Selena sounded like her old gossipmongering self as she leaned forward to impart her news.
“Sally won’t allow Mr. Holdstrom to publish the article,” she said. “She won’t be on the cover, either. Sally says it’s because she lost the tearoom, but rumor has it that Mr. Holdstrom offended her by objecting to the green gingham monstrosity she wore for the photo shoot.”
“Her outfit was a bit much,” I conceded, “but I don’t think it would have mattered if she’d held on to the tearoom. After all, the article was as much about the tearoom as it was about her. I’m sure she’s trying to do the honorable thing by letting Dabney Holdstrom off the hook, but she must be incredibly disappointed.”
“She’s not half as disappointed as Mr. Holdstrom,” Selena said. “I saw him leave Sally’s flat and he looked devastated. I felt for him, poor man. He put a lot of work into his article and Sally threw it back in his face.” Selena’s face darkened. “My wish won’t come true and his won’t, either.”
I blinked. “Did Dabney Holdstrom visit the wishing well?”
“Oh, yes,” said Selena. “Sally egged him on to have a go at it last week. No one knows what he wished for, of course, but if I were an editor of a magazine like Cozy Cookery, I’d wish for a pastry chef like Sally Pyne on my cover if she agreed to wear a less ridiculous costume. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “I suppose I would.”
“Then you’d be as devastated as Dabney Holdstrom,” Selena declared, “and as disappointed as I am. Disappointment seems to be the order of the day in Finch and friendship doesn’t mean what it used to mean. If you need proof, look in your fridge. Only one casserole? It’s shameful.” She clucked her tongue and got to her feet. “I’ll let you rest, Lori. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. No one else seems to have time for me.”
She smiled wanly and departed, leaving me to my very tangled thoughts.
Twenty
Sally Pyne had given up her church wedding and her magazine cover in order to follow her fiancé on his dubious comeback trail. Opal Taylor was starting a mail-order business without knowing the first thing about mail-order businesses. Noon was approaching and I had only one casserole in my refrigerator because friendship didn’t mean what it used to mean in Finch. Selena’s best friends had abandoned her and the wishing well had failed her. It had, apparently, failed Dabney Holdstrom, as well.
“The world has gone mad,” I muttered.
I pulled Reginald out from under the quilt and gazed into his black button eyes while I tried to follow the various scenarios to their logical conclusions.
“We know the tearoom will go straight downhill after Peggy buys it,” I said, “but what will Sally do if Henry flops? A good baker can always find a job, but will she be content to work for someone else after she’s been her own boss for so many years? Will cookies, cakes, and summer puddings be enough for her after she’s set her sights on Hollywood? Will the church wedding be back on again or will she and Henry be too poor to pay for it? Or,” I went on with a small gasp of dismay, “will she break it off with Henry because she blames him for dashing her dreams?”
Reginald offered no answers, but I was on a roll, so I kept going.
“Opal is setting herself up for a fall, too,” I told him. “Even if she does figure out how mail order works, mass-produced marmalades never taste as good as the ones made in small batches. Apart from that, she won’t be able to pick enough fresh berries to fill hundreds, maybe thousands, of orders. The quality of her products will decline, orders will tail off, and she’ll lose the investment she’s made in expanding her business. Instead of supplementing her income by selling her homemade goodies through the Emporium, she’ll drain it by wasting her hard-earned cash on a hopeless venture. What will happen to Opal when her bank account runs dry?”
I stroked Reginald’s hand-sewn whiskers as I continued, but my mind was so full of calamities that I hardly saw him.
“Miranda Morrow won’t poison people with her bottles of well water,” I said, “but she won’t heal anyone either. If her patients lose confidence in her, she’ll be written off as a crackpot and no one will remember how effective her herbal ointments and poultices and tisanes are.”
It took me a while to conjure a bad outcome for model railway enthusiast George Wetherhead, but I managed it.
“What if his antique locomotive turns out to be stolen property?” I said. “It would explain why such a rarity was sold for a bargain price. George would be heartbroken if his new toy was taken away from him, but he’d have a heart attack if a constable showed up on his doorstep, asking questions.”