I crept toward her, bracing myself for the first blast of her voice. Peggy Taxman was neither tall nor unusually wide, and her attire was exactly what one would expect of a middle-aged woman in mourning, but the sheer force of her personality more than made up for her modest appearance. When she spoke, Finch trembled.

"Good afternoon, Peggy," I said, crossing to the far side of the grave. "Forgive me for intruding, but I wanted to let you know how sorry I was to hear about your friend."

"Thank you," she said in unnaturally subdued tones. She favored Nicholas with a measuring look as he came up beside me. "You're Lilian Bunting's nephew. Nicholas, isn't it? You've been calling on the Pyms, I hear."

If Nicholas was surprised by Peggy's artless demonstration of the grapevine's efficiency, he didn't show it.

"The kind sisters took pity on a footsore rambler," he said politely.

"Did they take pity on you, too, Lori?" Peggy's eyes narrowed shrewdly behind her rhinestone-studded gla.s.ses. "I heard that you dropped in on them on your way to the vicarage."

"Ruth and Louise asked me to deliver their gilded gingerbread," I answered half-truthfully. I looked down at the grave to avoid Peggy's penetrating stare. The upright headstone, with its crisply carved inscription, stood in sharp contrast to its lichen-clad and crazily tilting neighbors. "Their motor, er, car isn't working."

"First I've heard of it," Peggy snapped. "I suppose they're waiting for Mr. Barlow to repair it. Did they say when he'd be back?"

"No," I replied. "The only thing they told us was that he'd gone up north to visit relatives."

"No one seems to know when he'll be back," Peggy grumbled. "It's suspicious, if you ask me."

"Why?" I asked.

"Don't you know?" Peggy barked. "Billy Barlow left town the same day Prunella died. At the crack of dawn, so I've heard. And no one's had a word from him since."

"No one would expect to hear from him," I reminded her. "Mr. Barlow never keeps in touch with anyone in Finch when he's away."

"That's as may be," Peggy growled irritably. "But what was he doing out there on the square so early in the morning? That's what I'd like to know. The police would, too, I've no doubt."

I quaked in my boots at the resurgence of Peggy's familiar, unsubdued personality but ventured gamely, "He was probably taking Buster for a walk before the drive up north."

Peggy scowled but admitted that I might be right. It was common knowledge that Mr. Barlow was mad about his terrier.

"Far be it from me to cast aspersions," Peggy intoned, "but no one can deny that Mr. Barlow didn't get on with Prunella."

"He must be hard to please," Nicholas observed. "My aunt and uncle told me that Mrs. Hooper was an admirable woman."

Peggy looked at him closely, as if suspecting sarcasm, but Nicholas's face betrayed nothing more than sincere sympathy.

"She was an admirable woman," Peggy insisted. "She may not have been everyone's cup of tea, but she was a good friend to me."

"No one can be everyone's cup of tea," Nicholas reasoned.

"She took an interest in people," Peggy went on. "There's no harm in that, is there?"

"No harm at all," Nicholas soothed.

Peggy's gaze slewed toward me. "Seems she had good cause to take an interest in Nell Harris's welfare."

A red mist seemed to float before my eyes, and my grip tightened on the box of gingerbread. If Nicholas's elbow hadn't pressed lightly against mine, I would have made a heart-felt effort to knock Peggy Taxman's block off.

"I'm sure that Mrs. Hooper took an interest in everyone's welfare," he said. "I know that she was enormously helpful to my uncle. He thought the world of her floral arrangements."

"She wanted to be of service to the church," Peggy said earnestly, successfully diverted from making further snide remarks about Nell's so-called welfare. "If the vicar chose her to dress the font for Easter, it was because he knew she'd do it well. And if his decision put a certain person's nose out of joint, it wasn't Prunella's fault. Though to hear a certain person talk, you'd think Prunella had plotted and connived to get the job."

"Which she would never do," Nicholas interjected, "because there was no need."

"No need at all." Peggy clasped her hands at her waist and sniffed haughtily. "Still, resentment can lead to anger, and anger to retaliation. I'm not saying that it did, mind you, but everyone knows that that it can. Particularly," she added, with a significant nod, "when a certain person is as short-tempered as a troll." She bent to give the cellophane-wrapped bouquet a final tweak, then straightened. "You must come by the Emporium, Nicholas. I'd like to introduce you to my husband."

"It would be an honor," said Nicholas. He pried my hands from the box of gingerbread and presented it to Peggy. "Please accept this gift from the Pyms with their best wishes for a joyous Easter-as joyous as it can be, under the circ.u.mstances."

"Thank you," Peggy said, accepting the tribute with regal dignity. "And welcome home, Lori. It'll be good to see you back in church on Sunday-you and your husband. He's back from London Sat.u.r.day, isn't he? I'm sure you'll be glad to see him." Without deigning to wait for a reply, she marched out of the churchyard and down Saint George's Lane, toward the square.

When she'd disappeared from view, Nicholas took me by the shoulders and subjected my face to a minute inspection. As his eyes darted from my forehead to my chin, I couldn't help thinking that his craggy features weren't so much homely as interesting, full of character, kindness, and a certain elemental strength.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Checking for scorch marks." He released his hold and stood back. "I think she may have singed your eyebrows with that last crack about your husband, but otherwise you seem to be unscathed. How about me?"

