Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read Free Page B

a woman who was the spitting image of the woman I’d seen speaking with the movers in front of Pussywillows.
    “I present to you,” Charles announced, “incontrovertible proof that the woman calling herself Amelia Thistle is, in fact, the well- known and highly respected English painter, Mae Bowen.”
    “The resemblance is uncanny,” I acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t call your proof incontrovertible.” I folded my arms. “I’ve heard it said that everyone has a double. Amelia Thistle could be Mae Bowen’s double. Or they could be identical twins. I can hardly tell my own sons apart in dim light and Ruth and Louise Pym were carbon copies of each other.”
    Grant left his chair to stand beside me at the desk, taking care to avoid tripping over Goya and Matisse as they frisked at his heels.
    “We’re not dealing with twins or doubles,” he said. “Charles and I have seen Mae Bowen in person on three separate occasions, Lori. The gestures, the stance, the walk, the tilt of the chin—they’reunmistakable.” He gazed from one photograph to the next and shook his head. “I’m willing to swear that Amelia Thistle and Mae Bowen are one and the same person.”
    I groaned softly as I recalled the chaos that had ensued when Sally Pyne had temporarily assumed a false identity.
    “Are you telling me that we have another impostor on our hands?” I asked wearily.
    “Amelia Thistle isn’t just another impostor,” Charles expostulated. “She’s Mae Bowen, England’s greatest botanical artist!”
    “She paints plants and flowers,” Grant put in.
    “I know what a botanical artist does,” I said irritably.
    “She’s insanely gifted,” Charles gloated. “A child prodigy. I believe she first put brush to paper when she was ten years old. Entirely self-taught, as a naturalist as well as a painter. Everything she knows, she knows from firsthand observation.”
    “Her face is weathered because she works en plein air , painting directly from nature,” Grant explained. “Yet her paintings aren’t merely photographic. They’re… they’re…” He squinted toward the ceiling as he searched for the right word, then shrugged helplessly. “You’ll think I’m waxing lyrical, Lori, but Bowen’s paintings are simply… magical.”
    “Prints don’t do them justice,” Charles said emphatically. “One must stand before an original Bowen to fully comprehend her brilliance.”
    “She’s not terribly prolific,” said Grant, “but each work of art she produces is a masterpiece.”
    “Do you own any?” I asked.
    “Only in our dreams,” Grant replied ruefully. “Her paintings sell for thousands of pounds, Lori. Connoisseurs the world over compete to collect them.”
    “Why haven’t I heard of her?” I asked, frowning.
    “Artists like Mae Bowen seldom make headlines,” said Grant. “Art critics spend most of their time fawning over self-promoting poseurs. They tend to ignore self-effacing geniuses like Bowen, who contribute something of lasting value to the world.”
    “Fair dues,” Charles protested. “Far be it from me to defend the critics, but it must be said that Bowen doesn’t go out of her way to make herself accessible to the press.” He gave me a sidelong, knowing look. “Truth be told, she’s a bit of a recluse.”
    “Then why did she move to Finch under an assumed name?” I asked, perplexed. “If she’s already a recluse, and if the press doesn’t pester her, why would she feel the need to change her address and her name?”
    “Why, indeed?” said Charles. “It’s more peculiar than you can possibly imagine, Lori, because Mae Bowen—” He broke off, interrupted by the doorbell, which triggered another round of frantic barking as the dogs raced each other into the foyer.
    “We’re not expecting a client, are we?” Grant asked quietly.
    “No,” Charles replied. “And we do not want visitors. See who it is, will you, Lori?”
    I tiptoed over to peer cautiously through the