âbut Iâll be utterly amazed if they donât pick one as soon as they get back.â I paused to munch on a foot Bess had kicked free from her blanket, then covered her up again and continued, âWhy would Peggy Taxman spread nasty rumors about Rose Cottage?â
âBecause sheâs greedy,â he replied. âEnough is never enough for Peggy. She always wants more. Sheâs already got the Emporium and the greengrocerâs shop, and she tried to snatch the tearoom from Sally Cook last year. She must be licking her chops over Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage. I reckon sheâd rent them out as holiday homes for part-timers. You know, weekenders and such, like that woman who had Pussywillows before Amelia Thistle.â He clucked his tongue in disgust. âGlad to see the back of that woman. Slept here, thatâs all she did. Didnât even come to the church fête.â
âIf Peggy wants to buy the cottages,â I said, bypassing the conversational detour, âwhy hasnât she gone ahead and bought them? Why would she waste time inventing rumors about them?â
âTo drive the price down, of course,â said Mr. Barlow, as if it were the most obvious conclusion one could draw. âIf she makes the places look bad, sheâll scare away the competition and Marigold Edwards will have to lower the prices.â
Bess was absorbed in a second attempt to free her foot, so I switched three-quarters of my attention to Mr. Barlow. I had a feeling that I was about to strike gold again.
âWho is Marigold Edwards?â I asked.
âSheâs an estate agent,â said Mr. Barlow. â
The
estate agent, really. Marigold married into the business, but her husbandâs agency, the Edwards Estate Agency, has handled property in Finch for as long as I can remember. Old man EdwardsâMarigoldâs father-in-lawâheâs retired now, but he found my house for me, just like Marigold found Pussywillows for Amelia Thistle.â
Since Iâd inherited the cottage from Aunt Dimity, and since the inheritance had been handled by a law firm well versed in English property law, I hadnât had to deal with a real estate agent when Iâd moved to Finch, but I had a vague recollection of seeing one show Pussywillows to Amelia.
âPetite woman?â I said tentatively. âBlond? Well dressed? Not quite as young as sheâd like to be?â
âThatâs Marigold,â said Mr. Barlow, nodding.
âYou wouldnât happen to have her phone number with you, would you?â I asked.
âHave it right here,â said Mr. Barlow, tapping the side of his head, âbut Iâll write it down for you, if you like.â
âPlease,â I said.
Mr. Barlow took a small notebook and a carpenterâs pencil from his shirt pocket, wrote the phone number on one of the notebookâs pages, tore the page out, and handed it to me.
âHer office is in Upper Deeping,â he said. He looked down at his roughened hands, then raised his eyes to look straight into mine as he asked, âYou and Bill arenât thinking of selling your cottage, are you?â
âDefinitely not,â I replied, as I tucked the scrap of paper into the diaper bag. âI asked for Marigoldâs number so I can have it on hand if I run into someone whoâs in the market for a country cottage.â I hesitated, then said, âI donât mean to pry, Mr. Barlow, but . . . why do you know Marigoldâs phone number by heart?â
âI work for the Edwards agency,â he said. âMarigold pays me good money to look after Ivy Cottage and Rose Cottage. I look in on Breeâs house, too, but I donât have to be paid to do that.â
I peered at him curiously. âWhen you say you âlook afterâ the cottages, what do you mean, exactly?â
âI air them, check the roofs and the windows for leaks, keep the
Xara X. Piper;Xanakas Vaughn