Aunt Dimity's Death (9 page)

“Then would you … would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I asked, adding hurriedly, “If you’re not too busy, and if you don’t have other plans, and if you’re sure you’re feeling—”

“Miss Shepherd,” Willis, Sr., broke in gently, “I would be honored to accept your kind invitation.” He placed a wrinkled hand on my fidgeting fingers, and I didn’t have the slightest inclination to pull them away.

Willis, Sr., arranged for our dinner to be served in the large library on the ground floor, a room that might have been lifted, lock, stock, and bookplate, from one of the great English manor houses. “My great-uncle, Arthur Willis, saw an engraving of the library at Chatsworth,” Willis, Sr., explained, “and decided to pattern his after it.” The room was long and relatively narrow, with tall windows on one side and bookshelves on the other. A ladder and a narrow catwalk, resplendent in gold leaf, gave access to the highest shelves, and the ceiling was a marvel of sculpted plasterwork and medallion paintings.

We sat at a round table at one end of the room, I in my freshly laundered jeans and flannel shirt, and Willis, Sr., in a flawless charcoal-gray suit. He acknowledged my casual attire by slightly loosening the knot in his silk tie, and entertained me with talk of books and travel while the law students served our meal from the trolley Bill had used the night before. Midway through the fish course it occurred to me that, before going down to the cottage, I might visit the places in London my mother had visited during the war, as a sort of preamble to reading the letters and writing about the stories. It wasn’t until the second sorbet that I got up the nerve to present it for Willis, Sr.’s appraisal. It received his full support.

I decided against telling him about the photograph. As gracious as he was, Willis, Sr., obviously felt that his first duty was to Dimity Westwood,
which meant seeing to it that the introduction was completed on schedule. The sobering truth—the truth I couldn’t share with him—was that I might not finish the introduction at all. One month was all the time I would have at the cottage, and it might not be enough time to do everything. My first duty was to my mother, and I didn’t want to put Willis, Sr., in the position of having to disapprove of something I was determined to do anyway.

For the same reason, I couldn’t tell Bill, either. I would have to get rid of him once we got to Finch, of course, send him to stay at a hotel or a local guest house, but that would be easy enough to do without arousing suspicion. If anyone would be sympathetic to a plea of decorum, it would be Willis, Sr. And, partners or not, I thought I knew who called the shots in the family firm.

*
**

Bill’s behavior took a new and even stranger turn during the week we spent preparing for the trip.

The dressing room was empty when I returned to the guest suite after my dinner with Willis, Sr., but I was awakened the following morning by a scuffling noise in the hall. When I investigated, I found Bill and four staff members walking off with sixteen pieces of the most beautiful hand-rubbed leather luggage I had ever seen.

“More gifts?” I asked.

“I meant to head them off downstairs,” said Bill, “but I was too late.” He told the students to go ahead, then held up a particularly attractive garment bag. “You don’t happen to like it, by any chance?”

“It’s gorgeous, but no thanks,” I said. “Every thief between here and Bangkok would find it irresistible.”

“Right,” he said, setting the bag on the floor. “What do you usually use, then?”

“Canvas carryalls,” I replied. “Durable, lightweight, ordinary-looking, and when you’re done with them, you roll them up and shove them in a drawer.”

“Wouldn’t nylon bags be lighter?” he asked.

“Yes, but they’re harder to patch when they tear.”

“Very practical,” he observed.

“I’m a practical sort of person,” I said.

“So I’m discovering.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Father told me about Dimity’s plans, by the way. From this moment on, I am at your service. When would you like to get started?”

“Is ten too early for you?”

“Ten is perfect. Milady’s carriage will await her at the appointed hour. Until then.” He clicked his heels and executed a formal half bow, then picked up his share of the luggage and left.

I sighed and closed the door, wishing that someone would pull Bill aside and tell him that one simple offer of friendship was worth twenty Prince Charming routines.

