Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch (17 page)

The villagers who were at home, however, would find it hard to resist a friendly invitation to chat about their newest neighbor. Left to their own devices, they would lead the fanatic cohort straight to Pussywillows.

“Okay, Amelia,” I said. “Stay calm, keep away from the windows, and don’t answer the door.”

“I’m not a complete fool,” she snapped. “I may be inept at inventing names, but I know how to hide from a pack of lunatics.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get to the village as fast as I can.”

I abandoned the laundry, flew down the stairs, snatched my rain jacket from the coat rack, and paused. It seemed foolhardy to face a pack of lunatics unarmed, so I dashed to a drawer filled with loose photographs, stuffed my pockets with old photos of Will and Rob, and ran for the Rover. If Bree’s New Zealand monologue could force Myron Brocklehurst to flee, I reasoned, a pocketful of baby pictures—and their attendant stories—would make his minions wish they’d never come to Finch.

Cackling wickedly, I drove up the lane at a speed that would have made Bill cringe, but I slowed to a crawl when I reached the humpbacked bridge and stopped at its apex to take in the view. To judge by what I saw, I could have left the family snaps at home because my neighbors seemed to have things well in hand.

George Wetherhead stood at the back end of a rusting, daisy-stickered camper van that had been parked smack-dab in the middle of the village green. George appeared to be recording the vehicle’s tag number on a pad of paper, while Mr. Barlow stood with Buster, his cairn terrier, at the van’s front end, haranguing a paunchy, balding man who was, presumably, the van’s driver.

I could scarcely believe what my eyes were telling me, so I opened my windows and rolled forward at a snail’s pace to listen in.

“Have you left your brains at home or were you born stupid?” Mr. Barlow bellowed. “My dog would know better than to park a van on grass after a heavy rain. Who’s going to repair the ruts you’ve made? I’ll tell you, shall I?” He thrust a thumb toward his own chest. “Me! That’s who! But you never thought of me when you pulled in, did you? Never think of anyone but yourself, I’ll wager.”

The paunchy man mumbled words I couldn’t hear, but Mr. Barlow’s response clarified what had been said.

“
You?
Help
me
?” Mr. Barlow scoffed. “And spoil your pretty hands? I doubt you’ve ever done an honest day’s work in your life.” He rapped his knuckles on the van’s windscreen. “What do you think you’re doing driving this deathtrap anyway? Bald tires, squealing brakes, blue smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe—unsafe at any speed, I’d say. Your old banger will keep my good friend Constable Huntzicker busy writing citations for quite some time when he gets here, which he will do very soon because I called him ten minutes ago to report you for illegal parking. When he sees what you’ve done to our green…”

Sally Pyne, meanwhile, stood on the teashop’s doorstep, responding to an allegation that had turned her pleasantly pink face beet-red with indignation.

“Me? Exploit animals?” she retorted, as the young blonde who’d evidently made the accusation shrank away from her. “I’ll have you know that my cream comes from the happiest herd of cows this side of heaven. Grass-fed, tucked up warm at night in a spotless barn, milked as gentle as you please. The pigs for my bacon don’t volunteer to be slaughtered, I’ll grant you, but they’re treated like members of the family until their day comes and then they’re put down quick and clean, which is a better end than most humans can bank
on, believe me. I know my suppliers, missy, and I know how well they treat the creatures in their care, so don’t you tell me I’m part of the systematic degradation of the planet. I’ll have you know…”

As I cruised slowly past the schoolhouse, I heard Henry Cook inform a red-haired woman in a puffy down jacket that it was illegal to pin a poster on the notice board without the parish council’s written permission and that anyone caught doing so would be subject to prosecution and a hefty fine. Since I’d pinned numerous notices on the board without asking for anyone’s permission, Henry’s words came as news to me, but I wasn’t about to get out of the car and contradict him.

Eager to hear more, I rounded the green’s north end and drove up the other side, pausing at Peacock’s pub to watch Dick Peacock use his imposing bulk to hasten the exit of a young couple dressed in matching bellbottoms and denim jackets.

