“A koi and Troy? They rhyme, but other than that . . .” My voice trailed off because I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what intrigued Aunt Dimity.
Then there’s the book published by Market Town Books and paid for by an author who loves Cotswold villages.
“Everyone loves Cotswold villages,” I protested, but Aunt Dimity didn’t seem to be listening.
The wishing well itself rouses my curiosity. Do you recall the words carved into the plaque-like stone on the wellhead?
“Speak and your wish will be granted,” I said.
I’ve always found it strange that one must speak to the well. Traditionally, one deposits a coin in a wishing well and keeps one’s wish to one’s self, much as one does when making a birthday wish. It’s almost as if the wishing well at Ivy Cottage were listening.
“We’ve been here before,” I said, smiling, “and I’m pretty sure we agreed that wells don’t have ears.”
The well doesn’t need ears to listen, Lori. A microphone would do.
My smile vanished and I phrased my next question carefully. “Are you suggesting that the well could be wired to pick up sound?”
It could be. It would explain why so many wishes have come true.
“Are you accusing Jack of rigging the well?” I asked.
I won’t accuse anyone of anything until after you’ve taken a closer look at the well. If you don’t find a microphone, then we’re back to square one. If you do, then it opens up a number of possibilities.
“One of which might drive a wedge between Bree and Jack,” I said. “I don’t want to be the one who rains on their parade, Dimity.”
It’s a risk you’ll have to take if you wish to know the truth. I assume, of course, that you would like Bree to know the truth as well.
I glanced at the ivy fluttering against the diamond-paned windows over the old oak desk and remembered how much fun it had been to watch Bree warming to Jack as they clipped ivy together. If he’d won her trust unfairly, he didn’t deserve her. And she certainly deserved someone better.
“I’ll do it,” I said, returning my gaze to the journal. “I’ll go to Ivy Cottage tonight, while everyone else is at the party.”
Thank you, Lori. While you’re waiting for darkness to fall, I suggest that you have a nice lie-down. You may not be at death’s door, but you’ve had a busy day and you’ll need your wits about you when you examine the well.
I waited for the handwriting to fade from the page, then closed the journal and attempted to gather my thoughts. It was a pointless exercise because Aunt Dimity was right—I did need a nap. I put the journal back on its shelf, patted Reginald’s head, and went upstairs to stretch out on the bed for a half hour or so.
“Leave it to me, Dimity,” I murmured as my head hit the pillow. “I’ll get to the bottom of the well.”
Twenty-four
I slept until sundown. I probably would have slept until daybreak if Stanley hadn’t jumped onto the bed to demand his supper. I stumbled out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen to fill his bowl, splashed cold water on my face to wake myself up, and nearly jumped out of my skin when the telephone shattered the silence. It was Bill again, calling to make sure I hadn’t concussed myself, imbibed a deadly poison, or lopped off an arm in his absence. He didn’t express such fears explicitly, of course, but I knew what he was thinking.
“How are you doing?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub of a party in full swing.
“I just woke up,” I told him. “I’m still a bit groggy.”
“Go back to sleep,” he shouted. “Emma made up a bed for Will and Rob in the hayloft, so I thought I’d stay on for a bit. Peter’s telling us about the year he and Cassie spent in the western isles of Scotland.”
“Sounds riveting,” I said. “Stay as long as you like.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m positive,” I said. “Stay until midnight. It’s not every day that we have such a grand occasion to celebrate.”
“You’re right about that,” said Bill. “All right, then . . . if you’re sure . . . I’ll see you later, possibly much later.”
“Enjoy yourself,” I said, and put the receiver back into its cradle.
Since I was about to embark on a search for truth, I was glad I hadn’t lied to my husband. I felt a tiny bit guilty for not telling him what I was about to do—I would have felt guiltier if he hadn’t been having such a good time—but I promised myself that I’d tell him the whole story as soon as I knew what the whole story was.