Part 14 (1/2)

I walked over to stand beside him in the open doorway. I studied his profile carefully before asking, ”Are you . . . Peggy Taxman's son?”

A broad, authentically amused grin split Nicholas's face as he laughed out loud. ”I know I'm not stripling youth, Lori-I believe your first words to me were that I was not a child-but do I really look as if I'm in my fifties?”

I did a rough calculation in my head and immediately wished I'd done so before speaking.

”Sorry,” I mumbled, blus.h.i.+ng. ”Arithmetic never was my strong suit.”

He was still grinning as he leaned back against the door and asked, ”What on earth made you think that I might be Mrs. Taxman's long-lost son?”

I shrugged. ”You seem so determined to find out who killed Mrs. Hooper. I thought for a minute that it might have been a smokescreen for finding out who your birth mother was.”

”You suspect me of hidden agendas? Alas, the numbers are against you.” He spoke lightly, but the momentary flash of amus.e.m.e.nt had faded from his eyes. He looked out at the graveyard. ”I'm sorry, Lori. I've been a dreary companion today.”

I decided then and there to clap a lid on my reservations about his illicit use of police files. Nicholas didn't need to hear a word of criticism from me. He was being hard enough on himself.

”No problem,” I said easily. ”I'm a woman. I can deal with mood swings.”

I'd hoped the quip might restore his good humor, but his expression grew more somber still.

”I realize that my intensity disturbs you,” he said, ”but I need you to trust me for a little while longer. We're nearly there.”

”How do you know?” I asked.

He contemplated the churchyard in silence. ”The Pyms' gingerbread,” he said finally. ”There's only one recipient with whom we haven't spoken.”

”Mr. Barlow.” A flutter of excitement pa.s.sed through me. ”Are we going up north to track him down?”

Nicholas eyed me skeptically. ”I'm not entirely convinced that your husband would be keen on the idea of us running off together.”

”Probably not,” I agreed, deflated. ”What are we going to do, then?”

”We're going to wait.”

Nicholas motioned for me to precede him into the south porch and followed after me, closing the door behind him. We left the porch together and ambled side by side down the gravel path toward the lych-gate. Fat clouds raced across the clearing sky as the churchyard's rain-dappled gra.s.s rippled and swayed.

I felt as restless as the rippling gra.s.s. I was no better at waiting than I was at arithmetic, but we didn't seem to have much choice. We'd discovered strong motives and weak alibis among our chief suspects but not a single witness to account for what had happened in the front window of Crabtree Cottage on the morning Pruneface Hooper had met her maker. Mr. Barlow was our last chance, and until he returned from his journey, we could do nothing but twiddle our thumbs.

As we turned into Saint George's Lane, I invited Nicholas to spend the afternoon at the cottage with me and the twins, hoping Will and Rob might succeed where I'd failed and lift his gloomy spirits. He declined, however, saying that he had to run down to London to attend to some personal business.

”Nothing's wrong, I hope,” I said.

”I've a . . . doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon,” he said, looking straight ahead. ”Just routine. I scheduled it months ago. I'll be back in time for the committee meeting tomorrow evening, though.” He glanced at me. ”I'm counting on you to be there, too.”

”Why?” I asked.

”Aunt Lilian appointed a select group of villagers to the committee,” he informed me. ”It's composed of the Taxmans, the Peac.o.c.ks, Mrs. Pyne, Mr. Wetherhead, and Ms. Morrow.”

”Miranda-?” I broke off and smiled wryly as comprehension dawned. Either the committee had been intentionally stuffed with suspects or Lilian Bunting had decided to make a name for herself as the only vicar's wife in England to appoint a pagan to an Easter vigil committee. ”Do I detect a stage manager's swagger in your walk, Mr. Fox?”

”It was Aunt Lilian's idea,” he protested. ”She thought it would be instructive to hold such a gathering now that you and I have, let us say, opened new lines of communication in Finch.”

”I'll be there,” I promised.

”Good.” Nicholas flicked his hair back from his face and gazed soberly toward the square. ”I expect it to be an extraordinary meeting in every sense of the word.”

Chapter 21.

I stopped at Ans...o...b.. Manor on the way home to have a word with Kit. I found him leaning on the paddock gate, dressed in jeans, a hooded sweats.h.i.+rt, a quilted nylon vest, and muddy work boots.

His gaze was fixed on Rocinante, Nell's chestnut mare, who was galloping around the paddock and tossing her head excitedly. He was so absorbed in her boisterous antics that he didn't notice me until I rested my arms beside his on the top bar of the gate.

”Hey, Kit,” I said, smiling up at him. ”How're you doing?”

”Much better,” he replied.

I nodded toward Rosie. ”She seems happy.”

”The farrier came today,” he said. ”She's trying out her new shoes.”

While Kit watched the mare prance, I studied him. The haunted, harried look had vanished from his violet eyes. His hands rested loosely on the five-barred wooden gate, and a contented smile played upon his delicately curved lips. He seemed utterly at peace.

”You look great,” I commented. ”Have the nasty phone calls stopped?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. ”Don't know. Emma won't allow me to answer the telephone.”

”Any more visits from the police?” I asked.

He rested his chin on his arms. ”Emma's solicitor has frightened them off.”

”What about Nell?” I inquired. ”Are you still getting letters from her?”

”She's using rosewater now,” he said tranquilly. ”It makes a change from lavender.”

I gave him a questioning glance. ”That's okay with you?”

”Look.” Kit stretched out his arm and pointed across the pasture to an extremely muddy young man who'd emerged from a drainage ditch, carrying a shovel. ”Annelise's brother, Lucca.”

I knew Lucca. He was twenty years old, soft-spoken, hardworking, and built like Michelangelo's David. His tousled black curls framed a face that rivaled Kit's for beauty, and his eyes were nearly as blue as Nell's.

”Emma's hired him to help me put in a new drainage system.” Kit waved to Lucca, and the young man waved back. ”He'll be here for Easter and all through the summer.”

”In other words,” I said, ”Lucca will be here when Nell's home from school.”

”Precisely,” said Kit.

It wasn't every stepmother who'd hire one gorgeous man to distract her stepdaughter from another, but Emma clearly felt that desperate times called for desperate measures. I gave her full marks for creativity. Her ploy might not work in the long run-Kit would be a hard act for any young man to follow-but its short-term effects were good enough for me. Emma had taken the pressure off Kit, erected a protective wall around him, and applied the balm of her own serenity to his troubled spirit. I couldn't have left my friend in better hands.