Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  “Cassie and I were ready to put down roots,” said Peter, “but we didn’t know where to put them until an old friend told us that Mum was getting fed up with her role at the riding school.”

  I blinked back my tears and went on the alert. If Peter’s old friend turned out to be Dabney Holdstrom, I’d know for certain who Aunt Dimity’s puppeteer was.

  “Who told you about Emma?” I asked. “And when were you told?”

  Peter and Cassie exchanged speculative looks.

  “It must have been five, maybe six, days ago,” Peter replied, “though it seems like a lifetime ago. One of Mum’s horticultural chums wrote to me, to let me know about the situation at home. Her name is Beverley St. John. She lives near Upper Deeping and she was around a lot when Mum and Dad first bought Anscombe Manor. She helped Mum with the landscaping.”

  “Peter calls her Auntie Bev,” said Cassie. “He’s known her since he was a boy and they’ve always kept in touch.”

  “Did Auntie Bev mention a man named Dabney Holdstrom in her letter?” I asked.

  “No,” Peter answered. “Who’s Dabney Holdstrom?”

  “Never mind,” I replied. “Tell me about the letter.”

  “Auntie Bev told us what Mum hadn’t told us,” said Peter, “because Mum never complains.”

  “And suddenly, the way ahead seemed clear to us,” said Cassie. “We hated the thought of sponging off our families, but if we could earn our keep by taking on a job Emma detested, everyone would be happy. We wouldn’t feel like parasites and Emma wouldn’t be chained to a desk.”

  “We talked it over, rang Mum, and here we are,” said Peter. “Your new old neighbors.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased,” I said. “Will and Rob will turn cartwheels when they see you.”

  “We’ll be there to greet them when they show up for their lessons tomorrow morning at . . . eight?” Cassie said tentatively.

  “Eight it is,” I said. “You’ve learned the schedule already. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s a work in progress,” she cautioned. “I’ve just about memorized Saturday, but the rest of the week is still a blur.”

  The horses tied to the hitching post whinnied as a car pulled into the driveway.

  “Bill’s home early,” said Peter, turning to look through the bay window. “Our cue to leave, I think. We’ll say a quick hello to him and be on our way.”

  “I’m so glad you came by,” I said. “Thanks again for all the presents.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow night,” said Cassie, rising. “Look after your thumb.”

  “I won’t have to,” I told her. “Bill will look after it for me.”

  My comment was meant to be humorous, but it proved to be an accurate description of Bill’s intentions. When I told him I’d spent the morning chatting with Mr. Barlow and Selena Buxton as well as with Peter and Cassie Harris, he locked the front door, carried me upstairs, and forbade me to leave the master bedroom, regardless of how many times the doorbell rang. He made a lovely asparagus omelet for my lunch and left the room while I ate it, so I wouldn’t be tempted to expend energy talking to him.

  In truth, I had no energy left to expend. I finished the omelet, pushed the tray aside, and settled down for a long-delayed, much-needed nap. Will and Rob tiptoed into the bedroom at some point and I assured them drowsily that Mummy was fine, but nothing else penetrated my overtaxed brain until morning.

  Twenty-one

  As usual, Aunt Dimity was right. Sleep was the best medicine. I woke at half past seven on Saturday morning, feeling almost normal. My thumb ached a little, but not enough to require medication, and the room didn’t tilt when I got out of bed.

  I put on my bathrobe and wandered downstairs to find a note on the kitchen table informing me that Bill had taken Rob and Will to their riding lessons and would, at their urgent request, stay to watch their jump class.

  I’d planned to spend the morning in the study, giving Aunt Dimity the latest news about Finch’s tumultuous affairs, but after reading Bill’s note, I decided to pursue a more active agenda, one that would have won his disapproval had he known of it. My husband was the light of my life, but he could be just a tad overprotective.

