Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read Online Free PDF

expectantly. “Well? How did I do? Will I be able to hold my own in the pub?”
    I laughed delightedly and gave him a kiss.
    “You could go toe-to-toe with Peggy Taxman,” I assured him, “and she’s the busiest busybody in Finch.”
    Peggy Taxman ran the Emporium, the greengrocer’s shop, and nearly every village event. Since she also ran the post office and had unlimited access to postcards, semi-translucent envelopes, and return addresses, she knew a lot more about her neighbors’ private affairs than she should have and maintained an air of omniscience the rest of us both envied and despised.
    “I’m no Peggy Taxman,” Bill said humbly, “but I try.”
    He left his perch on the desk and drew me over to sit beside him on a button-backed leather sofa he used occasionally for client consultations but more often for post-lunch power naps.
    “When did you develop an interest in Mrs. Thistle?” I asked.
    “When I realized that she would be the main topic of conversation in Finch for the next few weeks,” Bill said. “I didn’t wish to seem ill informed. But you must have seen more than I did.” He gestured toward his windows. “The view from here isn’t nearly as good as the view from the tearoom.”
    “How did you know I was in the tearoom?” I asked.
    “Where else would you be on moving day?” he retorted. “I also saw you sprint across the green after you dumped the groceries in the Rover.”
    “I didn’t sprint,” I protested.
    “You sprinted like a manic gazelle,” Bill said imperturbably, “which leads me to believe that you landed a window seat. So? What did you see?”
    “Nothing,” I replied.
    Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What happened? Concussion? Narcolepsy? Hysterical blindness? Or did the Handmaidens wrestle you to the floor because you were blocking their view?”
    “None of the above,” I replied, smiling. “I didn’t see anything because I left the tearoom before the movers opened the truck.”
    “Impossible,” said Bill. “I’d have noticed if you’d…” His voice trailed off and he frowned in concentration. “I had to leave the window for a few minutes to take a call from Gerard Delacroix. He rang as the movers pulled up to Pussywillows.”
    “That’s when I left the tearoom,” I confirmed. “Grant and Charles reacted oddly when they spotted Mrs. Thistle, so when they took off for Crabtree Cottage, I took off after them. I knew in my bones that they had some sort of inside knowledge about her and I wanted to know what it was.”
    “Did your hunch pay off?” Bill asked.
    “I hit the jackpot.” I swung around on the sofa to face him. “Have you ever heard of an English artist named Mae Bowen?”
    “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve never met the woman and I don’t know much about her, but Father owns one of her paintings.”
    “Does he?” I said, very much surprised. “Have I seen it?”
    “I doubt it,” said Bill. “Father keeps it upstairs, in his private sitting room. It’s a pretty thing. No, I take it back. It’s more than pretty. It’s…” He caught his breath and left the sentence hanging, as if he, like Grant, couldn’t find the right words to describe Bowen’s work. “Why are you asking me about Mae Bowen?”
    “Brace yourself for a major news flash,” I warned him. “According to Grant and Charles, Amelia Thistle is Mae Bowen.”
    Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “Are they sure?”
    “They’re positive,” I said. “They’ve seen her in person several times. Here…” I pulled the exhibition brochures from my pocket and handed them to Bill. “Take a look at the photos and tell me what you think.”
    Bill studied the black-and-white photographs in silence, then stroked his chin thoughtfully.
    “I can’t argue with Grant or Charles,” he said. “I’ve spent the past two hours ogling Mrs. Thistle. She does seem to be a dead ringer for Mae Bowen.” He passed the brochures back to me and peered speculatively toward the windows. “How