Aunt Dimity's Death ad-1

by Nancy Atherton

  “That’s okay,” I said stiffly, tightening my grip on the railing.

  His shoulders slumped. He gave a soft sigh and looked out over the rain-swept sea.

  “Really, Bill. It’s no big deal.” I glanced up at him and gently bumped his arm with my elbow. “I know how hard it can be to pass up a good opening.”

  “Do you?” said Bill. He reached over and brushed his fingertips across the back of my left hand. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  Between the rush of the rain and the pounding of my heart, I scarcely heard Doug’s voice from the doorway. “I’ve tossed the salad,” he announced. “And Meg says that if we don’t eat pronto, she’s going to chew a leg off the kitchen table.”

  * * *

  For the rest of the evening, Bill behaved like a normal human being. He bantered with Meg, discussed the art market with Doug, played cat games with Van Gogh, and stopped treating me like visiting royalty. He even went to bed early so that my friends and I could have some time to ourselves. When we left the next day, he went so far as to let me forget my bag. Meg came puffing out to the car with it at the last minute. “Look, Shepherd,” she said, “I know you don’t want to sully your gorgeous vehicle with this crummy piece of canvas, but I don’t want it cluttering up my immaculate domain, either.” She dumped it in the backseat behind Bill as Doug ran down the stairs.

  “You be sure to write to us from England,” he said.

  “Waste of time,” said Meg.

  Doug and I looked at her in surprise.

  “With your expense account,” she explained, “you can afford to call.”

  I hugged the two of them, climbed into the car, and began the drive home.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until we were stuck in a long line of cars waiting for a truckload of fertilizer to be cleared from the interstate—which Bill had taken to avoid the tortuous scenic route—that I began to consider what Meg had hinted at. Was I riled up over nothing? I could see that I had been a bit defensive with Bill, but defense mechanisms hadn’t evolved because it had been a slow Thursday afternoon. Fear was essential to self-preservation. It had worked for our caveman ancestors, and who was I to argue with history?

  Still, it was possible that Bill’s intentions had been good all along, and it did seem odd to be afraid of kindness. It was definitely not a survival trait.

  As we crawled past the aromatic accident scene, Bill touched a button on the dashboard and my window hummed shut. I glanced at him, then closed my eyes and leaned back, feigning sleep. I had some serious thinking to do and I wanted no distractions.

  * * *

  Willis, Sr.’s map was waiting for me in the guest suite when I got back. It had been well padded and securely wrapped in brown paper, and a note from Trevor Douglas had been placed beside it on the coffee table. I dropped my bag on the floor and picked up the note, expecting it to contain the usual polite business phrases. Instead, Mr. Douglas had written:

  Please thank Bill for directing me to that woodcarver friend of his. The man is a genius. I’ll be sure to send more work his way.

  Woodcarver friend? I put the note back on the table. Worried, I propped the package on the couch, tore off the wrapping paper, removed the padding, and stood back to see what Bill had done now. I stood there for a long time.

  Trevor Douglas had not spoken lightly. Whoever had done this work was a genius. In almost no time at all, he had created a frame that was as subtle and intricate as the map itself: a two-inch band of polished wood carved with a frieze of animals—beavers, squirrels, raccoons, and other small creatures of the North American woods—linked by oak leaves and acorns, pine cones and needles. When I ran my fingers over the surface I could feel the care that had gone into its creation.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello,” said Bill. “Thought I’d call to let you know that Father has planned a farewell luncheon for us tomorrow at two, in the small dining room. ‘Fortification,’ he called it, ‘against the trials of airline fare.’ Can you make it?”

  “Sure, I can make it,” I said. “And, uh, Bill—the map has arrived.”

  “Has it?”

