Aunt Dimity and the Wishing Well

by Nancy Atherton

  He sounded like a man contemplating the shroud he would wear during his funeral.

  “You should be up there with her,” I said. “You should be telling her what you’ve told me. The longer you wait, the harder it will be for both of you.”

  “What if she decides to go it alone?” Henry asked. “What if she doesn’t want to marry a broken-down old has-been?”

  “You’ll never be a has-been to Sally,” I said bracingly. “You’re her leading man, Henry, and you always will be, no matter what happens. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and start being honest with—” I broke off as Henry stood.

  “The tearoom’s on fire!” he cried.

  I turned my head and saw a thin stream of smoke issuing from the tearoom’s front entrance. Before Henry or I could react, Sally burst through the side door that led to her upstairs apartment and ran into the tearoom, shrieking at the top of her lungs that Peggy Taxman wasn’t fit to make toast.

  “What are you waiting for?” I demanded, giving Henry a shove. “Rescue her!”

  “I’m coming, Sal!” Henry shouted and he lumbered off to save his lady love, looking every inch the leading man.

  Twenty-three

  Peggy blamed Sally’s oven and Sally blamed Peggy’s incompetence for setting the hot cross buns alight. The two women were so busy berating each other that the entire building might have burned to the ground if Henry hadn’t arrived in the nick of time. He wielded the kitchen’s fire extinguisher with such dexterity that Sally hailed him as her hero and even Peggy admitted that he’d done well.

  The fire brought everyone in the village running, but Henry put it out before any lasting harm was done and the onlookers soon lost interest. I held my left hand to my chest to protect my thumb as I made my way through the retreating bystanders and heaved a sigh of relief when I reached Bill’s car.

  “Lori!”

  I looked up to see Bree Pym running toward me. She, Jack, and Emma had appeared atop the humpbacked bridge at the first cry of “Fire!” but Jack and Emma had evidently gone back to work after the initial excitement had died down.

  “Hi, Bree,” I said as she approached. “How’s the master plan coming along?”

  “Slowly,” she replied. “Jack stops every five minutes to ask Emma if he’s read her diagrams correctly. Then she spends twenty minutes explaining them to him. We may finish by Christmas, if we’re lucky.”

  I laughed. “I’ve left you to cope with a pair of perfectionists, Bree. Sorry about that.”

  “No worries,” she said.

  Bree looked down at her hands, shuffled her feet, and chewed on her lower lip, as if she were debating how to say what she wished to say next. I wondered if yet another startling revelation was coming my way.

  “Lori,” she said finally. “Why didn’t you change your surname when you married Bill?”

  “Oh,” I said, caught off guard. It was the last question I’d expected to hear from her, but I didn’t mind answering it. “It’s pretty simple, really. As the only child of two only children, both of whom are dead, I’m the last surviving member of my family. When I married Bill I wanted to honor my mother and father by keeping the name they gave me.”

  “Did Bill mind?” Bree asked.

  “No,” I said. “He understood. Still does.”

  “What about the twins?” she pressed. “Will and Rob are Willises. Have they ever asked you why you’re the only Shepherd in the family?”

  “They aren’t confused by it because they’ve grown up with it,” I said. “But sometimes, when a new friend is confused, they ask me to explain it again so they can pass my explanation along to their friend. They never knew my mom and dad, so it gives me an opportunity to show them photos and tell them stories about my childhood. Grandma and Grandpa Shepherd will never be as real to them as Grandpa Willis is, but I don’t think my parents will be forgotten.”

  Bree nodded thoughtfully. I burned to ask her if she was considering a name change—from Pym to MacBride, for instance—but I held back. I was a friend, I told myself, not a nosy Handmaiden. If Bree wanted to confide in me, she would. If not, I’d respect her privacy.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I was just wondering because . . .” She looked away. “Well, I was just wondering.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Would you like a lift back to Ivy Cottage?”

  She grinned. “I think I can make it there on my own. See you at the party!”

  “See you then,” I said.