*
**

For the next five days, Bill did everything but walk ten paces behind me. He was meek, he was polite, he was the very model of docility, but I didn’t buy it for a minute. There were too many times when I caught him smiling to himself—as though he found his own performance vastly entertaining.

My “carriage” turned out to be Willis, Sr.’s Silver Shadow. Bill insisted that he was following his father’s orders in using it, but I was not amused. It wasn’t the car I minded so much. It was the little driving cap Bill wore, and the short woolen jacket, and the formal manner with which he opened the car door for me, as though he’d been rehearsing his role as chauffeur.

Our first stop was a local camping store, where I bought a pair of lightweight hiking boots—suitable for hill climbing—a durable down jacket, and a decent pair of jeans. I steered clear of anything fussy or feminine in order to demonstrate to Bill my idea of
useful
clothing. He kept his mouth shut and watched me like a hawk while I shopped, as though he were memorizing my every move. The salespeople treated him like a deaf-mute, nodding politely in his direction, but speaking only to me. It was mortifying, especially when he paid.

The next morning, I dropped by the temp agency to let them know that I would be unavailable for a while. They must have wondered why I’d bothered to give notice, once they’d ogled the Rolls, but I was burning no bridges. Bill continued to be on his best behavior, though he came close to going over the edge when he swept his cap off in a low bow to the women in the office and kissed my supervisor’s hand.

That afternoon, when he introduced himself to my roommates as “Miss Shepherd’s driver,” I’d had enough. I made him hand over the checkbook and go wait in the car. I thought it was a perfect solution—I’d fill out the checks and he could sign them somewhere far away from me. Then I caught sight of him smiling his little smile and suspected that I had
been outmaneuvered. It occurred to me—fleetingly—that he might be aware of how reluctant I was to have him see my humble digs.

I spent two hours at my apartment, writing checks with such gay abandon that I broke out in a cold sweat at one point and had to call Willis, Sr., to get his okay before I could go on. When I finished, I gave my roommates my share of the rent, outlined the situation for them, and asked them to forward any calls or personal mail to the mansion until I returned. Since I got about as many phone calls as a Trappist monk, it didn’t seem a lot to ask.

It took me twenty minutes to pack. When I finished, I sat down on my mattress beside my beat-up old canvas bags. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, bathing the room in a muted gray light. The apartment was very quiet and my room looked very bare.

I didn’t want to come back here. I would never admit it to Bill or to anyone else, but I didn’t want the fairy tale to end. I wanted that ten thousand dollars so badly I could taste it. It would give me a chance to escape from the grind, to look for a real job, maybe buy some decent furniture. But if it came to a choice between earning the money and fulfilling my mother’s request, I knew what I would choose. Ah, well, I thought, with no conviction at all, I had gotten used to doing without. I could get used to it all over again.

My gaze wandered the blank walls and came to rest on the closet door. Instantly, I was on my feet. I rescued Reginald’s shoebox from the floor of the closet and looked in fondly at the ragged bits of pinkish-gray flannel.

“Mom says hello,” I said softly. I reached in to touch a hand-stitched whisker. “Yes, Reginald, you’re right. Things could be worse. At least both of my ears are still attached.”

I put the box in my carry-on bag and went down the stairs and out into the first golden rays of sunset.

*
**

I also made time for a visit to Stan Finderman, my old boss. He lived in a restored eighteenth-century town house near the Gardner Museum and I found him at home, where he’d been working ever since his university office had burned to a crisp.

“Lori!” he boomed, standing on the doorstep. “How the hell are you and how’s that punk who kidnapped you?” Stan had not approved of my move out of state. “Who’s this?” he added, catching sight of Bill. “You finally get rid of that lunkhead husband of yours?”

