Aunt Dimity Goes West

by Nancy Atherton

  “He won’t always be,” said Toby.

  I raised my eyes to meet his gaze. “Because wounds heal?”

  “They do,” he said. “Trust me, Lori. I know about healing. I’m the son and the grandson of doctors.”

  Another burst of lightning brightened the draperies, but instead of flinching, I gave a snort of mirthless laughter. “Do you know how many doctors I’ve seen since I was shot?”

  “But I’m Dr. Toby,” he said, pressing his palm to his chest. “And I know what’s good for you.” He got up, threw the photograph into the box, seized my hands, and pulled me to my feet. “You know what they say, Lori. When you fall off a horse—”

  “But I didn’t fall off a horse,” I protested.

  “Don’t be pedantic.” He picked up the afghan that had tumbled from my shoulders and wrapped it around me again, then put his arm firmly around my waist and steered me out of the library. “Come on. We’re going to enjoy the greatest light show on earth.”

  We stood at the window wall for twenty minutes watching a display of lightning that would have had me crawling under the bed a week ago. Every time I twitched, Toby tightened his hold on me and let out a whoop and a holler.

  “That was a great one! Did you see that? Way to go, Zeus!”

  “Way to go, Zeus?” I echoed, amazed to hear myself giggling.

  “Make up your own cheers,” he chided, and raising a fist, bellowed, “Rock on, Jupiter!”

  The tumultuous thunderstorm finally worked its way out of the Vulgamore Valley, leaving a calmer and much less showy rainstorm pattering in its wake.

  “We need the rain,” Toby said quietly “If you listen hard, you’ll hear the trees sucking it up.” He tilted his head toward me. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m still trying to invent a good cheer,” I said. “But I don’t think I can beat ‘Rock on, Jupiter!’”

  Toby smiled tolerantly, but continued to look down at me.

  “How am I doing?” I gazed at the rain-streaked window and inspected my mind for any new dents or scratches. “To tell you the truth, I’m surprisingly okay. I don’t think I’ll sleep with that photograph under my pillow, but I think I’ll be able to sleep.” I looked up at him. “You’re awfully wise for a twenty-one-year-old.”

  “Grandma used to say that I had an old head on my shoulders,” said Toby.

  “Your grandmother knew what she was talking about,” I said. “Your treatment seems to be working.”

  “It never fails,” he said.

  “Do you have many patients?” I asked teasingly.

  “Just the kids in my dorm. Compared to them, you’re a model of mental stability.” He paused, then added without a trace of facetiousness, “I’m so sorry you were hurt, Lori, and I’m so glad you’re still around to talk about it.” He gave me no chance to respond, but glanced at his watch and went on in more businesslike tones, “It’s only ten o’clock, but I think I’ll turn in.”

  “I’m sorry I spoiled your night off,” I said remorsefully.

  “I told you before, I didn’t want a night off,” he responded. “But I do want a good night’s sleep. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Do we?” I said blankly.

  “Mrs. Blanding,” he reminded me. “Lunch.”

  I clapped a hand to my forehead. “I’d completely forgotten about her.”

  “You’ve had one or two other things on your mind,” said Toby.

  “I suppose I have,” I agreed, dropping the afghan on the sofa. “Do you think Mrs. Blanding will be able to identify the man in the photograph?”

  “I think she’ll be able to identify all of the men in all of the photographs,” said Toby with a sigh. “And she won’t leave until she’s told us their life stories in excruciating detail, so if I were you, I’d grab at least eight hours of good, sound sleep.”

  “I’ll do just that,” I said, “thanks to you.”

  I caught his hand in mine, squeezed it gratefully, and made my way to the master suite, where I took a hot shower, slipped into a flannel nightgown, and lit a fire in the corner fireplace. I turned back the bedclothes as well, but although I was tired, I had no intention of climbing into bed.

  I wasn’t afraid of nightmares, curses, or lurking lightning bolts, but I was rather anxious to avoid the volley of sarcasm that would come my way if I postponed my chat with Aunt Dimity a moment longer.

