Aunt Dimity: Detective Part 16

"That's right," Sally said, fiddling nervously with her pencil. "Mr. Peac.o.c.k's a businessman, same as the rest of us, and if he needs to cut corners to make ends meet, we're not going to turn him in."

"What the inland revenue don't know won't hurt it," George Wetherhead p.r.o.nounced.

d.i.c.k tore his hostile gaze away from Sally and looked at George in confusion. "Inland revenue? What's the inland revenue got to do with it?"

Mr. Wetherhead seemed fl.u.s.tered by the question, so Miranda took over for him.

"Come now, Mr. Peac.o.c.k," she said smoothly. "You're among friends. If you choose to deal in duty-free goods-"

"Smuggled booze," Sally corrected.

"-it's no one's business but yours," Miranda concluded.

Nicholas eased himself into his chair and let the conversation flow unchecked. He'd gotten the ball rolling and seemed content to wait and see where it would stop.

"I'm afraid that's not quite true, Miranda," Lilian was saying. "Tax evasion is a criminal offense, and I, for one, cannot condone it. Breaking the law-"

"We haven't broken any law," d.i.c.k protested. "I've never sold a drop of smuggled liquor."

Peggy's eyes narrowed. "You can lie to the police, d.i.c.k, but don't lie to us."

"I'm not lying," d.i.c.k insisted.

"What's the van man dropping off, then?" Sally demanded. "Easter eggs?"

"Duty-free Easter eggs?" Miranda purred.

"We've all seen him, d.i.c.k," Peggy said sternly, "so you may as well-"

"For heaven's sake, leave d.i.c.k alone!" Christine flung her arm across her husband as if to protect him from the onslaught. "It's sausages, alright? Sausages!"

The inquisition came to a screeching halt as we looked blankly at d.i.c.k's wife.

"Pardon?" said Lilian.

"It's sausages," Christine repeated sullenly. She dropped her arm, stared down at her notepad, and colored to her roots. "Everyone thinks I make my own, but the sight of blood makes me dizzy, so I buy them from a pig farmer near Eve-sham. d.i.c.k arranged to have them delivered on the sly so no one would know they're not homemade."

A deflated silence followed Christine's revelation.

"Not an old family recipe?" Sally inquired.

"No," Christine admitted, shamefaced. "Not from my family, at any rate."

"They're awfully good sausages," I offered.

"I wouldn't use 'em if they weren't," Christine snapped. "I do have standards, you know."

"A pity they don't include telling the truth," Miranda said under her breath, but the circle was too small to allow any comment to go unremarked.

d.i.c.k's chair creaked alarmingly as he sat bolt upright, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "If it's truth you want, Ms. Morrow, you might try telling it yourself. You're among friends," he sneered, "so I'm sure you won't mind telling us what kind of rumpty-tumpty you and George have been getting up to."

An even more deflated silence followed Miranda's blithe and clinical description of George Wetherhead's ongoing program of physical therapy. Although murmurs of "Good for you, George" went round the circle, they sounded halfhearted at best. The villagers patently preferred the romantic fables they'd concocted to the mundane truth. Sausages and therapeutic ma.s.sages couldn't hold a candle to smuggled booze and illicit rumpty-tumpty.

"Seems a silly way to go about it," Sally grumbled, voicing the unspoken consensus. "Leave it to a witch to go all secretive when there's no need. They call it being mysterious, but I'd call it sneaky."

I held my breath, antic.i.p.ating an explosion. It was the second time in less than twenty minutes that Sally had insulted Miranda Morrow's way of life. I half-expected Sally to vanish in a puff of peach-colored smoke.

"Witches aren't the only ones who like to keep secrets, though, are they, Mrs. Pyne?" Miranda Morrow smiled, but her eyes were like chips of ice. "How did you know where d.i.c.k was on the morning of Mrs. Hooper's death? Up early, were you? Out and about?"

Sally flushed. "I . . . I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you do, Mrs. Pyne, but I won't give you away. You know how good we witches are at keeping secrets." Miranda stretched her arms out and gazed languorously at the silver rings adorning her fingers. "I'll never tell a soul that I saw you that morning, coming out of Crabtree Cottage."

Chapter 23.

A collective gasp should have gone up from the group, but the only ones to gasp were Lilian and me. Nicholas sat motionless, staring at the floor, while the others shuffled their feet and looked everywhere but at Sally.

Sally looked daggers at Miranda. "Who's going to believe you?"

Miranda batted her eyelashes. "You needn't take a pagan's word for it," she said. "George is a good, decent Christian, and he saw you, too."

