Aunt Dimity and the Summer King

by Nancy Atherton

  “Peggy was a bit daunting,” Grant admitted, “but we could tell that she was devoted to Finch. She made us feel as though we could each play a valuable role in village life.” He looked at Charles. “We liked the notion of being needed.”

  Charles nodded, then turned to me.

  “Once we’d settled into Crabtree Cottage,” he said, “we went back to the Emporium with two of Peggy’s sign-up sheets. I’d volunteered to run the cake stall at the church fête and Grant had volunteered to paint scenery for the Nativity play.”

  “We’ve been volunteering ever since,” said Grant.

  “And we owe it all to Marigold,” said Charles. “I shudder to think of how dull our lives would have been if she hadn’t brought us to Finch.”

  “Did Marigold warn you about the Finch-Tillcote feud?” I asked.

  “She dropped a few hints about it,” said Charles. “We were enchanted by the notion of an absurd, eons-old feud dividing the two villages. It added just the right touch of melodrama to Finch.”

  “We adore melodrama,” said Grant.

  “It sounds as though you adore Marigold,” I said.

  “We do,” said Charles. “We keep our distance while she’s working, of course, but we’re always pleased to see her when she calls on us.” He began to collect our empty plates. “Dessert, anyone?”

  “Relax,” Grant told him. “You prepared the meal. I’ll clear the table and serve dessert.”

  After a short interlude, during which Grant took the dirty dishes into the kitchen, Charles took Bess for a stroll around the garden, and I took stock of the information I’d collected, we returned to the table to partake of Charles’s masterful chocolate mousse.

  I’d heard about my hosts’ experiences with Marigold, but I still hadn’t heard about their encounters with her clients. I allowed myself to savor one spoonful of mousse in blissful silence, then resumed my inquiry.

  “It sounds as though Marigold has shown Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage to quite a few people,” I said. “Have you met any of them?”

  “We missed the fat computer chap, the balding surgeon, and the London lawyers,” said Grant, “but we met the itchy banker, the aging ad exec, and the cuckolded Oxford don.”

  “I thought you kept your distance from Marigold while she was working,” I said.

  “We do,” said Grant, “but she always calls on us before she leaves. She can’t ask her clients to wait in the car while she chats with us, can she?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “As relative newcomers to Finch, you must identify with her clients.”

  “We can almost read their thoughts,” Grant confirmed. “They’re as worried as we were about living in such a small, out-of-the-way place.”

  “They’re afraid they’ll be bored to death,” said Charles. “We tell them not to judge a book by its cover.”

  “We assure them that, appearances notwithstanding,” Grant said, “Finch is an exciting place to live.”

  “Because of the village-wide events?” I hazarded.

  “We let Peggy Taxman fill them in on events,” Charles said dismissively. “We fill them in on the highlights Peggy doesn’t cover.”

  “What highlights?” I asked with a flutter of apprehension.

  “Our burglary, of course,” said Grant, “and the fire at the tearoom.”

  “We practically reenact the slanging match Peggy and Sally had last year on the village green,” said Charles.

  “We also think it’s important to mention that people aren’t left on their own when the river floods,” said Grant. “We assure them that the entire village pitches in to clear away the mud whenever the Little Deeping spills over its banks.”

  “If there’s time,” said Charles, “we describe the day the village was trashed by the yahoos attending the Renaissance Festival.”

  “Whether there’s time or not,” said Grant, “we won’t let them leave until they’ve heard our pièce de résistance.”

  “What would that be?” I asked uneasily.

  “We tell them about Crabtree Cottage’s previous owner,” Grant replied.

  “You don’t tell them she died here, do you?” I said, appalled.

  “Why shouldn’t we?” Charles retorted. “It’s the most thrilling thing that ever happened in Finch and it happened in our cottage.”

  “When they first come to Finch, they think it’s a sleepy village,” Grant said complacently. “Charles and I let them know that it’s wide awake.”

  I smiled weakly and finished my chocolate mousse.

  Nineteen

  I was not in a jolly mood when I drove home from Finch.

