9

 

Berdie snuggled into the comfortable armchair, one of several sprinkled throughout the club drawing room, opened her book, and waved Hugh and Grayson Webb on their way to the men’s changing room and a relaxing swim. “Now you must enjoy yourselves for as long as you please,” Berdie insisted.

Ten minutes in, Berdie decided it was time.

Hugh and Grayson would now be pacing their strokes through the water.

She wasn’t entirely sure just what she was looking for, but she had the sense she would know when she found it. A ripple of enthusiasm surged within and she launched into a walk about.

What first? “Outdoor terrace,” she whispered.

Lavish garden furniture held an abundance of lovelies in skimpy attire, both men and women, soaking up the sun. Many didn’t even appear to have stuck so much as a toe in the swimming pool. And it would seem a flirty air permeated the gathered bunch. But then it was late spring, after all.

Passing an especially amorous fellow who ogled her, Berdie coughed, bringing her left hand to her mouth where she hoped he could clearly see her wedding band. It didn’t seem to detract his stare. Whatever insight she was seeking, she was sure this patio did not hold it, and became suddenly aware she was quite peckish. She’d not had anything to eat since her pot of tea with Hugh at the Copper Kettle. Just a quick bite of something would do, and she could return to her task at hand. “Excuse me,” she spoke to a couple strolling past. “Is there a café here?”

The woman took her gaze off her companion just long enough to offer a brief--”Main entrance, next to the indoor pool”--and moved on.

“Sorry to have troubled,” Berdie offered. When Berdie found it, the glass door to the café, which read “Healthy spoken here” was held open for her by a gentlemen, who by his gear, was a member of the bowls team. As she made way to the bar where smoothies and other treats were being served up, she felt rather conspicuously overdressed in the trousers and blouse that had suited her morning outing.

Conversations spun from the tables of people enjoying fine fare along a glass wall that overlooked the indoor pool.

Then she spotted a familiar face.

Preston Graystone, Aidan Kirkwood’s own solicitor, sat at a table. Leaning back in his chair with legs extended, the widower and father of Cara Graystone Donovan was swathed in what looked to be a very large bath towel, but indeed, was a sort of robe. Its soft texture stood in stark contrast to Mr. Graystone’s angular fifty-something features.

With him was a woman who looked to be close to his age, gray-blond hair swept up and fastened. Her long legs were crossed beneath a short rose-colored wrap that only half covered her white bathing costume. Both she and Preston sipped what looked to be some sort of tomato juice cocktails, chatting as if seated seaside on the Costa del Sol.

Berdie’s intrigue about Mr. Graystone and friend pulled her like a giant magnet and she approached their table.

“Mrs. Elliott,” Preston called out. “What a surprise seeing you here.”

The woman eyed Berdie.

“Hugh and I are guests of Mr. Webb,” Berdie informed the man, who was generally just cordial enough not to be considered offensive.

“Oh, I see,” Preston offered in an almost enthusiastic tone. He didn’t stand.

Berdie glanced at the woman.

“Yes. Mrs. Elliott, this is a colleague of mine, Mrs. Audrey Wenn-Patton.”

“Hello Mrs. Wenn-Patton.” The moment Berdie said it, she sparked. Wenn-Patton. Preston’s colleague. Could this be the advisor of whom Elise Davies spoke of with such displeasure whilst pruning her garden? How many legal Wenn-Pattons could there be?

A broad smile highlighted by lustrous lips greeted Berdie along with a friendly, “Won’t you join us?”

Mr. Graystone looked admiringly at the woman. Perhaps this explained his buoyant attitude.

“Do fetch a chair, Preston,” Audrey directed.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Berdie prevaricated politely.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Wenn-Patton patted the table and took another sip of her drink.

Preston didn’t appear to be especially thrilled with Audrey’s invitation to Berdie, but set to dragging an empty chair from a nearby table.

“So, you and Mr. Graystone are colleagues,” Berdie reiterated.

“How many years has it been?” The woman looked at the ceiling and released a puff of air. “More years than I care to remember, I dare say.”

Mr. Graystone placed the chair at the table and Berdie seated herself with a “Thank you.”

“Mrs. Elliott’s husband is the vicar in Aidan Kirkwood,” Graystone lifted his brows as he spoke.

