The Final Crumpet (14 page)

“There is no
however
…” He tried to interrupt.

Flick continued. “Please tell Sir James that we’re seeking the very same kind of information that he wants. We, too, need to understand why Etienne Makepeace was shot and buried on museum grounds. There’s bound to be a simple explanation; most murders, after all, are fairly straightforward crimes committed by people who have down-to-earth motives.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Consequently; under Nigel’s direction, I’ve initiated a multifaceted investigation into Makepeace’s relationship with the museum during its early years.”

Nigel swallowed a mouthful of coffee the wrong way and began to cough.
What multifaceted investigation had Flick begun?
Certainly not one that he had “directed.” Nor one that he had even heard about. The only possible explanation was that Flick had decided to lie to Olivia Hart—a course which struck him as dangerous beyond measure. Like it or not, he would have to interrupt and—
and…read her the riot act.

But then he happened to glance at Olivia. She was listening intently to Flick and nodding at every word and writing enthusiastically in a small notebook he hadn’t noticed before.

Olivia raised her eyes from the notebook and beamed at Nigel. “I’m not the least bit surprised that you have the situation well in hand. A manager with your splendid credentials would surely recognize that the unfortunate discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your tea garden is like the proverbial five-thousand-pound elephant standing in the corner of one’s drawing room. Sooner or later, the intruder becomes impossible to ignore.”

“Um
…” Nigel had used the same elephant metaphor himself on the day that Makepeace’s body had been discovered. He delved into his mind for a suitable reply, but when none came, he settled for, “Sooner, one would think.”

“And I fully understand why you would prefer to keep your inquiry a secret. It’s difficult to know where such an investigation will lead.”

“Very difficult, indeed,” Nigel agreed.

“Still, I applaud you for choosing a proactive approach. Attempting to control one’s situation makes far more sense than allowing oneself to be buffeted by a windstorm of uncertainty.”

“Proactive. Yes, indeed,” Nigel said. “We try our best to be proactive at all times. And prudent. We achieve both proactivity and prudence with knowledge, because knowledge is never a bad thing. Especially knowledge about Etienne Makepeace. That’s why we are investigating him. To gather every bit we can.”

Blimey. I’m blithering again. And Olivia Hart is making more notes.

He stopped talking.

Olivia clicked her pen shut and stood up. Nigel bounded to his feet.

“I feel certain,” she said, “that Sir James will want to meet with you
before
the loan closes to hear the results of your investigation. Tentatively, shall we say
ten days
from today? I will call to confirm the time.”

Nigel felt his knees go weak. What kind of “comprehensive investigation” could they accomplish in a mere ten days? He gulped back his panic and found the strength to mumble, “I look forward to meeting with Sir James.”

His words earned yet another smile from Olivia—this one even warmer than its predecessors. “I am confident that he will enjoy meeting with you.”

An idea popped into his mind. Why not exploit Olivia’s unexpected cordiality? “Shall I accompany you downstairs? I will be able to describe several of our more impressive holdings as we travel through the museum.”

“That would be lovely.”

Nigel ushered Olivia toward the door. He turned and winked at Flick—a silent thank you for saving our bacon.

Flick didn’t respond in kind. At first, she merely looked at him quizzically, but then her eyes began to narrow into an irate glare.

Nigel quickly pulled the door shut.

What have I done wrong now?

The man must be clueless!

Flick heard the oaken door close with a heavy thump and wondered if Nigel could really be as dense as he had just behaved. How could he expect her to wink back at him after he had fawned like a puppy in front of Olivia Hart?

She reached for the thermal tea carafe on the teacart.

It held a superb oolong, fruity tasting and golden in color, a luscious brew that had the power to lift one’s spirits. She refilled her cup and chose another of Alain Rousseau’s divine shortbread squares. Flick sipped and nibbled and slowly changed her perspective. She could hardly blame Nigel for becoming discombobulated when a strikingly beautiful woman brazenly threw herself at his feet.

You would think that Nigel would be used to getting hit on by now.

She had watched local women flirt with Nigel more times than she could count. Each new occasion added to her conviction that Kentish females viewed Nigel Owen considerably differently than she did.

She saw Nigel as comfortably handsome in a particularly British way—good-looking, certainly, but not the sort of man a red-blooded American woman would label a “hunk.” He was slender rather than brawny, with a ruddy complexion that looked like he had just scrubbed his face, and (let’s be honest) rather large ears. Hardly the features one might observe on a movie star or a male model.

English women, on the other hand, apparently considered Nigel to be a paragon of masculinity—a man worthy of their deepest sighs, dreamiest gazes, and most candid flirtations. Curiously, it didn’t seem to make any difference that he was “taken”—women who knew about Nigel and Flick’s relationship would flirt with him in front of her.

Olivia Hart, for example.

Flick sipped her tea and considered the comments Olivia made. Her use of the word “dossier” was a dead giveaway. Wescott Bank had obviously filled a file with facts about the two people at the helm of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. Every museum employee knew that Flick and Nigel were “good friends,” to use Stuart Battlebridge’s label. They had not worked hard at being discreet inside or outside the building. The bank probably had a candid photograph of them holding hands in the Pantiles.

