Elspeth pressed two fingers to her temple, as if she had a headache coming on, and hurried away to search for her artistic niece.
I didn’t envy her the task of reining in such an intense character and I wasn’t at all sure how my neighbors would react to having a camera thrust at them in an impromptu manner by a monosyllabic goddess. It seemed likely that the men would comb their hair, pull in their tummies, and compete for the chance to pose for her, but I doubted the women would. Opal, Millicent, and Selena wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to tell their dear friend exactly what they thought of her niece, and if Jemma shoved a camera under Peggy Taxman’s nose, the camera—and quite possibly Jemma—would end up in pieces.
I moseyed over to the driveway to examine the broken bird tables, but I was still thinking about Elspeth. Her wish to observe the creative mind at work had already lost her a dining room table. Would it lose her a few friendships as well?
“Then there’s Mr. Barlow,” I murmured fretfully.
If Mr. Barlow’s infatuation with classic cars had ended when he’d fixed Dabney Holdstrom’s precious Jaguar, all would have been well. He would have had his fun and Finch would have had its sexton-handyman back. But the cars wouldn’t stop coming and Mr. Barlow wouldn’t stop working on them and the things he was supposed to be doing weren’t getting done.
“He’s not himself,” I said to a foraging robin.
Mr. Barlow believed in old-fashioned virtues like doing one’s duty and keeping one’s promises, yet he’d failed signally to do his duty as a sexton and he’d gone back on his promise to lend a hand, if needed, with Ivy Cottage. I didn’t want to imagine what Finch would be like without its hardworking handyman, but as I hefted a hammer it dawned on me that I might have to.
I gave myself a preview of the apocalypse by attempting to do what Mr. Barlow should have done. After twenty minutes or so of banging nails every which way but straight into the wood, the inevitable happened. I whacked my left thumb so hard with the hammer that the wave of pain nearly knocked me off my feet. I dropped the hammer, grasped my wrist, and did a little dance of agony, during which I cursed every Jaguar E-Type ever made.
I was on my way into the cottage to find ice for my throbbing digit when the sound of raised voices reached my ears. Alarmed, I forgot my injury and raced toward the village, arriving atop the humpbacked bridge in time to watch the first act of Finch’s final downfall.
Seventeen
I wasn’t alone in witnessing doomsday. The curious leaned from windows or stood in doorways or froze in their tracks all up and down the village green. Mr. Barlow emerged from his garage near the bottom of the bridge, spotted me, and climbed up to share my grandstand view.
“’Morning, Lori,” he said, as if the end of the world weren’t nigh. “What did you do to your thumb?”
“We’ll talk about it later,” I responded distractedly.
He slipped a socket wrench into his tool belt and wiped his greasy hands on a grimy rag, which he stowed in the back pocket of his grubby coveralls. The oily stench he brought with him made me feel sick to my stomach, but I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus on the matter at hand.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Grant and Charles are having a tiff, I reckon,” he replied.
I reckoned he was right. Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham were bellowing at each other over their white picket gate. Grant was on the outside, glaring up at Charles, and Charles was on the inside, glaring down at Grant while waving a horribly familiar, small, framed painting in Grant’s face. They were arguing so loudly that it was impossible not to eavesdrop.
“It’s an Asazuki!” Charles crowed. “An original Asazuki!”
“I know it’s an Asazuki!” Grant shouted. “I can see it’s an Asazuki! I don’t need you to tell me what an Asazuki looks like!”
“Apparently, you do,” Charles said gleefully. “Because it was right under your nose and you missed it!”
“If you don’t get it away from my nose,” Grant said, shoving Charles’s arm aside, “I’ll punch you on yours!”
“I’d like to see you try,” said Charles.
“I don’t think you would,” said Grant, raising a clenched fist.
“Who do you reckon would win if they had a dustup?” Mr. Barlow asked conversationally. “Charles has the height, the weight, and the reach, but Grant’s kept himself in better shape.”
“I sincerely hope they won’t have a dustup,” I said, appalled by the thought of either man sprawled across the cobbles in my peaceful village.
“Suit yourself,” Mr. Barlow said equably. “I’d back Grant. Quicker, lighter on his feet, more stamina. It’s the wiry ones you have to watch out for.”
Charles apparently decided to watch out for the wiry one standing within arm’s reach of his nose because he clutched the painting to his chest, withdrew to a safe distance, and changed tactics.