Nancy Atherton: Aunt Dimity's Death

“Oh, my,” I gasped at last, “this is incredible. Did you build it yourself?”

“The only thing I did was install a telephone. The rest”—he let his gaze wander across the glittering dome—“was Great-great-uncle Arthur’s idea.”

“Great-great-uncle Arthur?”

“Yes, well, every family has one eventually, and we had Arthur.” Bill handed me the lantern, rummaged in a cupboard, and came up with a chamois cloth. As he spoke, he ran it across the smooth surface of the telescope. “He’d be considered eccentric in England, but here he was thought to be just plain nuts. He gave the family fits spending all that hard-earned cash on stargazing, but I, for one, am grateful to the old loon. Granted, it’s not much good as an observatory now. Too many buildings, too much light from the city. But when he built it, the mansion was the tallest building around and the lights were fewer and farther between. Like this.” He nodded at the oil lamp. “A softer light for a softer time.

“This is my bolt-hole,” he continued. “I discovered it when I was a boy, and I’ve come here ever since, whenever I’ve needed to be by myself. Just me and the stars. And now, you.”

There it was again, the warmth in his voice, and again it made me uneasy. “Thanks for showing it to me,” I said, then tried to fill the uncomfortable silence by adding, “It’s more than I deserve, really, after getting you in trouble with your father.”

“After what?”

“What he said last night, about giving me a meal when I showed up. You did try, and I should have told him so.”

“Oh, that.” He folded the chamois cloth and returned it to the cupboard. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I mean it—I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s okay.”

“But it’s not okay. I should have—”

“I understand, but there’s no need—”

“Bill!” Did he think he had a monopoly on good manners? Here he was, showing me all of these lovely things, and he wouldn’t even let me do something as commonplace as apologize for rude behavior. “If I want to say I’m sorry, I’ll say I’m sorry, okay? I don’t see why you won’t—”

“Accepted,” he said.

“What?”

“I accept your apology.”

“Well… all right, then,” I muttered, the wind leaking slowly from my sails.

“Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s go back to your rooms. There’s one more thing I’d like to show you.” He took the lantern from me, extinguished it, and opened the door.

* * *

I had hoped to see more of the mansion on the way back, so I was disappointed when we returned to the guest suite via the same route. Bill must have sensed it, because as we approached my door he said, “I’ll give you a tour later, if you like. It’s a wonderful place. You’ve seen some of the older parts, but we have an entire wing that would put IBM to shame. One of the reasons we’ve been so successful is that we’re willing to take the best of both worlds: the gentility of the old and the efficiency of the new. Ah, good, they’ve arrived.”

This last remark came as he opened the parlor door and I saw right away what had prompted it. During our absence, a vase had been placed on the coffee table, a slender crystal vase filled with deep blue irises. I gave a gasp of pleasure when I saw them.

“You like them?” Bill asked. “I hoped you might. I saw you looking at the ones downstairs and I thought—”

“They’re my favorites. But how do you manage to find irises at this time of year? Isn’t it a little early?”

“Where there’s a Willis—” he began, but my groan cut him off. “The hothouse,” he continued. “It’s in the back. I’ll be sure to include it in the tour.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the one door in the suite I had yet to open. “Been in there yet?” When I shook my head, he frowned. “But that’s the whole reason I put you in here! Come on.” He opened the door, turned on a light, and stood aside as I entered a library as small and perfect as Great-great-uncle Arthur’s observatory, though executed in a rather more sedate style.

“The big library is downstairs,” Bill said. “This is Father’s private stash.”

I scanned the shelves, speechless. The collection was everything a collection should be. My old boss, Stan Finderman, would have approved wholeheartedly, and so did I. It wasn’t full of showpieces. It was full of love and careful thought. The books were all related to polar exploration—Franklin’s A Journey to the Shores of the Polar Sea, Ross’ A Voyage of Discovery, and many others—some worth a small fortune, all priceless to the person who read and cherished them.

“And now for the grand finale,” Bill said. He put a finger to his lips and tiptoed stealthily to a wall space between two of the bookcases. Pushing his sleeves up with a flourish, like some mad magician, he applied pressure to two places on the wall and, presto-chango, it swung open to reveal a staircase leading down.

“A mansion wouldn’t be a mansion without a few secret passages, now, would it?” he said with a grin. “This one leads down to the changing room in Father’s office. For all intents and purposes, you have your own private connection to all the comforts therein. You can lock the changing room door from the inside and use it anytime you like. But please—don’t forget to unlock it when you’re done.”

“Wait a minute,” I said as he closed the door in the wall. An appalling thought had just occurred to me. “If this is your father’s collection, and if that staircase leads down to his office, then… Oh, Bill, this isn’t his suite, is it? He didn’t clear out to make room for me, did he?”

“Not at all. Father would have been happy to make way for you, but as it happens, he didn’t. This used to be his suite—he used to live above the shop, so to speak—but he’s on the ground floor now. We simply haven’t gotten around to moving the books yet.” Bill’s gaze swept over the shelves. “It’s ironic. All these stories about conquering the wilderness, and he’s not allowed to climb the stairs in his own home.”

“Not allowed?”

He glanced at me, then looked back to the books. “His heart,” he said shortly. “Started acting up last spring. Hasn’t been anything serious so far, but… I can’t help worrying. My mother died when I was twelve, and aside from some desiccated aunts, it’s been just the two of us ever since.” He reached out to touch one of the books. “It’s strange, isn’t it? No one ever tells you that one day you’ll worry about your parents the way they always worried about you.”

I averted my eyes as my heart twisted inside of me. The fact was that I had never worried about my mother. She’d never been sick a day in her life. The only time she had ever been in a hospital had been to give birth to me. But Bill’s words reminded me that I should have shown more concern for her, that I had failed her in that as I had failed her in so many other ways.

“But enough doom and gloom.” Bill turned his back on the books. “As I said, there’s no need to worry, not really. There’s no reason Father shouldn’t live to be a hundred, as long as he takes care of himself.”

“You make sure he does,” I said. “Because once he’s gone…” I fell silent, hoping Bill hadn’t noticed the tremor in my voice.

“Lori,” he said. He touched my arm and I pulled away from him. I didn’t need or want his sympathy, and I was annoyed with myself for provoking it.

“Breakfast is at nine,” he said, after a pause. “The small dining room, downstairs, left, left, third door on the right. And Father would like to see you at ten. In his office.” He walked to the door of the library, then turned. “And by the way—you’re not my client. You’re his.”