“We have an excellent mechanic in Finch,” Bill assured him. “His name is—Ah! Here he is now. Mr. Barlow?”
Mr. Barlow approached the red sports car with a dreamlike expression on his grizzled face. Bill had to call his name twice before he came out of his trance and strolled over to meet the bespectacled stranger.
“Dabney Holdstrom,” said the man, extending his gloved hand to our sexton.
“Billy Barlow,” said Mr. Barlow. He shook the little man’s hand, but his gaze remained fixed on the car. “Pretty motor you have there, Mr. Holdstrom. A 1964 Jaguar XK-E, unless I’m mistaken.”
“You’re not mistaken, Mr. Barlow,” said Mr. Holdstrom. “And she certainly doesn’t sound very pretty. I was tootling along one of your deliciously twisty lanes when she had a fit of some sort. I can’t think what’s ailing her.”
“I can,” said Mr. Barlow.
“Can you really?” said Mr. Holdstrom, sounding impressed. “I say, Mr., er, Barlow, is it?” He glanced at Bill for confirmation, then continued, “I realize that it would be a frightful imposition, Mr. Barlow, but do you suppose you could take a look at her? If you have the time,” he added diffidently.
“I have the time,” said Mr. Barlow. He was almost crooning. “I have all the time in the world for a beauty like her. The most beautiful car ever made, Mr. Ferrari called her, and Mr. Ferrari knew a thing or two about beautiful cars. Four-point-two-liter engine, all-syncromesh four-speed gearbox . . . Detachable hardtop?” he asked, with a sidelong glance at Mr. Holdstrom.
“Yes, but I left it at home,” Mr. Holdstrom replied. “No need for it on such a scrumptious day.”
Mr. Barlow heaved a tremulous sigh, took the ignition key from Mr. Holdstrom, and looked into the crowd of villagers who’d drifted over to enjoy the commotion. “Henry! Dick! Lend us a hand, will you?”
Mr. Barlow slid into the driver’s seat while Henry Cook and Dick Peacock put their considerable weight to use, pushing Mr. Holdstrom’s stricken vehicle to Mr. Barlow’s garage.
“Stranded,” said Mr. Holdstrom with a heavy sigh.
“The tearoom is next door,” Bill informed him. “And the pub is across the green.”
“Tea is best when bracing oneself for catastrophic news,” said Mr. Holdstrom, “and when one owns a classic motor, catastrophic news is the only news one ever hears.” He nodded at Bill. “Thank you. I shall repair to the tearoom, there to await my fate.”
The crowd parted and Mr. Holdstrom entered the tearoom, mopping his glistening pate with a large silk handkerchief. Half the crowd followed him—in hopes, no doubt, of gathering gossip fodder—but Sally Pyne trotted over to speak with me.
“Do you know who that man is?” she asked in an urgent undertone.
“Dabney Holdstrom?” I ventured.
“Yes, but do you know who Dabney Holdstrom is?” she asked, her face flushed with suppressed excitement.
“No,” I said. “Is he someone?”
“Is he someone?” Sally repeated incredulously. “He’s only the editor-in-chief of Cozy Cookery magazine! A good word from him will put my tearoom on the map!” She raised a plump hand to pat my cheek, then wheeled around, saying as she departed, “The well brought him here, Lori! The well brought him!”
I stared at her retreating back while my brain began to fizz. Bill seized my arm, pulled me into his office, and closed the door behind him.
“Sit,” he said, directing me to the leather sofa upon which he took power naps and, on rare occasions, interviewed clients.
I sank onto the sofa, feeling as though I’d stumbled through the looking glass. Bill sat beside me and put his hand on my knee, as if to anchor me in reality. It didn’t work.
“Lori,” he began, but I cut him off.
“Is a Jaguar XK-E the same thing as a Jaguar E-Type?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Bill, “but—”
“Mr. Barlow wished for a Jaguar E-Type,” I interrupted, “not to own, but to work on.”
“I know, but—”
“He didn’t speak to the well,” I said, “but he spoke within earshot of it.”
“Within earshot?” Bill sputtered. “Of a well?”
“And now there’s a Jaguar E-Type in his garage,” I marveled, gazing blindly into the middle distance. “Mr. Barlow’s wish came true and so did Sally’s. Sally must have wished for a visit from Dabney Holdstrom—or someone like Dabney Holdstrom. She makes fabulous pastries and he’s the editor-in-chief of Cozy Cookery magazine, so it stands to reason—”