  “I’m looking at it right now,” I said. “The frame is… it’s beautiful, Bill. It’s perfect. I’m…”

  “I’ve come up with a scheme for giving it to Father. I can put it on his desk in the office tomorrow while you’re saying good-bye, so he’ll find it after we’ve gone. I think he’d prefer it that way. He’s not fond of public displays of affection, you know.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” I agreed. “And Bill, I… I just want to say that…” I took a deep breath, then chickened out completely. “Trevor Douglas asked me to thank you for telling him about the woodcarver.”

  There was a prolonged silence on the line.

  “Thanks for the message, Lori,” Bill said at last. “I’ll see you at lunch.” And he hung up.

  Unsettled, I cleared up the wrapping paper, then carried my canvas bag into the bedroom to unpack. “Why couldn’t you just thank him?” I muttered fretfully, then paused in surprise as I opened the bag. A sheet of sketching paper was lying where my sweater had been. A single sentence from Meg was scrawled across it: Your clothes are in the mail. I flashed back to her lugging the bag to the car before I left. Sneaky, sneaky, I thought, then caught my breath when I saw what lay beneath the sketching paper.

  There, folded with uncharacteristic care, was one of Meg’s blankets. It was one I’d never seen before, done in rich, muted shades of gold and green and lilac and deep purple, like the hills of Scotland in full heathery bloom. I pulled it out and held it to my face and it was as soft as a baby’s kiss, scented with salt air and the whisper of rain. How she had achieved that last effect, I had no idea, but it sent me spinning back to that stormy evening on her porch.

  Almost without thinking, I touched the back of my left hand. It seemed to be tingling.

  9

  I spent the next morning browsing through Willis, Sr.’s books and packing my few bags. There was no need to hurry. The only thing left on my agenda was our bon voyage luncheon. I reread the letters from Dimity and my mother, paused to examine the photograph once again, then put them all into my carry-on bag along with Reginald.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with Meg’s blanket. It was too bulky to fit in my carryon and too precious to pack with my clothes; I quailed at the thought of some overworked baggage handler sending it to London, Ontario. I didn’t want to leave it behind, either, but I didn’t know what else to do. I presented the problem to Willis, Sr., when we met in the small dining room that afternoon, and his solution was simplicity itself.

  “Leave it upstairs for now,” he suggested. “I’ll have one of the staff fetch it later and we’ll send it to London by courier. It will be at the cottage when you arrive.

  “I’m sorry to say that my son will be unable to join us,”

  he continued. “He is rather busy, I’m afraid, putting his work in order before his departure. Please, sit here, Miss Shepherd, and I shall ring for the first course. Do you care for asparagus?”

  It was a leisurely meal and Willis, Sr., was a charming host, as always. I brought up the subject of the Northwest Passage and he took it from there, regaling me with stories of the bravery—and foolishness—of the men who had risked their lives in search of it. Two hours later, as we lingered over the raspberry tarts, he returned to more familiar terrain.

  “You may be interested to know, Miss Shepherd, that I have contacted the cottage’s caretakers, Emma and Derek Harris, to let them know you are coming. The Harrises are a most pleasant couple. They knew Miss Westwood, of course, and were quite helpful during the renovation of the cottage. A few minor improvements,” he added, “undertaken by Miss Westwood some time ago, to bring the cottage into the twentieth century.”

  I pictured a white-haired couple keeping a watchful eye on the cottage and became suddenly alert. “Do they live nearby?” I asked.

  “I believ
e so,” said Willis, Sr. “If I recall correctly, theirs is the next house up the road.”

  That made them Dimity’s neighbors. Could the Harrises be the kindly old couple who had come to Dimity’s aid? It seemed unlikely. If they had been elderly forty years ago, they’d be tombworthy by now. I would have questioned Willis, Sr., further, but Bill chose that moment to burst into the room, looking harassed.

  “Change of plans, Lori,” he said. “We’re going to have to leave sooner than I’d expected.” He glanced at his watch. “Immediately, in fact. Our flight isn’t until seven, but Tom Fletcher tells me that the new security procedures for overseas flights can eat up a lot of time. Father, I’m bringing Tom out to the airport with me so I can finish some memos on the Taylor case. Aside from that, my desk is clear.”

