Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read Free Page A

Must dash.”
    I stared after my departing friends, mystified. Grant and Charles had lain in wait for Mrs. Thistle for well over an hour. Why, I asked myself, would they run off as soon as she appeared? Did they know something about her they wished to keep under wraps—something shocking, sensational, scandalous?
    The scent of intrigue was in the air and I responded to it like a wolf scenting raw steak. Although it would be a pity to miss the unveiling of Mrs. Thistle’s worldly goods, it would be downright galling to let a juicy morsel of gossip slip from my grasp. After the briefest of hesitations, I jumped to my feet, grabbed my jacket, added a few coins to Grant’s, and ran out of the tearoom, calling, “Wait for me!”
    Bree Pym, Mrs. Sciaparelli, Annie Hodge, Mr. Barlow, George Wetherhead, Christine Peacock, Sally Pyne, Henry Cook, and the Handmaidens watched intently as I followed Grant and Charles across the green, racing to keep up with their longer strides whilethey made their way hotfoot to Crabtree Cottage. By the time we darted into the foyer I was too winded to speak, but Charles’s voice had lost none of its power as he slammed the door shut and wheeled around to face me.
    “That woman,” he thundered, “is not Amelia Thistle!”

Two
    T  he sound of high-pitched barking assaulted our ears as Goya and Matisse scampered into the foyer to find out who’d slammed the front door. While I leaned against the wall to catch my breath, Charles scooped his golden Pomeranian into his arms and Grant bent low to give his overexcited Maltese a reassuring cuddle. Charles and Grant might own Crabtree Cottage, but their friendly little dogs ruled it.
    “What are you talking about, Charles?” I asked, when the canine chorus had subsided. “I spoke with the estate agent myself. She told me that the woman who bought Pussywillows is Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”
    “The estate agent was bamboozled,” Charles stated flatly. “And I can prove it.”
    He placed Goya gently on the floor and led the way into the front parlor, a sunny, simply furnished room that served as his office. Goya and Matisse bounced around us happily, pausing only to sniff our shoes, while Grant sank dazedly into one of the upright wooden chairs provided for clients. I stood with my back to the bay window, thanking my lucky stars that instinct had prompted me to chase after the two men. I had a feeling that I was about to learn something extremely interesting about our newest neighbor.
    Charles took a fat folder from a wooden file cabinet, placed it on his desk, and began to riffle through its contents.
    “As you know, Lori,” he began, “Grant restores works of art and I appraise them. We may not be artists, but art is our life.”
    “We eat, drink, and breathe it,” Grant put in, nodding.
    “We read about it, of course,” Charles went on, “but we also attend gallery openings, exhibitions, auctions, sales, private viewings—”
    “I know,” I interrupted. “The two of you are always haring off to London to see the latest works by the newest geniuses.”
    “Grant and I attend shows by established artists as well,” Charles countered, “and we never throw anything away.” He pulled three colorful brochures from the folder and spread them across the desk. “We collected these publicity pieces from three solo exhibitions mounted by a very well established artist.” He laid the folder aside and extended his arm toward me with a dramatic flourish. “I invite you to examine the evidence.”
    I crossed to the desk, peered down at the brochures, and read the exhibition titles aloud. “‘Mae Bowen: Nature’s Servant,’ ‘Mae Bowen: Nicotiana by Moonlight,’ ‘Mae Bowen: The Lost Glade.’” I looked inquiringly at Charles. “I don’t get it. What does Mae Bowen have to do with Amelia Thistle?”
    He flipped each brochure over and smiled triumphantly. I looked down again and saw three identical black-and-white portrait photographs of