Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. Sally Pyne wasn’t the only one who’d benefit from having a museum in Finch. Christine Peacock’s pub would prosper. Katrina Graham would have a proper laboratory in which to conduct the experiments she’d cata loged to Simon in Peggy’s shop. And no self-respecting archaeologist would throw away a chance to name a museum after himself. If Adrian, Katrina, or Christine had gotten wind of the Gladwell pamphlet on Sunday night, they’d each have a good reason to make sure it never saw the light of day.

As the Mercedes rumbled through the square, I gazed at Bill’s bicycle and sighed. I couldn’t fault my husband for following my instructions, but I hoped he wouldn’t dawdle at the pub. I was champing at the bit to hear what Adrian had told him about the bishop—and to share with him my burgeoning suspicions.

Dinner had been marvelous: chilled cucumber soup, poached salmon with salad, and homemade lemon sorbet for dessert. I felt a pang of pity for Bill, who’d missed out on the feast, glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, and folded my hands to keep myself from fidgeting.

After supper, I’d taken the boys for a walk, bathed them, and put them to bed. I’d spent an hour or so in the kitchen with Francesca, discussing her terms of employment, a discussion that had consisted mostly of Francesca calmly stating her requirements and me saying okay.

Having dispensed with my duties as chatelaine, I’d stretched out on the couch in the living room to record the day’s events in Lilian Bunting’s red notebook. I wanted to be armed and ready when Bill came through the door.

Francesca sat in the chintz-covered armchair, hemming a skirt. When she glanced up, I nodded and smiled and silently ordered myself not to worry. Bill hadn’t told me when to expect him back from the pub, so he wasn’t late, exactly. His bicycle was equipped with lights and bristling with reflectors, so he’d be safe on the road after dark. There was no cause to—

A car’s headlights illuminated the bay window and I leapt to my feet. Francesca gave me an odd look as I dashed into the hallway, but I was past caring. It was too late in the evening for casual callers, but policemen bearing bad news—and mangled bicycles—might turn up at any time. Dreading dire revelations, I opened the front door and nearly fainted with relief when I saw Adrian Culver striding up the flagstone path.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said, “but I didn’t want you to lose sleep over Reginald.”

“Reginald?” I said stupidly.

He held my rabbit out for me to see. “Rainey pleads guilty to rabbit-napping. She asked me to return him to you. Unfortunately, I was detained—first by Mrs. Pyne, then by Mrs. Bunting, and finally, by Mrs. Kitchen.”

For a moment I forgot my own distress. “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer,” I said, taking custody of my pink bunny. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“It’s awfully late,” he said, hanging back.

“Don’t be silly,” I told him. “Francesca’s just brewed a fresh—” I broke off as understanding belatedly dawned. It would have dawned much sooner had I bothered to take note of Adrian’s appearance. He’d left his crumpled hat and rucksack at the schoolhouse and replaced his work-clothes with a pair of gray dress slacks, polished shoes, and an immaculate, though silently rumpled white shirt. If Reginald had been a wrist corsage, I’d have sworn it was prom night.

“Come in,” I said unsteadily. I put Reg on the hall table and ushered Adrian into the living room. “Francesca, look who’s here.”

“Evening, Dr. Culver.” Francesca picked up her sewing basket and got to her feet. “It’s late. I think I’ll go up.”

Adrian wilted visibly as Francesca strode past us, but perked up again when she stopped short.

“You’ve a button missing,” she said to him. She made it sound like an accusation.

“Have I?” Adrian peered down at his shirt, dismayed.

Francesca was not the sort of woman who could let an empty buttonhole stay empty. She heaved an exasperated sigh and began to rummage through her sewing basket. She retrieved a threaded needle and a white button, then turned to Adrian. The reproachful look she gave him was exactly what she’d use on Rob or Will in the future, if they ever returned home from the playground without their sneakers. “Hold still,” she ordered.

I’m convinced that Adrian Culver held his breath, though his heart must have been thundering. With a twist of her wrist, Francesca slipped the fingers of her left hand inside his shirt to hold the button in place while her right hand plied the needle back and forth. Her movements were brisk and businesslike, but her head was bent low, her coil of dark hair mere inches from Adrian’s lips.

Adrian peered down at her woozily. “I can’t help but admire your . . . medallion,” he said. “It’s a miniature phalera, isn’t it?”

“Never mind about my phalera. ” Francesca snipped the thread short. “You just keep track of your buttons.”

“ Th-thank you, Miss Sciaparelli.” Adrian fumbled with his shirtfront as she gathered up her basket and stalked out of the room.

I waited for the fumes of unrequited passion to dissipate, then gently guided Adrian to the couch. I poured a cup of tea and wrapped his hands around it, but the warmth failed to recall him from the land of the lovesick. He was, in my judgment, ripe for interrogation.

“It was kind of you to return Reg to me this evening,” I began, “especially when you have so much else on your mind—organizing the schoolhouse, excavating Scrag End field, planning your museum . . .”

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding vaguely. “ There’s quite a lot to do, but—” He straightened abruptly. “Museum? What museum?”

“The Culver Institute,” I said helpfully.

“ The . . . the Culver Institute? ” Incomprehension gave way to sudden laughter. “Oh, dear,” he said, placing his teacup on the end table, “how flattering. I presume you’ve been speaking with Rainey’s grandmother.”

“Indirectly,” I said. “She seems to have gotten the impression that you’re planning to build a museum in Finch.”

“I may have mentioned it in passing,” Adrian admitted candidly, “as a very long-range, very remote possibility—a dream, if you like. As I told you this afternoon, however, it’s far too soon to plan anything of that magnitude. We’ve scarcely begun to explore Scrag End. Apart from that, I’d never name a museum after—” He broke off as another set of headlights flared across the bow windows. “Is that a car?”

I was already halfway to the door. I flung it open just in time to see Derek Harris, all six foot four of him, trying to keep my husband from toppling into the lilac bushes.

“Evening, Lori,” Derek called, leaning Bill against the door of his pickup truck.

Bill’s head rose slowly from his chest. He smiled sweetly. “ ’Lo, love,” he said.

“What on earth—” I began.

“ Think we’d best get him inside,” Derek suggested.

Adrian Culver stepped past me. “May I be of assistance?”

Bill favored Adrian with a toothy grin. “ ’Lo, love,” he repeated.

I stood aside as Derek and Adrian maneuvered my husband into the hallway, where they propped him against the wall. He seemed content to lean there, humming quietly to himself.

Adrian’s gray eyes had filled with compassion, and I suddenly remembered that he hadn’t been paying attention when I’d told him that the “expat Yank barrister” he’d met in the pub was my husband.

“I’ll be off,” Adrian said.

I shook my head. “No, wait, I can explain—”