  “Burglaries!” I sputtered furiously. “Fires! Floods! Feuds! Slanging matches! The green trashed by tourists! A corpse in Crabtree Cottage!” I thumped the steering wheel with my fist. “I’m not surprised that the empty cottages are still empty, Bess. The wonder is that anyone moves to Finch, ever!”

  Bess was less disturbed than I was by the interviews I’d conducted in the village. She fell asleep before we reached the cottage and stayed asleep until I placed her on her padded mat in the study. While she tried and tried again to roll over—a maneuver she had yet to conquer—I addressed a few cogent remarks to Reginald.

  “It’s been a long time since I observed our neighbors with an outsider’s eye,” I told my pink bunny. “Remind me not to do it again. It’s terrifying.”

  Reginald’s black button eyes gleamed consolingly. I touched a finger to his snout, then took the blue journal from its shelf. Instead of flinging myself into one of the study’s tall leather armchairs, however, I sat on the floor within arm’s reach of Bess, so I could offer her toys, tickles, and encouraging pats on the back while I spoke with Aunt Dimity.

  “Dimity,” I announced as I opened the journal. “I’ve just returned from Finch, where I did as you suggested. I collected firsthand accounts of meetings between the villagers and Marigold Edwards’s clients.”

  I pursed my lips grimly as Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned handwriting curled and looped across the blank page.

  Good afternoon, Lori. Thank you for following my advice. Did your conversations with the villagers confirm or assuage your doubts about Marigold’s motives?

  “I went into the exercise with an open mind,” I said almost truthfully. “I came away from it believing that Marigold Edwards is a conniving, two-faced, underhanded, self-serving rat who’s doing everything in her power to destroy the village.”

  I see. Reading between the lines, I would guess that your doubts were confirmed.

  I laughed involuntarily.

  “My doubts weren’t merely confirmed,” I told Aunt Dimity. “They are now carved in stone. Peggy Taxman told me that Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are listed at ‘reasonable’ prices, but after speaking with her and a few others, I’m convinced that Marigold’s fear tactics will force the prices down even further.”

  Are you certain you spoke with enough people, Lori? Did you spread your nets as widely as possible?

  “I chatted with Mr. Barlow, Peggy Taxman, Sally Cook, Christine Peacock, Charles Bellingham, Grant Tavistock, and the four Handmaidens,” I replied. “I had to quit after that because I couldn’t take any more.”

  You couldn’t take any more . . . what?

  “Craziness!” I expostulated. “Honestly, Dimity, I could have filled a trawler with the lunacy I dredged up in my nets today.”

  Can you be more specific?

  “I certainly can,” I said. I nudged a polka-dotted plush dinosaur closer to Bess, then leaned back against the ottoman and began to present my findings to Aunt Dimity. “Do you remember what Mr. Barlow told me when I asked him if Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage were in good shape?”

  I believe he informed you that they were as sound as a bell.

  “Those were his exact words,” I said, noddi
ng, “but they’re not the words he uses when he speaks with Marigold’s clients. Instead of treading gently around the cottages’ minor flaws, he reels off a detailed list of every loose floorboard, squeaky hinge, and wobbly door knob because, according to him, every cottage has its quirks and it’s best to know about them beforehand.”

  Mr. Barlow is an honest man.

  “Precisely,” I said. “That’s why Marigold turns him loose on her clients. She uses Mr. Barlow’s honesty to make them think twice about buying a cottage with a back door that sticks or one with a garden that needs a lot of attention.”

  Go on.

  “Marigold drags her clients into the Emporium to make small purchases,” I continued. “Then she stands back and watches gleefully while Peggy Taxman scares the pants off of them.”

  Peggy is rather overpowering. I’ve often wondered if she speaks loudly because she’s hard of hearing.

  “It’s not just Peggy’s voice that scares them,” I said. “It’s her voice, her build, her demeanor, and her confounded sign-up sheets. Put them together and what have you got? You’ve got a tyrant who bullies newcomers into participating in village life whether they want to or not.”

