Free The Final Crumpet by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey Page B

Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is open for business.”
    A vigorous rapping on his doorframe seized his attention.
    He turned, and Flick smiled at him. “We have to talk,” she said brightly. “I wanted to clarify what you heard me say, and I think we should issue a follow-up statement to the media.”
    Nigel grunted and gestured toward the sofa. At least Flick realized that she overstepped her authority—a good job, too, because he wasn’t in the mood for a fight this afternoon. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I suppose the thing to do is to notify the BBC that we want to correct our response to their questions.”
    A puzzled look flickered across Flick’s face. “My notion exactly, but I don’t recall that the BBC sent a reporter to our news conference. We clearly made a mistake when we rejected the idea of an Etienne Makepeace exhibit. I think we should send out a supplemental news release correcting what you said.”
    “You think what?” Nigel rose halfway out of his chair. “Have you lost your blooming mind? We have to correct what you told the BBC reporter.” As soon as the words were spoken, he regretted shouting at Flick. Nonetheless, he matched glower for glower as she glared at him.
    “You’re surely not sticking with the silly statement you made this morning?” she said. “Don’t you realize you were completely wrong? Etienne Makepeace, his disappearance, and his reappearance are all important aspects of the history of tea in England. Of course the man deserves an exhibit. If we reject Makepeace, we might as well ignore Thomas Lipton…or Desmond Hawker.”
    Nigel settled back into his chair with a clank. “You’ve changed your tune rather quickly, don’t you think? What happened to I -can’t-imagine-why-we’d-want-an-exhibit about the man?”
    “Your feeble attempt at imitating an American accent stinks.”
    “High praise, indeed!”
    “However, to answer your question—I realize that we both shot from the hip at the news conference. I am wise enough to admit that I blundered.”
    Nigel shook his head. “A Makepeace exhibit is an abysmal idea. The board won’t approve it, and neither will I.”
    Nigel noted that Flick’s eyes were shining brightly as she said, “Spoken like a true pompous prig! However, as Stuart attempted to remind you, I have the charter to create a new exhibit when I decide what is appropriate.”
    “I admit that you are nominally in charge. In theory, the chief curator plans new exhibits.” Nigel fluttered his fingers at her. “I give you permission to dream up new exhibits to your heart’s content. Keep in mind, however, that I have control of the museum’s checkbook. You can’t move beyond planning unless I give you the money to spend, and I will never—repeat, never—agree to fund an exhibit about Etienne Makepeace.”
    Nigel saw Flick’s complexion redden as he spoke. Too bloody bad if she’s angry; I’m getting angry, too.
    She leveled a wagging finger at him. “You don’t have the authority to censor my exhibits.”
    “I have complete authority to act for the good of the museum.” He lifted his yellow pad. “Here are the reasons we shan’t be establishing a shrine to Etienne Makepeace.”
    Flick grabbed the pad from his hand and scanned the list.
    “Your first objection is nonsense,” she said. “Reporters are interested in Makepeace, not in the everyday operations of this museum. We’ve gone out of our way to bring them to the museum and ride the corpse’s coattails. We’ll benefit from any publicity we get.
    “Your second objection is equally goofy. The murder took place about forty years ago—it’s ancient history. There’s no way that an old killing will impact our current financial dealings. But…” —Flick added a dramatic pause—“a new exhibit might well improve our finances by attracting more visitors. With luck, we’ll be able to payoff our thirty-two-million-pound debt in fewer than ten years.
    “Your third