Bree twisted around in her seat to peer at the cargo compartment, then faced forward again.
“I’ll expect to hear from you sometime next week, then,” she said.
“Sooner,” I said, ignoring her unsubtle jibe. “We have to be done before Bill and the boys get home. Unloading two cars at once is a recipe for disaster.”
—
We arrived in Finch an hour later and found it as splendidly somnolent as ever. James Hobson was scanning the village green with his metal detector, Mr. Barlow was repairing a downspout on the old schoolhouse, Sally Cook was watering the tulips in her window box, and Charles Bellingham was chatting with Christine Peacock on the doorstep of the Emporium. They each waved to us as we drove past, except for James Hobson, who was wearing headphones and gazing fixedly at the ground.
I glanced at the upstairs front window in Bluebell Cottage, but I didn’t see Mrs. Craven in her workroom. I wondered if she was in the attic, selecting the fabrics she would use in her next baby quilt. I hoped she wasn’t burying anything in her back garden.
I dropped Bree off at her mellow redbrick house and continued up the lane, trying to remember what was in the refrigerator at home and debating whether or not I should have picked up a gallon of milk at the Emporium. I’d just decided that we hadn’t been away long enough for the milk in the fridge to spoil when I saw a sight that drove all other thoughts from my mind.
Bill’s car was parked in our gravel driveway. The trunk was open, but it hadn’t been emptied, and the cargo carrier was still attached to the roof rack. I couldn’t imagine why the intrepid outdoorsmen had cut their trip short, but I knew for a fact that my recipe for disaster was about to be tested.
I squeezed the Rover in beside Bill’s Mercedes, released Bess from her car seat, and carried her into the cottage. A hubbub of familiar voices drew me to the kitchen, where I discovered my menfolk seated at the scrubbed pine table and chowing down on gargantuan sandwiches they’d apparently cobbled together from every leftover they could get their hands on.
“Mum!” Will and Rob chorused through bulging mouths.
I couldn’t make out the rest of their greeting, but the hugs they gave me after they jumped to their feet rendered speech superfluous. Bess all but dove from my arms into Bill’s, and Stanley’s powerful purr left me in no doubt that he was the happiest cat alive.
Chaos ensued.
The boys forgot their sandwiches in their eagerness to show me the collections of rocks, shells, sticks, feathers, bones, and interesting pieces of trash they’d amassed, all of which had to be unearthed from the jumble of dirty clothes festering in the overflowing car trunk. Each object prompted a story, and I had to listen to all of them while Bill changed Bess’s diaper, fed her lunch, and rocked her to sleep in the relative serenity of the nursery.
When the boys ran out of stories to tell, I put them to work transferring the trunk’s fetid contents to the laundry room. Bill eventually descended from the nursery to take charge of emptying the roof-mounted cargo carrier, but as soon as Will and Rob cleared the clothes from the trunk, I commandeered them to help me to unload the Rover.
We dropped things, tripped over things, and caromed off of one another like billiard balls. The sound of feet thundering up and down the stairs brought to mind cattle stampedes, but it didn’t disturb my sleeping beauty. When Bess finished her nap, I put her in her playpen for her own safety.
I didn’t aim for unpacking perfection, and I certainly didn’t achieve it. By the time everything was in the general vicinity of where it belonged—including the tent, which Bill spread in the back meadow to dry—I was ready to wind down for the evening. Dinner was an informal affair, composed as it was of the leftover leftover sandwiches, reheated beef stew, and a batch of oatmeal cookies I dug out of the freezer and thawed in the microwave. The milk, thank heavens, was still drinkable.
It was close to midnight before Bill and I had a quiet moment to ourselves. With the children asleep upstairs and the last load of rancid laundry sloshing gently in the washing machine, we retreated to the living room with much-needed cups of tea. Bill collapsed into his favorite armchair and I lowered my weary body onto the sofa. Stanley’s purr revved to new heights of contentment as he leapt onto Bill’s knee and curled into a gleaming black ball on his lap.
“Welcome home,” I said with a tired laugh.