  I took a quick shower, downed a hurried breakfast, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and wrote a note on the back of Bill’s, informing him that I’d gone to Finch. As I closed the front door behind me, I felt for the first time a surge of anger toward the meddlesome puppeteer. Thanks to his interference, I wouldn’t be able to pedal my beautiful Betsy down the sun-dappled lane while listening to birds twitter in the hedgerows because I couldn’t work her hand brakes. I was irked with him for throwing my village into turmoil, but I was furious with him for keeping me off my blue bicycle.

  “When I get my hand on you, string-puller,” I growled, “I’m going to smack you silly.”

  I had to drive Bill’s Mercedes because he’d taken the Range Rover and I had to steer without the aid of my mummy thumb, but I made it to Ivy Cottage in one piece. I had no intention of engaging in manual labor, but I couldn’t abandon Team Ivy without a word of explanation.

  The front garden was a hive of activity. Mr. Barlow was in the driveway, measuring a trellis panel, Jack and Bree were pounding stakes into the ground, and Emma was connecting one stake to another with lengths of string. Though the sound of pounding hammers made me shudder, the absorbed expression on Emma’s face delighted me. She looked like a pig in clover.

  “Are you making a maze?” I asked from the gateway.

  Mr. Barlow raised his hand briefly to acknowledge my presence, but the others dropped what they were doing and rushed over to greet me. I thanked Emma for the soup and the grapes and the lilacs, told her how much I’d enjoyed seeing Peter and Cassie, and assured her that my menfolk and I would be at the homecoming party. I thanked Bree and Jack, too, for driving me home from the humpbacked bridge in my hour of need.

  “Bree and I swung by your place yesterday afternoon to find out how you were,” Jack said, “but Bill told us you were not to be disturbed.” He ducked his head guiltily. “I’m sorry we spent so much time faffing about in Upper Deeping, Lori. If we’d come back sooner—”

  “You’re not to blame for my lack of coordination,” I interrupted. “Your mission was to find the perfect birdbaths and mine was to repair the bird tables. I hope one of us succeeded.”

  “Emma approves of our birdbaths,” Bree informed me. “And we’re not making a maze, we’re marking out borders and flower beds.”

  “We’re implementing Emma’s grand design,” said Jack.

  I felt like a complete heel for walking out on my team when they had so much work ahead of them, so I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “Bill told me you were as weak as a kitten,” said Emma, eyeing me suspiciously. “Does he know you’re out and about?”

  “He will when he reads my note,” I replied evasively.

  “I thought so,” said Emma. She lowered her voice. “Bill read the riot act to Mr. Barlow after you hurt yourself, and he made our young friends here feel pretty small for leaving you alone with a toolbox full of dangerous weapons. He’d drive a stake through my heart if I put you to work, so run along.” She folded her arms and regarded me sternly. “You are officially relieved of duty.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight. Good luck with the grand design.”

  Relieved at having been relieved, I drove Bill’s car over the humpbacked bridge and parked it in front of the Emporium. The right-hand window display, I noted, had been thoroughly dusted and the rusty cans of baked beans had been replaced by shiny new ones. Jasper Taxman, Peggy’s mousy, soft-spoken husband, stood in the left-hand window, adding a new C to the crumpets sign.

  “Thus endeth the ‘rumpets’ sale,” I murmured, and got out of the car. I tapped on the shop window to get Jasper’s attention and he motioned for me to come in. The sleigh bells affixed to the fro
nt door announced my entrance.

  Finch’s post office occupied a caged space at the far end of the long wooden counter that held the Emporium’s old-fashioned register. The counter faced rows of shelves stocked with standard grocery items as well as such rural necessities as udder balm, baling twine, and poultry feed. A quick glance down each aisle told me that I was the only customer in the shop and that Peggy was, thankfully, elsewhere.

  Jasper Taxman climbed down from the display window and regarded me politely. Like Hector Huggins, Jasper had been an accountant before his retirement and he was equally nondescript. He wore brown suits, brown ties, brown socks, and brown wingtip shoes, but beneath his mud-colored exterior beat a surprisingly passionate heart. He could silence his overbearing wife with a gentle glance when he chose to, but more often than not he stood back and admired her for imposing her will on the rest of us. Jasper understood better than anyone that Peggy was the powerhouse behind the village fete, the flower show, the harvest festival, the sheep dog trials, and myriad other events that brought neighbors together and brought Finch to life.

