Aunt Dimity Digs In (20 page)

“Peggy didn’t come back until after Piero Sciaparelli’s death,” I said. “I’ll bet she was majorly annoyed to find Sally here—and vice versa. From what Mr. Barlow told me, it sounds as though they picked up where they left off during the war—Finch’s longest long-running feud.”

“So do I,” I murmured.

“What’s that?” I asked, pushing aside memories of a man I’d never known.

I gave a weak laugh. At the moment, finding a birthday present for Rainey was the least of my worries. “Not yet. Emma found something for her in the back room at Kitchen’s Emporium, but I’d rather not go that route.”

“Which attic?” I said.

The one above your head, my dear. Look for a trunk, a green trunk with brass hinges. I think you’ll find exactly what you need.
There was a pause.
I’m sorry, Lori, but I must fly. Thank you for letting me prattle on about Piero. And do let me know how Emma’s search of the schoolhouse turns out!

“Dimity! Wait! I wanted to . . .” I watched as Dimity’s fine copperplate slowly faded from the page. “. . . ask you about Adrian,” I muttered, knowing that no one could hear me but Will and Rob. I closed the journal, returned it to the shelf, and faced the boys. “Well, troops, let’s see what’s waiting for us in the attic, shall we?”

 

The attic wasn’t much more than a crawl space, a dim and dusty hollow beneath the eaves, where Dimity had stored old picture frames, worn quilts, ancient cameras—odds and ends she couldn’t use but couldn’t throw away.

I peered down from the trapdoor to make sure the boys were okay. Francesca was, presumably, still tracking Adrian down in her pursuit of Reginald, and Bill was still at work. It was patently unsafe to cart the boys up the narrow pull-down ladder that gave access to the attic, so I’d left them down below, nestled in their bouncy chairs, where I could see them.

I thought I knew the trunk Dimity had spoken of. I’d gone through it when I’d moved into the cottage, then returned it to its place under the eaves. It had been filled with elegant old clothes more suited to the Pym sisters than to a mud-pie princess like Rainey.

I crawled over to sit cross-legged before the trunk. It was covered with forest-green leather and trimmed with brass metalwork; the latch plate bore Dimity’s initials. I raised the lid and removed a fitted tray filled with kid gloves, silk scarves, and linen handkerchiefs. Dust wafted gently into the musty air as I carefully placed the tray on the rough wooden floor, and a spider crept out on an overhead beam to see what was disturbing her cobweb. I mumbled an apology for the intrusion, peered into the trunk’s main compartment, and gasped.

“Oh, my,” I whispered, lifting the stuffed tiger from his bed of beaded dresses. “Oh, Dimity . . .”

I gazed into the tiger’s black button eyes and felt a flood of love flow through me. He was perfect. His brown stripes would conceal grubby handprints, and he was sturdy enough to withstand being dropped, trodden on, and tripped over by a little girl better known for vigor than for grace. He was happy-go-lucky, fearless, nigh on indestructible—and he’d need to be.

I touched a finger to the tiger’s hand-stitched whiskers and wondered, for a moment, what his name was. Then I hugged him to me and murmured to the spider, “Rainey will know.”

 

Bill found me grating carrots for our salad when he came home that evening. The rich aroma of rosemary chicken drew him to the kitchen doorway, where he stood, eyeing me speculatively.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observed, with the air of a man who’d worked out a knotty problem. “Has the rally been canceled?”

“Nope.” I laid the grater aside, gave the carrot stump to Rob, and tossed the salad.

Bill snapped his fingers. “I know! You’ve booked a flight back to Boston.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’ve got a speech to make on Sunday.”

Bill came over to feel my forehead. “No sign of fever, but I suggest you lie down anyway and let Francesca finish preparing dinner. Where is she?”

“I sent her to her room.” I shrugged at Bill’s sharp intake of breath. “It was either that or let her burn the cottage down. She’s been in an absolute daze since she got back from seeing Adrian.”

Bill stumbled back against the sink in mock amazement. “Francesca went to see Adrian? Voluntarily? Has the world gone mad since lunchtime or have the two of you been at the cooking sherry?”

