“Needs must,” I said. “They’ll let him resume his normal routine as soon as the weather settles down. I know he misses his country walks.”
“He’d catch pneumonia if he stepped outside today,” said Bree, squinting at the cloud-covered sky. “Our Aussie’s teeth must be chattering,” she went on. “I’m sure his lips were turning blue on Saturday. Serves him right for wearing shorts and sandals.”
“Be nice,” I scolded. “The poor guy’s plane was late and he was in such a tearing hurry to get to the funeral that he didn’t have time to change into sensible clothing.”
“Aussies aren’t known for being sensible,” said Bree. “What’s he doing here, anyway? The funeral’s over and done with. Why is he sticking around?”
“According to Lilian, who heard it from Mr. Huggins’s solicitor, Jack MacBride came to Finch to complete a project mentioned in his uncle’s will.” I glanced at Bree to catch her reaction. “Jack’s preparing his uncle’s memoir for publication.”
Predictably, Bree burst out laughing.
“Priceless,” she said when she finished guffawing. “What’s it called? Adventures in Accounting? Thrills and Gills? The Spoken Word: How to Get Along Without It?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “But please try not to laugh if Jack mentions the memoir to us. It must be a labor of love for him. He can’t imagine it’ll be a best seller.”
“A labor of love?” Bree scoffed. “If you ask me, it has more to do with money than with love.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll bet Mr. Huggins left Jack an inheritance,” said Bree. “But Jack gets it only if he agrees to tidy up the memoir.”
I recalled Jack’s beat-up backpack, his shabby clothing, and his last-minute decision to attend his uncle’s funeral, and nodded thoughtfully.
“You may be right,” I said. “He doesn’t dress like someone who can afford to splash out money on impromptu flights to England.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Bree agreed. “The bequest must have included travel expenses. I’ll bet Jack wouldn’t have come if his uncle hadn’t paid his way and tucked in a little bonus cash to make the journey worth his while.”
“I’d hate to think that Jack’s motives are purely mercenary,” I said, “but I guess I’d understand it if they were. You couldn’t pay me enough to read Hector Huggins’s memoir, but Jack’s pockets may not be as plump as mine. Can’t blame a boy for trying to make a buck.”
“I suppose not,” said Bree. “Still, it’s a bit despicable. Jack may not have been rich enough to visit his uncle, but if he cared for him at all, he could have written to him.”
“How do you know he didn’t?” I asked.
Bree snorted. “When was the last time our beloved postmistress kept her mouth shut about a piece of foreign correspondence? Peggy Taxman would have crowed like a rooster if she’d seen letters from Australia addressed to Mr. Huggins.”
“True.” I sighed. “You’re painting a grubby picture of our visitor. Which makes me a little sad, because I thought he was a nice guy.”
“He may be a nice guy,” said Bree, “but he may be a money-grubbing ocker. I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “What’s an ocker?”
“A boor,” said Bree. “A big-mouthed, pushy jerk. In other words, a typical Aussie.”
I glanced at her in surprise. “What have you got against Australians? Is there a blood feud between your countries or is it a personal quarrel?”
Bree’s lips compressed into a thin line.
“Here’s a little joke Jack told at the funeral luncheon,” she said. “Why are so few crimes solved in New Zealand?”
“I give up,” I said. “Why are so few crimes solved in New Zealand?”
“Because everyone has the same DNA,” she said grimly.
The punch line took a couple of seconds to sink in. When it did, I had to bite my lip to keep myself from smiling. If Bree was determined to be offended by a fairly harmless quip, there was nothing much I could do about it. But I tried.
“I’m sure he meant it in good fun,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Bree. “He was telling jokes meant in good fun at his uncle’s funeral.” She tossed her head. “Typical Aussie.”
“Believe it or not,” I said, “you and Peggy Taxman have something in common. She doesn’t like Aussies, either. She thinks they’re loud and vulgar.”
“Peggy hasn’t spent enough time around Australians to form a valid opinion of them,” said Bree. “I have.”
“Well, I’ve spent some time around Jack,” I said, “and I don’t think he’s vulgar. Boisterous, perhaps, but not vulgar. He very kindly offered to rein in his language for the boys’ sake, and he’s holding today’s feast in your honor.”
“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” Bree promised again, unconvincingly. “Who knows? Jack may surprise me.”
I sincerely hoped he would. Bree had a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. If Jack displeased her, our luncheon at Ivy Cottage could prove to be more challenging than the Tour de Finch.