“I can reschedule it again,” said Bill.
“If you do, I’ll feel even worse,” I said. “I’ll come down with a raging fever and my arm will fall off and it’ll be your fault.” I smiled coaxingly. “Go to work, Bill. I promise to behave myself.”
Bill eyed me doubtfully, but he shifted Stanley from his lap to the floor, stood, and disappeared up the hall. He returned a moment later to place Reginald and the blue journal on the coffee table.
“Thought I’d save you a trip to the study,” he said.
“You really are the most perfect of perfect husbands,” I told him.
“I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, three at the most,” he said sternly. “If I come home and find you doing handsprings—”
“I’ve sworn off handsprings.” I held up my mini-mummy. “And carpentry.”
Bill gave a grudging laugh, collected his laptop and his briefcase, kissed me good-bye, and left the cottage. Stanley jumped onto the armchair, snuggled into the indentation Bill had made in the seat cushion, and went to sleep.
“My husband really is perfect,” I said to Reginald and he didn’t disagree. I reached for the blue journal, propped it in front of my elevated hand, opened it, and said, “Dimity?”
A short but elegant line of copperplate appeared on the blank page.
Is it broken?
“No,” I said. “Just smashed. I can hardly feel it at the moment. I’m on drugs.”
Drugs have their uses.
“Now, about yesterday’s news,” I began, but I got no further.
Conserve your energy, Lori. I’ve had almost twenty-four hours to analyze your semi-incoherent outburst and I believe I understand most of it. I’ll give you my impressions and you can stop me if I go wrong.
“Fire away,” I said.
Mr. Barlow didn’t mow the cemetery and he didn’t help you fix the bird tables because he’s been too busy working on the classic cars brought to him by Dabney Holdstrom and Mr. Holdstrom’s friends, classic cars that appear to be related to a wish Mr. Barlow made near the wishing well.
“Correct,” I said.
You attempted to repair the bird tables without Mr. Barlow’s help and your attempt ended when you hurt yourself. It could be argued that Mr. Barlow is indirectly responsible for your accident.
“I blame Dabney Holdstrom,” I said. “His cars lured Mr. Barlow away from his proper jobs.”
Why didn’t you attend to your thumb immediately? You must have known it was damaged.
“I meant to put ice on it,” I said, “but I heard Charles and Grant yelling at each other and I had to find out what was going on.”
Ah, yes, I remember: Charles is mad at Grant and Grant is mad at Charles. I can’t say I’m surprised. Did Charles use the Asazuki painting as an excuse to air an assortment of grievances against Grant?
“Mostly he accused Grant of taking him for granted,” I said. “Grant aired a few grievances, too, before he drove off in a huff. It was an old-fashioned, no-holds-barred shouting match.”
Prompted by the masterpiece Charles wished to find.
“Exactly,” I said.
Charles used an exquisite work of art as a weapon in a childish argument. It was bound to end in tears. Let us move on to Elspeth’s embarrassment. Jemma is the photographer-niece whose mission it is to photograph Cotswold villagers.
“She is,” I said.
Did her manner embarrass Elspeth?
“She has no manners,” I said. “That’s what embarrassed Elspeth. It’s as if Jemma doesn’t realize she’s photographing real, live human beings. She just barges in and starts snapping away, regardless of whether her subjects wish to be photographed or not.”
Artists can be self-absorbed.
“Then Jemma’s a true artist,” I said. “She dumped her gear all over Elspeth’s cottage, refused the cup of tea Elspeth offered her, and offended Elspeth’s friends. If Elspeth hadn’t dragged her away, Opal and Millicent would have made mincemeat of her. I don’t think her kind of creative energy is the kind Elspeth had in mind when she made her wish.”
Creative energy is not to be taken lightly. It isn’t like fairy dust, gilding all it touches. It’s like a bulldozer, knocking down whatever gets in its way.
“By now, Elspeth probably agrees with you,” I said.
I confess that I reached an impasse when I came to “Rick won’t shoot Opal’s marmalades.” Who is Rick and why would Opal want him to shoot her marmalades?
I spent the next fifteen minutes telling Aunt Dimity the intertwined stories of Peggy, Sally, Henry, Rick, and Opal.
“In short,” I concluded, “it’s a big mess.”