1

 

Berdie Elliott could hear it clearly. Despite the beehive-like activity that filled the nave of ancient St. Aidan of the Wood Parish Church, an unmistakable swoosh of the video chat’s “doorbell” emanated from the computer in the sacristy. “Hugh,” Berdie called above the din to her husband, who was vicar of this flock. “It’s Nick.” Excusing her path through balloon-toting youth, choir members, and strewn banners, she managed her way into the pastoral room.

Depositing herself in the chair at Hugh’s desk, where the laptop was opened, she smoothed an errant tress of her dyed, red-brown bob and perused the screen. “How did Hugh say this worked?” Excitement raced through her at the anticipation of seeing and speaking with their son, who was abroad serving as a naval officer. This software almost made it feel as if he was actually in England, in their midst. “I believe I click on this.”

The system went down.

“No,” Berdie yelled at the computer. She knitted her brows, pulled her tortoiseshell glasses down her nose a bit, and started clicking on whatever presented itself as something clickable. “Silly thing. You appalling, silly thing.” Berdie raised her voice. “Nick, love, can you hear me?”

“Berdie?” Hugh was next to her. “Oh, dear,” he muttered viewing the empty screen. “We’ve lost him.”

“Well, silly thing.” Disappointment and genuine frustration filled her.

“Not a problem, love.” Hugh put his hand on her shoulder. “And it’s not a silly thing. It’s a very handy thing if you know how to operate it properly.”

“Yes, well.” Berdie sighed.

“Bunch up, then.” Hugh gave Berdie’s shoulder a little nudge.

She rose from the chair.and Hugh planted himself in it.

“We’ll have him back in no time.” Hugh’s fingers began to dance on the touchpad.

Even now, Berdie felt a light flutter as she watched him work. This handsome man with his silver hair and blue eyes had asked her to marry him nearly thirty years ago, and she had never regretted saying yes. She rested her hand on his capable shoulder. “You need to go through with me how this works, Hugh.”

“Again.”

“I wasn’t paying proper attention the first time. All the preparations for Ascension Sunday took my concentration.”

And hadn’t they just? Had the specially ordered eco balloons arrived? Were enough ingredients purchased for the lemonade? Had the altar guild finish the banners? Was the village band well-rehearsed?

“Indeed. Well, it’s only hours away, now.” Hugh spoke as he watched the screen. “Our Ascension Sunday procession will be an uplifting time for our entire community. All the planning and work will have been worth every minute.” He made a final tap on the touchpad. “Here we are.”

Nothing happened.

Berdie hoped to see something that resembled her fair-haired Nick with his lovely blue eyes, like his father, and that admirable smile. But there was no Nick in sight.

“He must have left his computer,” Hugh offered in explanation. He took Berdie’s hand. “We’ll try again later.”

Berdie nodded. And she vowed she would pay proper attention to operational procedures. In her former career as an investigative journalist, she was quite technologically savvy. But having followed her husband into the church upon his distinguished retirement from the Royal Navy, she hadn’t the time or opportunity to sharpen her skills. It seemed as you learned to master one program or gadget, another new one came along.

“We’d best re-enter the fray.” Hugh’s tone conveyed a slight disappointment that their son’s call was missed. He ran a finger round his clerical collar and exited the room.

Berdie pondered how precious was the time when they were all under the same roof: she, Hugh, Nick, and Clare. Both children were abroad.

But now, there was another family of sorts. And they were in the adjoining room going about the business of getting all in order for the great Ascension Sunday procession and concert that would take place tomorrow immediately following the morning service.

As Berdie re-entered the nave, she spied Lillie Foxworth, her best friend, who was St. Aidan’s accomplished choirmaster.

“No, like this, Linden.” Lillie directed the somewhat gangly Mr. Linden Davies, who was bent over the sheet music on a music stand.

While the choir chatted, he rubbed his forehead as if trying to decipher secret code. “Yes, I think I see,” the man said with little confidence. Though not yet thirty years old, his light blond hairline was ebbing to high tide, giving him more and more forehead to rub.

