Free Aunt Dimity: Detective by Nancy Atherton

Dimity, or he gets them to reveal themselves.”
    Am I to take it, then, that you feel no unseemly attraction to him?
    â€œNot yet,” I admitted, painfully aware of why Dimity thought it necessary to quiz me about Nicholas Fox. She knew me well enough to know that my track record was less than spotless when it came to remembering my wedding vows. I’d yet to do anything absolutely reprehensible, but there was no getting around the fact that I had what Aunt Dimity called “a wandering eye.”
    I’m glad to hear it. I trust Ruth and Louise’s judgment, so I’d like you to continue making use of Mr. Fox—without making eyes at him.
    I sank lower in the leather armchair, wishing I could resent her insinuations but knowing that I didn’t have a leg to stand on.
    â€œBill will be home on Saturday,” I reminded her.
    Even better. The handwriting ceased briefly before continuing. You mentioned a grave site. I presume you mean Mrs. Hooper’s.
    â€œYes.” I sat up, happy to move on to another subject. “She was buried at Saint George’s. That’s where Nicholas and I spoke with Peggy Taxman.”
    Why was Mrs. Hooper buried in Finch? She has close relatives elsewhere, doesn’t she?
    â€œThere’s a son and a grandson,” I said.
    It seems odd that they would bury Mrs. Hooper in a place where she has no family. If I might suggest another line of inquiry . . . ?
    â€œI’ll see what I can find out,” I promised, and felt nothing but relief when Aunt Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page.
    I wasn’t prepared to answer any more questions about Nicholas Fox because I wasn’t sure how I felt about him. He was smart and funny and genuinely kind, but he was also a bit intimidating. He was almost too good with people, too charming, and when he went into Zen listening mode, he was almost too observant. I didn’t mind his seeing through other people, but I was slightly worried about what he’d see when he saw through me.
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    Sally Pyne had once aspired to transform her modest tearoom into a hokey themed oasis that would draw the tourist trade. Those aspirations had, to everyone’s relief, faded over time, and the tearoom was again its humble self. Finch’s tea-drinkers weren’t fashionable or concerned with setting trends. They asked only for rich pastries, fresh scones, tasty sandwiches, and tea subtly infused with local gossip, in a setting that was homely and familiar.
    Some of the tearoom’s furnishings must have seemed overly familiar to its customers, since its Early Flea Market decor reflected Sally’s passion for local auctions, car boot sales, and charity shops. A dozen mismatched tables were covered with tablecloths of widely varying patterns and set with an ever-changing display of crockery and utensils. The pictures on the walls ranged from sad clowns on velvet to a handful of splendid oils, and the sunburst clock above the cash register had once hung in the palatial dining room of a baronial hall. I loved the cozy, crazy chaos of the place and hoped that Sally would never again be tempted to mute it.
    I pulled up in front of the tearoom just as Nicholas strode into the square from Saint George’s Lane. He’d dressed in the dark brown trousers he’d worn the day we’d met, with a pale yellow cotton shirt beneath his brown tweed blazer. He carried his black trench coat over one arm in recognition of the threat posed by the gray clouds that were building overhead.
    I waited for him at the slate sandwich board that stood outside the tearoom’s front door. Sally jotted the day’s special offerings on the slate, which was frequently washed clean by rain before her customers had a chance to read it.
    â€œThe first wave has departed,” I told Nicholas as he approached. “We should have Sally mostly to ourselves for the next hour.”
    â€œGood,” he said.