Finch’s post office occupied a caged space at the far end of the long wooden counter that held the Emporium’s old-fashioned register. The counter faced rows of shelves stocked with standard grocery items as well as such rural necessities as udder balm, baling twine, and poultry feed. A quick glance down each aisle told me that I was the only customer in the shop and that Peggy was, thankfully, elsewhere.
Jasper Taxman climbed down from the display window and regarded me politely. Like Hector Huggins, Jasper had been an accountant before his retirement and he was equally nondescript. He wore brown suits, brown ties, brown socks, and brown wingtip shoes, but beneath his mud-colored exterior beat a surprisingly passionate heart. He could silence his overbearing wife with a gentle glance when he chose to, but more often than not he stood back and admired her for imposing her will on the rest of us. Jasper understood better than anyone that Peggy was the powerhouse behind the village fete, the flower show, the harvest festival, the sheep dog trials, and myriad other events that brought neighbors together and brought Finch to life.
“I’m glad to see you looking so well, Lori,” he said. “Bill gave me to understand that you would be incapacitated for several days.”
“Bill worries too much,” I said. “Where’s Peggy?”
“She’s in the kitchen at the tearoom,” he replied, “attempting to make hot cross buns. I can ring her if you need to use the post office.”
“Don’t ring her,” I said. “I’d rather speak with you alone, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s about Peggy’s purchase of the tearoom, isn’t it?” he said with a faint sigh. “I don’t mind telling you, Lori, that I’m not happy about it, not happy at all. We could probably afford to buy another business, but we wouldn’t be able to staff it. My wife is a demanding employer. I doubt that any job applicant would meet her stringent requirements. If one did, I doubt that he or she would remain in my wife’s employ for more than a week.”
I couldn’t agree with him without insulting his better half, so I said, “You’re stretched pretty thin as it is, with this place, the greengrocer’s shop, and the post office. Why would Peggy want another business?”
“My wife is, as you must know, a competitive woman,” said Jasper. “It galled her to play second fiddle to an ascendant Sally Pyne. She . . .” Jasper blushed, but went on. “She asked the wishing well to provide her with the means to restore the balance of power in Finch. The estate agency’s flyer arrived in the mail two days later, announcing the sale of the tearoom building. But it’s not right, Lori.”
“What’s not right?” I asked. “Peggy’s wish? Peggy’s rivalry with Sally?”
“Neither,” he said. “I’m talking about the estate agency’s flyer. It’s all wrong. Let me show you.”
He went behind the counter, retrieved a sheet of glossy paper from a low shelf, and handed it to me. It came from the Troy agency in Upper Deeping and it looked like a typical real estate advertisement. The firm’s name, address, and contact information were printed at the top of the page, above thumbnail photographs of various properties accompanied by brief descriptions and price estimates. Sally’s building was the first property listed.
“I don’t see what’s wrong,” I said.
“Look again,” said Jasper. “Read what it says about the tearoom.”
“‘Prime retail space with living accommodations in charming village,’” I read aloud. I reread the words silently and shrugged. “Once a potential buyer finds out how small the charming village is, he may not rank the retail space as prime, but other than that, I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Where’s the price for the tearoom?” Jasper asked, pointing at the entry.
I followed his pointing finger and saw that the tearoom’s listing was the only one lacking a big red pound sign followed by a string of red numbers.
“I guess I missed the price because it’s not there,” I said.
“I believe Peggy overlooked its absence as well,” said Jasper. “She’s usually quite methodical in her business dealings, but her determination to gain the upper hand with Sally has made her reckless. Peggy saw the tearoom’s listing and charged across the green to announce her intentions without looking into the details. I’ve had to do the requisite spadework for her.”
“What spadework have you done?” I asked.
“I rang the agency to request a price,” he said, “but no one answered. I then sent several e-mails, but I received no reply. Yesterday, I drove to Upper Deeping and discovered that the address listed on the flyer belongs to a vacant storefront. I made inquiries at neighboring shops and learned that the storefront’s previous tenants included a confectioner, a candle maker, and a woman who made knitted jumpers for infants. No one recalled the Troy agency.” He looked down at the flyer and shook his head. “I can only assume that a mistake has been made or that someone is playing a rather cruel joke on my wife.”
“Has anyone else in Finch received a flyer?” I asked.