Part 16 (1/2)

”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.