Aunt Dimity's Death by Nancy Atherton Page B

speak, I gave Bill a stern look and said, “What we’re about to discuss is supposed to be a surprise. If your father gets wind of it, I’ll—”
    “Lay off the guy, Lori,” Stan said. “He’s a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. He knows how to keep his mouth shut. What’s the big secret, anyway?”
    I explained what I wanted, and as I’d expected, Stan knew where to get it. He even phoned ahead to make sure it would be available before accompanying us to the front door.
    “I think you picked a winner this time, Lori,” he said.
    “Stan, Bill isn’t—” I began, but Stan was already clapping Bill on the shoulder.
    “You look after her, Willis,” he said, “or you’ll have me to answer to.”
    Bill very wisely said nothing.
    A short drive took us to a cramped and dimly lit shop owned by a Mr. Trevor Douglas, purveyor of antique maps. Stan’s call had produced the usual results and Mr. Douglas had already unearthed a beauty for my inspection: a delicate and intriguingly incomplete depiction of the Arctic wilderness printed in 1876; the fruit of many daring gambles, broken dreams, and lost lives. Mr. Douglas agreed to have it framed and delivered to the mansion as soon as possible. The price was daunting, but I considered the map to be a very necessary expense. Nothing would ensure my peace of mind as effectively as the thought of Willis, Sr.’s pleasure when he opened this package.
    *
**
    We were breakfasting with Willis, Sr., in the small dining room the following day when Bill looked up from his toast and marmalade. “Lori, I’ve been thinking. You’ve been to your apartment and your agency and you’ve said good-bye to your old boss, but what about your friends?”
    “My friends?”
    “Don’t you want to say good-bye to them, too? Or at least tell them what’s going on?”
    “Well, I …” I fiddled with my eggcup, not knowing what to say. I had lost track of most of my friends over the past year.
    “Yes, Miss Shepherd,” Willis, Sr., joined in, “you must not allow your natural diffidence to prevent you from visiting your friends before you leave. It is quite in keeping with Miss Westwood’s wishes.” Father and son stared at me, their heads tilted at identical angles, until I felt like an antisocial geek.
    “There is one person I’d like to see,” I admitted finally, “but she doesn’t live in Boston.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” said Bill.
    I looked to Willis, Sr., and he nodded.
    “Okay, then,” I agreed, “I’ll give her a call.”
    *
**
    Meg Thomson was a short, unrepentantly heavyset woman, with an abrupt manner and a mile-wide mothering streak. If Meg thought you needed to hear something for your own good, you would hear it, whether you wanted to or not. And she was fiercely loyal. She lived in Maine, in a small coastal town about a hundred miles north of Boston, where she and her partner, Doug Fleming, owned a strange and wonderful art gallery. Doug lived in an apartment above the shop, but Meg had a ramshackle old house overlooking the beach.
    The gallery specialized in science fiction and fantasy art, and touring the maze of paintings and sculptures was like traveling through a world of dreams made real. The business was usually on the verge of bankruptcy, but that never seemed to bother Meg. She had found where she wanted to be in life and she regarded the occasional scramble for rent money as just another dash of the spice that kept her life from getting too bland.
    “Meg?” I said when I heard her voice. “It’s me, Lori. Think you could put up a couple of houseguests?”
    “I’ll drive down tomorrow and pick you up,” she replied without missing a beat.
    “No need. I have a car.” I smiled to myself and added, “A Rolls-Royce.”
    That did slow her down, but only for a minute.
    “Okay, Shepherd. But if this Rolls-Royce of yours crashes and I don’t get to hear the rest of the story, I’ll never speak to you again.”
    I told her I’d be up the next day, sent