“Herbal tea?” he was saying. “Think I was born yesterday, do you? If you’ve been drinking herbal tea, then I’m a ballet dancer. I don’t know what you’ve got inside you, but I doubt it’s legal because your pupils are pinwheels and you’re talking daft.” He spread his arms wide as if to emphasize his prodigious girth. “Do I look like a daisy?
Pah!
” He flapped a hand at them dismissively. “My friend Constable Huntzicker will have something to say about your
herbal tea
when he gets here from Upper Deeping, which he should do quite soon because my good wife is ringing him right now.”

While the young couple beat a hasty retreat to the van to confer with the redhead, the young blonde, and the paunchy driver, Peggy Taxman burst out of the Emporium, dragging a scrawny, gray-haired man after her.

“Mention my petals once more and I’ll have you up on a charge of public indecency,” she thundered. “A man of your age should know better than to speak of such things to a lady. My petals are no one’s business but my husband’s and if you know what’s good for
you, you’ll make yourself and your nasty leaflets scarce before he comes out here and bloodies your nose.”

Had the gray-haired man been familiar with Peggy’s husband, he would have recognized how profoundly hollow her threat was. Jasper Taxman would no more bloody a man’s nose than he would speak curtly to his formidable wife, but the stranger took Peggy at her word and sprinted for the van.

I stopped snickering long enough to count heads and realized with a jolt of apprehension that only six Bowenists were clustered around the van. I craned my neck to find the missing minion and gasped in alarm when I saw a pale-faced brunette in a gypsy skirt and a bulky red sweater raise her fist to knock on Amelia’s door.

I cut the engine, leaped from the Rover, and raced across the green, but I was still ten yards away from Pussywillows when my father-in-law opened the front door. Astonished, I skidded to a halt in a pile of wet leaves and waited with bated breath to see how he would handle a direct frontal assault on Amelia’s unsafe haven.

“May I help you?” he asked politely.

“I hope so,” said the brunette. “My friends and I are looking for a woman who recently moved to your village. Her name is Mae Bowen, but she sometimes calls herself Amelia Thistle.”

“And your name is…?” Willis, Sr., inquired.

“Daffodil Deeproots,” the brunette replied with a tranquil smile.

“How very floral,” Willis, Sr., observed. “Is Daffodil a family name or have you adopted it informally?”

“I am a child of the sun and the earth,” Daffodil answered, “and I was christened by the rain.” She batted her eyelashes at Willis, Sr. “My spirit guide told me I would find Mother Mae here. Be a lamb and bring her out, won’t you? Her children crave her wisdom.”

“Your spirit guide is misinformed, Ms. Deeproots,” said Willis, Sr. “I do not know Mae Bowen, nor do I know where she lives. I do,
however, know Constable Huntzicker and I would advise you and your companions to leave Finch before he arrives. I have overheard my neighbors’ accusations and I can assure you that the constable takes a dim view of those who drive poorly maintained vehicles, flout parking regulations, imbibe illegal substances, post bills without permits, distribute offensive literature, and practice deception by using assumed names. Good day, Ms. Deeproots,” he concluded pleasantly and closed the door in her face.

Daffodil’s serene smile faltered. She shuffled her feet indecisively, then looked over her shoulder. When she saw her confederates huddled in the van, she trudged across the green to join them.

After a great deal of backing and forthing, accompanied by a chorus of catcalls from disgruntled onlookers, the paunchy driver managed to extricate his vehicle from the rain-softened ground. He’d evidently taken the villagers’ threats to heart, because he headed for the Oxford road instead of Upper Deeping, to avoid a possible run-in with the law. He couldn’t have known—and no one had deigned to tell him—that Constable Huntzicker was enjoying a well-earned holiday in Majorca.

I waited for the van to cross the bridge, then darted over to Pussywillows and tapped on the front door until Willis, Sr., opened it and invited me in. He waited for me to kick off my damp sneakers and perch on the edge of the tweed-covered love seat before lowering himself into the armchair opposite Amelia’s. The items on the coffee table—a teapot, a pair of teacups, and a few slices of buttered brown bread on two crumb-littered plates—suggested that he had been there for some time.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Amelia inquired.

“No, thanks,” I said, eyeing her uncertainly.

“You must sample Mrs. Thistle’s brown bread,” Willis, Sr., urged. “I do not exaggerate when I say that it is by far the best brown bread I have ever tasted.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Willis,” said Amelia.

“Not at all,” said Willis, Sr.