  Seventeen

  After an evening rife with alarms and diversions, it was heavenly to curl up with Reginald before a crackling fire, with the blue journal in my lap. The familiarity of it all was infinitely comforting. If I closed my eyes, it was easy to pretend that we were at home in the cottage, sitting before a crackling fire in the study.

  “Here we are,” I murmured to Reginald, “my two old friends and me. No surprises, no shocks to the system, just a pleasant, peaceful conversation to round out the day.” I chuckled wickedly as a fresh thought struck me. “I’ll bet Amanda Barrow would go green with envy if she could see how easily I get in touch with ‘the other side.’”

  Reginald’s black button eyes twinkled merrily in the firelight, as if he found the notion as amusing as I did. I touched the faded grape juice stain on his snout, tucked him into the crook of my arm, and opened the journal.

  “Dimity?” I said. “Are you there?”

  The curving lines of royal-blue ink spun across the page with a certain sense of urgency.

  I’m most certainly here, and I wish to be brought up to date on everything you’ve learned since our conversation last night. Is Bluebird’s grapevine less or more efficient than Finch’s? Is Dick Major a murderous madman or simply a cranky old fusspot? Have you gleaned any new information about James Blackwell or the Auerbach family? As you can tell, my dear, I’m agog to hear about your day.

  “It’s been such a strange one, Dimity,” I said, with feeling. “I mean, I should have known he’d show up because everyone else has—not just Kit Smith and Nell Harris, but Peggy Taxman, Christine and Dick Peacock, Mr. Wetherhead, and Lilian Bunting—”

  Lori?

  “—not to mention Ruth and Louise Pym, but they were identical, tottering old men instead of identical, tottering old women—”

  Lori!

  “—and the Calico Cookies. You won’t believe me when I tell you about Carrie Vyne’s Calico Cookies because it’s just too coincidental to be believed. They’re exactly like Sally Pyne’s Crazy Quilt Cookies, right down to the different nuts and things she puts in them every time, but thank heavens Carrie Vyne isn’t one bit like Sally Pyne, except that they both run similar businesses and make wonderful pastries and simply ooze gossip, so I suppose they’re sort of alike, but the main thing is, they don’t look alike.”

  LORI!

  I paused to take a breath, glanced down at the journal, and realized that Aunt Dimity had been trying for some time to gain my attention.

  “Yes?” I said.

  Good evening. When I expressed an interest in your day, I rather hoped I’d hear about it in a coherent fashion, but your account has so far been baffling rather than enlightening. You make it sound as though your neighbors in Finch have come to join you in Colorado, bringing with them a supply of your favorite biscuits. Although I don’t for one moment doubt the sincerity of their affection for you, it seems to me highly unlikely that they would leave the village to languish in their collective absence for no reason other than to satisfy your sweet tooth. I must conclude, therefore, that I’ve misunderstood you. Would you please gather your thoughts and begin again?

  “Sorry, Dimity,” I said, abashed, “but as I said, it’s been a strange day. I guess I got a little carried away.”

  There’s no need to apologize. Just start from the beginning and move on from there. Slowly.

  I silently reviewed the parade of familiar strangers that had passed before me in Caroline’s Cafe, then carefully described them to Aunt Dimity, adding telling details I’d left out earlier.

  “You alre
ady know about Dick Peacock’s homemade wine,” I said. “Well, Nick Altman is just as fat as Dick, and he makes undrinkable beer. And Greg Wilstead has a model train layout in his garage that sounds a lot like the one George Wetherhead has in his living room. And Maggie Flaxton is big, loud, and pushy, just like Peggy Taxman. The only person in Bluebird who doesn’t remind me of someone in Finch is Dick Major, for which I am profoundly grateful, because although Dick isn’t a murderous madman, he is a jerk who likes to intimidate people, and we don’t need someone like that in Finch.”

  Did he succeed in intimidating you?

  “Certainly not,” I said. “To tell you the truth, he came as something of a relief—a fresh face in a cornucopia of clones. Honestly, Dimity, I’m expecting to run into me pretty soon.”

  Would it be so strange if you did? Bluebird and Finch are small towns, and small towns tend to be populated with stock characters: the bossy organizer, the plump publican, the vicar’s wife, the train enthusiast, and so forth. You, my dear, are the amiable foreigner. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you discovered someone in Bluebird who closely resembles yourself.

