“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Finding Amanda’s address,” she muttered.
“And I was worried about involving you in a slightly illegal scheme,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’ve taken lawbreaking to a whole new level.”
“All in a good cause,” Bree murmured. “Here it is. Payroll records. There’s Les and Al, the useless security guards, and . . . here’s Amanda.” She scanned the screen, tapped a few more keys, closed the laptop, and flung herself onto the divan mere seconds before Miles Craven reentered the room.
“The telephone repairman requires access to the museum,” he informed us. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No,” I said, getting to my feet. “I guess I’ll just have to find another cleaner. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Craven.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’ll show you out.”
Our exit from the apartment was considerably more hurried than our entrance had been, but neither Bree nor I commented on it until we were seated in the Rover.
“Is it my imagination or did he seem eager to get rid of us?” I asked.
“It’s not your imagination,” Bree replied. “If you ask me, he’s been up to no good with Amanda Pickering.”
“He did react a bit oddly when I mentioned her,” I agreed.
“A bit oddly?” Bree scoffed. “He was Mr. Charming Chatterbox until her name came up. Then he went all quiet and twitchy.” She did a passable imitation of Miles Craven looking shifty-eyed while he smoothed his cravat and plucked at his sleeve.
“Okay,” I conceded, “his reaction was more than a bit odd. He doesn’t strike me as a womanizer, though. Quite the contrary.”
“You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Bree reminded me.
“You can judge some things,” I countered. “His clothes didn’t come off a department store rack and his furniture must be worth a fortune. I judge, therefore, that he has expensive tastes, which means that the Jephcott Endowment must pay him a generous salary. Either that, or . . .” I gave Bree a meaningful glance.
“Or,” she said, catching on, “he pays himself a generous salary without the endowment’s knowledge.” She peered at the dummy camera facing the parking lot. “It would explain why he hasn’t installed a proper security system in the museum. He doesn’t spend a lot on guards, either. Les and Al earn a pittance.”
“Security systems and competent guards cost money,” I said, “money a refined gentleman might prefer to spend on smoking jackets and period furniture.” I gazed thoughtfully at the museum’s main entrance. “I wonder if my donation went into the endowment’s coffers or into Miles Craven’s bank account?”
“Maybe Amanda knows where the donations go,” Bree said. “Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t give us her address. He doesn’t want us to talk to her because he’s afraid she’ll expose his little racket.”
I looked at Bree and started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“If jumping to conclusions were an Olympic sport,” I said, “we’d both be gold medalists. We’ve classified Miles Craven as a womanizing embezzler in under a minute. Must be a world record.”
“I’m having second thoughts about his womanizing,” said Bree, “but he must be up to something shady. Why else would your interest in Amanda make him nervous? Why else would he refuse to give us her address?”
“Maybe he just doesn’t want me to poach his cleaning woman,” I said reasonably. “Dependable cleaning women are rarer than troika saltcellars these days. If Amanda worked for me, I wouldn’t want to share her.” I put the key into the ignition. “All I know for sure is that Miles Craven didn’t look, sound, or act like a worried curator. If you ask me, he still doesn’t know that the silver sleigh is missing.”
“No blunderbuss,” said Bree, nodding.
“Not one shot fired over the parapet,” I agreed. “I say we stop speculating about Miles Craven’s theoretical foibles and start solving Daisy Pickering’s very real dilemma.”
“I concur,” said Bree. “Next stop, 53 Addington Terrace.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, grimacing.
“Something wrong?”
“Let’s put it this way,” I said, starting the engine. “Upper Deeping has many lovely streets, but Addington Terrace isn’t one of them.”
Eight
When travelers dream of seeing the “real” England, they seldom have places like Addington Terrace in mind. The street was located in an enclave of low-rent housing that had been built in the 1950s and quickly forgotten. Everywhere Bree and I looked we saw signs of neglect and poverty: peeling paint, broken windows, overflowing trash cans, and multiple layers of graffiti. It hurt my heart to imagine Daisy living in such squalor, but it helped me to understand why Amanda took her daughter to work with her instead of leaving her at home.
