Indeed. Continue to amaze me.
“The Asazuki painting was last seen hanging in the Selwyn gallery on Summer Street in Upper Deeping,” I said. “Charles tried to find out who bought it from the gallery, but he was out of luck. The old owner passed away ten years ago and the sales records were destroyed in a fire. Grant swears the painting wasn’t among those he put in the shed, and after much soul-searching, Charles has decided to believe him.”
Good for Charles. I hoped he’d come to his senses. He should know by now that Grant wouldn’t lie to him about such a thing. Can Charles explain how the painting got into the shed?
“He heard a noise in the back garden a couple of days before he found the painting,” I said. “Since he doesn’t believe in the art fairy, he blames a person or persons unknown for depositing the painting surreptitiously in Grant’s box of disposables.”
Am I remembering correctly, Lori? Is it a painting of a fish?
“It is,” I said. “It’s an ink wash painting of a Japanese carp, or koi, pirouetting through fronds of swaying seaweed. I think it’s astoundingly ugly, but Charles regards it as a masterpiece.”
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear, and occasionally in the hands of the banker. The painting is worth a great deal. What else have you discovered?
“Let me think . . .” I scoured my brain for further facts before continuing. “Oh, yes, George Wetherhead. George bought his locomotive from a train collector in Upper Deeping who publishes a newsletter called The Coneyham Express. I was suspicious at first because the locomotive was advertised on an insert instead of in the newsletter proper, but it seems legitimate. The seller’s name is Tim Coneyham and George has known him for years.”
Anything more?
“Elspeth’s niece is still driving her mad,” I said. “Opal Taylor changed her mind about having her jams and marmalades featured in Cozy Cookery. She doesn’t want to turn a hobby into a full-fledged business.”
Very wise.
“Opal and Millicent nearly came to blows over whether to lick or not to lick the labels for Opal’s jars,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure Elspeth and Selena helped them to patch things up. Selena’s having a tough time. She had a romantic church wedding planned for Sally and Henry and she asked the wishing well for perfect weather, wedding guests, et cetera, but it looks as though she wasted her time as well as her wish.”
Has the wedding been called off?
“Not exactly,” I said. “Sally thinks her famous fiancé won’t be able to fit a church wedding into his busy schedule, so she’s leaning toward a quickie service in a registry office.”
Oh, dear. Not a registry office.
“Again, Henry’s with you,” I said. “He hates the idea, so Sally may have to stick with the original plan and Selena may get her wish after all. I hope she does. I love church weddings. Speaking of which . . .” I sat up as I recalled the last morsel of news I’d gathered in Finch. “Bree asked me why I didn’t change my name when I married Bill.”
Did she indeed? What, I wonder, would put thoughts of marriage into her head? I wouldn’t dream of matchmaking from beyond the grave, Lori, but I suspect Bree’s young Australian friend might have something to do with it. Have you observed a progression in her relationship with Jack?
“I haven’t seen much of them since I whacked my thumb,” I admitted, “but if she’s asking about name changes, it must mean something. I bow to your superior matchmaking instincts, Dimity. Sally and Henry may not be Finch’s only engaged couple for much longer.”
Unless something happens to drive Bree and Jack apart.
“What would drive them apart?” I asked.
Bree values honesty, Lori, and I suspect that Jack hasn’t been entirely honest with her or with anyone else in Finch, for that matter.
“I don’t understand,” I said, frowning. “How has Jack been dishonest? You can’t think he’s the puppeteer. We ruled him out, remember?”
Neither one of us knows for certain whether Jack is or isn’t responsible for the chaos that has engulfed Finch since the well was rediscovered. Which is why you must do a little more detective work—hands-on detective work.
“Will I need both thumbs?” I asked.
One should suffice. The handwriting paused, then began to loop and curl lazily across the page. It was as if Aunt Dimity were thinking aloud. I find it interesting that the villagers’ wishes were answered exclusively by people who live or have lived in or in the vicinity of Upper Deeping. Even the Asazuki painting was last seen in Upper Deeping.
“At the Selwyn gallery on Summer Street,” I said, nodding.
The painting’s subject intrigues me as well, as does the fictional real estate agency’s name.