  “I’d need a medic to revive me if I came face-to-face with myself,” I said flatly. “It was bad enough when I came face-to-face with Abaddon.”

  I beg your pardon?

  “Okay, it wasn’t Abaddon,” I admitted sheepishly. “But before I get ahead of myself again, let me tell you about the Lord Stuart mining disaster, the Lord Stuart curse, the set of tools James Blackwell left behind, and the box of photographs he borrowed from the Bluebird Historical Society.”

  I recounted everything I’d learned at the cafe, at the parsonage, in the cemetery, in the caretaker’s apartment, in the Aerie’s library, and afterward at the window wall in the great room, watching lightning with Toby by my side; then I waited in silence while Dimity digested the information. After some time, the old-fashioned copperplate began to curl across the page again, but the topic Dimity chose to address first surprised me a little.

  What a remarkable young man Toby Cooper is turning out to be. He picked you up from the floor in more ways than one tonight.

  I nodded. “When he told us at the airport that he could fix things, I didn’t think he meant broken minds. But he has a gift for healing. I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of thunderstorms again.”

  Toby seems to be a true caretaker—in every sense of the word. How fortunate that he was nearby when you saw the dark-haired man in the sepia-toned photograph.

  “The one who scared the bejabbers out of me,” I said.

  Indeed. It’s possible, I suppose, that the man in the photograph reminded you of Abaddon because he’s one of Abaddon’s ancestors. After all, Abaddon was an Englishman and Englishmen helped to settle the American West. I think it more likely, however, that you exaggerated the resemblance because Abaddon has been so much on your mind of late.

  “The lantern light and the storm may have influenced my eyesight,” I conceded with a wry smile. “I was already on edge when I saw the photograph. After I’d calmed down a little, Toby had me take a closer look, and I realized that the man wasn’t Abaddon’s twin. He still gives me the willies, but he’s not the creep who shot me on the cliffs.”

  From your account, I gather that the dark-haired man is featured in two photographs in the archival box—the individual portrait as well as the group portrait. Does the same hold true for the other men in the group photograph? Is each man in the group represented by an individual portrait?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t compare the group shot to the other photographs in the box. Does it matter?”

  It might. If the dark-haired man is the only individual singled out from the group, it may mean that James Blackwell took a particular interest in him. I wonder who he was? I hope you’ll make a point of asking Mrs. Blanding about him when she joins you for lunch tomorrow.

  “I intend to,” I assured her. “I’ll check out the other photographs, too, to see if they’re of men in the group shot.”

  Excellent. As for the curse…I’ve detected no trace of it, yet I feel certain that something frightened Mrs. Auerbach.

  “What else could it be but the curse?” I said. “Why else would she suddenly decide to sell a place she’d grown to love? And why would she refuse to explain her decision to her husband? She was probably afraid that he’d laugh at her for being scared of a silly superstition.”

  James Blackwell knew all about the silly superstition. He made it his business to learn as much about it as he could.

  “And he didn’t start looking into it until after Florence Auerbach had left the Aerie,” I said. “Which suggests to me that her fear triggered his interest.”

  I agree. Still, we must ask ourselves: Did James enter the Lord Stuart Mine in order to investigate the curse or simply to line his pockets with ill-gotten gold? If he’s a common thief, we can wash our hands of him. If, on the other hand, he was an honest man searching for the truth behind the curse, then why did he leave the Aerie so hastily?

  “I’ve told you what I think,” I said. “James went into the mine to investigate the curse, and he left the Aerie because he knew Danny Auerbach would fire him for reopening the mine. It might even be illegal to go into old mines. He might have been afraid that Danny would have him arrested.”

  James had no reason to believe that Danny Auerbach would discover his scheme. Danny hadn’t visited the Aerie in six months, and he gave no indication of returning.

  “But James knew that other witnesses were on the way,” I reminded her. “I refer, of course, to me, Annelise, Will, and Rob.”

  Why would you worry James? He was forewarned of your arrival. He had enough time to conceal his excavation project and enough sense, one imagines, to steer you away from it while you were here.

  “What if Annelise or I had stumbled across it accidentally?” I asked. “We might have given him away.”

