Aunt Dimity: Detective (15 page)

“Bill—”

“—fell into the arms of . . .What was his name? Well-built guy, curly black hair . . . Adam! That's it. Adam Chase. I know you couldn't help yourself with Adam, but I'd hoped you'd exercise a modicum of self-restraint with Nicholas. Unless, of course, you're possessed by a demonic spirit, in which case all is forgiven.”

I gave him a chance to catch his breath. His caustic comments stung, but I was in no position to object to them. My husband had every right to take me to task.

“I'm not possessed,” I said evenly. “And I've been exercising a great deal of self-restraint.”

“Have you needed to?” Bill asked.

“Yes.” I groaned and leaned my head on my hand. “I'm sorry, but it's true. Come on, Bill. Haven't you ever been attracted to someone other than me?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

My head came up. “Really?”

“Not as often as you, perhaps,” he replied testily, “but there have been moments.”

“Oh.” I blinked stupidly at the telephone. I wasn't sure how I felt. One part of me was stunned by his admission, but a larger part was relieved. I rested my elbows on the desk and asked, “Why do you suppose that is?”

“I don't know.” The sarcasm had left his voice. He sounded a bit sad, but mostly thoughtful, as if he truly were trying to figure out why two people who loved each other as much as we did would ever consider turning to anyone else. “It has nothing to do with love. I've never loved anyone but you.”

“It happens to me when I'm running around with someone, chasing after something.” I looked out of the window at the pub and remembered the way my heart had raced when I'd seen Nicholas in the storeroom. “Maybe it's nothing to do with Nicholas. Maybe it's the excitement, the thrill of the chase, spilling over onto him.”

“If that's the case, there's a simple solution,” Bill said. “You and I have to have some adventures of our own.”

I sat up, enchanted by the idea. “Yeah? You have anything in mind?”

A warm tingle passed through me when I heard the smile in Bill's voice.

“I can't guarantee another murder,” he said, “but I'll think of something.”

“I'll work on it, too,” I promised. “In the meantime, please don't let the gossip worry you. I haven't done anything with Nicholas that I couldn't do in front of our sons.”

“Not a bad guide to behavior,” Bill said dryly. “Perhaps we should both bear it in mind.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm glad we've . . . talked.”

“So am I,” I said. “We can talk more when you get home, if you like.”

“Talk isn't what I had in mind,” said Bill, “but we can certainly add it to the agenda. Good luck with Peggy Taxman, love.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll need it. See you on Saturday.”

I hung up the phone and sat for a long time, gazing at Reginald. He looked back at me with an oddly satisfied gleam in his black button eyes.

“Well, what do you know?” I said finally. “My saintly husband is human, after all. He can lose his temper, run out of patience, and admit to feeling some old-fashioned extramarital lust.” I poked Reginald in his pink-flannel tummy and laughed out loud. “Call me crazy, Reg, but I don't think I've ever loved Bill more than I do right this minute.”

 

 

The unanticipated detour in my conversation with Bill reenergized me, so the bike ride home wasn't the ordeal I'd been dreading. The rain let up, the wind abated, and I pedaled slowly, relishing the beauty of the blossoming trees I passed along the way. Apple, pear, and cherry had sprung into bloom overnight, brightening the dreary day with a fluttering snow-storm of white and pink petals.

Will and Rob were as happy to see me as I was to see them, and I quickly absolved Annelise of all responsibility for making lunch. After yet another change of clothes, I prepared a batch of mushroom crepes and an enormous spinach-and-bacon salad, and filled the leftover crepes with raspberry jam for dessert. The twins requested scrambled-egg sandwiches—their latest food fad—but they made a dent in the jam crepes as well.

Once they were down for their naps, I indulged in a steamy bath, then stretched out on the bed for an hour. I awakened feeling refreshed and ready to spend the remainder of the afternoon keeping up with my bouncing boys. It wasn't until they were in bed and asleep after dinner that I had a chance to shut myself in the study and make my report to Aunt Dimity.

“The long and the short of it is that nearly everyone with whom we've spoken had a reason to want Prunella Hooper dead,” I concluded.

I curled up in the tall leather armchair and waited for Dimity's response. I'd turned the lamps off when I'd lit the fire and so watched her words unfurl by the light of the leaping flames.

“She kept busy,” I acknowledged. “Any of them could have done it, Dimity. Most were out and about at the right time, and it wouldn't have required exceptional strength to crack Mrs. Hooper's skull.”

I shrugged. “Watching Dick Peacock from the tearoom, I suppose. She seems to know what he does every Thursday morning.”

“In bed, I think.” I recalled the conversation Nicholas and I had had with Peggy over Pruneface Hooper's grave. “She told us that she'd heard Mr. Barlow was up early, but she didn't say she'd seen him.”

“Maybe Peggy Taxman holds the key,” I said. “And there's Mr. Barlow to consider, if he ever comes back from wherever he is. But I agree with Nicholas about Miranda Morrow. If Miranda had killed Pruneface, she would have used something more subtle than a blunt instrument.”