When Saint Matthew Church in Mistcome Green called Lillie for a recommendation to fill their choirmaster position, she proposed Linden Davies, her voice student of the past eight months. He was the only one with any amount of willingness to take on the task.

While slender Lillie tapped a rhythmic finger along the sheet music, her short brunette hair in soft curls, danced with the tempo.

Mr. Davies metrically nodded—in complete counterpoint to Lillie’s pace. Quite a grand leap from student to director. Tomorrow’s fete featured a combined choir that included the little group from St. Matthew. It seemed Linden’s success was inextricably entangled with Lillie’s own. And Lillie was investing herself as if it were a royal performance.

An earsplitting screech shot across the nave.

Berdie smacked her hands to her ears and scrunched her nose.

Hugh and Edsel Butz were by the audio system. Edsel twisted knobs on the mobile unit. The second generation owner of Butz and Sons Electrics was proud to be named after his grandfather, an American who served in England during WWII. At last Edsel unplugged something that halted the unholy wail.

Hugh lifted his masculine hand and grinned. “Sorry about that. I shouldn’t wonder if some lovelorn poultry may be racing to our door.”

Ripples of laughter danced across the nave.

There had not been an Ascension procession at St. Aidan’s in fifty years, and her husband wanted everything just right, especially the aging sound system. When Hugh originally suggested reviving the celebration, the parish council thought it a wonderful idea. Without hesitation, they gave themselves to the work of bringing it about.

Cherry Lawler swished by Berdie, pin cushion in hand. “We’re just putting the final stitches on the last banner. Come look when you can.” She smiled. “It is lovely.”

“Yes, indeed, I will.” Berdie knew very little about needlework, but as the vicar’s wife, she was expected to approve. Although in the two and a half years that Hugh had shepherded this parish, Berdie had learned a great deal about what was expected of her by the small community, there seemed much more to learn.

“A penny for them.”

She turned to find Lillie’s love interest at her side. “Some might say my thoughts are worth far more than pence.” Berdie smiled. “So they let you escape from the morgue, then.”

Dr. Loren Meredith, a staff pathologist with Timsley Hospital, cleared his throat. He lifted a corner of his mouth into a diplomatic grin, as his warm brown eyes narrowed. “I see Lillie’s told you how unavailable I’ve been of late.”

“Of late?” Berdie questioned.

“Oh, dear. Am I going to get a fair hearing on this?”

Berdie nodded.

“I needn’t tell you that Timsley, as modest and relaxed as it is, is burgeoning and frenzied.”

“Yes, that’s a given.” From market town ho-hum to explosive is what the Kirkwood Gazette said about growth in Timsley—the whole area, really.

“And?”

“And our pathology department hasn’t grown with it. I don’t suppose Lillie has told you that due to cuts, we’ve lost two staff members at the lab?”

“Have you?”

“I thought perhaps she hadn’t. I don’t mind telling you I’m dancing faster than a cat on a hot grill.”

“I say. That’s terribly cruel. Cats shouldn’t be anywhere near heat appliances.” The well-dressed woman, here to see the vicar, wrinkled her aging forehead. “I should hope neither of you are involved.”

“What?” Berdie tried to stay cordial. “Oh, my, no. It’s just an expression.” This was exactly how rumors buzzed into life in a small village. “Rest assured, no one is harming cats, are they, Dr. Meredith?”

Loren nodded. “Nothing remotely like that happening here, madam.” His dark, shoulder-length hair, fastened at the nape of his neck, wafted with his movement.

“I should think there are expressions far more suitable that do not involve cats and hot cookware.” She straightened. “One of great wisdom has said, ‘If man and cat were to combine, man would elevate and the cat would descend’.”

The white-haired gentleman with the woman put his hand on her arm. “Come along, my love. I’m sure these kind people have no ill wishes toward felines.” He offered Loren a polite smile. “Please excuse us.” The couple moved in Hugh’s direction.

“That was a bit odd.” Berdie murmured.

“That edged on lunacy,” Loren corrected. “Who are they?”

“No idea.”

“That old fellow would appear to be someone of rank.”

“Is he?”

