“I wouldn’t kick down Mrs. Craven’s door,” she advised. “She’ll come back at you with a fistful of sewing needles.”
“She’s already punctured my pride.” I gripped the steering wheel to keep myself from pounding it. “It’ll be all over Finch by the time we get back, if it isn’t already. ‘I told Lori Shepherd I killed a man and she believed me!’ What a jokester. Do you know how long it’ll take me to live this down? Dick Peacock will leave a wild goose on my doorstep, I just know it.”
“I’m sure he won’t,” Bree said soothingly. “We’ve all been the butt of jokes in Finch. You’ll just have to laugh it off, pretend you don’t mind.”
“But I do mind,” I said. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. I’ve never been anything but kind to Mrs. Craven. Why would she pull such a mean prank on me?”
“I don’t suppose the old-ladies-behaving-like-naughty-schoolgirls excuse will fly,” said Bree.
“No, it won’t,” I said flatly. “She was bullied by schoolgirls when she was young and she didn’t like it one bit.” I released a furious breath and shook my head. “It’ll be a long time before I forgive her.”
“She may not have a long time,” Bree pointed out.
“Then I may never forgive her,” I barked. Bess shifted restlessly in her sleep and I lowered my voice to a determined murmur. “I think we should go back to Finch this afternoon.”
“It’s an option,” Bree allowed, as though she were humoring a knife-wielding maniac. “But we’ve already paid for the suite and it would be a shame to waste our investment. Why don’t we pack up tonight and head out in the morning?” She nudged me very gingerly with her elbow. “I could book a massage for you.”
“I don’t want a massage,” I said sulkily.
“How about one last White Hart dinner?” she coaxed. “Crème brûlée is on the menu tonight. I checked.”
“Crème brûlée?” I said, thawing slightly.
“Made with real vanilla beans, full-fat cream, and turbinado sugar,” she crooned. “We still have some of Minnie’s Melting Moments, too. You could have them later on, in front of the fire.”
“Well,” I said, my resistance dwindling, “I did tell Amelia that we might not be back until Friday.”
“That’s right,” Bree said encouragingly. “It wouldn’t be fair to descend on her without warning. She’ll need time to say good-bye to Stanley. It won’t be an easy parting for either of them. They’re very close.”
Entirely against my will, I began to laugh.
“First food, then emotional blackmail,” I said. “I’d better give in before you turn on the tears.” I wagged a reproving finger at Bree. “Don’t think I don’t know why you want us to spend another night in Old Cowerton. You think I need to chill out before I confront Annabelle.”
“A cooling-off period wouldn’t hurt,” Bree said reasonably.
“I have a right to be miffed with her, don’t I?” I demanded.
“Yes,” said Bree, “but you’ll set a bad example for your children if you kick her door down.”
“Will and Rob would love it,” I grumbled, but before she could remind me that ten-year-old boys weren’t always the best judges of acceptable behavior, I surrendered. “Okay, you win. I’ll make an effort to regain my composure tonight and we’ll go home tomorrow.”
“Yay!” Bree cheered. “Crème brûlée! Melting Moments!”
“And another Mariana massage?” I inquired with a grudging smile.
“No,” she said happily. “A facial!”
—
I called Amelia as soon as we got back to the suite. She took the news of our imminent return in stride, as I’d known she would. While she and Stanley got along famously, she was well aware that his heart belonged to Bill.
I had no luck at all when I tried to call Bill. I could only assume that he and the boys were on a thrilling expedition to the farthest reaches of the Lake District, or that he’d forgotten to recharge his cell phone battery. I wasn’t even moderately disappointed by my failure to speak with him. I was too hot under the collar to maintain the girls’ getaway fiction, and I didn’t think I could endure the gales of merry laughter that would greet a strictly factual account of my adventure.
When Bess woke from her nap, Bree and I took her and Moo for a last walk around Old Cowerton. We were accosted several times by friendly residents who beamed beatifically at my baby girl, but we eventually made it to St. Leonard’s churchyard, where we searched for and found the four headstones that marked the final resting places of the men who’d loved Annabelle.