“There’s no place like it,” he said, stroking Stanley’s rumbling back. “Did you enjoy your getaway?”
“Did I enjoy having someone else prepare my meals, make my bed, and pick up after me in a lavish suite overlooking a walled garden? Hmm . . .” I peered at the fire in mock concentration, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah, it was okay.”
“Sounds like it,” said Bill, smiling.
“Why did you come back early?” I asked. “I didn’t expect to see you until Sunday.”
“To be honest,” he said, “the camping trip wasn’t an unqualified success.” He grimaced ruefully. “To be perfectly honest, it was a complete catastrophe. When the tent dries, I may set fire to it.”
“I thought you were having a great time,” I said, puzzled. “What went wrong?”
“What didn’t go wrong?” he retorted. “Our campsite was in the middle of nowhere, it had no facilities of any kind, and it was as wet as a bog. We couldn’t find a stick of dry firewood, so we couldn’t make a fire. It rained so hard the second night that the tent collapsed on us and we had to sleep in the car. When the rain let up, the midges moved in. Then came the slugs.”
“Ugh,” I said, trying hard not to laugh.
“When we set the tent up again, it was covered with slugs,” said Bill. “But we were so hungry by then that they almost looked appetizing.”
“Lake District l’escargot?” I suggested.
“They were slugs, not snails,” he said glumly. “And I didn’t bring garlic or butter. I also forgot to pack the can opener, so we couldn’t get at the baked beans or the soup, not that it mattered, because we couldn’t build a fire to heat them.”
“What did you eat?” I asked, fascinated.
“Energy bars and peanut butter sandwiches,” he replied dully. “By day two, we were wet through and chilled to the bone, and we could hardly stand up straight because of the mud. When the tent collapsed a second time—possibly due to the weight of the slugs—I called it quits. We spent the next few days at a luxury hotel in Ullswater.”
“Oh,” I said as the penny dropped. “I wondered why the boys were raving about an indoor swimming pool.”
“They spent most of their time in the pool,” said Bill. “I spent most of mine in the hot tub, thawing out.”
“Did you do any of the things you told me about on the phone?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “We hiked with a park ranger and we went fishing. We spotted a pair of ospreys, skipped stones on the lake, and rode the steam train in Ravenglass. The one thing we didn’t do was go pony trekking. None of the local stables would allow it because half of the trails were flooded and the rest were hock-deep in mud. Which is why we came home early. The boys missed Thunder and Storm.” He sighed. “And I missed my chair.”
“Poor baby.” I crossed to kiss him, then perched on the arm of his chair. “I’ll help you with the tent bonfire. We can roast marshmallows.”
“I’m afraid we’ll end up roasting slugs,” he said.
“At least you’ll be rid of them,” I said philosophically.
“Lori,” he said, looking up at me, “the reason I didn’t tell you the truth about—”
I interrupted him with another kiss. “You don’t have to explain, Bill. In fact, I’m glad you were less than honest with me. You’ve paved the way for me to come clean about my girls’ getaway.”
“What happened?” he asked as I returned to the sofa. “Did you send a steak back to the kitchen because it was too rare?”
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“We didn’t send anything back to the kitchen,” I said with a contented sigh. “The White Hart’s chef is a genius.”
“The meals at our hotel were superb, too,” said Bill, “but Old Cowerton is a lot closer to Finch than Ullswater. Does the White Hart accept reservations?”
“Bill,” I said patiently, “I realize that you’re preoccupied with food at the moment because you were forced to live on energy bars and peanut butter sandwiches for two whole days, but I’d be grateful if we could return to the subject at hand.”
“Right,” he said. “The truth about your girls’ getaway. I’m all ears.”
“Before I begin,” I said, “I’d like to point out that I didn’t laugh at your camping debacle.”
“You wanted to,” said Bill.
“I held it in,” I said firmly. “I hope you’ll afford me the same courtesy.”
“What have you done, Lori?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching ominously.