Dr. Stanford J. (“Call me Stan”) Finderman wasn’t what most people thought of when they pictured a curator of a rare book collection. He was smaller than Mount Everest, but not by much, and his white hair was cropped in a no-nonsense crew cut. Like Willis, Sr., he was in his early sixties, but he could have snapped Willis, Sr., in two with one thumb and a finger. Nothing tickled Stan more than the fear-glazed eyes of less robust scholars (“pasty-faced wimps”) who were meeting him for the first time.

They soon found out that Stan’s brain was as imposing as his brawn. He had served in the Navy during World War II, gone through college on the GI Bill, and left the rest of his class squinting in the glare of his brilliance. If people wondered why he had gone into the rare book field—instead of, say, weight lifting or alligator wrestling—they had only to see him cradle a book in his meaty paws, and they stopped wondering. Books were Stan’s first, last, and only love.

He seemed in remarkably good spirits for a man who’d seen his life’s work go up in smoke. As we followed him down the narrow hallway, I explained the change in my marital status—”Best damned decision you ever made!”—and introduced Bill, then asked him about the tragedy.

“Best damned thing that ever happened,” he bellowed. “Sued the company that made the damned machine, the bastards settled out of court, and now I’ve got more damned money than you can shake a stick at! Look at this!” He waved us into his box-littered living room. “Been trawling all winter and hauled in some beauties. Should be able to move ‘em onto the shelves by next spring—if the goddamned builders get off their goddamned asses.”

He gave Bill a measuring look, then leaned in close to him. “What do you know about books?” he demanded.

“Not a thing,” Bill replied cheerfully.

I held my breath, anticipating an explosion. My old boss had no use for nonbibliophiles, and no reservations about telling them so, emphatically. I tensed when Stan poked Bill in the shoulder, then watched dumbfounded as Stan’s face broke into a wide grin.

“I like a man who knows his limitations,” said Stan. “You want a beer?”

“Love one, Dr. Finderman.”

“And you can cut that crap. Call me Stan.”

“Whatever you say, Stan.” To complete my amazement, Bill tapped Stan lightly on the shoulder, adding, “Within reason.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, but all he said was, “I like this one, Lori.” He put his arm around Bill’s shoulders and walked him over to a partially opened box near the leather sofa. “Park yourself here and have a look at
this while I grab the beers. Just got some goodies from Fitz in Japan. He’s a helluva judge of rice paper, for a goddamned Scot.”

It was an hour before I could get a word in edgewise.

I had wanted to speak with Stan privately, a difficult enough proposition if anyone was within shouting distance; an impossible one with a third party in the same room. When I finally got a chance to speak, I gave Bill a stern look and said, “What we’re about to discuss is supposed to be a surprise. If your father gets wind of it, I’ll—”

“Lay off the guy, Lori,” Stan said. “He’s a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. He knows how to keep his mouth shut. What’s the big secret, anyway?”

I explained what I wanted, and as I’d expected, Stan knew where to get it. He even phoned ahead to make sure it would be available before accompanying us to the front door.

“I think you picked a winner this time, Lori,” he said.

“Stan, Bill isn’t—” I began, but Stan was already clapping Bill on the shoulder.

“You look after her, Willis,” he said, “or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Bill very wisely said nothing.

A short drive took us to a cramped and dimly lit shop owned by a Mr. Trevor Douglas, purveyor of antique maps. Stan’s call had produced the usual results and Mr. Douglas had already unearthed a beauty for my inspection: a delicate and intriguingly incomplete depiction of the Arctic wilderness printed in 1876; the fruit of many daring gambles, broken dreams, and lost lives. Mr. Douglas agreed to have it framed and delivered to the mansion as soon as possible. The price was daunting, but I considered the map to be a very necessary expense. Nothing would ensure my peace of mind as effectively as the thought of Willis, Sr.’s pleasure when he opened this package.

*
**

We were breakfasting with Willis, Sr., in the small dining room the following day when Bill looked up from his toast and marmalade. “Lori, I’ve been thinking. You’ve been to your apartment and your agency and you’ve said good-bye to your old boss, but what about your friends?”