“His tie colors, old school. Stobbworth Hall, if I’m not mistaken?”

The couple cornered Hugh.

“Moneyed, I shouldn’t wonder.” The doctor ran a finger over his own non-school tie.

“What do you suppose they want with Hugh?”

“A cat blessing?”

Berdie put a hand on her hip and eyed the smiling doctor. “I think there’s someone here who awaits your inspiring company.”

Loren chuckled. “A tiger stripe?” He laid his gaze squarely on Lillie. “I’m off, then.” He moved along to his lovely woman.

Loren was not the only one to observe Lillie. The old school gentleman watched as Loren grasped Lillie’s hand and placed a quick peck on her cheek. The fellow lifted an arched brow, frowned, and turned quickly back to the conversation with Hugh.

Curious though she was, Berdie directed her attention to the balloon brigade. “Don’t overfill that balloon,” she called across the lively church nave to thirteen-year-old Milton Butz.

He haphazardly filled the red swollen sphere with helium gas and placed it on his lips. The barrel-chested teen grinned. “Yes, Mrs. Elliott. Overfill remedied,” Milton squeaked in that annoying high-pitched tone that comes from a helium gas inhalation.

Kevin McDermott, his ever-present school chum, howled with laughter, which only goaded Milton into a full rendition of “Rule Britannia.”

“That’s enough,” Ivy Butz, Milton’s mom, said. “Out with the pair of you. Go on now.”

The boys made for the door, the ample Ivy behind them.

Martha Butz, Milton’s twin, tied a string to a full balloon. “I apologize for my brother,” she said in a rather aggravated tone. “He’s such a child.”

Berdie smiled, stepped to the helium gas tank, and took up a balloon.

“Mrs. Elliott, there’s someone wants to see you,” Ivy trumpeted from the door where the boys had just exited.

Of course, someone wanted to see her. How many times in a day didn’t someone in a small English village want to see the vicar’s wife? How many times in the course of parish life did someone come knocking at an inopportune time? Berdie worked at knotting the end of the red, biodegradable balloon she had just filled. “Who is it?” she called against the laughter of several church youths who tied ribbons to the festive balloons.

Ivy shrugged her shoulders.

“Tell them to come back after the Ascension Fete,” Berdie directed.

Ivy nodded and ducked out the door.

Berdie passed her balloon to Martha, placed another empty balloon over the nozzle, and turned the handle that instantly shaped the red droop into a vibrant orb.

Then, Ivy backed into the church from the door and nearly stumbled.

A wiry young woman with ginger hair burst in. It appeared that whomever this woman was who had asked to see Berdie would not be denied. “Mrs. Berdie Elliott,” the anxious woman spoke loudly and examined the church inhabitants one after another. A flushed face, eyes large with anxiety, and gasps for breath indicated that this was not a casual call.

At that same moment, the balloon Berdie absently filled exploded. The blast bounced round the stone nave sending shrieks skyward and bodies downward.

The choir, who had been practicing, came to an abrupt halt.

“Mrs. Elliott, you’ve got to help me.” Above the complete silence came the terrified scream of the stranger. The woman’s untamed bristly hair was a stark contrast against her milky skin and wild pale eyes.

“Of course. I’m glad to be of help.” Berdie pushed the breathless words out. Her fifty-something-year-old heart beat like hummingbird wings, more from the balloon burst than anything else. Still, being called out in the midst of the congregation was a bit discomforting. “Let’s find a quiet corner.” Berdie approached the woman.

Hugh was already at the stranger’s side. “Can I offer some assistance?” he asked in a calming voice.

“It’s Mrs. Elliott I want.”

“Sacristy,” Hugh said. He gently took the young woman by the elbow, and with Berdie on her other side, they proceeded to the solace of the tranquil room.

Hugh seated the stranger in a comfortable overstuffed chair near the hearth where a bouquet of fresh garden flowers occupied the space normally reserved for fires in the colder months. Berdie eased her more-pudgy-than-lean body into a chair near the woman while Hugh remained on his feet.