“Oh, very well done.” Audrey’s words seemed to frivolously bump into one another.

“You said Mrs. Wenn-Patton is a colleague,” Berdie redirected.

“A fine solicitor.” Preston raised his glass to the woman, who did likewise. Both took another swallow.

Cocktail glass in hand, the woman continued. “I was a solicitor, well, still am, really, but no longer in private practice.”

“Audrey, Mrs. Wenn-Patton, chairs Timsley’s Council on Aging.” Preston spoke with almost hallowed tones.

Audrey smiled and leaned back. “As I’m joining the ranks of the wrinklies, I jolly well want to have a say in the policies the government develops for us. Right, Preston?”

Mr. Graystone flushed a bit.

Berdie wanted to let go a good laugh, but only allowed a wide grin.

“Audrey’s not one to beat about the bushes.”

She leaned toward Berdie. “When I became a solicitor, it was a man’s game, and I had to learn to wield the bat with the best of them.”

“Yes, I should think,” Berdie agreed.

“Mrs. Elliott may have a sense of that.” Preston whirled the celery stick of his cocktail in lazy circles. “Before her occupation with church affairs, she was an investigative journalist. Quite good, by all accounts.”

Berdie worked at not showing her surprise.

Preston was not only conversational, but complimentary.

Mrs. Wenn-Patton lit up like a summer sunrise and raised her glass to Berdie. “All girls together.”

Berdie tipped her head to the woman.

Audrey frowned as if she realized all at once. “Preston, Mrs. Elliott is empty handed.” She lowered her voice. “I’m afraid a traditional morning cocktail that mixes organic tomato juice with a hint of Russian bite is the closest thing I can abide for a health drink. You have to get them in the dining room of the café where they serve full meals. Angelo fixes us up.” She looked at Preston. “We must remedy this, and it’s your round, I believe.” She lifted her chin with expectation.

It tickled Berdie to see the man who was generally gruff and distant, the legal mind of Aidan Kirkwood, dance to the tune of Audrey Wenn-Patton’s commands. He stood. “Of course. Excuse me, ladies.” The man ambled off.

Berdie jumped on the opportunity to sound out the slightly mellowed Wenn-Patton. “Actually, Mrs. Wenn-Patton, I’m in the course of an investigation unofficially, as we speak. A missing persons.”

“Are you?” The woman closed one eye and peered at Berdie with the other. “You need legal advice.”

“Well, not as such. But I am curious if you may have any information on a specific client.”

“There’s client confidentiality, you know. Still, out with it.”

“Have you ever had any official dealings with a Mrs. Olivia Mikalos?”

“Ah, Mikalos.”

“You have, then.”

“No,” the solicitor said baldly. “But, I was once in the employ of the team that did legal work for Spiro Mikalos, her husband.”

Berdie felt her itch for discovery outweighing her sense of propriety on legal ethics. “It’s a matter of the will.”

Audrey’s shaped brows rose. “I’m assuming we’re not speaking of will as in inner resolve.”

“No.”

“Spiro Mikalos was a bit, shall we say, unconventional.”

“How unconventional?” flew from Berdie’s lips.

Mrs. Wenn-Patton ran a finger down her slender drinks glass.

Berdie replayed the husky words, ‘examine the money’ in her mind. She hadn’t considered the fortunes of Olivia’s husband. “It’s just that it could be a primary thread in finding Olivia Mikalos. She’s in dangerous trouble, I’m sure of it. Can you help? All girls together?”

The woman took a deep breath. “Technically, the man’s no longer my client. But you know I cannot disclose that kind of information.”

“No, of course not.” Berdie wanted to shake the woman into divulging what she knew, but at the same moment understood her legal position.

Audrey’s gaze wandered to a nearby table. “To change the subject entirely,” she smiled, “that family seems to be enjoying themselves.” She nodded her head toward a mother, father, and two children clad in swim wear, all seated at a table.

Berdie looked their direction.

No one seemed especially cheerful.

“I did notice that the father brought a fully laden food tray to the table.”

“As fathers often do,” Berdie offered in vacant patter wondering why this information was even vocalized.

“Ah, and now he’s departing.” Audrey nodded again at the family.

Berdie watched the father dash off, towel in hand, probably for a swim.

