Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read Free

wager. She probably owns a backpack, a walking staff, and a pair of stonking great hiking boots.”
    “Attire?” Charles said primly, ignoring his partner.
    “Casual,” I replied, “but not cheap. An oversized shirt in a pretty Liberty print, worn open over a pale blue silk T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting khaki trousers. She was directing the decorators,” I reminded them, “so she wouldn’t be wearing her Sunday best.”
    “Shoes?” said Charles.
    “Tasseled loafers,” I said. “Conventional, but pricey. And the double strand of pearls she was wearing didn’t come from a cereal box.”
    “Ergo,” Charles murmured reflectively, “Mrs. Thistle is monied, but not showy.” He smiled. “I like her already.”
    “I’ll reserve judgment,” said Grant.
    The buzz of conversation ceased as the front door opened and Bree Pym strode into the tearoom. Nineteen-year-old Bree was from New Zealand, but she’d inherited a lovely old house as well as a pot of money from her great-grandaunts, the late and much lamented Ruth and Louise Pym, who’d lived on the outskirts of Finch. Though Bree had made their house her own, she hadn’t yet been embraced by everyone in the village.
    The most narrow-minded among us objected to her tattoos, her pierced nose, and her skimpy attire, but almost everyone was waryof her sly wit. Bree could throw verbal darts with great accuracy, a skill she displayed shortly after she closed the door behind her.
    “’Morning, Henry,” she called to Henry Cook, who’d emerged from the kitchen bearing four plates piled high with buttery crumpets.
    “’Morning, Bree,” he called back, smiling delightedly.
    Bree appealed to Henry’s sense of mischief. He loved to hear her say aloud what most of us said only to ourselves.
    “Full house today,” Bree commented cheerfully, gazing around the room. “No surprise there. Best spot in town to spy on the new woman. I’m glad her gear hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t wait to see if she’s filthy rich or just rich enough to look down her nose at the rest of us.”
    Henry’s face split into a broad grin as he served the crumpets to the Handmaidens, but the ladies were not amused.
    “Spy?” Elspeth Binney hissed indignantly.
    “The very idea ,” huffed Opal Taylor.
    “Of all the nerve ,” grumbled Millicent Scroggins.
    “So rude ,” muttered Selena Buxton.
    “So true,” Grant said under his breath.
    Charles and I nodded our agreement. The Handmaidens could protest until they were blue in the face, but they knew as well as we did why half of Finch’s population had chosen that particular morning to visit Sally’s tearoom or to take the air on the village green.
    “I’ll keep a lookout, shall I?” Bree asked the room at large. She glanced in the direction of the church and smiled brightly. “And none too soon. Here they come, ladies and gentlemen. Let the show begin!”
    A moment later, a silver-gray Fiat sedan passed the tearoom, followed by a medium-sized moving truck. The short, nicely rounded, ruddy-faced woman driving the Fiat parked it in the narrow shed beside Pussywillows, then walked to the rear of the truck to have a word with the movers.
    “There she is,” I murmured. “Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”
    She was dressed for the brisk weather in a knee-length brown cardigan, brown tweed trousers, and a vermillion silk blouse with a round collar. I was about to comment on the absence of her pearls when I heard Charles gasp.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked, startled.
    “It can’t be,” Charles whispered. He bent forward to stare hard at Mrs. Thistle.
    “It can’t be what?” I asked.
    “It is ,” he said, clapping a hand to his mouth.
    “It is what ?” I demanded.
    Grant, too, was gaping at Mrs. Thistle as if she were stark naked and dancing a jig. The two men exchanged meaningful looks and rose abruptly.
    “Please excuse us, Lori,” said Grant, throwing a handful of coins on the table. “We left the kettle on the hob.