“No disrespect to you, Vicar, but it’s your wife I want to see,” the somewhat calmed woman explained. “I want her to work for hire.”

“Hire?” Berdie asked with a sharp tone.

“What do you mean, Mrs.?” Hugh questioned.

“It’s Miss Norman, Harriett Norman. And what I mean is, I want her”—she jabbed her finger toward Berdie “—to find my sister.”

“Where is your sister?” Hugh questioned.

“For heaven’s sake.” Harriett flared. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Hugh fumbled for words.

“Miss Norman, your sister is missing and you want to hire me,” Berdie reiterated.

The woman looked from Hugh to Berdie, her brow knit. “Isn’t that what I’ve just said?”

“Hire me for what, exactly?”

The woman scowled. “What do you think? To boil my morning egg? To find my sister, of course. Word’s about that you’re a dead good detective, and I want to hire you.”

Berdie nearly laughed when she saw the shock that registered on Hugh’s face. If the woman hadn’t been so edgy, Berdie would have broken into a hearty chuckle.

“My wife is not for hire, especially for investigative work,” Hugh said firmly.

The woman turned her gaze to Berdie. “Don’t you want to help me?”

“Of course,” Berdie assured, “but am I the best person for the job?”

Hugh’s shoulders tightened. “This sounds like a police matter to me.” He pulled a mobile from his pocket.

There was a light rap at the nearly-closed door, and Lillie Foxworth unapologetically burst into the room. “Hugh, Edsel needs…” Lillie stopped abruptly. Inquisitive delight shone in her face. “Sorry for interrupting,” Lillie said with only a mild hint of apology. Her hazel-green eyes burrowed into Berdie’s. What’s going on? she mouthed.

“She’s not for hire,” Harriett responded.

“Sorry?” Lillie’s inquisitiveness turned to amusement.

“Constable Goodnight? Vicar here,” Hugh spoke into the mobile phone.

“The police were no help,” Harriett nearly screamed.

Berdie placed her hand on the woman’s arm. “You’ve spoken to them, then?” she asked in a calm voice.

The woman stomped a foot. “And what little good it did.”

Lillie put her hand over her mouth and sat. The choir-director robe that draped over her slim body made her appear almost angelic. There was a twinkle in Lillie’s eyes, and her hand covered a grin.

“Miss Harriett Norman is with me.” Hugh paused. “I’ll ask.” Hugh put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you live in Mistcome Green, Miss Norman?”

“And what if I do?” The woman frowned and eyed Hugh as if trying to decide if this vicar could be trusted.

Hugh went to a corner of the sacristy and continued the phone conversation.

“My husband wants only what’s best for you, Miss Norman.” Berdie looked reassuringly into the large, pale eyes.

“What about what’s best for my sister?” Harriett pushed her hand into her skirt pocket and retrieved a postcard. “You see?” She shoved the picture of a sunny marina dotted with palm trees into Berdie’s hand.

Lillie stood, positioning herself to peek over Berdie’s shoulder.

Berdie flipped the postcard over. It had a Portuguese postmark. Harriett, it read in what appeared to be hastily scrawled words; I’ll be back in Timsley at the end of the week with a rather wonderful surprise.

“This is your sister, I assume?”

The woman nodded her head. “I got it nearly six weeks ago.”

Lillie gave a quiet gasp.

Harriett leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair. “Now, can you help my sister?”

“Berdie,” Hugh beckoned.

Lillie took the postcard from Berdie, who arose.

“I want you to hear this for yourself.” Hugh handed the phone to her. “Mind you, heed these words. And this is the last of the matter.”

She brought the mobile to her ear as Hugh made a quiet exit. “Yes,” Berdie spoke into the mobile.

“Mrs. Elliott,” The unmistakable voice of Aidan Kirkwood’s Constable came over the phone. Albert Goodnight growled his words. “Vicar says you got that nutter there.”

“What?” Berdie frowned.

“Harriett Norman. They call her ‘the Mad Hatty’ of Mistcome Green.” The constable laughed heartily with an edge of mockery.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s in Wonderland, that one.”