The solicitor leaned toward Berdie. “He brought a full tray to the table.” She dropped her chin.

“You said.” Berdie studied Mrs. Wenn-Patton’s eyes that had a special sparkle. “He, the father, brought a laden tray, yes. I see.”

Audrey leaned back in her chair. “He’s left mother, for the most part, to dole out the food to the children.”

“Yes, he has.” Berdie now watched the family closely as the mother took smoothies from the tray and placed them before the two squirming youngsters.

“You know, the father may have wanted his children to wait some period of time before they actually got to eat their food.”

Berdie tipped her head. “How long, exactly?”

The woman shrugged. “Perhaps some minutes after he left the table. But children being children, it could seem like five years.”

“Yes, well, he wouldn’t want them to get tummy ache after swimming. That is, best to calm down, resist gobbling?”

“Calm down, indeed.” Audrey took another quick sip of her drink. “He may even appoint a person of trust to keep the smoothies in hand, and then see that each child gets theirs at the appropriately elapsed time.”

“Yes. I see.” Her thoughts were aligning information. “But, now, mother still holds the lion’s share of the tray of goods.” Berdie no longer eyed the table of innocent characters in the unfolding revelation.

Audrey nodded. “It looks like the children will each get a smoothie, but Mummy gets a smoothie plus three sandwiches and three bags of crisps.”

Berdie faced the ‘advisor’ squarely.

“So, the offspring get their smoothie at the appropriate time from a trusted friend, and eventually, when Mum also leaves the table like Daddy, they get whatever she hasn’t eaten herself. And that could be a full tray or merely a bag of crisps.”

Audrey simply smiled.

“And if Mummy should leave the table prematurely, before the proper time has elapsed for the children to begin sipping their smoothies?”

“The little ones will get the lot, the entirety of the edibles Daddy brought to the table.”

“Do they, indeed?”

Preston Graystone seemed to arrive from nowhere and sat three lovely tomato juice cocktails on the table. “You seem deep in conversation.”

Audrey and Berdie exchanged glances.

“We were just talking about families,” Berdie quickly responded.

“Thank you, Preston.” Audrey placed her hand on his momentarily, sipped the last of her drink and took up the replacement. “Preston’s been such a good friend since my ex-husband decided to hang his hat on another’s peg rail.”

Preston quickly pointed toward the pool. “Isn’t that the vicar?”

Berdie turned her gaze just in time to see Hugh pull himself out of the water, and grab his nearby towel.

“That’s your vicar?” Audrey asked with whipped cream on her tongue.

“Yes, that’s my husband,” Berdie responded quite pointedly.

“Our vicar’s with the council chairman.” Mr. Graystone nodded toward the pool as Grayson Webb emerged.

“You’re familiar with them?” Audrey addressed Preston and took another slow sip of Russian bite.

“Mr. Graystone attends church regularly,” Berdie answered.

“Why haven’t you taken me to church with you?” Audrey swept her gaze to the pool.

Preston Graystone’s eyes widened, while he appeared to collect his words. “But you never said.”

“It would be a delight to see you there.” Berdie made sure her tone was circumspect. “Perhaps you could bring Audrey this Sunday, Mr. Graystone?”

Preston Graystone tapped a finger on the table. “If Audrey is so inclined.”

Audrey just smiled and nodded toward the glass window.

Hugh, by now wrapped in his towel, tipped his head toward Aidan Kirkwood’s solicitor, then flashed his wondrous smile at Berdie and nodded toward the exit. “Meet you in reception, love,” was barely audible through the glass.

Berdie smiled. “I’ll be there.” As Hugh and Grayson made way from the pool, she looked at the composed Mrs. Wenn-Patton and stood. “Thank you for your hospitality. I appreciate our discussion about family life.” She then eyed Preston, who seemed none too sad that she was departing. “Perhaps I’ll see both of you in church Sunday.”

The village solicitor tipped his head.

Audrey interrupted her swig of cocktail just long enough to offer a wet, “Lovely chat.”

As Berdie made her way to reception, she marveled. The information she had just gleaned from this clever woman and solicitor was far more than she anticipated finding here, and in a completely unexpected vein. But then, it seemed it often went that way in God’s economy.