  I doubt it. Neither one of you knows the first thing about mine entrances. If you’d seen one that had been reopened, James Blackwell could have told you that it was a colorful relic of the Old West, and you would have believed him. You would have avoided the hazard, certainly, but you wouldn’t have reported it to Danny Auerbach. You would have assumed—or James could have told you—that Danny knew about it already. James Blackwell would have had nothing to fear from you or Annelise—or the twins, for that matter.

  “All right,” I said reasonably. “If James wasn’t a thief, and if he wasn’t afraid of being fired or arrested, then why did he take off in such a hurry?”

  I believe he discovered something in the mine that seemed to confirm Mrs. Auerbach’s worst fears.

  “He found proof that the curse is real?” I frowned in confusion. “But you just said—”

  I’ve detected no trace of a curse, but facts have never stopped people from believing in fantasies. James Blackwell had witnessed Mrs. Auerbach’s sudden flight. He’d spent months on his own, immersing himself in local lore. When he finally descended into the darkness of the mine, his mind might have betrayed him. A strange shadow, a queer sound, an oddly shaped rock could have taken on a terrifying significance.

  I glanced at the shivering shadows on the ceiling and understood at once what James might have gone through, alone in the mine’s pitch-black depths. If I’d been in his shoes, it wouldn’t have taken much to make me believe in every superstition known to man.

  “He convinced himself that the Aerie was cursed,” I said, “without finding any real proof.”

  I believe he did, but I wonder…Was he frightened by a mere trick of the light or by something more substantial?

  “If you think I’m going down there to find out,” I declared, “you’ve got another think coming.”

  I would never ask you to engage in such a dangerous undertaking. But you must admit that it’s an intriguing question.

  “It’ll be a cold day in Panama before I risk my neck to answer an intriguing question,” I said firmly.


  Naturally.

  “Bill would kill me if I even thought about poking around in a collapsed mine shaft,” I insisted.

  I don’t want you to set so much as a toe in the old mine, Lori. As I said, there may be nothing down there but shadows and dust.

  “And bats. I’m sure there are bats.” I shuddered theatrically, then frowned. “If James Blackwell believed in the curse, he should have warned us. It wasn’t very nice of him to leave us in the dark, so to speak. It’s as bad as leaving us at the mercy of a murderous madman.”

  Before you condemn him, Lori, please try to remember that we’re indulging in pure speculation.

  “Our speculation is based on fact,” I retorted. “We’re not pulling ideas out of thin air. We’re not making things up as we go along, like Amanda Barrow.”

  Amanda Barrow? I don’t believe you mentioned her.

  “Didn’t I?” I clucked my tongue at my oversight. “Amanda would be crushed if she knew I’d forgotten her, but it’s hard to remember everyone in a sea of doppelgangers.”

  Not another one, surely.

  “Yes, another one,” I said, smiling. “Amanda Barrow is Bluebird’s version of Miranda Morrow, but Amanda’s more flamboyantly psychic than Miranda, and she uses more props.”

  What do you expect? She’s an American.

  “Are you implying that Americans lack subtlety?” I asked, feigning indignation.

  As a rule, yes, but there are, of course, exceptions to every rule.

  “You’re supposed to add, ‘and I count you among the exceptions, Lori dear,’” I hinted.

  But I don’t count you among the exceptions, Lori dear. As you’ve just demonstrated, subtlety is not your strong suit.

  “Ah, well,” I said, shrugging, “I can’t be good at everything.”

  Tell me more about Amanda Barrow. I adore flamboyant psychics. They have such vivid imaginations.

  “Like me,” I said without rancor.

  I’ve never known anyone quite like you, Lori. What props does Amanda Barrow use?

  “You name it,” I said. “She specializes in palmistry, tarot-card reading, rune casting, crystal-ball gazing, past-life retrieval, and dream interpretation, but I don’t think she’d turn down a chance to read tea leaves if one came her way. Oh, and let’s not forget about her inner eye. You should have seen the act she put on when I walked into her shop. She went all wobbly and mystical because, according to her, I was”—I raised my arm in a melodramatic gesture—“accompanied by a spirit from the great beyond.”