  “I’m glad to see you looking so well, Lori,” he said. “Bill gave me to understand that you would be incapacitated for several days.”

  “Bill worries too much,” I said. “Where’s Peggy?”

  “She’s in the kitchen at the tearoom,” he replied, “attempting to make hot cross buns. I can ring her if you need to use the post office.”

  “Don’t ring her,” I said. “I’d rather speak with you alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s about Peggy’s purchase of the tearoom, isn’t it?” he said with a faint sigh. “I don’t mind telling you, Lori, that I’m not happy about it, not happy at all. We could probably afford to buy another business, but we wouldn’t be able to staff it. My wife is a demanding employer. I doubt that any job applicant would meet her stringent requirements. If one did, I doubt that he or she would remain in my wife’s employ for more than a week.”

  I couldn’t agree with him without insulting his better half, so I said, “You’re stretched pretty thin as it is, with this place, the greengrocer’s shop, and the post office. Why would Peggy want another business?”

  “My wife is, as you must know, a competitive woman,” said Jasper. “It galled her to play second fiddle to an ascendant Sally Pyne. She . . .” Jasper blushed, but went on. “She asked the wishing well to provide her with the means to restore the balance of power in Finch. The estate agency’s flyer arrived in the mail two days later, announcing the sale of the tearoom building. But it’s not right, Lori.”

  “What’s not right?” I asked. “Peggy’s wish? Peggy’s rivalry with Sally?”

  “Neither,” he said. “I’m talking about the estate agency’s flyer. It’s all wrong. Let me show you.”

  He went behind the counter, retrieved a sheet of glossy paper from a low shelf, and handed it to me. It came from the Troy agency in Upper Deeping and it looked like a typical real estate advertisement. The firm’s name, address, and contact information were printed at the top of the page, above thumbnail photographs of various properties accompanied by brief descriptions and price estimates. Sally’s building was the first property listed.

  “I don’t see what’s wrong,” I said.

  “Look again,” said Jasper. “Read what it says about the tearoom.”

  “‘Prime retail space with living accommodations in charming village,’” I read aloud. I reread the words silently and shrugged. “Once a potential buyer finds out how small the charming village is, he may not rank the retail space as prime, but other than that, I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “Where’s the price for the tearoom?” Jasper asked, pointing at the entry.

  I followed his pointing finger and saw that the tearoom’s listing was the only one lacking a big red pound sign followed by a string of red numbers.

  “I guess I missed the price because it’s not there,” I said.

  “I believe Peggy overlooked its absence as well,” said Jasper. “She’s usually quite methodical in her business dealings, but her determination to gain the upper hand with Sally has made her reckless. Peggy saw the tearoom’s listing and charged across the green to announce her intentions without looking into the details. I’ve had to do the requisite spadework for her.”

  “What spadework have you done?” I asked.

  “I rang the agency to request a price,” he said, “but no one answered. I then sent several e-mails, but I received no reply. Yesterday, I drove to Upper Deeping and discovered that the address listed on the flyer belongs to a vacant storefront. I made inquiries at neighboring shops and learned that the storefront’s previous tenants included a confectioner, a candle maker, and a woman who made knitted jumpers for infants. No one recalled the Troy agency.” He looked down at the flyer and shook his head. “I can only assume that a mistake has been made or that someone is playing a rather cruel joke on my wife.”

  “Has anyone else in Finch received a flyer?” I asked.

  “No others have come through the post office,” said Jasper. “To my knowledge, none have been hand-delivered. It’s as if the flyer were meant for Peggy’s eyes only, as though she’d been targeted by some sort of prankster.”