Then she considered the raspy-voiced caller. Who was he? How could he know such intimate details concerning the Mikalos fortunes? She had ‘examined the money’ and came up with a great deal of information. But as yet, she still didn’t know where Olivia Mikalos was, nor who may have secreted her away. But she felt fairly confident she now knew the why. And it was all to do with love of money.

Berdie didn’t wait long for Hugh in reception.

“Did you enjoy your paddle?” She gave a brief squeeze to Hugh’s hand. He looked refreshed and smart in his clerical collar.

“It was a bit quick, but there’s no better way to get the juices flowing.”

“Where’s Grayson?”

“He’s staying on.”

Hugh opened the door for Berdie. On the way to the car she had to work to keep step with him. “Where’s the fire?” she quipped.

“Oh, sorry, love. Am I moving too quickly? It’s just that I have an appointment.”

“You didn’t say.”

“No. As a matter of fact, Grayson just set it up. He met a fellow this week, new to the village, who’s interested in a pastoral call, and now’s a good time.”

“Who is it?”

“A Mr. Broadhouse.”

Berdie caught her breath and took a slight wobble.

“All right, love?” Hugh slowed. “We’re meeting at Barlow Gardens. I was hoping to go straight away, on our way home, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? It’s at the top of my list of things to do on a late spring afternoon.”

Hugh laughed.

Little did he know that Berdie couldn’t be more serious, nor could he see the verbal spade she had at hand to dig into the content of the conversation Mr. Broadhouse shared with Elise Davies this morning at the bakery.

 

****

 

Barlow Gardens was situated in an area just a mile or so off the main road that ran from Timsley to Aidan Kirkwood.

Berdie couldn’t help but wonder why they were meeting in that spot. This would be her first time visiting the gardens.

They arrived at the small decorative sign that announced Barlow Gardens, parked, exited, and began to walk the garden path. It was a feast for the senses. The striking colors of the flora and fauna were highlighted by their scents.

Berdie was sure she heard the call of a nightingale among the wrens and finches who heralded the warm season amongst trees and shrubbery.

With virtually not another person in sight, there was a kind of peacefulness about the place that invited sweet thoughts and a shedding of cares.

Still, they were here on a mission of sorts.

“Why are we meeting him here?” Berdie asked Hugh.

“Apparently, he was in the area when Grayson called him about a visit. Whatever the reason, it works well schedule-wise.”

“Where exactly are we going?” Berdie puffed a bit while keeping pace with Hugh up a slight incline.

“There’s a folly,” Hugh explained.

On the path before them, Berdie spied a writhing creature. “Ahh.” Berdie grimaced. “It’s a snake. What’s wrong with it?”

Hugh gave a quiet chuckle. “It’s just a little garden helper in the midst of one of God’s everyday miracles. He’s changing his outgrown clothes. Let’s not alarm him.”

“Shouldn’t he be doing that somewhere more private?”

“I don’t believe snakes have changing rooms.”

Berdie eyed her husband. “Very droll.”

Hugh took Berdie’s hand and drew her off the path with him to delicately move through a grassy area and avoid the creature. Back on the path, Berdie and Hugh rounded an especially large hawthorn tree, populated with bright pink blooms, and spotted the folly ahead.

Appearing as a Grecian temple of sorts, it had Doric columns shadowing a lovely colonnade with benches, one of which contained a silver-gray-haired man of pleasant features, nicely dressed, and an arm in a sling: Mr. Broadhouse. He rubbed his free hand on his knee while looking across the horizon that stretched before him.

When she and Hugh arrived, the fellow stood with some apparent discomfort. Moisture formed above his brow, and a guarded smile was his greeting. “It’s wonderful of you to meet me like this,” he welcomed. “Gavin Broadhouse.”

“Reverend Hugh Elliott.” Hugh gave a responsive nod. “And this is my wife, Berdie.”

When Berdie smiled, the gentleman’s gaze clung to her. “My absolute delight.” He gave a gracious tip of his head whilst still keeping his ogle.

She wasn’t about to be taken in by his obvious charm. Something troubled her memory as it had when she saw him at the bakery. She was certain she should know the fellow. And there was something about his tie’s colorful design that looked familiar.

Mr. Broadhouse turned his attention to Hugh. “I didn’t realize your dear lady would accompany you. A wonderful spot to share together.”

Hugh cleared his throat. “This is a lovely area.”

