“I’ve been instructed to immerse my clients in Finch,” said Marigold. “I’d prefer to take things a little more gradually, but orders are orders.”
I paused again. I was willing to believe that Marigold Edwards was an innocent dupe, but I was unwilling to exonerate the company that had given her such bizarre and unprofitable instructions. Nothing she’d said had dispelled my belief that a developer meant to have his way with Finch. His private company might find it difficult to dislodge sitting tenants, I reasoned, but it could make sure that no one replaced those who chose to leave. Eventually, there would be nothing but empty cottages in the village. Then the company could move ahead with its plan to convert them into high-priced holiday homes.
“Who gives you your instructions?” I asked. “May I have a name?”
“Again, I hate to disappoint you,” said Marigold, “but I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. The company prefers to use me, the managing agent, as an intermediary. I can, of course, forward any questions or comments you might have to the appropriate department.”
Here, at last, was the evasiveness I’d expected from Marigold Edwards. She was clearly determined to conceal the name of the company that had slyly and secretly taken control of Finch, but I was equally determined to pry the name out of her. I folded my arms and fixed her with a level gaze, but before I could demolish her defenses with my finely honed snooping skills, her telephone buzzed.
She picked up the receiver, listened intently, said, “Thank you, Mrs. Dinsdale,” and returned the receiver to its cradle.
“I’m sorry, Lori,” she said, “but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m showing a house in Tillcote in”—she glanced at her watch—“thirty minutes. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late and I don’t like to keep my clients waiting.”
Bess made a noise she’d never made before, a pathetic mewl I didn’t associate with any of her usual needs. I bent over her, but I could discover nothing wrong. She wasn’t clamoring for a feed or complaining about anything in particular. Her diaper was dry, her clothes weren’t bunched up, the pram’s safety harness was fastened correctly, and there were no red marks to indicate that she’d whacked herself in the head with the rattle.
I was about to pick her up for an all-purpose cuddle when Marigold spoke.
“Poor thing,” Marigold cooed. “Is she hungry?”
I gazed into Bess’s deep, dark eyes and thought fast.
“Yes,” I lied. “She’s used to having a meal about now.” I sat up and grimaced apologetically at Marigold. “Would you mind if we . . .” I let my voice trail off in an unspoken appeal.
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “We mums must stick together.” She took a file from a desk drawer, placed it in a briefcase she’d retrieved from beneath the desk, and stood. “It was a pleasure to meet you and your daughter, Lori. If you ever decide to sell your home or to purchase another, I hope you’ll think of me.” She beamed at us and strode to the door, saying, “Take all the time you need. I’ll make sure Mrs. Dinsdale doesn’t disturb you.”
“Thank you,” I said, lifting Bess from the pram.
“Not at all,” said Marigold.
She left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. I waited until the tap-tap-tap of her heels had faded into the distance, then kissed Bess all over her face, returned her to the pram, and darted behind the desk.
“Who’s the clever baby?” I said while I scanned the file cabinets. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that your timing was perfect.” I looked over my shoulder at Bess, who was once again chewing contentedly on her shark, and laughed at my own silliness. As a mother of three, I knew for a fact that infants had terrible timing.
Happily, the file cabinets were arranged in alphabetical order. I opened the drawer containing the F files and began to rifle through the folders.
“I knew something fishy was going on,” I said to Bess. “What kind of company refuses to advertise? What kind of company throws its clients off the deep end in Finch? Aha!” I crowed as my fingers touched a folder labeled FINCH.
I yanked the folder from the drawer, opened it on Marigold’s desk, and froze.
There, lying atop a thick sheaf of papers, was a dog-eared photocopy of a map I’d seen recently—a faded, yellowing, hand-drawn map of Finch.
I told myself it meant nothing. I told myself that the map could have been photocopied long before it had come into Arthur’s possession. I told myself that there could be no possible connection between the beneficent Summer King and a vile developer. I pushed the dog-eared photocopy aside to examine the sheet of paper that lay beneath it.
My legs gave way and I sat heavily in Marigold’s chair.