Flick helped herself to a second shortbread square and immediately regretted her lack of willpower. No wonder her clothing had begun to feel tight around the middle. She had fallen into the habit of enjoying one of Alain’s treats—scones, biscuits, fairy cakes, whatever—with tea every afternoon. His shortbread was a particular favorite, a figure-destroying blend of butter, flour, vanilla, and confectioner’s sugar, baked a delectable golden brown.

You have to be skinny to go head-to-head with the likes of Olivia Hart.

Flick heaved a deep sigh. How could Nigel—how could any man—resist Olivia? Besides being gorgeous, she was smart and also wealthy. Those black pearls she wore as everyday earrings were museum quality—and worth countless thousands.

“It’s not fair,” Flick murmured, as she poured herself a fresh cuppa.

Nigel returned twenty minutes later, a sappy grin on his rosy, comfortably handsome face.

“You’re a genius!” he proclaimed, with such fervor that Flick found it impossible not to smile along with him. “You came up with magic words that quelled the savage banker. Your quick thinking—along with your total disregard of my authority as director—saved us no end of headaches. I’m proud of you.” He reached out with both arms and wrapped Flick inside a mighty hug that lasted for most of a minute.

She pushed free from his embrace. “Aren’t we in the middle of a quarrel?”

“A wee lover’s tiff.” He peered at Flick hopefully. “To my mind, it vanished as quickly as it came.”

“You just mentioned your
authority
…”

“A slip of the tongue. My authority is not worth talking about,” Nigel burbled on happily. “I know when resistance is futile. I hereby grant to you in perpetuity complete curatorial decision-making, including all matters pertaining to Etienne Makepeace. You decide when, where, and if we create an exhibit about him. I will support your decision without question.”

“I’m in charge?”

“Completely.” He put his arms around her again. “Furthermore, I owe you an apology.”

“You do?”

“I behaved badly when you came into my office. I didn’t give you a chance to explain why you changed your mind about the Makepeace exhibit.”

“Ah.”

“I also overreacted and said things I regret saying.”

“Me, too.” Flick gave Nigel a squeeze. “I’m sorry for not checking with you before I announced the exhibit to the BBC.”

“Is all forgiven between us?”

“The whole nine yards.”

“We can both speak freely?”

“Uh
…sure.”

Nigel’s expression became serious. “Good. Then let me share the two itty-bitty anxieties I have.”

Flick felt a jolt of foreboding. Was Nigel about to explain that he had just fallen out of love with her?

“Olivia Hart made a point of telling me that Sir James Boyer will cancel our loan deal if he is dissatisfied with the results of the multifaceted investigation you described to her.” Nigel managed a nervous smile. “We are conducting such an investigation—right? We’ll have results to present within ten days?”

Flick laughed. “The investigation is underway as we speak. Everything I told Olivia is absolutely true.”

Nigel exhaled slowly. “Thank goodness! I can breathe again.” He released Flick from his arms. “It also means we don’t have to call an emergency meeting of the trustees.”

“Yikes! I clean forgot about them.”

“I didn’t. Archibald Meicklejohn will be touring New Zealand for two more weeks. I didn’t relish asking him to cut his vacation short.”

“What do we tell the trustees who haven’t left the country?”

“Nothing—yet,” Nigel said. “We seem to have the situation well in hand.”

“Now you sound like Olivia Hart.”

Nigel shuddered. “What a horrendous woman! A modern-day dragon lady.”

“I don’t know her well enough to pass judgment.” Flick hoped that her voice wouldn’t betray her true feelings. In fact, she’d begun to dislike Olivia the moment the banker began to flirt with Nigel. Flick changed the subject. “You said you have
two
anxieties.”

Nigel hesitated a moment, inhaled deeply, and spoke a flood of words: “The time has come, Flick, for me to understand what’s bothering you about our relationship. I know that something is bothering you, but I can’t figure out what that something is. If it’s something I did or something I didn’t do, please tell me. If it’s something else, I need to know what else. I may sound corny, like you Americans like to say, but I’ve never felt this way before about anyone else. I want to tell you how I feel, but I fear that what I say may cause you even greater bother so I am reluctant to say anything, which actually may be the root cause of the problem. Do you see what I mean?”

“Oh my.”

“Does that mean yes or no?”

“I…uh…I…”

“What?”

“I think I’m blithering.”

“Indeed you are. I speak from considerable experience as a fellow blitherer.”

Flick felt numb. For a brief moment, she considered telling Nigel about her past experiences with men, but then changed her mind.

Don’t do it. Don’t burden him with your silly insecurities. He’ll never understand the way you feel.

She took his hand. “I’ve been moody because I’m trying to shed some old emotional baggage that I’m not ready to talk about. At least, not yet.”

“Perhaps I can help you clean house?”

“It will soon be spotless. I need a few more days to work everything out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” She tugged Nigel’s head down and kissed his cheek. “You know what they say—the course of true love never did run smooth.”

“We’ll see about that.” Nigel gave her a proper kiss. “Wow!” she said.

“By the way, was it Keats or Browning who came up with those unhappy words about true love?”

“Neither. Willy Shakespeare wrote them for
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”