“Go wash your hands,” I ordered. “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

 

 

Francesca had returned from Scrag End field so preoccupied that she’d put Rob’s T-shirt on him backward and dropped Will’s socks in the toilet bowl.

“As I fished them out,” I said, passing Bill the new potatoes, “I heard her say to her reflection in the mirror, ‘Adrian
means
well.’ At which point I steered her to her room and closed the door.”

“Did she find Reginald?” Bill asked, spooning potatoes onto his plate.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “But not before she’d accused Adrian of theft, dishonesty, and a wanton disregard for the feelings of a pair of helpless infants. Imagine her chagrin when Simon spotted Reginald in the backseat of the Mercedes.”

“Ow,” said Bill, grimacing.

“Adrian was very good about it,” I said. “He stopped by with a bouquet of wildflowers, to make sure Francesca knew there were no hard feelings.” I put my fork down, assailed by a sudden loss of appetite. “I can’t take Francesca with me to Scrag End field tomorrow. Adrian’s already charmed her into thinking he means well. God knows how much further he’ll get, now that her guard is down.”

Bill reached over to squeeze my hand. “I’m sorry, love. I know how it pains you to see handsome princes tumble off their chargers. You’re an incurable romantic, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

A few moments and several mouthfuls later, he said thoughtfully, “I suppose Reginald got into the Merc the same way he got into Father’s briefcase last summer. Dimity seems to be going out of her way to throw our two ill-matched lovebirds together.”

“She can’t be right all of the time,” I said, “but when she is, she’s spot on. Wait until you see Rainey’s birthday present.”

“Extraspecial?” said Bill.

“Way beyond extra,” I replied. “Reginald has a new cousin. A tiger. He’ll be the hit of the party.”

“Ah, yes,” said Bill, “the party. The birthday party that’s scheduled to coincide with Peggy’s rally.” He paused to savor another bite of juicy, aromatic chicken before asking, “Did I hear you correctly? Are you really going to get up on that platform and make a speech?”

“I am.” Something of the tiger’s spirit had entered into me in the attic. I was no longer afraid of what would happen on Sunday. In truth, I was rather looking forward to placing myself between Sally Pyne and Peggy Kitchen. It would be a dangerous job, but someone had to do it.

“Do I get a sneak preview?” Bill coaxed.

“Of my speech?” I shook my head. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait till Sunday, just like everybody else.”

“I’ll alert the media.” Bill let the subject drop and concentrated fully on his food. When he’d finished, he pushed himself back from the table and groaned contentedly. “I am replete,” he announced, patting his stomach. “You know, Lori, Francesca’s a good cook, but she’s no match for you.”

I had a sudden vision of the glop Bill had been eating for the past ten months or more, of the meals put through strainers, sieves, and food mills. With a guilty twinge I realized exactly how much he’d missed my cooking, and I blessed him for not mentioning it sooner. I watched him take his plate into the kitchen and felt my heart swell even as my throat constricted. Some handsome princes, I thought, knew how to stay in the saddle.

19.

My conscience was no match for Francesca’s. Once she’d laid eyes on the wildflower bouquet, there was no stopping her from accompanying me to Scrag End field.

“I let my temper run away with me yesterday,” she said stolidly, as we loaded the boys’ strollers into the trunk of the Mercedes. “I said some things I shouldn’t’ve. I should be apologizing to Dr. Culver, not the other way round.”

I studied her covertly as we went back into the cottage. The disease had progressed more rapidly than I’d realized. Four days ago she’d have bitten her tongue in two rather than say a kind word to Adrian.

“Have you changed your mind about the Culver Institute?” I inquired, curious to see just how far gone she was.

She gazed down at the diaper bag for a moment, then gave a minute head-shake. “No. It’d be wrong to build a museum in Finch. It’d change the village too much, and the village doesn’t need changing.”

I put a few squeaky toys, a patchwork platypus, and a plush brontosaurus into the toy bag but left Reginald in the playpen—he’d caused enough trouble already.

