit plate for Bess. Bree and I ordered ham-and-asparagus quiches for ourselves. While Megan filled Bess’s pink sippy cup with water, I opened the diaper bag and added an extra-large bib to my daughter’s ensemble.

  “Messy eater, is she?” Megan asked pleasantly.

  “I may have to hose her down later,” I replied.

  Megan grinned, then bent low to look Bess in the eye. “Good for you, darling. I like a girl who enjoys her food. Your meal will be ready in two ticks,” she added and headed for the kitchen.

  Neither Bree nor I had to start a conversation with Mr. Nash. Bess started it for us by flinging Moo in his general direction.

  “Here you go, little lady,” he said as he returned the vagrant cow to its rightful owner. His voice was cracked and quavering, and his face was so deeply wrinkled that his eyes nearly disappeared when he smiled.

  “Thank you,” I said, putting Moo in the pram. “My daughter would thank you, too, but she appointed me to act as her spokeswoman.”

  “She’s a dear,” he said. “She reminds me of my great-granddaughter.” He held a liver-spotted hand out to me. “Bob Nash.”

  I shook his hand and introduced myself, Bess, and Bree.

  “Visitors?” Mr. Nash inquired cordially.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He nodded. “Where are you staying?”

  “The White Hart,” Bree replied.

  “Very nice,” he said admiringly. “I’ve never stayed there myself, but I’ve heard that the spa is first-rate. Is that why you came to Old Cowerton? Because of the spa at the White Hart?”

  “Not exactly.” I looked at Bree. “We know an old lady who used to live here.”

  “She’s too old to travel,” Bree chimed in, “so we thought we’d take photos of the place where she grew up, to surprise her.”

  Bree’s flight of fancy surprised me, but I tried not to show it.

  “Is that so?” Mr. Nash leaned toward us with an interested expression on his face. “As it happens, I’ve lived in Old Cowerton all my life. It may be that I know this old lady of yours. What’s she called?”

  “As a young woman,” I said, “she was known as Annabelle Trotter.”

  Mr. Nash’s entire aspect changed. He shrank away from us, his wrinkled face flushed a dull red, his nostrils flared, and sparks seemed to fly from his faded blue eyes.

  “You know Annabelle, do you?” he asked coldly.

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s a good friend of ours.”

  “Then you should choose your friends more wisely,” he snapped.

  “What do you mean?” Bree asked.

  “If you knew the truth about Annabelle,” he said, “you wouldn’t be her friend.”

  “She seems like a very nice woman to me,” I said.

  “Seems,” he sneered. “Annabelle may seem like a nice person, but take it from me: She’s rotten to the core.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Nash, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bree said. “Did Annabelle offend you in some way?”

  “She did worse than offend me,” he growled. “She murdered my best friend!” He glanced at his half-eaten omelet, then stood, flung a ten-pound note on the table, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and stomped out of the café.

  “I think we aroused some strong feelings,” Bree murmured, looking shell-shocked.

  “Here you go,” said a voice.

  I looked up to see red-haired Megan, who’d returned with our orders. As she transferred dishes from her tray to our table, I noted with astonished gratitude that Bess’s food had been cut into bite-sized pieces and arranged like a necklace around the mound of mashed parsnips.

  “I saw you chatting with Mr. Nash just now,” Megan went on, sliding the empty tray under her arm and clamping it to her side. “Word to the wise: Mind what you say to him. He’s a nice man, but he does love to gossip. If you’re not careful, your private business will be the talk of the town. It’s what comes of being a newsagent for so many years—an occupational hazard, you might call it. When I first came to Old Cowerton, he—” She broke off as she caught sight of the abandoned omelet. “Oh, dear. Did something upset Mr. Nash? I’ve never known him to leave without finishing his meal.”

  “I’m afraid we upset him,” I confessed.

  “What did you do?” Megan asked with an impish grin. “Complain about his old shop?”

  “We haven’t been to his old shop,” Bree said, “so we couldn’t complain about it.”

  I nodded. “He was fin
e until we happened to mention a woman who lives in our village.”

  “Then he went ballistic,” said Bree.

  “Very strange,” said Megan, turning to clear Mr. Nash’s table. “Why should a woman who lives in your village put him off his brunch?”

  “She lived in Old Cowerton a long time ago,” I explained.

  “Did she?” said Megan. “What’s her name?”