  Bree ran off and I got into Bill’s car. It was past noon, I was starving, I needed to pop a pill, and I had to do a little more research before I spoke with Aunt Dimity. I averted my eyes from the rearview mirror and headed straight for home.

  No one but Stanley was there to greet me when I walked into the cottage and his greeting consisted of opening his eyes briefly when I put my head into the living room. The untouched note on the kitchen table suggested that Bill and the boys hadn’t yet returned from Anscombe Manor. Since Bill seldom accompanied Will and Rob to their riding lessons, I suspected them of treating their father to a lengthy display of their equestrian skills.

  I made a cheese and tomato sandwich and ate it at the kitchen table before taking another dose of my pain medication. The telephone rang as I was putting my solitary plate into the dishwasher. It was Bill, calling to let me know that he and the twins were at Fairworth House with his father.

  “I thought you could use a little more R & R,” he said. “I brought a change of clothes for Will and Rob and we’ll go straight from here to the party at Anscombe Manor. I’ve already told Peter and Cassie not to expect you.”

  I gave an outraged squawk, then clamped my mouth shut. If Bill thought I was going to miss the homecoming party, he had another think coming. I decided to keep my own counsel, however, and surprise him by showing up anyway.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “You’ll be asleep by then,” Bill said, laughing. “Take it easy, love. Don’t try to do too much.”

  “I won’t,” I said angelically and hung up.

  I smiled wickedly as I entered the study.

  “My husband is a good man,” I said to Reginald, “but he sometimes takes his knight in shining armor routine too far. Do I look like a wilting lily to you? I didn’t think so.” I touched a finger to Reginald’s snout. “I can’t wait to see his face when I turn up at the party, ready to dance the night away.”

  Reginald seemed to approve of my plan. I smiled at him, but instead of reaching automatically for the blue journal, I sat at the old oak desk and opened Bill’s laptop. Will and Rob knew more about computers than I did, but I could at least search the Web.

  I spent an hour tapping away at the keyboard and reading the words that appeared on the screen. I then closed the laptop, took the blue journal from its shelf, and opened it as I sat in one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth.

  “Dimity?” I said. I grimaced as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled across the page to form what had become an overly familiar question.

  How are you feeling, my dear?

  “I’m fine,” I replied forcefully. “Honestly, Dimity, Bill’s given everyone in Finch the impression that I’m at death’s door. I’ve spent the entire morning contradicting him.”

  He cares about you, Lori.

  “I know and it’s lovely,” I said, “but he has no right to tell Peter and Cassie that I won’t be at their homecoming party because I’m too weak and feeble to totter over to Anscombe Manor.”

  I didn’t know Peter and Cassie were having a homecoming party.

  “We have tons of catching up to do, Dimity,” I said. “Do you remember telling me to conduct an investigation? Well, I’ve been conducting one and I’ve collected masses of information, so get ready to be amazed.”

  I shall brace myself.

  “First,” I said, “Dabney Holdstrom is exactly who he says he is. He’s the editor-in-chief of Cozy Cookery magazine. Second, he grew up
three miles south of Upper Deeping, in Skeaping village.”

  Home of Skeaping Manor, the Cotswolds’ most horrid museum.

  “That’s the place,” I said. “Dabney wasn’t born and raised in Finch and he wasn’t evacuated here during the war, which leads me to two conclusions.”

  He isn’t granting wishes to the villagers because he has fond memories of Finch or because he owes the village a debt of gratitude for providing him or his family with a safe haven during the war.

  “Correct,” I said. “People were evacuated to Skeaping, not from it. Also, Dabney Holdstrom had nothing to do with Peter and Cassie’s return to Anscombe Manor. They decided to come back after they got a letter from an old friend named Beverley St. John. Aunt Bev, as they call her, lives just outside of Upper Deeping and she keeps tabs on the home front for Peter. She told him Emma was dissatisfied with her job at the riding school.”

  I see. Go on.

  “Peter and Cassie had been out of work for six months when they received Aunt Bev’s letter,” I said. “They needed jobs and Emma had one she didn’t want, so . . . bingo! They came home.”