"I think Peggy wants to adopt you," I said, laughing. I sobered then and added quietly, "Thanks for steering her away from Kit. If you hadn't been here-"

"Anger would have led to retaliation," he finished sententiously, "as it so often does." He walked over to sit on the low stone wall. "What a remarkable performance. What was it the Pym sisters said? 'Mrs. Hooper stung her victims, and now they sting each other'? Mrs. Taxman is bubbling over with venom."

I kicked a clod of mud into a clump of gra.s.s. "It's amazing how many people she didn't cast aspersions on."

"Let's see," said Nicholas. "There's Mr. Barlow, who didn't get on with Mrs. Hooper and whose whereabouts are conspicuously unknown. There's Kit, the convenient scapegoat. And there's the certain person who resented Mrs. Hooper's church activities."

"The certain troll-tempered person?" I squashed another mud ball beneath my heel before walking over to sit beside Nicholas. "It's got to be Sally Pyne. She owns the tearoom, and she's always been in charge of decorating the baptismal font at Easter. I'll bet she was ready to spit tacks when the vicar gave the job to Pruneface."

"But was she ready to inflict bodily harm on the usurper?" Nicholas brushed his hair back from his face and let his gaze travel slowly around the churchyard.

The air was sweet and still and filled with birdsong. A pair of robins scouted the cowslips for worms, a chaffinch flickered from one tomb to another, and a flock of twittering cousins filled the cedars' wide-spread branches.

I settled myself more comfortably on the wall and mused aloud: "It doesn't seem right to mention violence in such a peaceful place."

Nicholas folded his arms. "I'm sure the dead don't mind."

"You'd be surprised," I quipped, and promptly wished the words unspoken.

It was too late, however. Nicholas was already giving me an inquisitive sidelong look.

"I'd be extremely surprised to learn that the dead mind anything," he said. "Wouldn't you?"

I fixed my gaze on Pruneface Hooper's grave and replied cautiously, "I've had some unusual experiences in England. It may sound crazy to you, but those experiences have led me to believe that a person's spirit can be quite active even after his body has turned to dust."

"Interesting." Nicholas pursed his lips, then shrugged nonchalantly. "Let's hope Mrs. Hooper's spirit isn't one that remains active. She caused more than enough trouble in the flesh."

I felt a surge of relief and grat.i.tude, as if Nicholas had helped me leap a treacherous hurdle. Still, I was appalled by my indiscretion. I never breathed a word about my experiences with Aunt Dimity to any but the closest friends and family, yet here I was, discussing my views on the afterlife with a man I'd known for less than forty-eight hours.

"Nicholas," I said. "Has anyone ever told you that you're easy to talk to? Peggy doesn't usually confide in strangers, but she couldn't stop yammering at you. As for me, if I'm not careful, I'll wind up giving you my secret recipe for oatmeal cookies."

"I'd refuse to listen." Nicholas wrapped his arms around his stomach and groaned. "I'm far too full to even think about food."

"In that case, we'd better wait until tomorrow to do the tearoom," I said. "Because Sally Pyne will insist on feeding us, and everything she makes is rich and gooey."

Nicholas shuddered and readily agreed to meet me at the tearoom at ten the following morning. As we made our way back to the vicarage, I doubted that anyone's secrets would be safe for long from my secret weapon. Finch didn't stand a chance against the easygoing, charming Mr. Fox.

Chapter 9.

I reported in to Aunt Dimity as soon as Annelise and I had put the twins to bed.

"We have liftoff," I announced upon opening the blue journal. "The investigation into the untimely death of Pruneface Hooper is under way."

Hoorah. Aunt Dimity's elegant copperplate curled and looped across the page without betraying undue signs of great excitement. Have you garnered any useful tidbits?

"Maybe." I leaned back in the leather armchair and put my feet up on the ottoman. "It seems that Mr. Barlow was on the square the morning Mrs. Hooper was killed and that he disappeared shortly thereafter. He hasn't been heard from since."

Worth noting when one considers the instinctive animosity he felt toward the deceased. I imagine the police are busily tracing his whereabouts. We'll leave Mr. Barlow to them for the moment. Anything else?

"Mrs. Hooper somehow got the vicar to let her take over Sally Pyne's job of dressing the baptismal font for Easter," I said. "Peggy Taxman thinks Sally's seething resentment might have led her to clout Pruneface in the head. Do you?"

I should think she'd murder the vicar rather than Mrs. Hooper, but I'm quibbling. Murders, my dear, are committed for all sorts of petty reasons. We mustn't discount Mrs. Taxman's opinions simply because she expresses them so frankly. Have you spoken with Mrs. Pyne?

"Not yet. Nicholas and I are going to meet up at the tearoom tomorrow morning and-" I stopped short as a query appeared on the page.

Nicholas?

"Nicholas Fox," I said. "Lilian Bunting's nephew, remember? He and I have decided to work together."

I asked you to enlist Emma Harris's help in making your inquiries.