  “Annabelle Trotter,” I said tentatively, braced for another explosion.

  “Never heard of her,” said Megan, “but I’ve only been here since Christmas. I suppose she could be an ex-girlfriend or an ex-wife.” She giggled. “Or an ex-mistress. Who knows what he got up to when he was a young man?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t get up to anything with our friend,” I said dampingly, hoping to nip a fresh rumor in the bud. “She’s not that sort of woman.”

  “Sorry,” said Megan, blushing. “My mouth runs on sometimes.”

  “Not a problem,” I told her. “So does mine.”

  “Word to the wise,” Bree said to the waitress. “Don’t let your mouth run on about Annabelle Trotter when Mr. Nash is around.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” Megan said over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t want him to go to the pub for brunch. He’s a good customer.”

  “We didn’t mean to upset him,” I said. “We were just trying to find some of Mrs. Trotter’s old friends.”

  “So we can give her an update on them when we get home,” Bree put in.

  Megan gave Mr. Nash’s table a final wipe with a damp cloth, then turned to face us. “If it’s ancient history you’re after, you should talk to Hayley Calthorp.” She pointed across the street to the newsagent’s shop. “Hayley runs Nash’s News—the shop Mr. Nash used to own. Her family has lived in Old Cowerton since the year dot. What she doesn’t know about the town isn’t worth knowing.” Megan bent to pick up a chunk of broccoli, a blueberry, and a piece of chicken that had slipped from Bess’s grasp and landed on the floor, then urged us to enjoy our meal and bustled away.

  “I don’t know about you,” said Bree when Megan was out of earshot, “but I didn’t expect to hear someone confirm Mrs. Craven’s crazy story on our first day in town.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “Mr. Nash accused Annabelle of killing his best friend. He must have meant Zach Trotter.”

  “If Zach Trotter was his best friend,” I said, “he shouldn’t be lecturing anyone on choosing friends wisely. Zach Trotter was a drunk, a bully, a liar, and a cheat.”

  “So says Mrs. Craven,” said Bree. “How do we know she’s telling the truth?”

  “We don’t,” I acknowledged uncomfortably. “I suppose we should try to find out more about Zach while we’re here.”

  “It seems only fair,” said Bree, starting in on her quiche. “I can understand why Francesco warned us to tread carefully. I’ll bet Mr. Nash told him about Mrs. Craven’s dirty deed.”

  I removed a streak of mashed parsnip from Bess’s hair and started in on my own quiche. I was more disturbed by Mr. Nash’s outburst than I cared to admit, but I was also hungry.

  “I’ll bet Mr. Nash has told everyone in Old Cowerton about Annabelle,” I said between bites. “You heard Megan. Mr. Nash loves to gossip.”

  “He’d feel right at home in Finch,” said Bree.

  “He certainly would,” I said thoughtfully. “Which makes me wonder if we can believe what he said about Annabelle. Gossip can be useful, but it can also cause a lot of trouble. For all we know, Mr. Nash could be a malicious crackpot who makes himself feel important by telling outrageous lies about people.”

  “Why would he target Mrs. Craven?” Bree asked.

  “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe he has a grudge against her. Maybe he was madly in love with her and she rejected him.”

  “Maybe she criticized his shop,” said Bree with a gurgle of laughter. She took another bite of quiche before continuing indistinctly, “But you have to admit that he sounded pretty sure of himself.”

  “Mr. Barlow was pretty sure of himself when he accused Dick Peacock of stealing his hammer,” I reminded her. “But he was mistaken. Dick may have lost track of the hammer for five years, but he didn’t steal it.”

  “Stealing a hammer isn’t the same thing as committing a murder,” Bree said. “Mr. Nash nearly burst a blood vessel when he heard Annabelle’s name. I think he really believes what he told us.”

  “Bree,” I said patiently, “you’ve lived in Finch long enough to know that people really believe all sorts of nonsense.”

  “True,” said Bree. “Look at Megan. She came up with an ex-girlfriend, an ex-wife, and an ex-mistress in about three seconds—and she’d never even heard of Mrs. Craven.”

  “Exactly.” I peered through the window at the shop across the street. “Let’s see what Hayley Calthorp has to say before we pass judgment on Annabelle.”