  Beverley St. John brought Peter and Cassie home, not Dabney Holdstrom. Very well. Tell me more.

  “Jasper admitted that Peggy did ask the wishing well to give her the tearoom,” I said. “She thought her wish had come true, but she was wrong.”

  The tearoom isn’t for sale?

  “No,” I said. “Peggy thought it was because it was listed on a flyer from the Troy real estate agency in Upper Deeping, but the Troy agency doesn’t exist. Jasper drove to the address in Upper Deeping and found a vacant storefront, and I came away empty-handed when I searched for it online. The flyer’s a fake, Dimity, and no one in Finch received it but Peggy. Our puppeteer used it to play a mean-spirited prank on Sally as well as Peggy.”

  Sally Pyne seemed to believe that the tearoom was for sale.

  “Sally hasn’t even spoken to her landlord about the sale,” I said. “She’s determined to prove to Peggy that she doesn’t need the tearoom because Henry’s going to be a big star. Only, Henry’s not going to be a big star.”

  As you’ll recall, I never thought he would be.

  “Henry agrees with you,” I said. “He has no intention of going back into show business. He wished for a last hoorah and that’s what he got. Dabney Holdstrom’s friend, Arty Barnes, offered Henry one performance, no more, and he didn’t do it as a favor to Dabney Holdstrom, but because he’s a talent scout for the comedy club’s owner, who happens to be Arty’s brother-in-law.”

  Does Arty Barnes live in Upper Deeping?

  “He does,” I said. “I looked him up online and he’s who he says he is—a small-time talent agent who lines up acts for his brother-in-law’s club. Jemma Renshawe’s publisher is for real, too. Market Town Books is a vanity press located in Upper Deeping. It’s owned by a guy named Gilbert Hartley, who is also editing the book about Cotswold villages.”

  I believe a vanity press is used by writers willing to pay to have their books published.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Someone must be awfully fond of Cotswold villages.”

  Indeed. Continue to amaze me.

  “The Asazuki painting was last seen hanging in the Selwyn gallery on Summer Street in Upper Deeping,” I said. “Charles tried to find out who bought it from the gallery, but he was out of luck. The old owner passed away ten years ago and the sales records were destroyed in a fire. Grant swears the painting wasn’t among those he put in the shed, and after much soul-searching, Charles has decided to believe him.”

  Good for Charles. I hoped he’d come to his senses. He should know by now that Grant wouldn’t lie to him about such a thing. Can Charles explain how the painting got into the shed?

  “He heard a noise in the back garden a couple of days before he found the painting,” I said. “Since he doesn’t believe in the art fairy, he blames a person or persons unknown for depositing the painting surreptitiously in Grant’s box of disposables.”

  Am I remembering correctly, Lori? Is it a painting of a fish?

  “It is,” I said. “It’s an ink wash painting of a Japanese carp, or koi, pirouetting through fronds of swaying seaweed. I think it’s astoundingly ugly, but Charles regards it as a masterpiece.”

  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear, and occasionally in the hands of the banker. The painting is worth a great deal. What else have you discovered?

  “Let me think . . .” I scoured my brain for further facts before continuing. “Oh, yes, George Wetherhead. George bought his locomotive from a train collector in Upper Deeping who publishes a newsletter called The Coneyham Express. I was suspicious at first because the locomotive was advertised on an insert instead of in the newsletter proper, but it seems legitimate. The seller’s name is Tim Coneyham and George has known him for years.”

  Anything more?

  “Elspeth’s niece is still driving her mad,” I said. “Opal Taylor changed her mind about having her jams and marmalades featured in Cozy Cookery. She doesn’t want to turn a hobby into a full-fledged business.”

  Very wise.

  “Opal and Millicent nearly came to blows over whether to lick or not to lick the labels for Opal’s jars,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure Elspeth and Selena helped them to patch things up. Selena’s having a tough time. She had a romantic church wedding planned for Sally and Henry and she asked the wishing well for perfect weather, wedding guests, et cetera, but it looks as though she wasted her time as well as her wish.”