Berdie sat down on a bench opposite the fellow.

Mr. Broadhouse returned to his seat.

Hugh wedged next to Berdie on the bijou bench.

“Some of my favorite moments have been in this garden.” Broadhouse released a slow exhale.

“We’ve passed this many times, but didn’t realize it was here.” Hugh put his arm around Berdie.

“That’s one of its most attractive features; it’s solitude. It was once part of the Barlow estate.”

That was the second time today Berdie heard of the past glories concerning the Barlow estate.

“Have you had opportunity to meet many people in Aidan Kirkwood, apart from Mr. Webb?” Hugh asked.

“No, not as such. Well, my generous and kind landlady.”

“You’re living in the garret flat at Swallow Gate,” Berdie announced.

“Are you?” Hugh wore surprise. “Miss Foxworth is our choirmaster for the church, although currently on holiday.”

“Yes, Cornwall, I believe she said.” Gavin nodded.

“Portugal,” Hugh corrected.

Mr. Broadhouse tipped his head. “Portugal? Are you sure? She told me she was visiting family in Cornwall for a few days.”

“Her plans changed,” Hugh quipped.

Gavin Broadhouse simply nodded.

“Elise Davies, you’ve met her, as well.” Berdie could hear a slight edge in her voice. She watched the fellow’s jaw make an ever-so-slight jut.

“Yes, but then, she doesn’t live in Aidan Kirkwood, Mrs. Elliott.”

“You do know where she lives, then.”

She felt Hugh’s corrective thumb pressing on her back, but she continued.

“I saw you speak with her just outside House of Helensfield Bakery earlier today. Do you know her well?”

Mr. Broadhouse took a shallow breath and shifted in his seat.

“We were there as a part of a church function.” Hugh emphasized the word church with a quick glare at Berdie.

Mr. Broadhouse looked at the floor of the picturesque shelter. “Very observant, Mrs. Elliott.”

“There’s very little that escapes my scrutiny, and, quite frankly, Mrs. Davies didn’t appear to especially relish the chat.”

Hugh’s entire hand now wrapped around and gave Berdie’s shoulder a tight, admonishing squeeze. “I’m sure whatever you were doing at the bakery is entirely your own business, Mr. Broadhouse.” Hugh said it to the fellow, but Berdie knew it was meant for her as well.

The man ran a stiff thumb cross his chin as his forehead became increasingly moist.

“I can’t help but notice your unfortunate circumstances.” Hugh glanced at the man’s arm in the sling.

Something sparked in Berdie’s put-it-together mind. Mr. Broadhouse’s attractive features, the tie he wore, that house, not being truly known in the village, could he be that fellow? “There was a hit and run accident in Timsley yesterday evening.” The words tumbled out her mouth. “May I ask, were you the victim?”

Hugh’s thumb dug so deeply into Berdie’s back, she almost gave a yip.

Mr. Broadhouse reared his head back. Then a gentle smile appeared. “Yes, I read about that in the paper. If only it were something that dramatic.” He rubbed the fingers protruding from his sling. “As embarrassed as I am to speak of it in the hearing of a lovely lady, I’m afraid I came off some stairs at a building site where I’m consulting.”

“How long will you wear the sling?” Hugh quickly jumped in.

“Not long. It’s the ribs that may take some time to heal.”

“Ribs, as well.” Hugh studied the fellow. “That must have been quite a nasty tumble.”

Mr. Broadhouse glanced back out at the horizon.

Pull the other one. Berdie wanted to resume her needling for more information about his acquaintance with Elsie Davies. “How did you meet Elise Davies?”

He cast an eye toward Berdie.

She thought he had the look of a fish struggling to get out of a net.

“I met Elise Davies when I was seeing her mother, Olivia Mikalos.”

“Indeed,” Berdie said in a low voice.

“Olivia and I were,” he rubbed his hand on his knee, “keeping company together. But not for long, I’m afraid. Seven months ago, after just a short time together, we parted. It had to end.” The fellow’s voice sounded rather tentative as he turned his head once again to observe the vista of sky and garden. “I’m married, you see.”

Lillie’s words, “his wife and children live in Leeds,” toppled through Berdie’s memory. She glanced at his bare left ring finger. Why would Elise greet him with a smile if she had found him out? What prompted her display of discontent when he departed? Berdie had bucket-loads of questions for this randy fellow.

