Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin Read Online Free PDF Page B

to ring you. The most amazing thing has happened. You’ll never guess what it is.”
    “Does it involve a courier?” I asked, sinking back in the desk chair.
    “How did you know?” she exclaimed.
    “Latent psychic ability,” I replied, but Nurse Willoughby wasn’t listening.
    “. . . a letter from Miss Beacham’s solicitor,” she was saying, “telling me that she’s left me ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand pounds, Lori! Can you imagine? ”
    “Sort of,” I said weakly.
    “It’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me,” Nurse Willoughby declared. “I don’t know why she did it. I didn’t do anything for her that I wouldn’t do for any other patient.”
    “Maybe that’s why,” I reasoned. “You’re a gifted nurse, Lucinda. You give each patient your undivided attention. It wouldn’t matter if it was the Duchess of Kent or a drunk panhandler like Big Al Layton. You’d treat each of them exactly the same.”
    Nurse Willoughby snorted. “I’d never curtsy to Big Al.”
    “Maybe not,” I conceded, “but everything else would be the same—the same combination of competence and compassion. If you ask me, the money’s Miss Beacham’s way of saying, ‘Keep up the good work.’”
    “It’ll certainly help me pay off my loans,” Nurse Willoughby gushed.
    “Even better,” I said. “But before you get too practical, take yourself out for a super dinner. You deserve it.”
    “I will.” Nurse Willoughby laughed delightedly. “And I’ll drink a champagne toast to Miss Beacham. It’s simply too amazing. . . .” And on that giddy note, she rang off.
    I was feeling a bit giddy myself. I couldn’t possibly be as stunned as Julian Bright and Lucinda Willoughby were, but I wasn’t lagging far behind. In the space of a few minutes, my frugal pensioner had become a woman of not inconsiderable means.
    “Make that thirty thousand pounds,” I said to Reginald, and gazed uneasily at the telephone.
    Who would call next? Miss Beacham had known Nurse Willoughby personally, but her knowledge of St. Benedict’s had come secondhand, through me. Had she left similar bequests to everyone I’d mentioned in my silly stories? Would all of my neighbors ring to tell me about the letters they’d gotten from Miss Beacham’s solicitor?
    I was on tenterhooks. I didn’t know what to expect, so when a knock sounded at the study door I swung around so fast that I whacked my knee on the desk.
    “Ouch,” I said, as my husband came into the room.
    Bill was wearing what he called his teleconferencing outfit. From the waist up he dressed the part of a serious lawyer—impeccably tailored black suit coat and vest, gleaming gray silk tie, crisp white shirt. From the waist down, however, he wore the uniform of a casual, bicycle-riding dad—faded jeans, sweat socks, and muddy running shoes. The combination almost always made me giggle, but this time it won only a wan smile.
    “Annelise telephoned,” he said, closing the door behind him. His dark hair was mussed and his cheeks were rosy, as if he’d interrupted his conference call and hurried home. “She told me what happened. She also mentioned that you’ve been locked up in here for quite a while. She didn’t want to disturb you, but I think you’ve disturbed her. How are you doing?”
    “I’m . . . okay,” I answered, rubbing my knee. “It’s been a strange morning.”
    “So I’ve heard.” Bill motioned toward the armchair I’d used while speaking with Aunt Dimity. “Tell me about it?”
    I moved to the armchair and told him the whole story. He sat in the chair opposite mine and said nothing until I’d finished, when he asked to see the letter. He read it in silence, but when he reached the postscript naming Miss Beacham’s solicitors, he gave a low whistle.
    “Pratchett and Moss,” he said. “I know the firm. They don’t deal with people of moderate incomes.” He handed the letter back to me. “You had no idea that Miss Beacham was