  Peggy’s notion of mandatory community involvement is good for the village, but I can understand why it wouldn’t appeal to everyone.

  “It doesn’t appeal to me,” I retorted, “but I go along with it because I’ve gotten used to it. I’m used to the Handmaidens, too, but if I were a house hunter weighing up the pros and cons of living in Finch, I’d put all four of them squarely in the cons column.”

  Elspeth, Opal, Millicent, and Selena may be inquisitive, but they mean no harm by it.

  “The Handmaidens make Finch look like a refuge for the incurably nosy,” I stated flatly. “And Marigold has inflicted them, en masse, on every single person she’s brought to Finch.”

  Oh, dear. Have they been intolerably intrusive?

  “They’ve grilled Marigold’s clients mercilessly,” I said.

  Mercilessly?

  “Mercilessly,” I repeated firmly. “Let’s review a few random snippets they collected from Marigold’s clients, shall we?” I pulled my free hand away from Bess’s back and raised a finger for each snippet I recited. “The advertising executive is a martyr to hives, the banker has a rash on his private parts, the surgeon has infected hair plugs, the computer engineer is struggling with his weight, the Oxford don’s wife ran off with one of his students, and the young lawyers plan to keep their London flat while they spend weekends here.” I snorted derisively as I ran out of fingers. “I’m sure they walk away from their encounter with the Handmaidens thinking that Finch is a great place to live—if they want to live under a microscope.”

  But one does live under a microscope in Finch.

  “Of course one does,” I said, exasperated, “but there’s no need to advertise it. Marigold uses the Handmaidens like a big, flashing neon sign. She might as well climb to the top of the bell tower and holler: ‘If you move here, your life will no longer be your own!’”

  Her clients can’t possibly find fault with Sally Cook’s tearoom.

  “They can if they want fat-free food,” I countered. “Sally doesn’t have much patience with food-faddy fools, as she calls them. Clients who wish to avoid cream, sugar, eggs, and butter are out of luck at the tearoom because Sally sends them packing.”

  Anyone who goes to a tearoom in search of fat-free foods should be sent packing.

  “I agree, Dimity,” I said, “but if they can’t enjoy a bite to eat at the tearoom, where can they enjoy one?”

  The pub, of course.

  The naiveté of Aunt Dimity’s response made me giggle semi-hysterically.

  “People who refuse to eat eggs and butter aren’t going to stuff their gullets with pickled eggs, pork scratchings, and sausage rolls,” I told her. “But Marigold doesn’t take her clients to the pub for the sheer pleasure of seeing them look down their noses at Christine Peacock’s pub grub.” I cocked my head to one side and asked archly, “Can you guess why she does take them there?”

  Good grief. Marigold doesn’t recommend Dick Peacock’s wine to them, does she?

  “I don’t know if she recommends it,” I said, “but she doesn’t knock it out of their hands when Dick serves it to them. Banana chablis, Dimity! Christmas pudding pinot noir! What further proof do you need of Marigold’s duplicity?”

  I eased Bess onto her back, gobbled her wiggly toes, and handed her the shark-shaped rattle Will and Rob had brought home from a trip to the baby boutique in Upper Deeping, then turned my attention to the new lines of handwriting that had appeared in the journal.

  I refuse to believe that Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham would let Finch down. They’re conversant in art, music, literature, fine wine, and gourmet dining. If Marigold wished to emphasize Finch’s faults, she wouldn’t introduce her clients to its most sophisticated residents.

  “Unfortunately,” I said, heaving a sigh, “Grant and Charles don’t discuss civilization’s high points with Marigold’s clients.”

  What do they discuss?

  “Finch’s low points,” I replied. “Their chosen topics include, but are not limited to, their break-in, Sally’s kitchen fire, and the Little Deeping’s spring floods. The exact list of crimes, disruptions, and natural disasters seems to vary, but Grant and Charles always finish up with their pièce de résistance or, as I prefer to think of it, their coup de grâce: Pruneface Hooper’s death in Crabtree Cottage.”

  Have they taken leave of their senses?

