“Do you and Mr. Holdstrom chat much?” I asked.
“What would we chat about?” asked Mr. Barlow, looking puzzled.
“The usual things,” I said. “His family, his friends . . .”
“Why would I want to know about his family or his friends?” Mr. Barlow asked. “We aren’t mates, Lori. I’m grateful to him for steering his friends my way, but we don’t have anything in common, apart from the cars.”
“Do his friends talk about him?” I asked.
“Not much,” said Mr. Barlow, “except to say how surprised they are to see him in a quiet little place like Finch. One of them—I think it was Arty Barnes, the theatrical chap—said Mr. Holdstrom was reliving his childhood.”
“Did he grow up in Finch?” I asked eagerly.
“No,” said Mr. Barlow. “He grew up the other side of Upper Deeping, in a little place called Skeaping. The village with the weird museum your lads are so fond of.”
“Skeaping Manor,” I said, with a pang of disappointment.
“Mr. Holdstrom went to London as soon as he left school, but he still has family back in Skeaping,” said Mr. Barlow. “That’s what the Barnes chap told me.” Mr. Barlow regarded me questioningly. “What made you think Mr. Holdstrom might’ve grown up in Finch?”
“He’s been extremely kind to you and to Sally and to Opal,” I said, “and he introduced Henry to Arty Barnes.”
“And you reckon . . . what?” said Mr. Barlow, looking perplexed. “He’s been nice to us because he has fond memories of his boyhood home?” He shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose, except for the part about him not growing up in Finch.”
“Yes,” I agreed dryly, “that does put a dent in my theory.”
“I should be going, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow, getting to his feet. “Mr. Holdstrom will be coming to pick up his Morris this afternoon and I want to make sure it’s humming. I hope he won’t take it too hard when I tell him I’m done with classic cars.”
“You’re done with them?” I said. “I thought you were having the time of your life, fiddling with those fancy engines.”
“I was fiddling while Finch burned,” said Mr. Barlow. “No more. I’ve had my fun. It’s time I got back to my proper jobs. Anything need doing around here, Lori? Squeaky hinge? Loose floorboard?”
“You could give me a painkiller,” I said. “I’m not sure I can open the childproof lid.”
Mr. Barlow was pleased to be of service. He bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and a sandwich consisting of a slab of cheese between two thick slices of bread.
“It says on the label ‘to be taken with food,’” he pointed out.
I was still full from breakfast, but I dutifully ate a few bites of the sandwich before taking the tablet Mr. Barlow placed in my palm. He unwrapped the box of chocolates, too, and apologized to me once more before letting himself out of the cottage.
I rested my head against the pillows and wondered how long it would take for the drug to start working, but my reverie was interrupted by the crunch of tires on gravel. Groaning, I sat up, looked through the bay window, and saw Selena Buxton walking up my flagstone path. She was dressed as neatly as ever, in a baby-blue skirt and blazer, with matching pumps, and she was carrying a baby-blue casserole dish. The casserole parade had begun.
I counted to three, then hollered, “Come in! It’s open!”
The front door opened and closed. Selena put her head into the living room and held the dish up for me to see.
“Chicken Divan,” she said. “I’ll pop it in the fridge, shall I?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “Then come back and keep me company.”
I wanted nothing more than to sink into a deep and dreamless sleep, but I couldn’t let Selena go without interrogating her. As a Handmaiden, she was honor bound to stay up-to-date on the latest gossip. I could count on her to pass along anything that had been said by or about Dabney Holdstrom since his arrival in Finch.
I smiled up at her as she returned to the living room and took a seat in my armchair.
“Will and Rob adore your Chicken Divan,” I said, “and so does Bill. Thank you for making one of their favorite dishes.”
“It’s nothing, really,” she said. “As soon as I heard about your accident I realized that you’d need help feeding your family.” She pursed her lips primly and smoothed her skirt as she continued, “I’m afraid your other neighbors are far too busy with their own affairs to give your suffering a second thought.”
“Maybe they haven’t heard about my suffering,” I said.
Selena eyed me incredulously.
“You can’t imagine that a mad dash to hospital would go unnoticed in Finch,” she said. “Your poor thumb has been the talk of the village. By rights, your fridge should be full by now, but it appears that neighborliness has gone by the wayside in our little community.”