“It’s not about the Asazuki,” he was saying. “It’s about you taking advantage of my good nature.”
“If you didn’t want to sort the disposables, why didn’t you say so?” Grant exploded. “I didn’t force them on you! I didn’t lock you in the shed!”
“No, but you left the shed all topsy-turvy because you knew you could rely on me to organize it for you!” Charles retorted.
“I’m sick to death of you organizing things!” said Grant. “I’m sick of you nagging and fussing and hoovering and polishing and making me feel like a guest in my own home!”
“You,” said Charles, “are an ungrateful swine.”
“And you,” Grant snarled, “are a paranoid neat freak with delusions of grandeur. And I’ve had enough!”
Grant spun on his heel, got into his car, and sped off in the direction of Upper Deeping. Charles frowned ferociously, stomped into the cottage, and slammed the door so hard that the sound reverberated from one end of the village to the other.
“They’ve lost their minds,” I said.
“Who’s the boa constrictor?” Mr. Barlow asked.
“Who’s the what?” I asked, staring at him.
“The bendy beauty with the cameras,” he replied.
He gestured toward Jemma Renshawe, who’d wrapped her gorgeous self around the war memorial, presumably to capture artistic images of Grant and Charles yelling at each other. Her aunt stood in the memorial’s shadow, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
“It’s Elspeth’s niece,” I said. “She’s taking photographs for a book about Cotswold villages.”
Mr. Barlow burst out laughing. “Charles and Grant will be well pleased to have their bickering beaks put in a book for all the world to see.”
“Pleased?” I said, sagging against the bridge’s low stone wall. “They’re the vainest men in Finch. They’ll have six fits when they find out what she’s done.”
“I wouldn’t get comfortable just yet, Lori,” Mr. Barlow advised. “There’s more to come.”
“Where?” I asked, pushing myself upright.
Mr. Barlow’s pointing finger followed Peggy Taxman as she exited her general store and sailed majestically across the green to enter the tearoom.
“I’ve seen this one coming,” said Mr. Barlow, folding his arms.
“What have you seen coming?” I asked.
“The clash of the titans,” he replied. “Peggy’s been pea-green with envy ever since Sally had her lucky break with Dabney Holdstrom, and Sally’s bragging hasn’t helped. Always has to have the upper hand, does Peggy, and she hasn’t had it lately. Looks as if she’s geared herself up to bring Sally down a peg.”
If anyone could deflate an overblown ego, it was Peggy Taxman. Peggy was a force to be reckoned with. Grown men ran for cover when her pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses came into view and grown women generally did whatever she told them to do.
Sally Pyne didn’t appear to be in an overly submissive state of mind as she chased Peggy out of the tearoom. Sally’s round face was screwed up and beet-red with rage, while Henry Cook, who trailed after her, looked as though he had one foot hovering precariously over a land mine. I couldn’t blame him. Both women looked as if they were ready to explode.
“What sort of getup is Sally wearing?” Mr. Barlow asked.
His perplexity was understandable. Short, plump, white-haired Sally Pyne usually wore stretch pants, a loose-fitting blouse, and sneakers to work. It took me a full five seconds to figure out why she’d replaced her customary attire with a flouncy, full-skirted, green gingham dress, a frilly pink apron, and lavender satin slippers.
“It must be for the photo shoot,” I said as the penny dropped. “The photo shoot for the Cozy Cookery magazine cover.”
“She looks like an angry Easter egg,” Mr. Barlow said, chuckling.
I couldn’t laugh along with him. I felt as if I were witnessing the collision of two mighty tectonic plates. My sense of dread increased exponentially when Jemma Renshawe released her hold on the war memorial and made a beeline for the villagers who’d gathered on the green to watch Peggy and Sally face off. I doubted that my neighbors would look kindly upon Jemma if she blocked their view of what promised to be a highly entertaining confrontation.
Peggy stopped halfway across the green and swung around to make a stand. Sally came to a halt a few feet away from her and Henry hung back a few more steps.
“Wise of them to keep their distance,” Mr. Barlow commented. “Henry’s beefy and Sally’s plucky, but Peggy could fell an oak tree with one slap.”
I whimpered.
“How dare you interrupt my photo shoot?” Sally roared.
“You may as well cancel your photo shoot,” Peggy thundered, “because the tearoom won’t be yours for much longer.” She pointed a finger at Sally. “I’ve told you once, but I’ll say it again. I’m buying up your lease!”