Aunt Dimity's Death by Nancy Atherton

From this moment on, I am at your service. When would you like to get started?”
    “Is ten too early for you?”
    “Ten is perfect. Milady’s carriage will await her at the appointed hour. Until then.” He clicked his heels and executed a formal half bow, then picked up his share of the luggage and left.
    I sighed and closed the door, wishing that someone would pull Bill aside and tell him that one simple offer of friendship was worth twenty Prince Charming routines.
    *
**
    For the next five days, Bill did everything but walk ten paces behind me. He was meek, he was polite, he was the very model of docility, but I didn’t buy it for a minute. There were too many times when I caught him smiling to himself—as though he found his own performance vastly entertaining.
    My “carriage” turned out to be Willis, Sr.’s Silver Shadow. Bill insisted that he was following his father’s orders in using it, but I was not amused. It wasn’t the car I minded so much. It was the little driving cap Bill wore, and the short woolen jacket, and the formal manner with which he opened the car door for me, as though he’d been rehearsing his role as chauffeur.
    Our first stop was a local camping store, where I bought a pair of lightweight hiking boots—suitable for hill climbing—a durable down jacket, and a decent pair of jeans. I steered clear of anything fussy or feminine in order to demonstrate to Bill my idea of
useful
clothing. He kept his mouth shut and watched me like a hawk while I shopped, as though he were memorizing my every move. The salespeople treated him like a deaf-mute, nodding politely in his direction, but speaking only to me. It was mortifying, especially when he paid.
    The next morning, I dropped by the temp agency to let them know that I would be unavailable for a while. They must have wondered why I’d bothered to give notice, once they’d ogled the Rolls, but I was burning no bridges. Bill continued to be on his best behavior, though he came close to going over the edge when he swept his cap off in a low bow to the women in the office and kissed my supervisor’s hand.
    That afternoon, when he introduced himself to my roommates as “Miss Shepherd’s driver,” I’d had enough. I made him hand over the checkbook and go wait in the car. I thought it was a perfect solution—I’d fill out the checks and he could sign them somewhere far away from me. Then I caught sight of him smiling his little smile and suspected that I hadbeen outmaneuvered. It occurred to me—fleetingly—that he might be aware of how reluctant I was to have him see my humble digs.
    I spent two hours at my apartment, writing checks with such gay abandon that I broke out in a cold sweat at one point and had to call Willis, Sr., to get his okay before I could go on. When I finished, I gave my roommates my share of the rent, outlined the situation for them, and asked them to forward any calls or personal mail to the mansion until I returned. Since I got about as many phone calls as a Trappist monk, it didn’t seem a lot to ask.
    It took me twenty minutes to pack. When I finished, I sat down on my mattress beside my beat-up old canvas bags. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, bathing the room in a muted gray light. The apartment was very quiet and my room looked very bare.
    I didn’t want to come back here. I would never admit it to Bill or to anyone else, but I didn’t want the fairy tale to end. I wanted that ten thousand dollars so badly I could taste it. It would give me a chance to escape from the grind, to look for a real job, maybe buy some decent furniture. But if it came to a choice between earning the money and fulfilling my mother’s request, I knew what I would choose. Ah, well, I thought, with no conviction at all, I had gotten used to doing without. I could get used to it all over again.
    My gaze wandered the blank walls and came to rest on the closet door. Instantly, I was on my feet. I rescued