"Miranda was leaving my place," the little man piped up loyally, "when Sally came tiptoeing out of Crabtree Cottage. We both stepped back inside so she wouldn't see us."

"It was nearly six o'clock," Miranda added. "The sun was hidden by clouds, but there was enough light for us to recognize Mrs. Pyne." She twirled a lock of strawberry-blond hair around her finger. "Why so tense, Mrs. Pyne? I'm sure it was merely a social call. To discuss the fine art of flower arranging, perhaps?"

Sally's pencil snapped in two.

"You've made your point, Ms. Morrow." Nicholas's soft voice intervened. "There's no need to be unkind." He raised his head to gaze levelly at Sally Pyne. One by one, the others followed suit.

Sally placed the broken pencil and her notepad on the floor, planted her fists on her thighs, and declared, "I want to make one thing plain: Pruneface was dead when I got there."

"Y-yes, Mrs. Pyne," Lilian faltered. The vicar's wife was clearly rattled. "Of course she was. And I'm sure you can offer us a perfectly reasonable explanation for failing to notify the police when you found her, um, body."

"Everyone knew that I held a grudge against Pruneface on account of the baptismal font," Sally said. "I thought it would look suspicious if it was me who found her."

"So you left it to me," Peggy growled.

"It was a rotten thing to do, Peggy," Sally said humbly, "but I knew you'd be along to collect the rent, and I didn't think it'd matter so much if you found her. You were her chum. No one would suspect you of doing her in."

Peggy glanced furtively at Nicholas and clamped her mouth shut.

"Why did you go there in the first place?" asked Christine.

"Believe it or not," Sally replied, "I went to discuss flower arranging. . . ."

Sally had spent a restless night fretting about the Easter display. She knew that Pruneface had s.n.a.t.c.hed the project from her out of spite, and she feared that Pruneface might make a hash of it.

"I was afraid she might try to foist some G.o.d-awful modern nonsense on us," Sally explained. "You know the sort of thing-a bare branch and a pile of pebbles to symbolize G.o.d alone knows what."

"Teddy wouldn't have allowed it," Lilian protested indignantly.

Sally gave her a jaundiced look. "That's as may be," she allowed with exaggerated politeness, "but I couldn't risk it. The font's always been my responsibility, so I thought I'd have a chat with Pruneface, to let her know that Finch isn't the sort of place that takes kindly to experiments. . . ."

Sally had risen at five o'clock to make herself a cup of tea and thus had witnessed the bustle of activity on the square. She'd seen d.i.c.k unloading the gray van, Peggy rearranging the Emporium's display window, and Mr. Barlow walking Buster. She'd taken particular note of Pruneface spying on d.i.c.k Peac.o.c.k from the front window of Crabtree Cottage.

"I knew she was awake," Sally said, "so I told myself, No time like the present. After I got dressed and had a bite to eat, I nipped across the square."

"What time was it when you reached her house?" I asked.

"A quarter to six," Sally replied. "The church bells were ringing the quarter hour when I knocked."

I jotted 5-5:45 on my notepad.

"I knocked several times, good and loud," Sally continued, "and when Pruneface didn't come to the door, I got upset. I thought she was snubbing me again, so I pushed the door open and invited myself in."

The schoolroom was so quiet that I could hear the tap dripping in the ladies' bathroom. Nicholas sat very still, but it was the stillness of self-absorption rather than watchfulness. He seemed distant and withdrawn, detached not only from me but from the group at large, as if preoccupied by something far more troubling than the murder we'd spent all week investigating.

"I called her name," Sally went on, "and when she didn't answer, I thought she might have fallen ill or hurt herself." Sally regarded us pugnaciously. "I didn't care for the woman, but I know what it's like to live alone, and I couldn't leave without making sure she was alright."

George Wetherhead nodded, and there was no trace of mockery in Miranda's somber expression. Like Sally, they knew the hazards of living alone.

"I went into the front parlor," said Sally, "and there she was, stretched out beneath those red geraniums . . . dead. I thought she'd had a stroke"-Sally took a shaky breath-"till I saw the blood. It gave me a queer turn, I can tell you."

Her eyes glazed briefly, and the rest of us shuddered, as if we'd each glimpsed those red geraniums reflected in Mrs. Hooper's blood.

Sally ran a hand through her hair. "That's when I realized how suspicious it would look for me to be there. So I made sure the coast was clear and nipped back to the tearoom."

"You could have rung the police anonymously," said Lilian.

"And have my number recorded? I might as well have turned myself in." Sally lifted her chin determinedly. "I don't imagine any of you will believe me, but it's the G.o.d's truth. Pruneface Hooper was dead when I found her."

I waited for Nicholas to speak, but he remained lost in his own thoughts.