We paid our respects to Ted Fletcher, Jim Salford, William Walker May, and Edwin Craven, stopped in the church to say a prayer for their departed souls, and took a roundabout route back to the White Hart. We agreed that the town was quite beautiful and well worth a second visit, though I was honest enough to admit that a decent amount of time would have to pass before I set foot in it again.
After Bree left the suite for her facial, I settled Bess in the playpen and steeled myself to reveal the full extent of my ignominy to Aunt Dimity. I told myself that it would be therapeutic to express my feelings aloud to someone who had only my best interests at heart, but I still sat with the blue journal closed on my lap for several minutes before I mustered the moral fortitude to open it.
“Aunt Dimity?” I said. “It’s been an utterly humiliating day.”
I was too downcast to smile as the graceful lines of royal-blue ink appeared on the blank page.
It makes for a change from another strange day, my dear. Were you stymied in your attempt to carry out the research I suggested?
“I didn’t even try to carry out the research you suggested,” I replied. “I didn’t have to. Edwin Craven did it for me.”
The late Edwin Craven?
“The deceased and dearly missed Edwin Craven,” I confirmed. “His sister, Penelope Moorecroft, bought Craven Manor from Annabelle after Edwin’s death. Penny invited Bree and me to join her and a few of Annabelle’s old friends for brunch at Craven Manor this morning. While we feasted on caviar and Bess played in the knot garden, they systematically debunked each of the allegations we heard at Minnie’s tea party. I guess you could call it the Craven Manor Crew versus the Sunnyside Gang.”
Who won?
“The Craven Manor Crew, by a knockout,” I said. “Penny has files Edwin compiled to refute every charge leveled against Annabelle. They prove her innocence way beyond a reasonable doubt. Edwin’s files include eyewitness accounts given to the authorities by the women we met this morning.”
Eyewitness accounts are preferable to rumors and innuendo, especially when accusations of murder are being bandied about.
“We heard them straight from the horses’ mouths,” I said. “Gladys Miller was picnicking with Annabelle when they and four other stunned bystanders saw Ted Fletcher trip and fall into the slurry pit. Debbie Lacey was hunting for mushrooms when she saw the riverbank collapse beneath Jim Salford’s feet and send him tumbling into the rushing stream to drown. No one saw William Walker May’s tragic accident, but Debbie argued persuasively that Annabelle couldn’t have been responsible for it. Apart from that, the company that manufactured the heater in William Walker’s greenhouse admitted liability.”
Would I be correct in assuming that one of the women attending the brunch witnessed Edwin Craven’s accident?
“You would,” I said. “Penny Moorecroft was having a late-night chat with Annabelle, in Annabelle’s bedroom, when Edwin rose from his sickbed. Penny was leaving Annabelle’s room when she saw Edwin heading for the grand staircase. There was nothing she could do to prevent his fatal fall.”
What happened to the vanishing sleeping tablets?
“They were filched by the nurse hired to look after Edwin,” I said. “An investigation proved that she had a habit of stealing drugs from her patients and se
lling them online.”
Despicable.
“Punishable by law as well,” I said. “The nurse went to prison.”
I should think so! Poor Annabelle. It seems that every time a good man came into her life, he died. I can understand why Minnie and her friends latched on to the idea of a widow’s curse. In their view, she was being punished for the murder of her first husband.
“Except that she didn’t murder her first husband, either,” I said. “We come now to the grand finale.” I felt an angry flush creep up my neck as I continued doggedly, “Alice Johnson and Lorna Small saw Zach Trotter walk away from Dovecote, unscathed, on the night of his alleged murder. After a lengthy search, Edwin Craven found Zach alive and as well as could be expected, drinking himself to death in an Australian bar. Annabelle didn’t even have to have Zach declared dead. A long-distance divorce freed her to marry Edwin.”
My goodness. It seems that Mrs. Craven lied to you.
