Free Aunt Dimity Digs In by Nancy Atherton Page A

and sunny day, without a breath of wind to stir the willows on the green, but the square was—by Finch’s standards—a beehive of activity. Christine and Dick Peacock were hosing down the pub’s windows. Able Farnham, the aged greengrocer, was restocking his outdoor bins. Mr. Barlow, who garaged my cars when I was back in the States, was out walking Buster, his yappy terrier.
    Bill’s bicycle was propped in its customary place among the wysteria, and the paneled van was parked in front of the village school. The schoolhouse doors were firmly shut, however. Katrina and Simon were apparently heeding my advice and keeping a low profile.
    Peggy Kitchen, on the other hand, had decided to make a statement. An array of Union Jacks had sprouted overnight from the front of her shop, and the display window, which usually featured a humble pyramid of baked-bean cans, now trumpeted an urgent call to arms. A hand-lettered sign placed strategically above a portrait of the queen shouted: SHE WANTS YOU TO SIGN THE PETITION! But only a tourist would think that she referred to Elizabeth II.
    “Good grief,” I said, dazzled by the display.
    “Stupid woman,” said Francesca. “Everyone knows the bishop won’t heed her silly petition.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “The bishop’s daft about Roman ruins,” Francesca replied. “Everyone knows that.”
    “Peggy doesn’t,” I pointed out.
    Francesca tossed her head dismissively. “You could fill a barn with what Mrs. Kitchen doesn’t know about Finch.” Her gaze drifted away from Peggy’s declaration of war, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Now there’s something I didn’t know about.”
    I followed her gaze and saw, to my dismay, that the tearoom was closed. The door was shut, the windows were shrouded in bedsheets, and the freestanding slate sandwich-board that served as both sign and daily menu wasn’t teetering in its usual spot on the cobbles.
    “ Tearoom’s closed for renovation,” Mr. Barlow called from across the square.
    Francesca frowned. “Why’s Mrs. Pyne bothering with that? I liked the tearoom as it was.”
    I, too, had been fond of the tearoom’s disarming flea-market decor—the mismatched chairs, the rickety tables, the astonishing variety of chipped china. I wondered what would replace it.
    “No point in it,” Francesca went on sourly. “She only set up shop three years ago. No need for her to be rearranging things now.”
    I blinked. “Sally Pyne’s not from Finch?”
    “Lord no. She came here from Plymouth, to be nearer her son and daughter-in-law.” Francesca glanced at the boys, who were still snoozing in their car seats, lulled by the idling engine. “Back to the cottage?”
    “No . . .” I hated the thought of going home empty-handed. Bill would return from the pub, great with gossip, and I wouldn’t have a crumb to contribute. “I think I’ll stop by the Emporium. Want to come along?”
    “And disturb the bambinos?” Francesca shook her head. “I’d sooner wait for you in the churchyard. See you in”—she checked her watch—“one hour?”
    “I’ll be there.” I waved Francesca off, then squatted to greet Buster, who, unleashed by Mr. Barlow, had raced over to sniff at my sneakers.
    “Mornin’, Lori.” Mr. Barlow coiled Buster’s leash around his hand as he approached. “Nothing wrong with the Mini, I hope.”
    Mr. Barlow was a retired mechanic who’d come to regard my Mini as a dependable pension supplement. He never failed to ask after its health.
    “The Mini’s fine,” I assured him. I picked up the rubber ball Buster had dropped at my feet and nodded toward the pub. “The Peacocks are industrious this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them hosing down the pub before.”
    “They’re not just cleaning it,” Mr. Barlow informed me. “ They’re renaming it and putting up a new sign.”
    “Foolish nonsense.” Old Mr. Farnham had joined us, teetering precariously across the cobbles from his