The neighborhood’s run-down row houses were set back from the street, behind small grassless gardens separated by waist-high cinder block walls. Fifty-three Addington Terrace looked every bit as decrepit as its neighbors.
“Reminds me of Takapuna,” Bree said as we pulled up to the curb. “My hometown.”
Her remark would have puzzled a native New Zealander, but I was familiar with Bree’s background and knew exactly what she meant. Though Takapuna was an affluent community, Bree had been raised by a father who drank too much and worked too little. Their shabby apartment building had been a blot on an otherwise pristine landscape.
“Not all of Takapuna,” she went on. “Just my part of it. I’m glad Daisy has a lively imagination. You need a good imagination when you live in a place like this. You need to believe that one day things will be better.”
“They got better for you,” I said encouragingly.
“Not everyone has a pair of great-grandaunts to see them right,” said Bree. “I doubt they do.”
She nodded at three ill-clad children playing in the garden next door. The dark-haired girl appeared to be the same age as Daisy, but the two boys looked a bit younger. The boys paid more attention to their soccer ball than they did to us, but the girl stood at the cinder block wall to watch us open Number 53’s rickety gate and approach the front door.
“Hi,” Bree said, lagging behind me to speak to the girl. “I’m Bree Pym. What’s your name?”
“Coral,” said the girl. “Coral Bell.” She tilted her head toward the boys. “Those are my brothers, Tom and Ben. Did you color your hair yourself?”
“I did,” said Bree. “Like it?”
“Daisy has ginger hair, too,” Coral said thoughtfully, “but hers is quiet. Yours is like a . . . like a shout.”
“Just what I had in mind,” said Bree. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Coral.
“I don’t mean to pry,” said Bree, “but shouldn’t you and your brothers be in school?”
“The school nurse sent us home,” Coral explained. “We’re infectious. Mum had to take the day off work to look after us, but she couldn’t stand the noise, so she sent us outside to play. She says the fresh air will do us good.”
“What do you say?” Bree asked.
“I’m glad it’s warmer today than it was yesterday,” said Coral.
“Me, too,” said Bree, smiling. She waved good-bye to the girl, then hastened to join me on the doorstep.
I’d already tried the doorbell several times without success, but three sharp raps on the door brought a harassed call of “I’m coming! I’m coming!” from within. A short time later the door was opened by a tall, angular woman in late middle age. She had short, wiry, gray hair, a long bony face, and a pair of brown eyes that held not one hint of softness. She was dressed in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, black trousers, and fluffy blue bedroom slippers. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.
“Yes?” she said coldly.
“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd.”
“And I’m Bree Pym,” Bree pi
ped up. She put out her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. . . . ?”
“MacTavish,” the woman said in a clipped Scottish accent. Her eyes lingered on Bree’s hair for a long moment before she deigned to shake Bree’s hand. “Mrs. Eileen MacTavish. If you’ve come about the flat—”
“You rent apartments?” I said.
“I let one flat at the rear of the house, complete with kitchenette and en suite facilities,” Mrs. MacTavish informed me haughtily. “Have done ever since Mr. MacTavish passed. Would you care to see it?”
“I’m sorry,” said Bree, “but we haven’t come about the flat.”
“I didn’t think you had.” Mrs. MacTavish looked past us to survey the Range Rover. “People who drive posh cars don’t look for accommodations in Addington Terrace.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Why have you come, then? Is it your day to do charity work? Or are you writing a sensitive article about the deserving poor?”
“Neither,” I said, ignoring the woman’s sarcastic tone. “We’d like to speak with Amanda Pickering.”
“Visiting nurses, are you?” asked Mrs. MacTavish. “Come to see little Daisy?”
“No,” I said, faintly alarmed. “Why would Daisy need to see a nurse? She’s not sick, is she?”
“She’s always sick,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “Weak chest. Spends more time out of school than in it.”
“Would you please tell Mrs. Pickering we’re here?” Bree said, with ill-concealed impatience.