  “You’d best be off, then,” said Willis, Sr. “I shall meet you at the front entrance in, let us say, ten minutes?”

  “Fine,” said Bill. “What a day….” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair as he left the room.

  Willis, Sr., folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate, then withdrew a flat, rectangular package from the inside pocket of his suitcoat. It was wrapped in gold foil.

  “It seems that I must give you this now, Miss Shepherd. I do hope you will find it useful.”

  “Oh, but you shouldn’t have….” Taking the package from him, I peeled away the gold foil. “Honestly, you’ve already gone out of your way to…” I faltered when I saw what he had given me. “A map,” I said, a bit unsteadily.

  “A topographic map,” corrected Willis, Sr. “My son happened to mention your purchase of walking shoes, and I thought you might be considering a foray into the local countryside during your stay. If so, you will find this map most helpful. Have you ever used a topographic map?”

  “No,” I said, “I’ve always hiked along posted trails.”

  “You’ll pick it up in no time. You see, it shows the natural features and the elevations of the land surrounding the cottage. Here, I’ll show you where the cottage is….” Willis, Sr., opened the map and gave me a crash course in how to read it. When he finished, I reached out and squeezed his hand.

  “This is a lovely present,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I am very pleased that you like it.” He sighed contentedly. “I have a great fondness for maps.”

  * * *

  I raced up to the guest suite, hoping to catch Bill before he descended the hidden staircase with Willis, Sr.’s map. I wanted to show him what his father had given me—the irony was too delicious to keep to myself—but he had already come and gone by the time I got there, taking my bags as well as the map. I put Meg’s blanket on the coffee table in the parlor, then went back down to meet Willis, Sr., at the front door.

  “Do you have everything you need, Miss Shepherd?” he asked.

  “I do now,” I said, brandishing his gift.

  “I shall telephone you regularly with Miss Westwood’s questions—though I confess I should probably do so in any case.”

  “We’ll be happy to hear from you,” said Bill, joining us in the doorway. “You take care of yourself while I’m gone, Father. No wild parties, no rowdiness, or I’ll have to come home and give you a stern lecture.” He gripped his father’s hand, hesitated, then leaned over and hugged him. Willis, Sr., stiffened for a moment, then raised a tentative hand to pat his son’s back. Before either one of them could say a word, Bill turned and made his way to the car.

  “Extraordinary,” Willis, Sr., murmured.

  “Thank you for everything,” I said. “I’m going to miss you, you know. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Soon,” he agreed. I started down the steps. “And Miss Shepherd,” he added, “I shall miss you, too.”

  * * *

  Bill dictated memos until the last boarding call and by the time I’d stowed my carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, fastened my seat belt, and declined the free champagne, he’d fallen asleep. I was more than a little disappointed. I had spent a restless night gearing myself up for a heartfelt expression of gratitude for the exquisite frame, I’d waited all day to deliver it, and now it looked as though I would have to go on waiting.

  Still, he did seem exhausted, as though he’d been on the go since dawn. He had spent so much time with me during the past week that I had forgotten about his other responsibilities. Apparently he had, too, and had tried to cram them all into a single marathon day. Once we were airborne, I called a flight attendant over and asked for a blanket. Bill didn’t stir so much as an eyelid when I tucked it in around him.

  I was much too keyed up to sleep, so I spent the time leafing through magazines and reading the novel I had brought along. After a while, I simply gazed out of the window at the moonlit clouds. I imagined Willis, Sr., examining his map, perhaps asking a law student to fetch a book or two down from the small library. I smiled again when I remembered his going-away gift to me. The smile grew broader when I thought of his characteristically precise description of it: “A topographic map… It shows the natural features and the elevations of the land surrounding the cottage.”

