Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

“Miss Sciaparelli wouldn’t by any chance be related to Mrs. Kitchen, would she?” he inquired politely.

“ They can’t stand the sight of each other,” I replied.

Adrian slung his rucksack onto the ground and sank onto the bench. “Did I somehow offend Miss Sciaparelli? Or is she always so . . . formal with strangers?”

His choice of words hinted at a gallant nature. I’d have described Francesca’s behavior as downright rude.

“She may be tired,” I said. “She’s been stuck here for an hour with my twins. Francesca’s been helping me look after them.”

“I’m amazed to hear that you require her assistance,” Adrian said. His wide mouth turned upward in a smile. “Simon and Katrina led me to believe that you’re inde fatiguable. They’ve come to regard you as our guardian angel.”

“That’s because they’re laboring under a grave misapprehension,” I informed him.

Adrian’s high forehead wrinkled. “It was you who chased Mrs. Kitchen from our door yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I acknowledged.

“And Mrs. Kitchen was affability itself when I stopped by the Emporium yesterday evening. I thought you were responsible for her change of heart. Naturally, when she suggested that I sign—”

“What did you sign?” I interrupted.

“Her list of creditors. At least, that’s what she—” Adrian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he studied the expression on my face. “What have I done? Signed a confession to some unspeakable crime?”

I patted his arm. “Let’s just say that, if I were you, I’d think twice about signing anything Peggy Kitchen put in front of me. This time it was only a petition calling for the bishop to evict you from the schoolhouse, but next time—”

Adrian’s bark of laughter made Rob jump. “I should have known!” he exclaimed, slapping the digger hat against his thigh. “ That woman is a national treasure. She’ll be prime minister before she’s through.” He shook his head ruefully. “I shan’t hear the end of it from the bishop.”

“You know him?” I said.

“He and I share a common interest in antiquities.” Adrian cocked his head to one side. “Do you know, someone else asked me about the bishop today—a chap I met at the pub. Bill Willis, his name was. Some sort of expat Yank barrister. Do you know him?”

“He’s my husband,” I said, but Adrian’s attention had wandered. He leapt to his feet as Francesca returned, and stood, cap in hand, to offer her his seat. She passed him by without a second glance.

“Time Rainey was off home,” she said as the little girl came trailing up behind her. “Shall I give her a lift?”

Adrian immediately volunteered to walk with Rainey. “I should be getting back in any case. My assistant’s brought rather more equipment than we need, and I’ve had the devil’s own time sorting the essentials from the extraneous.”

“Really?” I said. “I was under the impression that you’d hoped to extend your stay in Finch.”

Adrian risked a furtive glance at Francesca’s face. “One may hope, of course, but in fact it’s far too early to make long-range plans. I thought I’d explained that to Katrina and Simon, but I must not have made myself clear.” He bent to pick up his rucksack. “They brought enough gear to see us through until spring.”

Adrian slipped the rucksack onto one shoulder and extended his hand. “It’s been a great pleasure to finally meet you, Lori. You must come to Scrag End for a tour. And you, Miss Sciaparelli, if you’re not too busy—”

“I’ve no time for tours,” Francesca snapped, ignoring his proffered hand.

“Why are you cross with Dr. Culver, Francesca?” Rainey asked. “Gran says he’s going to make Finch famous.”

“Will he, now?” Francesca said witheringly.

Adrian opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail him. He stood there, love-stunned and mute, turning and twisting his hat in his hands, trying not to stare at Francesca’s sumptuous curves and failing miserably.

Rainey tugged on his shirt. “ I’m not cross with you, Dr. Culver,” she said consolingly. “And Gran thinks the world of you.”

“ Thank you, Rainey,” said Adrian. “Perhaps I’ll take your grandmother up on her kind invitation this evening.” He bowed graciously, first to me, then to Francesca. “Do stop by the dig, Lori. And don’t hesitate to bring your sons. I’m extremely fond of children. Good day, ladies.”

I smiled as he strode off. I knew full well that his eagerness to play host to my sons had less to do with his affinity for children than with his affinity for my nanny. I couldn’t blame him. He was enamored of antiquities, after all, and Francesca was a dead ringer for Venus.

It didn’t take a psych degree to figure out what had happened to Dr. Culver—I could hear Cupid chortling as he restrung his bow—but Francesca’s harsh reaction seemed inexplicable. I didn’t believe for a minute that Will or Rob had worn her out. She hadn’t been peevish with me or Rainey. Her surliness had been directed like a laser beam at Adrian Culver, and I was itching to find out why.

“We’d best be off, too,” she remarked. “ Time I was getting supper ready. Poached salmon suit you?”

“Sounds great.” I said nothing more until we were seated in the Mercedes and ready to go. Then I commented casually, “Adrian seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a puffed-up popinjay,” Francesca snapped. “What’s more, he’s a liar.” She started the engine and began turning the car around.

Her vehemence startled me. “What makes you say that?”

“Promised the vicar he’d be in and out, no trouble,” Francesca replied. “Forgot to mention his plans to build his own museum, here, in Finch. Calling it after himself, too. The Culver Institute.”

My eyebrows rose. “Who told you about the museum?”

“Mrs. Pyne found a stack of letters when she was tidying Katrina’s room,” Francesca said.

“Sally Pyne read Katrina Graham’s private mail?” I exclaimed, appalled.

“They were right next to her computer,” Francesca declared, “where anyone could see ’em. And they were all about raising money for the Culver Institute.” She tossed her head. “ That’s why Sally Pyne’s tarting up the tearoom and the Peacocks are cleaning up the pub. They think the Culver Institute’ll be good for Finch.”

“Won’t it?” I asked.

“We don’t need any more outsiders coming in here,” Francesca stated firmly. “There’s enough of them running round the village as it is.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said.

Francesca blushed. “I don’t mean you or the Buntings or such. Your kind don’t interfere. But Dr. Culver’ll interfere, right enough. He’ll be as bad as Mrs. Kitchen. Besides,” she continued, “I don’t hold with putting dead folks’ belongings in museums. It’s not right.”

“Didn’t your medallion come from a museum?” I asked.

“It did not,” she declared. “My father made the phalera with his own two hands. He’d never go poking and prying into dead folks’ things. Which is more than can be said for a puffed-up popinjay like Dr. Culver.”

Francesca’s burst of fury abated as she guided the car toward the square. “Bill rang,” she said, making conversation. “Said he and Derek Harris’d have supper at the pub tonight.”

I felt a stab of disappointment. I’d been looking forward to swapping gossip with my husband, and Francesca’s late addition was pure gold. If Adrian Culver really was planning to build a museum in Finch, Sally Pyne would have two extremely good reasons to steal the Gladwell pamphlet. An antiquities museum would help her business and at the same time serve as a perpetual irritant to her old foe, Peggy Kitchen.