Berdie understood that Goodnight was the law in Aidan Kirkwood, but she had little patience with his uncouth manner and brash incompetence to do his job. “She’s trying to find a missing relative. Harriett just showed me the postcard from her missing sister,” she said in as even a tone as she could muster.

Goodnight’s howl of laughter caused her to pull the mobile from her ear. She took a deep inhale and returned it to listening position again.

“Hatty Norman does not, never has, and never will have a sister,” Goodnight bawled.

Berdie blinked. “No?”

“Send that nutter back to Mistcome Green, and let her bother the law somewhere else.”

Silence as he rang off told Berdie that Albert Goodnight was done with the matter.

She pursed her lips and nearly throttled the mobile.

Harriett Norman clung so tightly to the arms of the chair her fingers were white.

“Are you going to find my sister?” she asked with wide eyes.

Berdie searched for the right words. Should she ask about the sister, a description, something that would make sense of things without creating turmoil? There was definitely a postcard addressed to Harriett from someone. The need and concern the young woman displayed appeared very real.

“Of course, she will find your sister.”

Berdie’s delay in responding made room for Lillie to fill the momentary silence.

“She’s wonderful. She’ll get to the bottom of this in no time.”

Harriett released her grip on the chair. Her eyes grew more serene, and her shoulders relaxed. A huge grin spread across her face that had now dismissed the furrowed forehead. She jumped to her feet with what seemed a sense of fresh wellbeing. “I’m ever so grateful.”

“Now, Miss Norman…” Berdie began.

“I’ll just see Harriett to the door,” Lillie interrupted Berdie’s train of thought once more.

“Lillie, I’m not at all sure…”

Harriett acquiesced to Lillie’s guiding hand on her elbow.

“We’ll be getting in touch with you soon, Miss Norman,” Lillie pattered as she and Harriett walked out the sacristy door.

No sister? Really? How often had Goodnight gotten his so-called information from sitting around a late night table with the lads at the local pub, the Upland Arms? The pub certainly was not the most reliable source.

Harriett seemed so relieved that someone was willing to help. Still, at this moment, Berdie couldn’t possibly commit to Harriett’s task, even sorting out the real from the fantasy. She must get on with the events at hand. She returned to the church nave.

Lillie deposited Miss Norman at the church door and sent her on her way. Despite her entrance, few noticed the woman’s departure.

“Lillie.” Berdie grabbed Lillie’s hand as the choirmaster raced toward the choir.

Lillie abruptly stopped.

Berdie took hold of the angel-wing like sleeve of the choral robe and gently shook it.

“What are you doing?” Lillie scoffed.

“Just looking for your little mouse.”

“What?”

“We will be getting in touch with you, Miss Norman. Of course we can help.”

Lillie leaned close to Berdie. She made her voice barely audible but the spark in her eyes spoke thunderously. “Don’t tell me, my dear friend, that you aren’t keen as mustard to find Miss Norman’s sister.”

“There’s more to it, Lillie.”

Lillie’s eyes widened. “When is there not?” She almost giggled.

“Miss Foxworth.” The bright, but tentative tenor voice of Linden Davies pierced the clandestine conversation as he called from the choir. “I need your assistance, please.”

Lillie nodded to Linden as Loren, who stood near him, eyed the needy fellow.

“We’ll talk later,” Berdie said.

“Oh, indeed we shall.” Lillie beamed. “An adventure is in the making, I shouldn’t wonder.” With that, Lillie scurried to the aid of her protégé.

“Adventure.” Berdie loved the opportunity of it, but rarely found it came without misfortune for some poor soul.

“That’s it for the balloons, then.” Ivy’s full moon cheeks decorated the edges of her cheerful smile.

Berdie took in the balloons that were cellotaped to the back of some pews. “I hope we have more balloons than children tomorrow and not the other way round.”

“I shouldn’t worry.” Ivy’s optimistic sparkle danced. “I’m sure everything tomorrow will be tickety-boo.”

“Tickety-boo,” Berdie repeated as she reviewed in her mind the colorful people she had met today. She took a deep inhale. “From your mouth to God’s ear, Ivy.”