“She lied through her teeth to me,” I said heatedly. “She picked the easiest target in Finch and scored a bull’s-eye. I’ll bet she couldn’t wait to tell everyone in the village about the hilarious trick she played on me at the quilting bee.” I brought a fist down on the arm of the chair. “I believed her, Dimity! I actually struggled with the idea of turning her in to the police. I was so worried about Bill doing his duty as an officer of the court that I made up a cockamamie cover story to keep from telling him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about our trip to Old Cowerton!”
I’m partly to blame, Lori. I’m afraid I encouraged you to go to Old Cowerton.
“I didn’t need much encouragement,” I reminded her. “I was ready and willing to pursue a perfectly pointless investigation. The Daft and Clueless Detective Agency, indeed. Bree may not be clueless, but I’m definitely daft. I’d have to be, to let myself believe, even for a minute, that Mrs. Craven could be a serial killer!” I clucked my tongue in disgust at my own idiocy. “I’ve never understood practical jokes, Dimity, and I’ve certainly never laughed at one, but to find myself the victim of a practical joke Will and Rob could have seen through is beyond demoralizing. I won’t be able to show my face in the village for the next six months.” I slumped disconsolately in my chair. “I must be the most naive nincompoop ever born.”
Forgive me, Lori, but it doesn’t seem like the sort of thing Mrs. Craven would find amusing. She’s never played a practical joke on you before, has she?
“Of course not,” I said bitterly. “She needed to gauge my level of gullibility before she could spring one on me.”
Ten years is an awfully long time to plan a practical joke. In all the time you’ve known her, has she ever teased you or taunted you or made fun of you?
“No,” I admitted gruffly. “Not to my face, anyway.”
Have you ever heard her make fun of anyone else in Finch?
I paused for a moment to search my memory, then said, “Now that you mention it, I’ve never heard her make fun of anyone, no matter where they live. It’s not as if she’s prim or prudish. She smiles when people crack jokes about Peggy Taxman, but she doesn’t toss off any zingers of her own.” I frowned down at the journal. “What are you getting at, Dimity?”
A person’s fundamental character doesn’t usually change overnight. In my experience, it rarely changes at all. A querulous child will, in most cases, grow up to be a querulous adult.
“The jealous girls in Annabelle’s school yard grew up to be jealous women,” I said reflectively.
Precisely. It would be as extraordinary for them to form an Annabelle Craven fan club as it would be for her to turn you into an object of derision.
I roused myself to sit upright as a gleam of hope shone through the stygian darkness of my despair. “Come to think of it, Dimity, she doesn’t gossip, either. I bring her all sorts of juicy tidbits, but she never passes them on. The village grapevine withers and dies when it reaches Bluebell Cottage.” I felt weak with relief as a new and glorious future began to glimmer on the horizon. “If Annabelle kept her little joke to herself, and if Bree doesn’t give me away, I may be able to attend church without a bag over my head.” I peered worriedly at the journal. “I don’t think Bree will give me away. Do you, Dimity?”
While I appreciate your desire to avoid embarrassment, Lori, shouldn’t you be asking yourself another question?
“I am,” I said. “I’m asking myself if Mariana would accept a lucrative offer to move to Finch.”
You needn’t buy Bree’s silence, Lori. She’s your friend. What’s more, she’s a true-blue Kiwi. I can promise you that her sense of honor will prevail over her sense of humor.
“I’ll have to tell Bill, though,” I said, my spirits plummeting. “He’ll make jokes about cereal killers every time he empties a box of cornflakes.”
You’re forgetting that Bill loves you, Lori. He may allow himself a private chuckle at your expense every now and again, but he won’t expose you to public ridicule.
“He is a pretty great guy,” I agreed, bolstered by Aunt Dimity’s comforting words. “I guess I can put up with a bit of razzing at home. Heaven knows I deserve it. I’d laugh at myself if I didn’t feel like banging my stupid head against a wall.”
Before you concuss yourself, my dear, I would urge you to answer one simple question.