“Mr. Willis arrived mere seconds after I rang you, Lori,” Amelia explained, topping up Willis, Sr.’s cup. “He brought a lovely orchid to brighten my empty windowsill. Little did he know that he would be called upon to bar the gate to barbarians.”

“Have you…?” I wasn’t sure how to pose my question, so I left it dangling.

“Have I introduced myself properly to your father-in-law?” Amelia placed the cherry-red teapot on the table and clenched her hands together in her lap. “I was on the verge of doing so when I was distracted by the rumpus on the green. It sounded as though World War III had begun, so of course I crept to the window to find out what was going on and once there I couldn’t tear myself away. In the end it proved to be a delightfully one-sided battle, with my neighbors vanquishing all who stood before them. Then Daffodil came to the door and…and rendered my introduction superfluous.” She bit her lower lip and looked shyly at Willis, Sr.

“Are you Mae Bowen?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied, lowering her eyes.

“My late wife commissioned you to paint a watercolor for me,” he said.

Amelia looked up, an arrested expression on her face. She gazed intently into Willis, Sr.’s gray eyes, then nodded.

“Jane Willis,” she said. “Spring crocuses in the snow.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

The silence that followed had more layers than a wedding cake. I sat stock still and pretended to be invisible, but I needn’t have bothered. Amelia and Willis, Sr., were in a world of their own. As far as they were concerned, I
was
invisible.

The magic moment ended when a mighty fist crashed against the front door.

“I’ll get it,” I said, jumping to my feet. “If it’s Daffodil, I’ll give her a good pruning.”

The mighty fist did not belong to Ms. Deeproots, however, but to Peggy Taxman, who stood, arms akimbo, at the head of a small but determined-looking delegation that included Sally Pyne, Henry Cook, Dick Peacock, George Wetherhead, Mr. Barlow, and Buster.

As I searched my mind for an appropriate greeting, each member of the delegation—except for Buster—held up a bright yellow leaflet, which they opened simultaneously to reveal black-and-white portrait photographs identical to the ones I’d seen in the brochures advertising Mae Bowen’s exhibitions.

“Someone,” Peggy boomed, “owes us an explanation.”

Fifteen

“W 
e wish to see the lady of the house,” Peggy thundered. “And we wish to see her
now
.”

There was no pruning Peggy Taxman. Postmistress, business owner, and chair of the all-important village affairs committee, Peggy ruled Finch with an iron hand, a stentorian voice, and an imposing physique. Though she wore flowery dresses and pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses, she behaved like a human bulldozer, flattening anyone foolish enough to stand in her way.

Since I wanted to see my sons grown to manhood, I stood aside.

The delegation swept past me and into the front room, where they fanned out behind the love seat and peered avidly from their leaflets to Amelia, as if to confirm their suspicions. I scuttled in after them to hover near the fireplace while their fearless leader planted herself in front of the love seat, folded her meaty arms, and surveyed the lady of the house from head to foot. Peggy took great pride in her gossip-gathering skills. She would have been irked to discover that a particularly tasty tidbit had escaped her notice.

“Either you have an identical twin,” she roared, “or you’ve been playing games with us, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are. Which is it?” She brandished a threatening index finger at Amelia. “The truth, this time, and make it snappy. I don’t know how it is where you come from, but we’re honest, law-abiding folk around here and we don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Willis, Sr., flew from his chair as if catapulted and placed himself between Peggy and Amelia. Though Peggy could have snapped him in two over her knee, the fire in his eyes forced her to fall back a step.

“You will speak courteously to Mrs. Thistle,” he said evenly, “or you will leave.”

“If she’s attracting undesirables to our village,” Peggy declared, “we’re within our rights to question her.”

“You are not questioning her,” Willis, Sr., countered. “You are badgering her. I will not permit—”

“Thank you, Mr. Willis,” Amelia intervened. “I’d prefer to speak for myself.”

“As you wish,” said Willis, Sr., but he shot another fiery glance at Peggy before returning to his chair.

“I won’t attempt to refute Mrs. Taxman’s allegation,” said Amelia, looking from one villager to the next, “because it’s true: I haven’t been entirely forthright with any of you. I can only apologize most sincerely and hope that the reason for my dishonesty will make sense to you, once you’ve heard it.”