  Has the wedding been called off?

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Sally thinks her famous fiancé won’t be able to fit a church wedding into his busy schedule, so she’s leaning toward a quickie service in a registry office.”

  Oh, dear. Not a registry office.

  “Again, Henry’s with you,” I said. “He hates the idea, so Sally may have to stick with the original plan and Selena may get her wish after all. I hope she does. I love church weddings. Speaking of which . . .” I sat up as I recalled the last morsel of news I’d gathered in Finch. “Bree asked me why I didn’t change my name when I married Bill.”

  Did she indeed? What, I wonder, would put thoughts of marriage into her head? I wouldn’t dream of matchmaking from beyond the grave, Lori, but I suspect Bree’s young Australian friend might have something to do with it. Have you observed a progression in her relationship with Jack?

  “I haven’t seen much of them since I whacked my thumb,” I admitted, “but if she’s asking about name changes, it must mean something. I bow to your superior matchmaking instincts, Dimity. Sally and Henry may not be Finch’s only engaged couple for much longer.”

  Unless something happens to drive Bree and Jack apart.

  “What would drive them apart?” I asked.

  Bree values honesty, Lori, and I suspect that Jack hasn’t been entirely honest with her or with anyone else in Finch, for that matter.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, frowning. “How has Jack been dishonest? You can’t think he’s the puppeteer. We ruled him out, remember?”

  Neither one of us knows for certain whether Jack is or isn’t responsible for the chaos that has engulfed Finch since the well was rediscovered. Which is why you must do a little more detective work—hands-on detective work.

  “Will I need both thumbs?” I asked.

  One should suffice. The handwriting paused, then began to loop and curl lazily across the page. It was as if Aunt Dimity were thinking aloud. I find it interesting that the villagers’ wishes were answered exclusively by people who live or have lived in or in the vicinity of Upper Deeping. Even the Asazuki painting was last seen in Upper Deeping.

  “At the Selwyn gallery on Summer Street,” I said, nodding.

  The painting’s subject intrigues me as well, as does the fictional real estate agency’s name.

  “A koi and Troy? They rhyme, but other than that . . .” My voice trailed off because I couldn’t for the life of
me imagine what intrigued Aunt Dimity.

  Then there’s the book published by Market Town Books and paid for by an author who loves Cotswold villages.

  “Everyone loves Cotswold villages,” I protested, but Aunt Dimity didn’t seem to be listening.

  The wishing well itself rouses my curiosity. Do you recall the words carved into the plaque-like stone on the wellhead?

  “Speak and your wish will be granted,” I said.

  I’ve always found it strange that one must speak to the well. Traditionally, one deposits a coin in a wishing well and keeps one’s wish to one’s self, much as one does when making a birthday wish. It’s almost as if the wishing well at Ivy Cottage were listening.

  “We’ve been here before,” I said, smiling, “and I’m pretty sure we agreed that wells don’t have ears.”

  The well doesn’t need ears to listen, Lori. A microphone would do.

  My smile vanished and I phrased my next question carefully. “Are you suggesting that the well could be wired to pick up sound?”

  It could be. It would explain why so many wishes have come true.

  “Are you accusing Jack of rigging the well?” I asked.

  I won’t accuse anyone of anything until after you’ve taken a closer look at the well. If you don’t find a microphone, then we’re back to square one. If you do, then it opens up a number of possibilities.

  “One of which might drive a wedge between Bree and Jack,” I said. “I don’t want to be the one who rains on their parade, Dimity.”

  It’s a risk you’ll have to take if you wish to know the truth. I assume, of course, that you would like Bree to know the truth as well.

  I glanced at the ivy fluttering against the diamond-paned windows over the old oak desk and remembered how much fun it had been to watch Bree warming to Jack as they clipped ivy together. If he’d won her trust unfairly, he didn’t deserve her. And she certainly deserved someone better.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, returning my gaze to the journal. “I’ll go to Ivy Cottage tonight, while everyone else is at the party.”