Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (15 page)

“Love to,” said Gracie.

While I continued to graze, Bree continued the interview, filling her notebook with
the names of Gracie’s architects, her interior decorators, her builders, and the Italian
sculptor who’d created her fountain of love. My hunger pangs had subsided completely
by the time Bree announced that she had all the information she needed and thanked
Gracie for being such a generous interviewee.

Gracie led us through the house to the entrance hall and Divina restored our coats
to us, but as we turned to leave, a final question darted into my head.

“I wonder if you might shed some light on an unsolved mystery,” I said to Gracie.
“It concerns the Bogs.”

Gracie’s jaw tightened ominously, but she didn’t explode, so I went ahead with my
query.

“When I was at Risingholme,” I said, “Lord and Lady Boghwell seemed to think I was
some sort of filmmaker. Do you have the faintest idea why they would they jump to
such an odd conclusion?”

A wicked gleam lit Gracie’s blue eyes.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “So does anyone who lives round here. We’ve
all seen the lorries coming and going from Risingholme, and we’ve heard about the
fans who sneak onto the grounds to take souvenir snaps.”

“The raving mad fans?” I said as a bell went off in the back of my mind.

“They’d have to be raving mad to want souvenir snaps of that rat’s nest,” Gracie opined,
“but they’re the sort who like rats.” She clasped her hands to her remarkable bosom,
like a child anticipating a Christmas present. “Oh, you’re going to love this. I felt
as though I’d died and gone to heaven when I found out what was going on over there.”

“For pity’s sake, Gracie, spit it out,” Bree urged. “I can’t stand the suspense!”

Gracie planted her hands on her hips, lifted her nose in the air, and said, “The hoity-toity
Bogs make ends meet by letting film companies use their house and grounds as backdrops
for movies—
horror
movies! The kind that go
straight to DVD
!”

Gracie crowed with triumphant laughter while Bree and I chuckled appreciatively at
a punch line I hadn’t seen coming.

Shanice had been right, I thought, as Bree and I made our way to the Range Rover.
If she’d told me how Lord Boghwell had learned filmmaking jargon, I would not have
believed her.

B
ree waved good-bye to the cement fish as Shangri-la’s white gates closed behind us.
While I negotiated the winding lanes that would take us back to the main motorway,
she propped her feet on the dashboard and peered meditatively through the windshield.

“Do you think we’ll ever find Mikhail?” she asked.

“Of course we will,” I answered firmly. I glanced at her, then nudged her with my
elbow. “I found you, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she said with a crooked smile. “Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, “and don’t ever underestimate the power of unrelenting,
rock-ribbed stubbornness. My mother didn’t call me her bullheaded baby girl for nothing,
Bree. Once I decide to do something, it gets done.”

“The Tereschchenkos were another dead end,” Bree pointed out.

“No, they weren’t,” I retorted. “They were another step on the tea cake trail, leading
us ever closer to our quarry.”

Bree giggled. “Never let it be said that you don’t have a way with words, Lori.”

“I’m not waxing lyrical,” I protested. “I’m pointing out the obvious. Wherever we
go, we find Russian tea cakes lurking in the background. I didn’t need to see the
old book in Gracie’s kitchen to know who’d written the recipe in it.”

“The same person who wrote it in the other receipt books,” said Bree.

“Who happens to be a person familiar with authentic Russian recipes,” I said. “And
what about Lady Barbara Booker? We would have gone to Tappan Hall eventually, because
Amanda Pickering worked there, but Gracie has given us an even better reason to go
there.”

“Lady Barbara’s childhood pal,” said Bree, nodding.

“The boy she mentioned to Tony Thames
has
to be Mikhail,” I insisted. “I mean, how many Russian children lived around here
when Lady Barbara was a youngster? She’s our best lead yet, and thanks to Gracie,
we have an easy entrée to her home.”

“Gracie sent us,” said Bree.

“Those three magic words will open Tappan Hall’s doors for us,” I said bracingly.
“We won’t even have to pretend to be journalists. We can simply introduce ourselves
as Gracie’s friends.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “I wish we could go there now, but
I have to get dinner going, then pick up the boys. We don’t have enough time at our
disposal to do Lady Barbara justice.”

“It may take us a while to see her anyway,” Bree reminded me. “The woman’s in her
nineties and in poor health. We can’t go barging in on her if she’s having a bad day.”

“Let’s hope she’s having a good one tomorrow,” I said, “because that’s when you and
I are tackling Tappan Hall. Unless you’ve given up on Mikhail.”

“Me? Give up on Mikhail? Never!” Bree declared, planting her feet on the floor and
sitting up straighter. “I can be as stubborn as you, Lori. Together, we’re invincible!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I temporized, “but we do make a good team.”

Bree gazed at the passing countryside for a while, then said, “I wonder what kind
of stories Daisy made up about Gracie Thames?”

“I’m sure they were wonderful,” I said. “How could they be anything else? Gracie’s
a national treasure.”

“So is Shangri-la,” Bree said.

