PRU: Mrs. Spencer, that portrait was there. I saw it with my own two eyes! Why can’t you admit it? What’s holding you back?
GD: Boldini painted me, it is true. And he sketched me many times besides, the renditions of which I’m happy to provide. But the portrait was never in my home. My former husband kept it, if I recall.
WS: He’s been dead, quite a while now.
GD: Probably incinerated the thing. He hated Boldini. Called him a pig. To his face and behind his back. Boldini had a salacious reputation with women and my former husband worried he’d make me look like a tart.
PRU: Mrs. Spencer, I don’t understand. The portrait was there. We both saw it.
GD: I don’t know what you think you saw but it wasn’t me. And so what if I did remove it? Why is it any concern of yours? There are things about me you don’t know. Things not even a would-be biographer can weasel out of me with his incessant quizzing. Though, I am sure, that won’t stop him from trying.
Fifty-two
WS: Two bobbies showed up at the door today while you were out on a very rare afternoon constitutional. Would you know anything about this?
GD: How could I?
WS: Mrs. Spencer, I noticed the front of your car is demolished.
GD: Yes. A goat ran into the fender while my car was parked in the yard.
WS: Must’ve been some goat. Unfortunately the coppers offered an alternate explanation.
GD: I’ll bet.
WS: Frideswide’s Dress Shop reported that a certain black car smashed into its front window display earlier today. Were there goats in town too?
GD: There might as well have been!
WS: Mrs. Spencer …
GD: Fine! I did it! All right? I busted through her window. And I don’t regret it.
PRU: But you could’ve injured someone. That plus the “small fire” you set the other night …
GD: Oh please. Frideswide’s was closed. No harm, no foul.
WS: The insurance broker believes it some foul.
GD: I didn’t want Frideswide infecting this town.
WS: Infecting? Is the sweet clothier ill?
GD: In the brain maybe! Do you know what she had on display in that picture window of hers? Polyester! Polyester trousers! FOR WOMEN. It had to be done, Seton. It positively needed to happen, lest this town fall victim to horrible taste.
Fifty-three
THE BANBURY INN
BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 2001
“I’m glad I tracked you down.”
Nicola waddled out from her office and to the breakfast table where Annie was piling minicroissants onto her plate.
“Track me down?” Annie scooped up three pieces of cantaloupe. “I’m staying right upstairs.”
“Yes, but you seem to flit and flitter all over the place,” Nicola said, dancing her hands in demonstration. A passerby ducked to avoid getting socked in the face. “Like a hummingbird.”
“I’m generally not one for flitting.”
“Further, your mum said you were leaving for the States the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t risk not seeing you.”
“Excuse me?” Annie said, the plate at once too heavy for her hand. “Leaving? She told you we’re leaving? In two days?”
But what about the sightseeing? The promised trips to London and to Blenheim? Not to mention all of the things remaining in Banbury, the pieces of Win’s puzzle—and of Laurel’s—Annie still had to connect. Laurel said that she was “done” but never mentioned how fast she wanted to get out of town.
“That’s what she told me,” Nicola said in a clipped tone. “You rushed out of here so briskly on my bike I didn’t have the chance to tell you.”
“Nicola.” Annie winced. “I’m sorry. I assumed it was fine.”
“S’okay.”
Nicola went back to her desk and disappeared beneath it. She remained submerged for so long Annie worried she might’ve capsized.
“Nicola?” She stretched across the top of the counter. “You still down there?”
“Ope! Here it is!” Nicola popped back up, face reddened and eyes slightly crossed. “Whoa, nelly.” She shook her head. “Someone left this for you.”
She passed Annie a manila envelope.
“Someone?”
“That older gentleman from the other day? The one with the brother?”
“Oh right.” Annie took the envelope. “Gus.”
“Is that his name? Well, no matter. His brother is the important one.” She wiggled her brows. “That man, easy on the eyes. I’ve had a crush on him for donkey’s years.”
“You know Gus’s family?” Annie asked. “How well?”
It was worth a shot. Maybe if Nicola knew Gus and his brother, she’d have a string to tie some corner of the story together. Gus insisted he wasn’t involved in the tale, that he was an outsider, on the periphery. But outside was still a place. It was part of something too.
“I didn’t know him particularly well,” Nicola said and pulled at her blouse. “He’s much older. But I had a wicked crush on him as a girl. Anyhoo, off I go. I’m leading a band of tourists to Blenheim Castle for the day. Are you familiar?”