“What question is that, Dimity?” I asked.
Why did Annabelle Craven lie to you?
I stared blankly at the simple question for so long that Aunt Dimity felt the need to rephrase it.
If Mrs. Craven didn’t intend to play a mean-spirited trick on you, and if she isn’t delusional, why would she go out of her way to convince you that she committed such a heinous crime?
“I have no idea,” I said wonderingly. “And I still don’t know what she buried beneath the rosebushes. I know it wasn’t Zach, but what was it and why did she feel the need to bury it in the middle of the night?”
Your investigation is far from over, Lori. I suspect that the most intriguing chapter lies ahead of you.
“We’re going home tomorrow,” I said. “Bess and I will pay a call on Mrs. Craven as soon as we unpack.” An image of the Rover’s overloaded cargo compartment rose before my mind’s eye, and I groaned softly as I added, “Which may take some time.”
I shall be extremely interested to hear about your visit to Bluebell Cottage. You may come away from it feeling less foolish than you do now.
“I couldn’t possibly feel more foolish,” I pointed out.
One can always feel more foolish, my dear. But I don’t think you will. In the meanwhile, try not to let your humiliating day spoil your final evening at the White Hart.
“I won’t have to try too hard,” I said, smiling a real smile for the first time since I’d opened the blue journal. “Crème brûlée is on the menu!”
Twenty-two
As it turned out, crème brûlée wasn’t on the menu. The head chef made it especially for me after Bree had a private word with him on her way to the hotel spa. Her clandestine scheme might have succeeded if she’d remembered to tell Erik and Lazlo that it was clandestine.
The truth was revealed when I thanked the two men for delivering yet another splendid dinner to the suite, whereupon Lazlo assured me that the chef was always ready to accommodate special requests. Bree’s guilty face told me who’d made the special request and why, but she relaxed when she saw my grateful grin. I couldn’t fault her for using whatever means she had at her disposal to chivy me into a less prickly mood. After we loaded the Rover, we spent the evening in perfect harmony, sharing Minnie’s Melting Moments before the fire.
Bess saw to it that we got off to an early start on Wednesday morning. Since I valued my wing mirrors, I let Erik drive the Rover through the narrow alleyway to a parking space in front of the hotel.
Francesco turned up after breakfast to escort us from the
suite to our vehicle.
“Ciao, Francesco,” Bree said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Mille grazie di tutto. I’ve just used my entire Italian vocabulary, so please don’t ask me to say anything else.”
“Prego, madam,” he said with a delighted smile. “Your accent is molto buono.” He waited for me to finish strapping Bess in her car seat, then opened the driver’s door. When I was seated behind the wheel, he closed the door and said through the open window, “I think you came to Old Cowerton with many questions, madam. Please forgive me for asking, but . . . did you find the answers you were seeking?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I’ll let you know the next time I stay at the White Hart.”
“I hope it will be very soon,” he said. “You and la piccola principessa will always be welcome.”
“What about me?” called Bree.
“But naturally, madam.” Francesco spread his arms wide, as if to indicate that the answer was self-evident. “Your fluency in my native tongue guarantees you a warm reception at the White Hart.”
“You’re a charmer, Francesco,” said Bree, laughing. “Until next time!”
“Until then, madam.” Francesco stood back and raised a hand in a farewell salute as we drove away.
“I’ll miss him,” Bree said with a wistful sigh.
“Not as much as you’ll miss Mariana,” I said.
“I’ll miss them both equally,” she said. “It’s fun to be pampered.”
“I could start calling you madam,” I offered.
“I’d prefer principessa,” she said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I lack your grasp of Italian.”
Bree whacked me on the arm, smiled sheepishly, and fell silent until we cruised past the entrance to the terraces.
“So,” she said, “when do you plan to visit Mrs. Craven?”
“As soon as possible,” I replied.
“Don’t you dare go there without me,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “I’ll give you a ring as soon as Bess and I finish unloading the Rover.”
Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 17