“Yes, I can see that would be problematic.” Hugh’s voice was clear.

Berdie prepared to launch into several questions, but Hugh cut her off.

“Mr. Broadhouse, I can see this is rather difficult for you.” Hugh spoke gently. “Would you consider getting together at church, or perhaps at your home in Swallow Gate, to continue this discussion where we would be unattended?”

Berdie thrust her glare toward Hugh. Unattended? Why not just say ‘Woman, go to the car so this ruinous fellow and I can speak without you putting your oar in?’ She took a deep breath and bit her tongue. Yes, this was a pastoral call. But this man could be a critical link in finding Mrs. Mikalos.

Hugh’s lips pursed. “Berdie?”

Berdie was aware that it was his professional duty to see to the confidential wellbeing of those who earnestly desired it, and Broadhouse presently resided in the parish. Plus, he did have at least the scent of an earnest truth seeker. Why else would he have wanted to meet with Hugh?

She certainly knew where to find the man. “If that suits you Mr. Broadhouse, perhaps it would be best.”

Hugh was on his feet before the gentleman could breathe out his, “Very gracious of you, Mrs. Elliott.”

Berdie felt Hugh’s hand on her elbow, raising her to a standing position more quickly than a disturbed mother hen. “We’ll continue our conversation,” Hugh assured Mr. Broadhouse. “Are you aware of Mrs. Mikalos’ present situation?”

The man rose with a labored breath and nodded. “I saw the Kirkwood paper this morning.” A glint of moisture appeared in the corner of his eye.

Berdie wasn’t sure if it was grief, or simply pain from his injuries.

His face flushed. “Despite things being as they are, I’m very fond of her.”

“Berdie, go on ahead. I’ll catch you up.” Hugh motioned toward the path.

Berdie had to force herself to step away from the folly. Though she moved forward, she glanced over her shoulder.

Hugh handed a church information card to the man.

Continuing a few steps further, she looked again.

Hugh and Mr. Broadhouse exchanged what appeared to be cordial words.

In less than a minute, Hugh was next to her and put his arm around her waist scooting her along the garden path. “Back to the car as quickly as possible,” he commanded. “We’ll talk there.” Once in the car, Hugh took to the road like a hound on the chase. “Two things of which I want you to be acutely aware, Berdie.” Hugh’s left eyebrow nearly skyrocketed off his forehead. “First, church affairs, especially a pastoral call, is not a playground for your investigative probing. Why didn’t you tell me you were familiar with the man?” Before she could answer, Hugh went on. “I was under the impression that this appointment was to be nothing more than an informational welcome to visit church. But, it was obviously much more.”

Berdie summoned her words of defense.

But Hugh didn’t stop. “And secondly, I do not want you anywhere near that fellow.”

“You felt something was off, as well.”

“I observed a man in turmoil of whatever making. Off or not, I felt pity for the fellow while you recklessly poked away with your verbal intrusions and not-so-cloaked accusations.”

Berdie took his reprimand about pastoral calls to heart. Hugh was right. “I’m sorry, Hugh, for anything that disrupted your purposes.”

His eyebrow rested at its appointed place. “Let’s just pray it hasn’t put Mr. Broadhouse off altogether.”

Berdie plunged into her justification concerning his second demand. “Broadhouse could have something to do with Mrs. Mikalos’ disappearance. I need to see him. He’s hiding something, Hugh.”

“So it would seem, his behavior gave some indication of that. But unlike you, I’m not ready to place him in a hangman’s noose just yet. He’s trying to communicate, and it’s my job to hear him out and deal with him as is fit for my profession. Is that clear?”

Berdie sighed.

“You are not to go within a mile of him.”

“In that case, I’ll have to move out of the village, won’t I? And who then would prepare your afternoon tea?” Berdie hoped to create some levity.

But, Hugh wasn’t having it. “This is non-negotiable.”

Berdie took a deep breath. “As you say.” She answered without protest, though it pained her to do so. Allow forty eight hours to lapse, let Hugh carry on, and see what comes. That was the closest she could come to a promise of nonintervention concerning this full-of-flannel Mr. Broadhouse fellow. After that, it would be all systems go.