“It’s not so much what I’ve done,” I temporized. “It’s what I was led to believe.” I took a deep breath and launched into a detailed and truthful account of everything that had happened since I’d taken a seat across from Annabelle Craven at the quilting bee.
I told him about her shocking confession, my uncertainty, and Aunt Dimity’s suggestion that I look for answers in Old Cowerton. I told him about Bree’s generous offer to accompany Bess and me. I recounted our initial conversation with Francesco, our alarming encounter with Bob Nash at the Willows Café, and my informative tête-à-tête with Hayley Calthorp at Nash’s News.
After a short pause for a fortifying sip of tea, I went on to tell him about our visit to the terraces. I described the rosebushes in Dovecote’s back garden, Susan Jessop’s unexpected invitation, and Sunnyside’s disturbingly suggestive floor plan. Finally, I summarized the startling accusations we heard at Minnie Jessop’s tea party and the comprehensive refutations presented to us at Penny Moorecroft’s brunch.
When I finished my long and tangled tale, Bill stared at me as if I’d sprouted antlers.
“Old Mrs. Craven?” he said incredulously. “A serial killer?”
“She wasn’t always old,” I protested. “And you have to admit that she left a trail of dead bodies in her wake.”
“Yes, but—” He caught himself. “Sorry, Lori. I’m sure your suspicions made sense at the time.”
“But that’s the thing, Bill,” I said earnestly. “My suspicions didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. It still doesn’t. Which is why I intend to visit Mrs. Craven tomorrow. I have to find out why she lied to me.”
“I’d expect nothing less of you,” he said. “Take all the time you need. I’ll look after the children. The boys will spend the day at the stables, naturally, but Bess and I have some catching up to do.” He ducked his head, then gazed at me apologetically. “Sorry I wasn’t entirely honest about my trip.”
“I forgive you,” I said. “Sorry I wasn’t entirely honest about mine.”
“I forgive you.” Bill eased Stanley out of his lap, stood, and pulled me to my feet. “Now that we’ve proved what fine people we are, let’s go to bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute,” I said. “I have to toss the clothes into the dryer.”
“Don’t be too long,” he said, enfolding me in his arms. “Bess and I aren’t the only ones who have some catching up to do.”
Twenty-three
After Bill, Bess, and the boys left for the stables the following morning, I telephoned Bree to let her know that I was ready to pay a call on Mrs. Craven. She feigned astonishment but agreed to be at her gate when I came by to pick her up at a quarter to ten.
In Finch, it was considered impolite to turn up on a neighbor’s doorstep uninvited before ten o’clock. While I was miffed with Mrs. Craven, I remained too fond of her to treat her with disrespect.
I continued the laborious task of restoring order to the cottage until it was time for me to leave. Bree was in full Bree regalia when she joined me. Her short hair was again spiky, her jeans were torn artistically at the knees, her nose ring gleamed in the morning sun, and the skimpy tank top she wore beneath her black leather jacket would, I knew, reveal her tattooed arms.
We said very little as we cruised past Willis, Sr.’s wrought-iron gates and bumped over the humpbacked bridge, but when I parked the Rover in front of Bluebell Cottage, Bree found her voice.
“What’s the plan?” she asked. “I hope it’s not good cop–bad cop because I doubt that either one of us would make a very convincing bad cop. I may look the part, but Mrs. Craven knows what I’m really like. She’s seen me play with Bess.”
“Did you have chocolate pancakes for breakfast?” I asked, watching her closely. “Because you sound a little loopy. The plan, such as it is, couldn’t be less complicated. We simply go in there and—” I broke off as Bree’s dark eyes widened and darted from my face to a point just beyond my right shoulder. I swung around and found myself almost nose to nose with Annabelle Craven. I recoiled involuntarily, then smiled mechanically. She tapped on the window and I lowered it.
“Good morning, Lori,” she said, beaming at me. “I heard you were back. And you brought Bree with you. How delightful! I’ll set another place at the table. It won’t take me a second. Come in, come in!”
“Another place at the table?” Bree murmured as Mrs. Craven disappeared into Bluebell Cottage. “Why did she set the table to begin with? Did you let her know you were coming?”
