Aunt Dimity: Detective

by Nancy Atherton

  “Do you have such a license, Miranda?” Nicholas asked.

  “I do not,” she answered. “Which is why you’ll find no marijuana on these premises.”

  Nicholas said nothing. He merely turned his gaze to the gap in the hanging bundles of dried herbs.

  “It is my belief, however,” Miranda continued, “that folk medicine belongs to the people, not to a medical board. I said as much to Mrs. Hooper when she threatened to bring the drug squad down on me.”

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “She threatened you, did she?”

  “I’d insulted her twice in the course of one conversation, darling. She couldn’t allow me to get away scot-free, could she, Seraphina?” Miranda scooped the black cat up from the ottoman. “She lost her temper—and her charm—and tried to frighten us. We told her to bring the drug squad to tea, didn’t we, my sweet?” Miranda cradled Seraphina on her shoulder.

  “I wonder . . .” Nicholas rubbed his jaw. “Do you think she threatened anyone else in Finch?”

  “Everyone, I should imagine,” said Miranda. “She couldn’t help herself. Her spirit was distorted, twisted, ravaged by fear. Fear makes some people timid—look at what it’s done to poor George—but it turns others into devouring monsters.”

  “What was she afraid of?” I asked.

  “Everything, anything . . .” Miranda fluttered her fingers nonchalantly. “She needed to be in control of every situation, darling, and she used any means at her disposal to gain the upper hand.”

  “Lies, threats, intimidation,” Nicholas murmured.

  “That’s not all.” Miranda’s green eyes drifted lazily toward Nicholas. “Just ask Peggy Taxman.”

  Nicholas stiffened, but his voice betrayed only a faint perplexity.

  “I understood that Mrs. Taxman and Mrs. Hooper were old friends,” he said. “Aunt Lilian told me that they knew each other when they lived in Birmingham.”

  “Peggy’s distraught over Mrs. Hooper’s death,” I added. “She visits the grave every day. Lilian told us that she must be spending a small fortune on flowers.”

  Miranda tossed her head dismissively. “Guilt gelt and crocodile tears. If you ask me, she visits the grave in order to reassure herself that Mrs. Hooper is still dead.”

  “You must know something we don’t know,” Nicholas said. “Care to share it?”

  Instead of answering directly, Miranda asked a question in return. “Did you know that Peggy allowed Mrs. Hooper to live in Crabtree Cottage gratis?” She rolled the r in gratis to give it extra emphasis.

  “Peggy wasn’t collecting rent?” I asked.

  “I knew it would surprise you,” said Miranda.

  I turned to Nicholas. “I’ve never known Peggy Taxman to give anything away for free.”

  “She did this time.” Miranda nuzzled Seraphina’s ears. “I overheard Peggy and her husband going at it one day in the Emporium’s back room. Jasper was indignant. He wanted to know why Mrs. Hooper was living in the cottage free of charge. Not only that . . .” Miranda smiled lazily. “It seems the accounts weren’t balancing properly. Certain sums of money had gone missing, and Jasper wanted to know what Peggy had done with them. The spat suggested a certain something to me. Can you guess what it is?”

  I was stumped, but Nicholas wasn’t.

  “Blackmail,” he said promptly.

  “You’d make a yummy constable.” Miranda puckered her lips in his direction. “So quick off the mark with deductions. But I’m afraid they’d make you trim your lovely hair, which in itself would be a crime.”

  “I assume you reached the same conclusion,” Nicholas said patiently.

  “Mrs. Hooper was a charter member of Backstabbers Anonymous,” Miranda declared. “The only thing she used friends for was target practice.”

  “Mrs. Hooper was blackmailing Peggy?” I said, scrambling to catch up.

  “Well done, Lori. Slow but steady wins the race.” Miranda spoke lightly, but her eyes were deadly serious. “I believe that Mrs. Hooper threatened to reveal something Peggy didn’t want broadcast, some naughtiness from the good old days in Birmingham, perhaps. Peggy thought Crabtree Cottage would buy her old chum’s silence, but I’ll wager that Mrs. Hooper wanted more.”

  “Hence the missing sums of money,” said Nicholas.

  “Malevolent creatures like Mrs. Hooper always want more.” Miranda returned Seraphina to the ottoman. “Ignorant people call them witches. I can think of a more appropriate term.”

  “Thank you, Miranda.” Nicholas got to his feet and put a hand out to help me to mine. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”

  “I spoke to you for Kit’s sake,” Miranda stated flatly. “I’ve glimpsed his spirit, too, and it’s pure as the driven snow. I won’t have him harassed.”

  “I’m grateful nonetheless,” said Nicholas. “I hope we’ll meet again.”

  “You can bring the drug squad with you to tea.” Miranda’s green eyes twinkled as she walked us to the door. They twinkled more happily still when Nicholas held my jacket for me while I slipped into it.