"You said you saw Mr. Barlow walking Buster," I ventured. "Did you see him enter Crabtree Cottage?"

Sally shook her head. "He walked Buster to the war memorial and tossed that silly rubber ball a few times. He let out a big laugh once, like he does when Buster makes a good catch; then he went home. Ten minutes later, he and Buster hopped into the car and took off. I didn't see him go into the cottage."

I referred to my scanty notes. If Sally was telling the truth, Mrs. Hooper had been killed between five and five forty-five in the morning, when nearly everyone present had been awake, dressed, and smarting under Mrs. Hooper's lash.

"Sally," I said, "did you see anyone enter or leave Crabtree Cottage before you went there?"

"I wasn't watching the whole time," Sally answered. "I suppose someone could've gone in without my noticing, but it would've taken some pretty fancy footwork for them to get out again."

"Miranda and I didn't see anyone but Sally," George offered.

Lilian sat forward. "Did any of you see anyone other than Mrs. Pyne enter or leave Crabtree Cottage on the morning in question?"

The villagers quailed under her stern, schoolmarmish gaze, and after a moment's discomfited silence, d.i.c.k spoke up.

"I saw Sally," he said reluctantly. "I was scrubbing gla.s.ses in the pub when she made her dash back to the tearoom."

"d.i.c.k told me he'd seen her," Christine admitted.

"Christine pa.s.sed it on to me," Peggy informed us.

"My wife confided in me, of course," Jasper added.

"You all knew, yet not one of you saw fit to share this very pertinent information with the authorities?" Lilian clucked her tongue in disapproval.

"It was nothing to do with them, Mrs. Bunting," said d.i.c.k. "None of us thought Sally would kill someone over the ruddy baptismal font. Even if she had, I wouldn't've blamed her overmuch. Mrs. Hooper was a small-minded, interfering old crow who caused nothing but misery. She deserved a clout in the head."

"I didn't shed a tear when I found her," Sally acknowledged. She smiled ruefully at d.i.c.k. "To be honest, I was convinced you'd smacked her-to keep her from turning you in to the inland revenue. And I didn't blame you, either."

"Decent of you, Sally." d.i.c.k nodded toward George Wetherhead. "My money was on old George. I thought he'd whacked her with his crutch to keep her from blabbing about his affair with Miranda."

"Did you really?" George's face lit with delight. "I didn't kill Pruneface, d.i.c.k, but it was kind of you to think of me."

"My pleasure," said d.i.c.k with a friendly nod.

I didn't know whether to be amused or disgusted by the abrupt change in atmosphere. The tense confrontation engineered by Lilian Bunting had suddenly turned into a convivial gathering of neighbors eager to clear up a slight misunderstanding. Murder accusations weren't hurled, but tossed lightly between suspects, and the accused responded not with howls of protest but with good-humored, low-key denials.

"I have to admit that I thought Miranda might've had a hand in Pruneface's death," George said, going with the flow. "I'm sure you've heard the lies she concocted about Miranda's medicinal herbs."

The villagers' hesitant nods and sidelong glances suggested that although they were less certain than George that all of Miranda's herbs were strictly medicinal, they'd still rather side with her than with Pruneface.

"The wretched woman threatened to turn Miranda in to the drug squad," George went on. "I would've understood if Miranda had thumped her."

"You sweet creature," said Miranda, patting George's knee. "I was out of patience with Mrs. Hooper, but I don't believe in violent retribution. I was quite willing to leave her fate in the hands of the G.o.ddess."

"Let's see now . . ." d.i.c.k licked his pencil and applied it to his notepad. "I didn't smash her head in, nor did my wife, and Sally, George, and Miranda claim they didn't. So that leaves . . ." He circled three names on his scribbled list. "Mr. Barlow, Jasper, and Peggy."

"I'd cross Peggy off the list if I were you," Sally advised. "Why would she knock off an old chum?"

"You'd have to ask her," Miranda murmured.

I was about to step in when I was distracted by a faint, familiar yapping coming from outside the schoolhouse. A cool breeze fluttered the paper napkins on the refreshments table as the outer doors opened. Claws skittered on the cloakroom floor, and Buster bounced into the room, followed closely by Mr. Barlow.

As the terrier gamboled merrily around the circle, greeting all and sundry, a second man entered the room. He was in his mid-fifties, I guessed, with a sprinkling of gray in his thick dark hair. He scanned the faces in the room anxiously, as if hoping to find someone he knew. When his eyes met Peggy Taxman's, his chest heaved.

"Mrs. Taxman?" he said.

"M-Mark?" Peggy gasped, and toppled slowly from her chair in a dead faint.