  The natural features and elevations…

  With a sharp glance to make sure Bill was still asleep, I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph, kicking myself for not having thought of this sooner.

  A small clearing on a hill overlooking a broad valley. Beyond the valley, a series of hills, all of them of uniform height and shape. Excited now, I took out the topographic map. It would be child’s play to locate the clearing if it was anywhere near the cottage.

  Except that the cottage was smack-dab in the middle of the Cotswolds, which meant that it was surrounded by hills and valleys, and I hadn’t learned enough from Willis, Sr.’s short lesson to be able to distinguish one hill from another. As soon as I opened the map, I saw that there were at least a dozen places that seemed to meet my requirements. I pored over the maze of curving lines, as though staring at it would force it to yield up its secrets, until Bill’s voice broke my concentration.

  “Planning a walking tour?” he asked, peering at the map with great interest. A scant two days ago, I would have bristled and told him to mind his own business. Now I tilted the map so he could see it better.

  “A bon voyage present, from your father,” I explained.

  “You’re kidding.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Did you manage to keep a straight face?”

  “More or less. Well, I mean, you’re supposed to grin when you get presents, aren’t you?”

  “I wish we’d hidden a camera in the office. I would love to have seen his face when he saw his map.”

  “Thanks for remembering to smuggle it down.” I refolded the topographic map, trying to recall the words I’d rehearsed the night before. “And, Bill, about the frame. I just want to say that—”

  “What’s this?” Bill was folding the blanket I had put over him, but he stopped and reached for something on the floor. When he sat up again, he was holding the photograph. “Is it yours?”

  I nodded, too shocked by my own carelessness to speak.

  “It must have fallen when you moved the map. Very pretty. Where is it?”

  “England,” I said. “It’s… a place my mother visited. During the war.”

  “It must mean a lot to you,” said Bill. “I have my mother’s photo albums up in my rooms, and I go through them every once in a while. Do you do that?” He handed the photograph to me. I put it and the map in my carryon and zipped the bag securely before answering.

  “No,” I replied, in a tone that persuaded most people to drop the subject.

  “It was hard for me at first, too,” he said. “I’d just turned twelve. I was away at school when the news came—she’d been hit by a bus and killed instantly. That’s one of the reasons Father doesn’t care for public transportation.” He gave me a sidelong look. “I wasn’t making that up, you know.

  “It’s never easy to lose a parent,” he continued, �
�but at that age…” He creased the folds of the blanket carefully between his finger and thumb. “That’s when I claimed Arthur’s dome for my own. I think part of me believed that if I looked hard enough through the telescope, I’d be able to find her.” He unbuckled his seat belt. “Thanks for covering me up, by the way. I’d hate to arrive in London with the sniffles.” He stood up and stashed the blanket in an overhead bin.

  “You’re welcome.” I hoped the interruption might turn his mind to other things, but when he sat down again, he picked up where he’d left off.

  “When I went back to school after the funeral I felt like a freak. The faculty had briefed the other boys not to say anything that might upset me, so they ended up not saying anything at all. It confused the hell out of me, as though my mother had done something that couldn’t be mentioned in polite company.”

  “You didn’t want to talk about it, did you?” I said.

  “No, but I didn’t want a hush to fall over the room every time the word ‘mother’ came up. It was a relief when Father pulled me out of classes to go with him to England.”

  “That’s when you met Dimity.” I began to pay closer attention.

  “We stayed at her town house in London. It was a fantastic place, and I had the run of it. I spent most of my time in the attics, going through dozens of dusty crates. I found gramophone records, kaleidoscopes—even an old cat’s-whisker radio that still worked. And Dimity was… I don’t know what I’d have done without her. She didn’t tiptoe around the subject. We’d be in the walled garden and she’d ask what flowers my mother liked best. Then she’d fill baskets with them and put them all around the house, just like that, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. And every night, she told me stories.”