Since I considered Shangri-la to be a national disgrace, I gave Bree an incredulous,
sidelong look before asking carefully, “Are you serious?”

“I’m totally serious,” she replied. “Gracie has fabulous taste.”

“Does she?” I said doubtfully.

“The 1870s meet the 1970s,” said Bree. “It’s brilliant! I can’t wait to get cracking
on the article.”

The generation gap, I thought, was sometimes unbridgeable.

“You made some pretty spectacular promises to Gracie,” I observed. “I seem to recall
you throwing around phrases like ‘worldwide readership’ and ‘glossy magazine.’”

“I’ll keep every promise I made to Gracie,” said Bree. “Seventies retro is hotter
than hot at the moment, but, to my knowledge, no one’s had the nerve to fill a Georgian
house with it, not since the seventies, at any rate. Sectional sofas and disco-ball
drinks cabinets in the drawing room? Fantastic!” She looked at me with complete self-assurance.
“No worries, Lori. Once I show your photographs to a few editors, they’ll be falling
all over themselves to publish my piece.”

I pictured hundreds of gold cupids on my bedroom ceiling, vowed never to be a slave
to fashion, and drove on.

•   •   •

Bree cloistered herself in the guest room when we returned to the cottage, so I fetched
Rob and Will from Morningside without her and shielded her from them until dinnertime.
She arrived at the dining room table with the glazed and puffy eyes of someone who’s
spent too much time staring at a computer screen, but the boys’ hearty greetings pulled
her out of her daze and a large helping of lentil stew restored her to full consciousness.

“Madeleine Sturgess’s website will be up and running by the middle of next week,”
she announced. “She’s using your photographs and my text, but she came up with the
tagline:
Hayewood House: Luxury accommodations for the discerning traveler
. Maddie reckons anyone clever enough to know what ‘discerning’ means will be sufficiently
discerning to qualify as a guest.”

I laughed. “Maddie’s been clever as well. Travelers looking for bargains avoid luxury
accommodations, so she’s already whittled her share of the market down to the select
few she wishes to entertain at Hayewood House.” I drew a vertical line in the air.
“Score one for Mrs. Sturgess.”

“Score two for Mrs. Sturgess,” Bree corrected me. “An editor at
Heavenly Hostelries
magazine bought my article on Hayewood House. He’ll publish it in the online and
the print editions as soon I add Maddie’s Web address to it. The publicity should
pull in all the punters she can handle.”

“A worldwide readership online and a glossy magazine for the rest of us,” I said admiringly.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Bree. You’ve got the travel-magazine business figured
out.”

“An editor I know pulled a few strings for me,” she said modestly.

“Nevertheless,” I said, “
Heavenly Hostelries
wouldn’t have accepted your piece if it hadn’t been well written. Maybe you should
consider taking up the pen for a living.”

“The pen?” she scoffed. “Writer’s cramp and ink-stained fingers are old school, Lori.
I’ll use a computer to write or I won’t write at all.”

“You wrote with lemon juice,” Rob reminded her.

“And a toothpick,” Will added.

“So I did,” Bree acknowledged. “But writing secret messages isn’t the same as writing
an article for publication.”

“Why not?” asked Will.

“You could write an invisible article for publication,” Rob said reasonably, though
I wasn’t convinced he knew what “publication” meant.

“Yes,” said Bree, “I could, but . . .”

I’m not sure how, but the discussion that followed ended with the boys presenting
their flashlights to Bree, to aid her in playing spies. She accepted the flashlights
gravely, promised to return them when her mission was completed, and carried them
with her into the more tranquil precincts of the guest room.

As I read a bedtime story to Will and Rob, I couldn’t help wondering whether Bree
was having second thoughts about babysitting Coral Bell’s rambunctious brothers.

•   •   •

Aunt Dimity made a cogent observation later that evening, after I told her about Tony
Thames’s family history.

It seems we can’t count on names to guide us in our quest. Sergei Sturgess can trace
his English roots back to the Vikings, while Tony Thames is the Cockney grandson of
a Russian-Jewish fish peddler.

“Tony Thames was born and raised in London,” I said. “I can’t understand how the Boghwells
could mistake him for a foreigner.”

I can. As far as Lord and Lady Boghwell are concerned, London’s East End is a foreign
country. It’s as strange and alien to them as Outer Mongolia, and the people who live
there have no right to call themselves English.

“Huh,” I grunted irritably. “In the Bogs’ tiny minds, the only people who have a right
to call themselves English are the direct descendants of Queen Boudica.”

Lord and Lady Boghwell would never approve of a rabble-rouser like Boudica. If she’d
had a well-mannered and well-to-do sister, on the other hand . . .

Aunt Dimity’s absurd suggestion restored my good humor. I grinned and decided to waste
no more energy excoriating the Bogs.

