“We missed the fat computer chap, the balding surgeon, and the London lawyers,” said Grant, “but we met the itchy banker, the aging ad exec, and the cuckolded Oxford don.”
“I thought you kept your distance from Marigold while she was working,” I said.
“We do,” said Grant, “but she always calls on us before she leaves. She can’t ask her clients to wait in the car while she chats with us, can she?”
“Of course not,” I said. “As relative newcomers to Finch, you must identify with her clients.”
“We can almost read their thoughts,” Grant confirmed. “They’re as worried as we were about living in such a small, out-of-the-way place.”
“They’re afraid they’ll be bored to death,” said Charles. “We tell them not to judge a book by its cover.”
“We assure them that, appearances notwithstanding,” Grant said, “Finch is an exciting place to live.”
“Because of the village-wide events?” I hazarded.
“We let Peggy Taxman fill them in on events,” Charles said dismissively. “We fill them in on the highlights Peggy doesn’t cover.”
“What highlights?” I asked with a flutter of apprehension.
“Our burglary, of course,” said Grant, “and the fire at the tearoom.”
“We practically reenact the slanging match Peggy and Sally had last year on the village green,” said Charles.
“We also think it’s important to mention that people aren’t left on their own when the river floods,” said Grant. “We assure them that the entire village pitches in to clear away the mud whenever the Little Deeping spills over its banks.”
“If there’s time,” said Charles, “we describe the day the village was trashed by the yahoos attending the Renaissance Festival.”
“Whether there’s time or not,” said Grant, “we won’t let them leave until they’ve heard our pièce de résistance.”
“What would that be?” I asked uneasily.
“We tell them about Crabtree Cottage’s previous owner,” Grant replied.
“You don’t tell them she died here, do you?” I said, appalled.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Charles retorted. “It’s the most thrilling thing that ever happened in Finch and it happened in our cottage.”
“When they first come to Finch, they think it’s a sleepy village,” Grant said complacently. “Charles and I let them know that it’s wide awake.”
I smiled weakly and finished my chocolate mousse.
Nineteen
I was not in a jolly mood when I drove home from Finch.
“Burglaries!” I sputtered furiously. “Fires! Floods! Feuds! Slanging matches! The green trashed by tourists! A corpse in Crabtree Cottage!” I thumped the steering wheel with my fist. “I’m not surprised that the empty cottages are still empty, Bess. The wonder is that anyone moves to Finch, ever!”
Bess was less disturbed than I was by the interviews I’d conducted in the village. She fell asleep before we reached the cottage and stayed asleep until I placed her on her padded mat in the study. While she tried and tried again to roll over—a maneuver she had yet to conquer—I addressed a few cogent remarks to Reginald.
“It’s been a long time since I observed our neighbors with an outsider’s eye,” I told my pink bunny. “Remind me not to do it again. It’s terrifying.”
Reginald’s black button eyes gleamed consolingly. I touched a finger to his snout, then took the blue journal from its shelf. Instead of flinging myself into one of the study’s tall leather armchairs, however, I sat on the floor within arm’s reach of Bess, so I could offer her toys, tickles, and encouraging pats on the back while I spoke with Aunt Dimity.
“Dimity,” I announced as I opened the journal. “I’ve just returned from Finch, where I did as you suggested. I collected firsthand accounts of meetings between the villagers and Marigold Edwards’s clients.”
I pursed my lips grimly as Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned handwriting curled and looped across the blank page.
Good afternoon, Lori. Thank you for following my advice. Did your conversations with the villagers confirm or assuage your doubts about Marigold’s motives?
“I went into the exercise with an open mind,” I said almost truthfully. “I came away from it believing that Marigold Edwards is a conniving, two-faced, underhanded, self-serving rat who’s doing everything in her power to destroy the village.”
I see. Reading between the lines, I would guess that your doubts were confirmed.
I laughed involuntarily.
“My doubts weren’t merely confirmed,” I told Aunt Dimity. “They are now carved in stone. Peggy Taxman told me that Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage are listed at ‘reasonable’ prices, but after speaking with her and a few others, I’m convinced that Marigold’s fear tactics will force the prices down even further.”
Are you certain you spoke with enough people, Lori? Did you spread your nets as widely as possible?
“I chatted with Mr. Barlow, Peggy Taxman, Sally Cook, Christine Peacock, Charles Bellingham, Grant Tavistock, and the four Handmaidens,” I replied. “I had to quit after that because I couldn’t take any more.”