By Friday, the cottage was looking much better than it had on Wednesday and I was feeling recharged and ready to do battle with Marigold Edwards. Instead of driving home after the school run, I brought Bess into the school to meet her big brothers’ classmates and teachers. While the teachers took turns cuddling Bess, Will and Rob showed me their latest project. I kept one eye on the clock and the other on their fully operational papier-maché volcano until it was time for Bess and me to go.
The Edwards Estate Agency was located on a quiet street near Upper Deeping’s bustling main square. I parked the Rover directly in front of the building, put Bess in the pram, and paused on the sidewalk to scrutinize the small advertisements displayed in neat rows on the agency’s plate glass windows. The ads featured photographs of properties for sale in a number of nearby towns and villages, but I failed to spot Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage among them.
“Big surprise,” I muttered sarcastically to Bess. “If your aim is to discourage buyers, it doesn’t pay to advertise.”
The agency’s glass door opened suddenly and a slender woman with graying hair and a soft voice greeted me tentatively. When I acknowledged that I was, indeed, Lori Shepherd, the woman introduced herself as Mrs. Dinsdale and ushered us into the outer office. There was nothing luxurious about Mrs. Dinsdale’s desk or the bank of metal filing cabinets behind it, but the chair she offered me was comfortable and her manner was professionally polite.
She pressed a button on her telephone and, at exactly ten o’clock, Marigold Edwards emerged from an inner office. I recognized her immediately as the petite blonde who’d shown Pussywillows to Amelia.
When I looked past my adversary’s carefully applied makeup, I saw a bright-eyed, energetic woman in her early fifties. She was dressed in a pale pink fitted blazer, a matching pencil skirt, and black pumps, and her nails were as meticulously manicured as Charlotte’s and Honoria’s. I wanted to dislike her on sight, but I couldn’t automatically dislike anyone who beamed so warmly at Bess.
“What an adorable little—” She broke off and looked at me questioningly.
“Girl,” I filled in for her. “Her name is Bess.”
Marigold put her pencil skirt to the test by squatting down to look Bess in the eye.
“How do you do, Bess?” she said. “My name is Marigold.”
Bess giggled.
“It’s a funny name, isn’t it?” Marigold said, wrinkling her nose good-naturedly at Bess. “But I hope your mummy will use it instead of calling me Mrs. Edwards.”
“I will, if you’ll call me Lori,” I said. “Do you have children?”
“A son and a daughter,” Marigold replied, straightening. “They’re grown and flown now, but my son, at least, will be back to work for us after he finishes his degree. How lucky you are to have a little one. I miss having a baby around the house.” She tilted her head toward the door to the inner office. “Please, come through.”
Marigold’s office was nicely appointed, but it struck me as businesslike rather than posh. Her teak desk wasn’t antiseptically tidy and a row of bulging three-ring binders sat atop her teak filing cabinets. If she was receiving kickback money from a developer, I thought, she wasn’t spending it on fancy fittings for the agency.
I parked Bess next to the chair facing the desk, checked her diaper, wiped her dribbly chin, and handed her the shark rattle before seating myself. Marigold, who’d remained standing, asked if she could get anything for me.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a glass of water,” I said, adding ruefully, “Nursing makes me thirsty.”
“Say no more,” she said with an understanding smile. “I nursed both of mine.”
She left the office and returned a moment later with a liter bottle of water and a tall glass. She insisted on filling the glass for me before she took her place behind her desk. Try as I might, I couldn’t fault her attentiveness nor could I deny her charm. On the face of it, she seemed to be a thoroughly pleasant woman. I had no trouble understanding why my neighbors thought so highly of her.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you, Lori,” she began. “I met your husband, of course, when he was looking for office space in Finch. I hope Wysteria Lodge is serving him well?”
I stared at her in stunned silence, feeling like the world’s biggest dunce.
“Are you all right, Lori?” she asked, eyeing me with concern.
“Y-yes,” I stammered, still shaken by my own stupidity. “You caught me off guard, is all. To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten that Bill worked with an estate agent when we first moved to Finch.”
“Baby brain,” Marigold said sympathetically. “It happens to us all. When my two were Bess’s age, I could scarcely remember my own name, let alone something that happened over a decade ago.” She leaned forward and folded her hands on her desk. “I believe you inherited your property.”
“I did,” I said.
“Are you thinking of selling it?” she inquired.
“No,” I said, much too loudly. I took a long drink of water to steady myself, then said calmly, “I have no desire whatsoever to sell my home.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “It’s such a pretty cottage. Are you, perhaps, interested in acquiring another property?”