“It’s a good thing we put off the hedge trimming,” he observed.
“Agreed,” I said. I gestured to the modest sedan parked on the verge near Willis, Sr.’s, wrought-iron gates. “I see Bree has arrived.”
“With far less drama than you,” said Jack.
While he collected the items that had fallen from Betsy’s basket, Bree emerged from the gateway. She, too, was wearing shorts, but hers were denim cutoffs, and her feet were protected by her bumblebee-striped wellies. I was pleased to note that her short-sleeved purple T-shirt bore no national symbols, and though her tattooed arms were on full display, I considered the tattoos’ floral motifs to be politically neutral.
She surmised from the scene what had happened and had the good grace not to laugh.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, pulling Betsy upright.
“I’m embarrassed, but unbroken,” I told her.
“No need to be embarrassed,” she said. “I reckon the only cyclists who haven’t taken a spill are cyclists who leave their bikes at home.” She squatted to examine Betsy, pronounced her fit to ride, and stood. “You’re right, Lori. She’s gorgeous.”
“She?” said Jack.
“Don’t ask,” said Bree.
“Lori!” cried another voice, and I looked up to see short, plump Sally Pyne trotting toward us from the direction of the humpbacked bridge.
“Great,” I muttered. If Sally had witnessed my fall, the whole village would know about it before lunchtime.
“Good grief, Lori,” she exclaimed as she drew nearer. “Should I ring Dr. Finisterre? I saw you sail over your handlebars and I was sure you’d killed yourself.”
“Not dead,” I said, spreading my arms wide to display my undead body. “Not even concussed. Nothing but a few scratches. It’s the hand brakes. I’ll have to get used to them.”
“I should think so,” said Sally. She turned immediately to Jack and pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “Sally Pyne, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“How could I forget you, Mrs. Pyne?” said Jack. “You own the tearoom and you made the delicious chicken in wine sauce.”
“I do, I did, and I’m Sally to you,” said Sally, blushing with the pleasure of being remembered by someone as young and handsome as Jack. “I’m sure you have lots to do, Jack, so I won’t beat about the bush. I don’t want you to feel pressurized in any way, but it dawned on me last night that you might not know how to return the casserole dishes once you’ve finished with them. So I thought I’d pop in and tell you whose dish is whose.”
“You beauty,” said Jack. “That’s a great idea. I’ll show you to the kitchen.” Jack dumped my possessions into Betsy’s basket and presented his arm to Sally. “Allow me to assist you, Sally. The front garden’s a bit wild and I wouldn’t want you to turn an ankle.”
“One crash landing per day is enough, eh?” Sally said, peering up at him roguishly. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and bounced through the gateway as gaily as a young girl on prom night.
I took Betsy from Bree, began rolling her through the gateway, and stopped short.
“What happened to the intercom?” I asked, gazing at the dark patch on the gatepost where the device had been mounted.
“Jack dismantled it,” said Bree. “He plans to leave the gate unlocked as well. He wants the villagers to feel free to knock on his front door.”
“They’ll knock down his front door,” I said, pushing Betsy into the jungle. “Everyone’s dying to poke their noses into Ivy Cottage. Take Sally, for example. If she gives two hoots about casserole dishes, I’ll eat Betsy’s tires. Sally came here to snoop.”
“The first of many,” Bree said, nodding sagely.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“Twenty minutes ago,” she replied. She pointed to an impressive array of tools piled on a blue tarpaulin stretched across the ground between the garage door and the front bumper of Jack’s rental car. “We unloaded my car and made a start on clearing the path between the garage and the cottage, but we haven’t gotten very far. Is Emma coming?”
“She hopes to be here by noon,” I said.
“Good,” said Bree. “I don’t mind clearing the paths because the paths are already there, but I’m not sure about the rest of it. Emma will know what’s worth saving and what isn’t.”
“Forget the paths,” I told her. “Let’s snoop on the snoop.”
I propped Betsy against the cottage, hung my helmet on her handlebars, took my wellies from her basket, and shooed Bree indoors. We entered the kitchen in time to hear Sally assign Miranda Morrow’s name to the purple casserole dish.
“Shall I go over it again?” she asked.
“I think I’ll remember,” Jack replied.
“Good. When you’re ready to return them,” she concluded, “you can ask anyone in the village where to go and they’ll point you in the right direction.”