“We've had our ups and downs.” I stretched my legs out on the leather ottoman and looked toward the ivy-webbed window over the desk. “I wonder if he watches cop shows.”

“Police programs,” I explained, “on television.”

“There's an interrogation technique they use on cop shows,” I explained. “It's called the good cop/bad cop routine. One officer's nice, his partner's mean, and between them they get the suspect to spill the beans.”

“The thing is, Nicholas was playing both roles when we spoke with George Wetherhead—good and bad—and he was incredibly good at it, turned it on and off just like that.” I snapped my fingers. “I didn't like it. It scared me.”

“I guess . . .” I ran a hand through my dark curls. “I guess it makes me wonder which one is the real Nicholas—the good cop or the bad cop.”

I smiled at the suggestion. “They'd be biased. He bribed them with toys.”

Dimity's question brought to mind an incident that had taken place during our visit to Boston. I stared at the darkened window and recalled a particular afternoon in early February when Bill's aunts had insisted on introducing their grand-nephews to a politician friend.

The man had seemed okay to me and Bill, but the boys had refused to accept the toy boats he'd brought along especially for them. They had, in fact, refused to go anywhere near the guy and stood clinging to my father-in-law's immaculately creased trouser legs throughout the visit. We found out later that the politician had been instrumental in cutting public funding for day care.

“No,” I said. “No, they don't.” I slid my hand along the arm of the chair and added sheepishly, “It sounds silly, Dimity, but they seem to be pretty good judges of character.”

Will and Rob had taken a genuine liking to Nicholas, right off the bat. They'd romped with him, rifled his pockets, and clambered in and out of his lap during lunch. As far as my sons were concerned, Nicholas was good cop through and through.

“Thanks, Dimity,” I said. “I like Nicholas, and I didn't want to think badly of him. You—and the boys—have helped me to see him more clearly.”

“In what way?” I asked.

It seemed politic to skip over Nicholas's noncollegial feelings for me, so I answered with a simple “Yes.”

“He's concerned about his aunt and uncle,” I offered.

“No, Dimity,” I said, grinning. “Lilian and the vicar seem to be the only people in Finch who
weren't
up at dawn.”

“Good night, Dimity.” I closed the journal and sat quietly with it resting on my lap.

It had been a long day, filled with unexpected twists and turns. I felt as if I'd opened a window on my neighbors' secret lives. Each had something to hide, some reason to be ashamed, angry, or fearful, and each thought someone else had a better reason than his or her own to kill Mrs. Hooper. Finch had once appeared to me to be a quiet backwater. I knew now that it was roiling with turbulent undercurrents.

I slid the journal into its niche on the bookshelves, twiddled Reginald's ears, and stood for a moment, gazing into the fire. I felt as if I'd opened a window on my marriage as well. Bill and I had never spoken openly about my wandering eye, nor had he ever before admitted to having one of his own. I welcomed the revelation and hoped it would stir us both to action. Our relationship had become too settled, too predictable. It needed a good shaking to keep it from a sinking under the weight of its own stability.

I hated to admit it, but I owed a debt of gratitude to the late and unlamented Pruneface Hooper. Her vile behavior and violent death had shed new light on my neighbors' lives and, indirectly, on my own.

Chapter 17

Kitchen's Emporium stood opposite Sally Pyne's tearoom on the square. Its white-framed display window featured a tidy pyramid of baked-bean cans flanked by a shiny lawn mower and a bolt of chintz fabric. The unusual juxtaposition of items signaled to all comers that Kitchen's Emporium was the most general of general stores. I'd long since ceased to be amazed by the variety of items Peggy Taxman stashed in her voluminous storeroom. Whether I needed a set of wrenches or a sack of flour, I could rest assured that the Emporium would provide.

The sun was peeking furtively from behind a wash of gray clouds when I bumped over the humpbacked bridge the following morning. It was Friday. I had one more day to spend with Nicholas before my husband returned home. I was looking forward to it.

Nicholas and I had agreed to meet at the Emporium at ten o'clock, but as I pulled into the square, I spotted him standing by the war memorial. He was dressed in his tweed blazer, creamy turtleneck, and dark brown trousers, but he carried his trench coat over his arm, as insurance. I parked the Rover in front of the Emporium, grabbed my jacket from the backseat, and walked over to join him.

“Sleep well?” he inquired when I'd stepped through the holly hedge.

“Very,” I replied. “You?”

“Not as well as I'd hoped.” He rocked back on his heels and peered up at the worn Celtic cross. “I had a lecture from my aunt last night.”

“Ah.” I, too, turned my attention to the cross. “About us?”

“Yes.” He glanced at me briefly, then clasped his hands behind his back and looked up again. “I explained to her that nothing untoward had happened between us, and she explained to me that anyone with a functioning brain could tell that something
would
happen if we didn't exercise extreme caution.”