  Nine

  I didn’t have to hose Bess down when she finished eating, but it took a while to remove fragments of her meal from her face, neck, ears, hands, and hair. Megan doubled her already ample tip by rinsing the extra-large bib in the kitchen and patting it dry with a paper towel. After thanking her profusely, I popped Bess into the pram and followed Bree out of the Willows Café.

  Bess did not want to be in her pram. She wanted to take a postprandial toddle, but traffic was considerably heavier in Old Cowerton than it was in Finch—where it was virtually nonexistent—and I had no intention of crossing the high street in slow motion. While we waited for a break in the stream of passing vehicles, I jutted my chin toward the wooden bench in front of Nash’s News.

  “Francesco told us that Mr. Nash likes to sit there after brunch,” I said. “But look—no Mr. Nash.”

  “He’s probably going door to door to warn his neighbors about the two madwomen he met at the café,” Bree said. “Annabelle Trotter’s friends have invaded Old Cowerton! Beware! Beware!”

  “Or he may have gone home,” I said, tilting my head back to study the sky. “It’s getting cloudy. I think an April shower may be heading our way.”

  “Wish I’d brought an umbrella,” said Bree. “The pram has a rain cover, but my head doesn’t.”

  “The perils of packing light,” I teased as a driver stopped and waved to us to cross. “Come on. You may be able to buy one at Nash’s News.”

  Bess continued to demand her freedom while we crossed the high street, and when I peered through the newsagent’s windows, I realized that it would be a grave mistake to take her into the shop. The shelves lining its cramped aisles were chockablock with temptations a thirteen-month-old would be unable to resist: toys, candies, snacks, postcards, greeting cards, scented candles, souvenirs, and travel-size toiletries as well as newspapers, magazines, and paperback books.

  “If I let Bess loose in there,” I said, “she’ll empty the shelves more quickly than an earthquake.”

  “No worries,” said Bree. “Bess and I will tour the high street while you tackle Hayley Calthorp.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Bree. “Bess needs a walk and I need an umbrella.”

  “Use mine if you have to,” I said. “It’s in the diaper bag.”

  “What will you use?” Bree asked.

  “My jacket has a hood,” I pointed out. “I’ll be okay.”

  Bree released Bess’s harness, set her on her feet, gave her two fingers to hold, and pushed the pram with one hand while my daughter teetered happily by her side. I berated myself silently for teasing my friend, stood aside as a young couple left Nash’s News, and let myself into the shop.

  A chubby, middle-aged woman with a blond ponytail stood behind the checkout counter to my right. She wore a kelly-green cable-knit sweater and black trousers, and she had very attentive eyes—noticing eyes, as they were called in Finch. Since she was the only person in the sho
p, apart from myself, I felt safe in assuming that she was Hayley Calthorp.

  “Can I help you, dear?” she asked.

  “Do you carry umbrellas?” I inquired.

  “They’re right over there,” she said, pointing to a bin filled with colorful compact umbrellas.

  “Thank you,” I said, selecting a violet brolly for Bree. “I think I’ll buy some snacks, too.” To get the gossip ball rolling, I used the time-honored technique of dispensing more information than was strictly necessary. “My husband and sons are on a camping trip, so my friend and I brought my daughter with us to enjoy a little holiday of our own. We’re staying at the White Hart.”

  “Get your snacks here,” the woman advised. “They’ll charge you the earth for them at the White Hart, and you won’t find out about it until you get your bill.” She motioned toward the shop windows. “Was that your little girl I saw just now?”

  “That’s my Bess,” I acknowledged. I lifted a wire basket from a stack next to the front door and began filling it with assorted munchies. “My friend took her for a walk to keep her from wrecking your shop.”

  “How old is Bess?” the woman asked.

  “Thirteen months,” I replied, “give or take a few days.”

  “I remember when my Lisa was your daughter’s age,” said the woman. “A perfect terror. Got into everything. I’m sure Bess is lovely, but you can’t expect a thirteen-month-old to behave herself in a place like this, can you? You wouldn’t believe how many parents bring their children in here, then blame me for the mess they make—a mess that could have been prevented if the parents had a little common sense.”

  “Common sense isn’t as common as it’s cracked up to be,” I observed.

  “It certainly isn’t.” The woman extended her hand over the counter, saying, “I’m Hayley.”

  “Lori,” I responded, shaking her hand.

  Hayley leaned forward with her elbows on the counter, a pose that seemed to suggest a willingness to forgo work for talk. I hooked the basket over my arm and settled in for a cozy chat.