“You’re too late,” said Mrs. MacTavish. “She’s gone, her and that queer little girl of hers. No warning, no two-weeks’ notice, not even a note. Just packed their bags and left.”
“When?” I said, taken aback. “When did they leave?”
“Yesterday,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “And don’t ask me where they went because I don’t know.” She eyed me shrewdly. “Did Mrs. Pickering work for you?”
“No,” I said. “I do my own housework.”
“How do you know her, then?” she asked.
“I don’t really know her,” I admitted. “I met her at Skeaping Manor on Saturday morning and we had a brief conversation—”
“Did you?” Mrs. MacTavish cut in. “I’m surprised to hear it. Mrs. Pickering wasn’t one for conversation.” She took another pull on her cigarette and exhaled a noxious cloud of smoke that engulfed her whole head. “The woman lived here for nearly a year, but I still don’t know where she came from or what happened to the girl’s father.”
“He walked out on them,” I told her, hoping that one tidbit of gossip would lead to another.
“I thought so,” said Mrs. MacTavish, with a satisfied nod. “But Mrs. Pickering never said. Too busy for idle chatter, I suppose. She worked all the hours God sent, except on Sundays, when she took her precious Daisy on outings.”
“She worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Bree said. “No wonder Daisy knows the place so well.”
“Did I say she worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Mrs. Mactavish asked tartly. “She worked there on Saturdays.” She took a last pull on her cigarette and used it to light another before tossing the glowing butt into a slush puddle. “I know where she worked and when because she left contact numbers with me in case of emergencies.” The landlady peered skyward as she recited, “Hayewood House—with an e in the middle, mind, to make it extra posh—Risingholme, Shangri-la, Tappan Hall, Mirfield, and Skeaping Manor. A different place each day of the week and nothing but the best for our Mrs. Pickering. She claimed to have a knack for polishing silver.”
“Silver?” I said weakly.
“I didn’t doubt her,” Mrs. MacTavish went on, with a careless shrug. “She kept her rooms as neat as a pin, and as far as I know, she never lied to me. She didn’t say very much at all. I had an earful from the women at Hayewood House and Risingholme today, though.”
“About Mrs. Pickering?” I said.
“Who else?” Mrs. MacTavish snapped. “Apparently, Mrs. Pickering failed to show up for work yesterday and today. Didn’t call in sick or give notice or anything. Simply didn’t put in an appearance.” The landlady sucked on her cigarette and let the smoke trickle through her nostrils. “I expect to hear from the rest of her employers once they realize she’s left them in the lurch. They won’t be too happy with her. All that lovely silver, tarnishing away.” She looked down her bony nose at me. “I suppose you have a fine collection of silver.”
“Too much work,” I said. “I don’t have Amanda’s passion for polishing.”
Mrs. MacTavish allowed herself a grudging chuckle.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Mrs. Pickering?” Bree asked.
“How could there be?” she asked in return. “She never told me anything about herself.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish,” I said. “You’ve been very patient with us. We won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”
“Leaving already?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t blame you. If I could afford to live somewhere else, I’d leave, too.” Mrs. MacTavish hollered at Tom and Ben to keep the noise down, then retreated into her house and closed the door.
“Good grief,” I said, turning to Bree. “Amanda’s on the lam.”
“For all we know she could still be in Upper Deeping,” Bree protested. “She could have found a nicer flat with a nicer landlady in a nicer neighborhood.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “If Amanda is still in Upper Deeping, she would have gone to work as usual this week. At the very least, she would have telephoned her employers to request a day off. She wouldn’t have taken an unannounced leave of absence, not if she expected to go on working for them.”
“Maybe she found a better job,” Bree suggested.
“Without a reference? Not in this day and age.” I shook my head. “Amanda didn’t move to another flat in Upper Deeping. She grabbed Daisy and vamoosed. And I think I know why.” I walked a few steps away from the door, then stopped short, frowning in concentration as a fresh scenario took shape in my mind. “What if Amanda’s the thief? What if she’s been pilfering silver from her multitudinous employers for nearly a year in order to get her and her child away from Addington Terrace?”