We finished loading the trunk, then went back to fetch Rob and Will. As she passed the hall mirror, Francesca paused to smooth her hair and straighten the collar on her shirtdress. She needn’t have bothered. Adrian would find her enchanting if she showed up in a bandana and bib overalls. She was an ideal diversion.

 

Derek and Emma were supposed to meet Simon at the schoolhouse at one o’clock for their tour. As Francesca steered the Mercedes over the humpbacked bridge and into the square I spotted Derek greeting Simon, who’d just emerged from the paneled van. Emma stood near Kitchen’s Emporium, discreetly flagging us down, while Rainey hopped up and down on Jasper Taxman’s platform, waving wildly and calling out, “Over here, Lori!”

Francesca parked in front of Bill’s office, and I hastened over to confer with Emma. We met in the middle of the square.

“I’ve got another passenger for you,” she said, looking slightly frazzled. Emma lowered her voice as Rainey ran circles around us. “I don’t want her to break anything in the schoolhouse.”

“She does better in outdoor settings,” I agreed.

“May I go to Scrag End with you, Lori?” Rainey pleaded. She’d divested herself of the gardening smock and work gloves but retained the sun hat. Its broad brim was, like Emma, beginning to fray around the edges. “I’ll be good, I promise, and I’ve always wanted to see Scrag End and Emma says you’ve brought WillanRob and—”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “You may come along.” I jutted my chin toward the Mercedes. “Ask Francesca to buckle you into the front seat.”

Rainey dashed off, jubilant.

Emma let loose a sigh of relief. “ That child may be a joy in the garden, but she’s a handful everywhere else.”

“I don’t know why I’m bothering to go to Scrag End,” I said, with a wry smile. “Francesca and Rainey make a perfect SWAT team. They’ll keep Adrian and Katrina pinned at the dig for hours. All set for your tour?”

Emma nodded. “Derek has his instructions. He’ll look high, I’ll look low.” Since Emma was a foot shorter than her husband, it seemed an eminently sensible division of labor.

 

 

Francesca drove up Saint George’s Lane, past the vicarage, the church, and the belt of trees that lay beyond the churchyard. At the far edge of the forested land, she turned right, onto a narrow, unpaved track.

The rough track followed the course of the river and appeared to mark the boundary between forest and farm-land. To our left, across the river, a vast field of ripening grain rose gradually to a hilltop where a cluster of farm buildings huddled among a handful of sheltering trees. Hodge Farm, I thought, remembering the vicar’s words.

To our right lay airy woodland fringed with a tangle of wildflowers, some of which had no doubt found their way into Adrian’s bouquet. About fifty yards in from the main road, the forest opened up into a clearing.

“Is this it?” I asked.

Francesca nodded.

“ The vicar told me it was useless for cultivation,” I said. “I think I see what he means.”

“It’s useless for much of anything,” said Francesca, parking the Mercedes. “ The lower part floods and the upper part’s nothing but rocks.”

I could well believe it. Scrag End field was a singularly charmless piece of real estate—a sloping, lumpy meadow tufted with spiky grass and pathetic, tumbleweed-like bushes. I’d expected more from a place that had my village up in arms—an air of mystery, a brooding atmosphere, an intangible
something
to suggest that this was a field worth fighting over. But even Miranda Morrow would be hard-pressed to detect mystery in Scrag End’s aura. It exuded about as much drama as a municipal parking lot.

There were, however, signs of habitation. At the field’s eastern edge, near the lane and partially sheltered by the trees, a blue tarpaulin on poles shaded a motley collection of folding tables and canvas chairs. The upper half of the field had been marked out with a gridwork of staked ropes and pennants on thin rods. Between the tarpaulin and the grid lay a trail of buckets, brushes, sieves, and trowels—the tools of the archaeologist’s trade.

Katrina Graham, dressed in a blazing orange tank top, a red sweatband, and a pair of baggy shorts, was emptying a bucket of dirt into a wheelbarrow at the center of the grid. She paused to look up as our car rumbled into view. Adrian, clad in his dusty work clothes and disreputable hat, sat in a folding chair beneath the blue tarpaulin, with a large sketch pad propped on the table before him. The moment he spied the Mercedes, he jumped to his feet and hurried toward the lane.