“I haven’t spoken with her since the quilting bee,” I said.
“It must be another ambush tea party,” said Bree. “Why are these old ladies always a step ahead of us?”
“They have spy networks,” I said sagely, “and they know how to use them.”
Mrs. Craven was waiting for us in her dining room. A tall stack of newly completed baby quilts occupied one end of the mahogany table—one of the “few sticks of furniture” Penny Moorecroft had mentioned—while the far end was draped with an aging but immaculate linen tablecloth.
As we entered the room, Mrs. Craven was adding a third place setting to the two she’d already arranged around her familiar bone china tea service and a serving dish piled high with Melting Moments. I wondered if Minnie Jessop had given her the recipe before Zach Trotter’s departure had cast a shadow over their relationship.
“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Craven said cheerfully. “I filled the pot as soon as I saw you come over the bridge. The tea should be steeped to perfection by now.”
She took her place at the head of the table and gestured for us to take the other two. Bree sat on her left and I sat on her right, facing each other across the spotless expanse of linen. Mrs. Craven filled our cups and urged us to help ourselves to the treats she’d provided, then folded her hands and leaned toward me, her gray eyes twinkling.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Are you going to have me arrested?”
“N-no,” I stammered, caught off guard.
“Why not?” she inquired, sounding both curious and disappointed. “You went to Old Cowerton, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“And you spoke with Minnie Jessop,” she continued.
“How do you know we spoke with Minnie Jessop?” Bree interjected.
“Hayley Calthorp rang me,” said Mrs. Craven. “Hayley knows everything that goes on in Old Cowerton.”
“Then she must know that we spoke with your sister-in-law as well,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Craven, her face falling. “I might have known that Penny would put a spanner in my spokes. I suppose she told you that I didn’t murder Zach.”
“She and her friends made it clear that you didn’t murder anyone,” I said.
“I’m sure they meant well,” Mrs. Craven said, looking a bit cross, “but I do wish they hadn’t interfere
d.”
“Interfered with what?” I asked, bewildered. “You don’t want to be arrested, do you?”
“But that’s exactly what I do want,” Mrs. Craven replied. “I don’t suppose you could ignore what Penny told you, as a favor to me? Surely Minnie’s story is more persuasive than the one Penny offered.”
“It may have been persuasive,” I said, “but it wasn’t true, was it?”
“No,” Mrs. Craven admitted reluctantly. “It wasn’t.”
“I think it’s about time you told us the truth,” said Bree. “You may not owe it to me, but you owe it to Lori. You have no idea how worried she was after you lied to her about Zach, or how stupid she felt for taking you seriously.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” said Mrs. Craven, gazing contritely at me. “I’m afraid I chose you because I knew you’d take me seriously. It’s one of the reasons, at any rate.”
“Happy to oblige,” I muttered, wondering if everyone in Finch had me pegged as a soft touch.
“Just tell us the truth, Mrs. Craven,” Bree insisted. “Tell us what really happened on the night Zach Trotter left you.”
“I’ve never told anyone before,” she said, “except Edwin. He thought I was a fool to protect Zach, but I couldn’t give him away. I was his wife.”
“Zach’s probably in a place where he doesn’t need your protection anymore,” Bree said gently. “He was well on his way there when Edwin found him in Australia.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Mrs. Craven said abruptly. “The drinking, the thieving—none of it was his fault. The war damaged him. He couldn’t leave it behind. He couldn’t stop dodging bullets. Taking risks made him feel alive, and drinking blurred the memories of the unspeakable sights he’d seen on the battlefield.”
It was a view of Zach I hadn’t considered, and I felt ashamed of myself for being so shortsighted.
“I was in bed when he came home that night,” Mrs. Craven began. “I heard him come in. I heard him stagger upstairs. I heard him stumble at the top of the stairs and I heard the most awful noise. I sprang out of bed, terrified that I would find him injured or perhaps dead, but Zach hadn’t fallen.”
Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse Page 18