“If she has, she’ll get no quarrel from me,” said Bree. “Living in a place like that would make any child sick. Look at Coral. Look at Tom and Ben. Home from school because they’re—”
“What if Daisy found out what her mother was up to?” I interrupted. “What if she saw Amanda take the silver sleigh from the display case on Saturday?” I wheeled around to face Bree. “What if Daisy decided to take it back?”
“Let me see if I have this straight,” Bree said slowly. She held up one finger. “First, Amanda takes the sleigh from Skeaping Manor.” She raised a second finger. “Then Daisy takes the sleigh from Amanda and tucks it into her pocket, intending to return it to Skeaping Manor, where it belongs.”
“But the sleigh never reaches Skeaping Manor,” I said excitedly, “because Amanda accidentally donates it, via the pink parka, to Aunt Dimity’s Attic.” I clapped a hand to my forehead. “Amanda must have been lightening her load for the great escape. That’s why she took Daisy’s old clothes to the charity shop.”
“No,” said a small urgent voice. “You’ve got it wrong. You’ve got it all wrong!”
We turned to see Coral Bell peering at us over the cinder block wall.
Nine
Bree and I exchanged bemused glances, then strode over to stand before Coral, who was clutching the cinder block wall as if her life depended on it.
“What have we gotten wrong?” Bree asked.
The girl bit her lip and ducked her head, as if overcome by shyness. Since Bree’s direct approach seemed to intimidate her, I decided to take the long way round with my questions.
“Are you and Daisy Pickering good friends?” I asked.
“Best friends,” Coral said in a voice so low it was barely audible. “She came to my ho
use to get her hair cut. My mum works at the New You salon, but she did Daisy’s hair for free.”
“That was a very nice thing to do,” I said, “and your mother is very good at her job. Daisy’s hairstyle frames her face beautifully. Did you and Daisy chat when she came to your house?”
Coral nodded, but said nothing.
“When I chat with my best friend,” I said, “I like to share secrets. Did you and Daisy share secrets?”
Coral slowly raised her head. She scanned our faces anxiously, then said, “You’re foreign. I can tell by the way you talk.”
“You have a good ear for accents,” I told her. “And you’re right, neither Bree nor I are English. I’m from America.”
“And I’m from New Zealand,” said Bree.
“Not Russia?” said Coral.
I blinked and promptly lost my train of thought. Thankfully, Bree kept her cool and carried on as if it were perfectly natural for a little girl living in Addington Terrace to bring up the subject of Russia shortly after a priceless Russian artifact had been found in her best friend’s pocket.
“No,” said Bree, “we’re not from Russia. Are you interested in Russia?”
“Yes,” said Coral.
“It’s an interesting place,” said Bree. “What made you think we were from Russia?”
“Because you know about the silver sleigh and it’s Mikhail’s and he’s from Russia, so I thought you might be, too,” Coral said in a rush. “Honestly, Daisy didn’t take the sleigh for herself. She meant to bring it to Mikhail. It’s all he has left.”
“Who’s Mikhail?” I asked, bewildered.
“He’s the lost prince,” Coral answered.
“The lost prince?” I said uncertainly.
“The lost prince,” Coral repeated, and the repetition seemed to free her tongue because she plunged on frantically. “He was driven from his kingdom by a band of wicked men who stole his castle and his horses and nearly everything he owned, but a faithful servant warned him of the brigands’ swift approach and he had time to pack a few things in a bag before he fled. And he crossed the frozen rivers and he crept through frozen woods and he sailed over the ocean to a safe place far away, but an evil man betrayed him, threw him in a deep, dark dungeon, and took all his precious things and he’s still there in the dungeon, without the least hope of escape.” She gulped air, then raced on. “Daisy tried to rescue him, but he’s too old to move fast, so she tried to fetch the sleigh for him instead.” Coral took a long, shuddering breath and her dark eyes filled with tears. “And now it’s all gone wrong. Daisy had to go away too soon. Mikhail will never see his silver sleigh again. And the lost prince will never be found.”
Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince Page 6