  “It’s a pity Mrs. Hooper died when she did,” she commented. “She would have had a field day with the two of you.” She paused. “But in your case, my pets, I wonder . . . Would she have been lying?”

  “Miranda,” I began, but Nicholas interrupted.

  “She’s teasing us, Lori,” he said. “Aren’t you, Miranda?”

  “I read auras, darling,” she replied. “And yours is . . . most revealing.”

  When we reached the thorn hedge, Nicholas paused for another look at Briar Cottage.

  “You’re convinced that Miranda had marijuana hanging from the rafters.” I tried to sound businesslike, as if Nicholas’s aura was of no concern to me. “You think she got rid of it after Mrs. Hooper issued her threats.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Nicholas allowed. “As Mr. Wetherhead pointed out, witches know how to protect themselves. Our witch seems to have protected herself by employing the simple expedient of covering her tracks.”

  “Can we scratch her from our list of murder suspects?” I asked.

  “Definitely.” Nicholas opened the squeaky gate. “If Miranda Morrow had killed Mrs. Hooper, the coroner’s verdict would have been natural causes.”

  Chapter 16

  Nicholas and I agreed to put off speaking with Peggy Taxman until the next day. My energy was beginning to flag and I still had a three-mile bike ride ahead of me. By the time I reached the cottage, I knew I’d be in desperate need of a hot bath, a hearty lunch, and a long nap.

  Nicholas, too, was in need of a break. We’d accumulated a lot of information in a short amount of time. He wanted to spend the rest of the day cogitating and, I suspected, enjoying a pleasant doze in the vicar’s study.

  I left him at the vicarage and went to collect my things from Wysteria Lodge. I let myself in through the front door this time. It didn’t matter much if people saw me. My cover was already blown.

  The moment I entered the office, I made a beeline for the desk, picked up the telephone, and punched in Bill’s London number. I wanted to tell him about the stakeout and the morning’s interviews, but most of all, I wanted to hear his voice. My head, and probably my aura, were too full of Nicholas. I needed to reclaim space for my husband.

  The conversation didn’t go quite as smoothly as I’d planned.

  Bill was relieved to hear that I’d survived the stakeout unscathed and let me ramble on at length about George Wetherhead, Miranda Morrow, and Peggy Taxman. In the course of my rambling, however, I somehow strayed onto a path I’d intended to avoid.

  “Bill,” I said, swiveling in his desk chair to face the window, “when you get back, you’re going to hear a lot of talk about me and Nicholas. It’s nonsense, of course, but—”

  “Is it?” There was a pause. “You’re not possessed by a demonic spirit again, are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “If I remember correctly, that’s what happened to you up in North
umberland last fall, when you—”

  “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.

  Mrs. Hooper wounded Sally Pyne’s pride, kicked Billy Barlow’s dog, spread scurrilous lies about Kit, witnessed Dick Peacock’s suspicious behavior, terrorized George Wetherhead, and threatened Miranda Morrow. She may also have been blackmailing Peggy Taxman.

  “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.”

  Let’s review their activities, shall we? On the morning in question, Mr. Barlow was walking his killer terrier on the square; Mr. Peacock was in front of his pub, possibly receiving smuggled goods; and Miss Morrow was returning from a mission of mercy to Mr. Wetherhead. We will assume for the moment that Kit was where he said he was, tending the horses at Anscombe Manor. Where was Sally Pyne?

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

  And Peggy Taxman?

  “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.”

  There stands Crabtree Cottage, in the midst of an inordinate amount of bustle, yet no one notices anyone enter the cottage, confront Mrs. Hooper, and smack her in the head. It’s most annoying.

  “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.”

  How are you getting on with Nicholas?

  “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.”

  Excuse me?

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

  What a curious thing to wonder.

  “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.”

  Go on.

  “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.”

  Why did it scare you?

  “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.”

  Ask your sons.

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

  Do Rob and Will always accept the bribes offered them?

  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.”

  It doesn’t sound silly to me. Why shouldn’t your sons be good judges of character? Some children are blessed with a special ability to see through masks and playacting to the heart of a person’s truest self. They may not have the words to express their opinions, but they have other ways of making them known.

  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.”

  I don’t wish to muddy the waters, my dear, but Nicholas’s behavior does seem a tiny bit odd to me.

  “In what way?” I asked.

  He seems to be fond of you—in a purely collegial sense, of course. He also depends on you to smooth the way for him with the villagers. Am I correct?

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

  Why, then, was he willing to display a persona so disagreeable that it threatened to alienate you from him? It strikes me as a risky and extreme measure.Why is Nicholas willing to go to such lengths to discover who killed a woman with whom he had no personal connection?

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

  What a very good nephew he is. Strange that he doesn’t visit his aunt and uncle more often. Were the Buntings by any chance among the teeming masses thronging the square on the fateful morning?