“But where can they be?”
“Still bailing out the vicarage is my guess. The storm hasn’t let up.” Bill patted the space next to him on the wooden chest. “Come here and sit down. The Harrises will call when they call, and not one minute sooner. You can’t help Dimity by running in circles.” He waited until I was seated, then went on. “We have no idea where the missing photo album might be. For all we know, Dimity might have burned it.”
“A depressing possibility,” I conceded.
“On the other hand, she may have kept it somewhere else—a bank vault, a safe-deposit box—somewhere special. Maybe it got mixed up with the rest of her papers. I’m sure that Father would be—”
“Your father!” I clapped my hand to my mouth. “Oh, my gosh, Bill. I was talking with him when I saw Reginald. I slammed the phone down on him. He must be worried sick.” I rose halfway to my feet, then sat down again. “But he’ll want to know why I hung up on him. What am I going to say?”
“That’s easy,” said Bill. “Tell him that you were distracted by another one of my stunningly clever stunts.”
I shook my head. “No way. When I told him you were haunting the cottage, he threatened to recall you and fly over himself.”
“I hope you talked him out of it,” Bill said quickly.
“I did, but I don’t want to risk stirring him up again.”
“Definitely not. Tell him… tell him that you were distracted by one of my stunts, but that you’ve had it out with me. You’ve taught me the error of my ways and I’ve promised never, ever to do anything so childish again.” He looked at me brightly. “How’s that?”
“Will he believe it?”
“It’s what he wants to hear.”
“That always helps.” I went over to dial the number on the bedside phone and Bill stood beside me, listening in. Willis, Sr., answered on the first ring.
“Ah, Miss Shepherd,” he said. “So good of you to call back. I was beginning to become concerned. Was there an emergency of some sort?”
“No, no, Mr. Willis,” I replied airily, “no emergency. Just another one of Bill’s silly jokes. The last one, as a matter of fact. I’ve given him a… a stern lecture and he’s promised to behave himself from now on.” Bill signaled that I was doing fine, but I felt sure Willis, Sr., would hear the deception and guilt in my voice.
But he began to chuckle. “Well, well, Miss Shepherd, if my son has stubbed his toe on your temper, I’ve no doubt he’ll watch his step in future.”
I put my hand over the receiver and whispered, “Is he saying I’m bad-tempered?” but Bill waved the question away and hurried to the foot of the bed to point at the wooden chest. He mouthed the word “Photos.”
“Uh, Mr. Willis?” I continued. “While I have you on the line, do you think you could answer a couple of questions for me?”
“I am at your service, Miss Shepherd.”
“It’s just that I found some old photo albums here in the cottage and one seems to be missing. I was wondering what could have happened to it. Did you come across anything like that when you were going through Dimity’s papers? It’s an old album, from around 1939….” I listened to Willis, Sr.’s reply, said a polite goodbye, and hung up.
“Well?” said Bill.
“He doesn’t think so. He’ll check, though, and get back to me.”
Bill nodded, but his mind was somewhere else. “Let’s go back to the study,” he said. “It just occurred to me that the answers we’re looking for might be right under our noses.”
I trailed after him. “If you’re thinking of the correspondence, Bill, you’re way off base. My mother had her antennae out. If Dimity had dropped the slightest hint, she would have told me.”
Bill entered the study and approached the shelves. “True, but what if Dimity didn’t mail all the letters she wrote to your mother? What if she couldn’t bring herself to send some of them?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Scanning the crowded shelves, I felt a flicker of hope. If Bill and I worked together, we could read through the letters in a matter of hours. If there were any clues to be found—to Dimity’s past, or to the origins of the stories—we would find them. With Bill’s help, I might be able to keep everyone happy. Still, I hesitated.
“Bill,” I pressed, “have you thought this through? Looking for answers to my mother’s questions could take a lot of time, more time than I have. I may not be able to write Dimity’s introduction. Bill…” I tugged on his sleeve and he looked down at me. “Your father has gone to a lot of trouble to see to it that Dimity’s wishes are obeyed. Won’t he be furious with you for helping me disobey them?”
“He’d be dismayed, certainly. But I’m not helping you.”
“You’re not?” I blinked up at him, confused.
“No.” He reached for the first box of letters. “I’m helping Dimity.”
15