Free Aunt Dimity Digs In by Nancy Atherton Page B

greengrocer’s shop. “Pub doesn’t need a sign. Everyone knows it’s Peacock’s pub.”
    “It’s that wife of Dick’s,” Mr. Barlow explained. “She’s full of queer ideas.” He leaned toward me. “She reads science fiction, you know.”
    “ There’s nothing wrong with reading science fiction,” I protested.
    “Not when you know it’s fiction,” retorted Mr. Barlow. “Christine Peacock thinks it’s all true!”
    “Too bad that son of hers joined the army instead of the space program,” said Mr. Farnham. “He could’ve given his mum a lift in his rocket ship.”
    I smiled thinly at the mean-spirited little joke, then tossed Buster’s rubber ball in the direction of the tearoom. “What do you suppose Sally Pyne is up to?”
    “ Turning the tearoom into a juice bar, probably,” said Mr. Farnham. “You know Sally—always trying to lose weight. Fat lot of good it’s ever done her.”
    “I heard she’s doing it up Roman,” said Mr. Barlow, “on account of that chap at Scrag End field. Sally thinks his dig’ll pull in tourists.”
    “Delusions of grandeur,” Mr. Farnham scoffed. “There’s never been tourists in Finch and there’ll never be tourists in Finch.”
    Mr. Barlow nodded his agreement. “Folks may come here to live, but they don’t come just for visits.”
    I turned to Mr. Barlow. “Did you move here from somewhere else?”
    He nodded again. “Came from Bristol, same as Jasper Taxman. Why do you ask?”
    “I was just wondering.” I was wondering if anyone had been born and raised in Finch. The Buntings were from London, Sally Pyne was from Plymouth, Mr. Barlow and Mr. Taxman were from Bristol. Even Peggy Kitchen, the empress herself, had moved to Finch from Birmingham.
    Mr. Barlow eyed the tearoom reflectively. “It may be that Sally’s just trying to get up Peg Kitchen’s nose. Never been the best of friends, those two. Ancient history, of course, but they do say history has a way of catching us up.”
    I glanced down at Buster, who’d returned, rubber ball clamped securely between his jaws. “Did Sally and Peggy know each other before they came to Finch?”
    “No.” Mr. Barlow shook his head decisively. “Their quarrel started right here. No telling where it’ll end.” He squinted over his shoulder at Kitchen’s Emporium. “Planning to sign the petition?”
    I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve heard that the bishop’s not likely to pay attention to it.”
    “Bishop doesn’t run the shop, does he?” said Mr. Farnham. “If Her Majesty wants us to sign the petition, I reckon we’d best sign the petition, eh, Mr. Barlow?”
    Mr. Barlow nodded sagely, then bent to snap the leash on Buster’s collar.
    “I’d better sign it, then,” I said, “before Her Majesty comes gunning for me. Here, Mr. Farnham, let me walk with you.”
    I took Mr. Farnham by the arm and steered him back to his shop. Finch’s greengrocer was in his seventies and painfully thin—if he stumbled on the cobbles, he’d shatter. The day’s warmth inspired me to buy a bag of lemons at his shop, for lemonade, before heading for Kitchen’s Emporium.
    Peggy’s shop sat unobtrusively in the center of the row of buildings that made up the west side of the square. Apart from the display in the window, it looked very much like its neighbors: a two-story building of Cotswolds stone, with a gabled roof and dormer windows above, a white-painted door, and a large white-framed window below.
    The interior of Kitchen’s Emporium featured a long wooden counter running from front to back, with an ancient cash register at the end nearest the entrance. A grilled window at the far end denoted the post office. Rows of shelves and racks opposite the counter held the usual assortment of groceries.
    Behind a small brown door at the rear of the shop, however, lay a realm so vast and wondrous that Bill had dubbed it Xanadu. Few travelers had roamed its byways and lived to tell the tale, but Peggy seemed to