“No others have come through the post office,” said Jasper. “To my knowledge, none have been hand-delivered. It’s as if the flyer were meant for Peggy’s eyes only, as though she’d been targeted by some sort of prankster.”
“Have you told Peggy what you’ve learned?” I asked.
“Not yet,” said Jasper. “She’s overexcited. Until she calms down, I won’t be able to reason with her. Besides, it may be a mistake. The printer may have reversed a few numbers or printed the wrong numbers when he made the flyer.”
“How will you find out if it’s a mistake?” I asked.
“I’ll ask Sally Pyne to find out for me,” he replied. “Sally leases her building from someone. The building’s owner should know whether it’s for sale or not.”
I blinked at him in disbelief. “Hasn’t Sally checked with the owner?”
“Henry tells me she hasn’t,” said Jasper. “Sally, also, is too overwrought to think straight, but I shall ask her to speak with the leaseholder as soon as she calms down. I’m dealing with two powerful, proud, and extremely angry women, Lori. It’s not an easy task.”
“A rock and a hard place,” I said, repeating Mr. Barlow’s apt words. “May I borrow the flyer, Jasper? I’d like to have it on hand in case something similar shows up at my place.”
“Yes, of course,” said Jasper. “I’ve already made copies to show to Peggy and Sally.”
I folded the glossy, professional-looking advertisement in half, slipped it into my shoulder bag, and rejoiced in having secured my first piece of hard evidence. It seemed obvious to me that the puppeteer had responded to Peggy’s wish by producing a bogus flyer from a nonexistent company. I decided not to voice my suspicions to Jasper—without proof, they would seem farfetched. If I could trace the flyer back to its creator, however, I’d be able to reveal to him the identity of the prankster who’d pulled the wool over his wife’s eyes.
“Did you make a wish in the wishing well?” I asked out of sheer curiosity.
“No,” said Jasper, “but if I had, it would have been for my wife to be content with what she has.”
I smiled sympathetically and left the Emporium. I paused to gaze across the green at the tearoom, then turned my steps toward the old schoolmaster’s house at the far end of the green, where George Wetherhead lived. If the puppeteer had forged a real estate advertisement, I reasoned, he might have printed a fake newsletter, too.
I nearly ran into Christine Peacock as she stepped out of the pub she owned with her husband, Dick.
“Good morning, Lori,” she said. “You’re looking well, considering—”
“I am well,” I interrupted.
I didn’t intend to have a long conversation with Christine, but I couldn’t resist asking her a question I’d meant to ask her for days. Christine Peacock took a keen interest in UFOs. I’d expected her to fall under the wishing well’s spell faster than anyone else in the village, but I hadn’t heard one word about her making a wish.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I went on, “but have you or Dick visited the wishing well at Ivy Cottage lately?”
“Certainly not,” she said loftily. “Wishing wells are for children and childish adults. Dick and I are neither.”
“Right,” I said. If I’d had more time I would have asked her to explain the difference between UFOs and wishing wells, but I was in a hurry, so I let sleeping dogs lie.
“Will we see you at Emma’s party tonight?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I told her, and continued on my way.
I was passing Crabtree Cottage when the front door opened and Charles Bellingham called out to me to wait. He hurried toward me, looking far more subdued than he had while he’d been taunting Grant Tavistock over their white picket gate.
“I didn’t expect to see you in the village today,” he said. “Bill told me you’d be in bed for a week.” He didn’t wait to hear my disclaimer, but rushed on. “Has Grant been in touch with you?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since he stormed off. Why? Hasn’t he come back?”
“He’s been gone since Thursday,” Charles said with a catch in his voice. He twisted his hands together fretfully. “I shouldn’t have made such a to-do about the Asazuki. Grant swears it wasn’t there when he brought the box of disposables home. He accused me of buying it, just to make a point, but I didn’t, Lori, I promise you, I didn’t. I found it in the shed, exactly as I said.”
“Where did the painting come from?” I asked. “Did you trace its previous owners?”
“Of course I did,” said Charles. “The painting’s provenance was part of the case I was building against Grant. I have no idea where he acquired it because he doesn’t keep track of the disposables. The box it was in could have come from a car boot sale, a charity shop, or flea market.”
“Not much to go on,” I said.
“Not much at all,” Charles agreed. “I dug deeper, though, and I found out that the painting had been sold to a gallery in Upper Deeping some thirty years ago.”