  “Have you told Peggy what you’ve learned?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” said Jasper. “She’s overexcited. Until she calms down, I won’t be able to reason with her. Besides, it may be a mistake. The printer may have reversed a few numbers or printed the wrong numbers when he made the flyer.”

  “How will you find out if it’s a mistake?” I asked.

  “I’ll ask Sally Pyne to find out for me,” he replied. “Sally leases her building from someone. The building’s owner should know whether it’s for sale or not.”

  I blinked at him in disbelief. “Hasn’t Sally checked with the owner?”

  “Henry tells me she hasn’t,” said Jasper. “Sally, also, is too overwrought to think straight, but I shall ask her to speak with the leaseholder as soon as she calms down. I’m dealing with two powerful, proud, and extremely angry women, Lori. It’s not an easy task.”

  “A rock and a hard place,” I said, repeating Mr. Barlow’s apt words. “May I borrow the flyer, Jasper? I’d like to have it on hand in case something similar shows up at my place.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jasper. “I’ve already made copies to show to Peggy and Sally.”

  I folded the glossy, professional-looking advertisement in half, slipped it into my shoulder bag, and rejoiced in having secured my first piece of hard evidence. It seemed obvious to me that the puppeteer had responded to Peggy’s wish by producing a bogus flyer from a nonexistent company. I decided not to voice my suspicions to Jasper—without proof, they would seem farfetched. If I could trace the flyer back to its creator, however, I’d be able to reveal to him the identity of the prankster who’d pulled the wool over his wife’s eyes.

  “Did you make a wish in the wishing well?” I asked out of sheer curiosity.

  “No,” said Jasper, “but if I had, it would have been for my wife to be content with what she has.”

  I smiled sympathetically and left the Emporium. I paused to gaze across the green at the tearoom, then turned my steps toward the old schoolmaster’s house at the far end of the green, where George Wetherhead lived. If the puppeteer had forged a real estate advertisement, I reasoned, he might have printed a fake newsletter, too.

  I nearly ran into Christine Peacock as she stepped out of the pub she owned with her husband, Dick.

  “Good morning, Lori,” she said. “You’re looking well, considering—”

  “I am well,” I interrupted.

  I didn’t intend to have a long conversation with Christine, but I couldn’t resist asking her a question I’d meant to ask her for days. Christine Peacock took a keen interest in UFOs. I’d expected her to fall under the wishing well’s spell faster than anyone else in the village, but I hadn’t heard one word about her making a wish.<
br />
  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I went on, “but have you or Dick visited the wishing well at Ivy Cottage lately?”

  “Certainly not,” she said loftily. “Wishing wells are for children and childish adults. Dick and I are neither.”

  “Right,” I said. If I’d had more time I would have asked her to explain the difference between UFOs and wishing wells, but I was in a hurry, so I let sleeping dogs lie.

  “Will we see you at Emma’s party tonight?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I told her, and continued on my way.

  I was passing Crabtree Cottage when the front door opened and Charles Bellingham called out to me to wait. He hurried toward me, looking far more subdued than he had while he’d been taunting Grant Tavistock over their white picket gate.

  “I didn’t expect to see you in the village today,” he said. “Bill told me you’d be in bed for a week.” He didn’t wait to hear my disclaimer, but rushed on. “Has Grant been in touch with you?”

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since he stormed off. Why? Hasn’t he come back?”

  “He’s been gone since Thursday,” Charles said with a catch in his voice. He twisted his hands together fretfully. “I shouldn’t have made such a to-do about the Asazuki. Grant swears it wasn’t there when he brought the box of disposables home. He accused me of buying it, just to make a point, but I didn’t, Lori, I promise you, I didn’t. I found it in the shed, exactly as I said.”

  “Where did the painting come from?” I asked. “Did you trace its previous owners?”

  “Of course I did,” said Charles. “The painting’s provenance was part of the case I was building against Grant. I have no idea where he acquired it because he doesn’t keep track of the disposables. The box it was in could have come from a car boot sale, a charity shop, or flea market.”

  “Not much to go on,” I said.