"I know," I said, "but Emma's afraid that Kit will come unglued if she leaves him alone at the manor, so she's staying there to keep an eye on him."

Who will keep an eye on you?

I flushed.

Is Mr. Fox by any chance good-looking?

"Not in a cla.s.sic way." It didn't seem worth mentioning that a man didn't have to be cla.s.sically handsome to be considered good-looking.

I see.

"He's a G.o.dsend," I stated firmly, and told Dimity about the Pyms' gingerbread. "I missed the point completely, but Nicholas caught on right away, and he had Peggy Taxman eating out of his hand at the grave site. He sees through people, Dimity, or he gets them to reveal themselves."

Am I to take it, then, that you feel no unseemly attraction to him?

"Not yet," I admitted, painfully aware of why Dimity thought it necessary to quiz me about Nicholas Fox. She knew me well enough to know that my track record was less than spotless when it came to remembering my wedding vows. I'd yet to do anything absolutely reprehensible, but there was no getting around the fact that I had what Aunt Dimity called "a wandering eye."

I'm glad to hear it. I trust Ruth and Louise's judgment, so I'd like you to continue making use of Mr. Fox-without making eyes at him.

I sank lower in the leather armchair, wishing I could resent her insinuations but knowing that I didn't have a leg to stand on.

"Bill will be home on Sat.u.r.day," I reminded her.

Even better. The handwriting ceased briefly before continuing. You mentioned a grave site. I presume you mean Mrs. Hooper's.

"Yes." I sat up, happy to move on to another subject. "She was buried at Saint George's. That's where Nicholas and I spoke with Peggy Taxman."

Why was Mrs. Hooper buried in Finch? She has close relatives elsewhere, doesn't she?

"There's a son and a grandson," I said.

It seems odd that they would bury Mrs. Hooper in a place where she has no family. If I might suggest another line of inquiry . . . ?

"I'll see what I can find out," I promised, and felt nothing but relief when Aunt Dimity's handwriting faded from the page.

I wasn't prepared to answer any more questions about Nicholas Fox because I wasn't sure how I felt about him. He was smart and funny and genuinely kind, but he was also a bit intimidating. He was almost too good with people, too charming, and when he went into Zen listening mode, he was almost too observant. I didn't mind his seeing through other people, but I was slightly worried about what he'd see when he saw through me.

Sally Pyne had once aspired to transform her modest tearoom into a hokey themed oasis that would draw the tourist trade. Those aspirations had, to everyone's relief, faded over time, and the tearoom was again its humble self. Finch's tea-drinkers weren't fashionable or concerned with setting trends. They asked only for rich pastries, fresh scones, tasty sandwiches, and tea subtly infused with local gossip, in a setting that was homely and familiar.

Some of the tearoom's furnishings must have seemed overly familiar to its customers, since its Early Flea Market decor reflected Sally's pa.s.sion for local auctions, car boot sales, and charity shops. A dozen mismatched tables were covered with tablecloths of widely varying patterns and set with an ever-changing display of crockery and utensils. The pictures on the walls ranged from sad clowns on velvet to a handful of splendid oils, and the sunburst clock above the cash register had once hung in the palatial dining room of a baronial hall. I loved the cozy, crazy chaos of the place and hoped that Sally would never again be tempted to mute it.

I pulled up in front of the tearoom just as Nicholas strode into the square from Saint George's Lane. He'd dressed in the dark brown trousers he'd worn the day we'd met, with a pale yellow cotton shirt beneath his brown tweed blazer. He carried his black trench coat over one arm in recognition of the threat posed by the gray clouds that were building overhead.

I waited for him at the slate sandwich board that stood outside the tearoom's front door. Sally jotted the day's special offerings on the slate, which was frequently washed clean by rain before her customers had a chance to read it.

"The first wave has departed," I told Nicholas as he approached. "We should have Sally mostly to ourselves for the next hour."

"Good," he said. "Let's hope she's in a chatty mood."

"If she's not, I'm sure you'll put her in one," I commented.

"I can but try." Nicholas opened the door and stood aside to let me enter first.

Sally Pyne was short and round and highly energetic. She'd already cleared the tables and reset them for the lunch crowd and was sitting at the table nearest the cash register, sampling one of her own excellent jam doughnuts, when we arrived. I motioned for her to stay seated while we joined her at the table, but she insisted on fetching a plateful of jam doughnuts and a pot of tea for two from the kitchen.

"Sally Pyne," I began when she'd resumed her seat, "may I introduce-"

"Nicholas Fox," she broke in, "the vicar's nephew. You two are thick as thieves these days. Bill out of town again?"

Aunt Dimity would, I thought, be delighted to hear how closely my neighbors were monitoring my behavior during my husband's absence. If I were ever foolish enough to have an affair, I decided, it would have to take place a long, long way from Finch.

While Sally demolished the jam doughnut, I presented her with the Pyms' gingerbread. It was a coals-to-Newcastle sort of gift for someone with Sally's baking skills, but she was impressed by the sisters' handiwork. They'd cut the cookies in four basic shapes-a cross, a paschal lamb, a palm frond, and a lily-and adorned them with intricate patterns of edible gold leaf.