“The point is,” I said, “Gracie and Tony aren’t our bad guys. They haven’t lived at
Shangri-la long enough to have anything to do with Mikhail. They have, however, lived
there long enough to impose their dreadful sense of style on it. Honestly, Dimity,
they’ve scooped the soul out of the house and replaced it with a void. The decor is
as sterile as a laboratory’s, all chrome and plastic and acres of white nothingness.
Bree’s crazy about it, but I think it’s a completely inappropriate way to furnish
a classic Georgian house.”

It’s undoubtedly inappropriate, Lori, but you must admit that Gracie’s furnishings
are more pristine than the Boghwells’.

“Gracie’s furnishings are more pristine than
mine
,” I protested, “but I still wouldn’t use them in the cottage.”

You weren’t raised in the East End. Gracie grew up in a filthy, noisy, overcrowded
environment. Is it any wonder that, when given the opportunity, she created a clean,
sleek, and uncluttered home? Her taste may not be as sophisticated as yours, Lori,
and she may not share your sense of history, but when you consider her background,
I’m sure you’ll understand why Shangri-la is her idea of heaven on earth.

“Her swimming pool is
pink
,” I muttered.

Pink is a common color in coral reefs.

“I still think it’s dreadful,” I grumbled, “but I’ll make an effort to understand
it.”

You like Gracie, though, even if you don’t like her sense of style.

“I adore Gracie,” I said readily. “I can’t imagine anyone—barring the Bogs and their
ilk—who wouldn’t adore Gracie. She’s generous, smart, funny, and loving. She made
me feel like a heel for complaining about Bill’s business trips.”

Good.

I wrinkled my nose at the journal, then said, “I wish she didn’t drink so much, though.
I think she hits the bottle because she’s lonely.” I sighed. “I feel as though I’ve
met a lot of lonely women recently.”

Go on.

“Well, there’s Maddie Sturgess, for a start,” I said. “Daisy’s story about a lonely
queen in a castle isn’t far off the mark. Maddie’s children have left home and her
husband spends five days out of seven in London. If you ask me, she came up with the
guest house venture in order to have some company.”

Do you believe Frances Wylton to be lonely?

“No,” I said. “Her husband works at home, but even when he’s not around, she’s comfortable
with being on her own.” I shook my head. “Shanice must be lonely, though. Servants
come and go too quickly at Risingholme for her to build relationships with them. That’s
why she took such a shine to Daisy and that, in turn, is why she protected Amanda
from the Bogs. The longer Amanda stayed at Risingholme, the more time Shanice would
get to spend with Daisy.”

And Gracie?

“Her children have left home, too,” I said. “When Daisy showed up . . . Well, Gracie
said it herself: She loved having a kid around the house again. With Daisy gone, Gracie
has no one to talk to. She’s all alone in her plastic paradise and drinking like a
fish.”

I agree with you about Frances Wylton, but I believe you’ve misread the other women,
Lori. Madeleine Sturgess isn’t desperate to fill her home with strangers. She’s an
enterprising businesswoman embarking on a project that will allow her to utilize the
skills she’s acquired as the chatelaine of Hayewood House. Shanice is a compassionate
caregiver who fulfills her maternal instincts by looking after two foolish but frail
old people.

“What about Gracie?” I asked.

I’ve already expressed my views on what you condescendingly call her “plastic paradise.”

“What about her drinking?” I pressed.

Although I’m sure Gracie enjoyed Daisy’s company, I doubt that Daisy’s disappearance
turned her into an alcoholic. Gracie comes from a drinking culture, Lori. Her parents
probably took her with them to the pub before she was old enough to walk. Her drinking
habits may seem extreme to you, but I imagine her family and friends regard them as
unexceptional. As for her alleged loneliness . . .

“Alleged loneliness?” I said. “Now that Daisy and Amanda are gone, she’s stuck at
Shangri-la with no one but Cook and Divina for company.”

You’re judging her entire life by one day, Lori. If what you’ve told me is true, Gracie
spends very little time alone at Shangri-la. Her husband’s trips abroad seem to be
the exception rather than the rule and it’s not as if her children have emigrated
to the dark side of the moon. If they wished to distance themselves from their parents,
they wouldn’t have involved themselves in the family business. I’ll wager Tony Three,
David, Naomi, and Talia spend as much time with their mother at Shangri-la as she
spends with them in London. Then there are the bowling tournaments, the cocktail parties,
the pool parties . . . Gracie Thames strikes me as a busy, happy woman, not a lonely
one. Why would you think any of the women you’ve met of late are lonely?

I gazed into the fire and thought about the houses Bree and I had visited and the
women with whom we’d spoken and it slowly dawned on me that the homes and their inhabitants
had one thing in common: too much space between them.

“It’s the way they live,” I said in reply to Aunt Dimity’s question. “They use the
word ‘neighbor’ and they refer to ‘the neighborhood,’ but they’re not what I’d call
neighborly, not like we are in Finch. It’s as if their homes are islands separated
by vast tracts of ocean. They see one another as tiny dots on the horizon, if they
bother to look at all, which most of them don’t. I’ll bet they don’t know one tenth
as much about their neighbors as I know about mine.”