  “I did tell you that I’d dredged up a net full of craziness,” I pointed out.

  It’s imbecilic to present rare and isolated incidents as typical. Grant and Charles aren’t imbeciles. Were they, perhaps, attempting to engage their listeners in some form of dark humor?

  “Nope,” I said. “They were trying to make Finch sound exciting.”

  Roller coasters are exciting, but I wouldn’t care to live in one.

  “After one of Marigold’s tours, you wouldn’t care to live in Finch, either,” I said.

  A glance at the mantel clock told me that Bill and the boys would be home in about an hour. Although I could have rehashed my neighbors’ failings in even greater detail, I decided to wrap up my report.

  “To summarize,” I said. “Today’s friendly chats proved to me that, unlike the Handmaidens, Marigold Edwards intends to harm Finch. She’s choreographed a dance between the villagers and her clients that drives buyers away and property values down. It’s only a matter of time before her secret developer boss swoops in to pick up the empty cottages for less than reasonable prices.”

  It’s evident that Marigold introduces her clients to far too many villagers, far too quickly. Contrast their experiences with your own, my dear. You’ve gotten to know your neighbors gradually, over the course of many years. You’ve had numerous opportunities to observe their good qualities as well as their foibles. You’ve seen for yourself that, while they may be abrasive at times, they’re never cruel. More often than not, they’re helpful, generous, and kind.

  “They’re good folk,” I agreed. “But if I were selling a house in Finch, I’d lock them in their cottages until the deal was done.”

  There’d be no need to lock them in their cottages if you were selling a house because you, unlike Marigold, wouldn’t stage-manage their encounters with your buyers. You wouldn’t introduce your clients to everyone, all at once. You’d allow them to dip their toes into the village, so to speak. You’d warn them about Dick’s wine and Peggy’s manner and the Handmaidens’ insatiable curiosity. You’d charm Sally into producing a fruit salad or a watermelon sorbet for them. You’d let Mr. Barlow explain to them that a wobbly doorknob is of far less importance than a sound foundation.

  “I’d also tell them that there’s been exactly one break-in, one small fire, a
nd one minor flood in Finch since I moved here,” I said. “And I wouldn’t overdramatize Pruneface Hooper’s death, either.”

  Of course you wouldn’t, because your only goal would be to sell your house. Marigold appears to have a quite different goal, but I’m less certain than you are of its precise nature. She may be working for a developer, she may be working for herself, or she may have a private score to settle with the empty cottages’ current owners.

  “Maybe she’s from Tillcote,” I said, grinning. “Maybe she plans to avenge her village’s honor by ruining Finch.”

  Stranger things have happened, Lori. Your next task will be to find out what Marigold’s real goal is. Once you’ve uncovered her hidden agenda, you’ll know what must be done to protect Finch.

  “The showdown will commence at ten o’clock on Friday morning.” I looked from Bess to Reginald, then gazed slowly around the study. “I wish I could see her sooner. It’ll be weird to spend two whole days at home after so much hustle and bustle.”

  I’m sure you’ll find something to do.

  I made a wry face.

  “I can always find something to do at home,” I said. “Laundry, cleaning, cooking, letting Stanley out, letting Stanley in, looking after Bess, Bill, and the boys . . .” I let Bess seize my index finger and pull it into her slobbery mouth for a good gumming. “Don’t get me wrong, Dimity. I enjoy taking care of my family. But I’ve also enjoyed the past few days.”

  You’re allowed to enjoy both, you know. Too much routine is as wearing as too much hustle and bustle. True contentment lies at the midway point between the two.

  “It’s all about balance, eh?” I said.

  I believe so. And while you’re engaged in your household chores, you can devise a strategy for your meeting with Marigold.

  “Any suggestions?” I asked.

  You might begin by telling her that you’re interested in Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage.

  I threw my head back and laughed.

  “I wouldn’t even be lying,” I said as Bess laughed with me. “I am interested—very interested—in the empty cottages.” I gave another hoot of laughter. “She’ll probably give me a sales pitch.”