Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read Online Free Page A

the kitchen, Grant resumed the chair he’d occupied earlier. I took a seat in the chair next to his and bent to scratch Matisse behind the ears.
    “You parried Millicent’s thrusts beautifully,” I commented.
    “I put her on the defensive by taking the moral high ground,” Grant allowed, “but I’m not sure she believed me. I’ve lived in Finch for too long to have scruples about minding other people’s business.”
    I sat up and turned to face him. “Why didn’t you come straight out and tell Millicent about Mae Bowen?”
    “Because the longer we keep Mae Bowen’s secret, the better off we’ll be,” Grant replied. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lori. It’s an honor to have such a distinguished artist in our midst, but it’s an honor that could cost us dearly.”
    He was about to elaborate when Charles returned with two oversized snifters containing generous tots of brandy. He handed one to Grant, then seated himself behind the desk and drank from his own.
    “Thank you, Charles,” said Grant, after taking a restorative sip. “Shall we carry on where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted?”
    “Certainly,” said Charles. “I was about to explain to Lori why Mae Bowen’s behavior seems so particularly peculiar.” He cupped his hands around his snifter and leaned back in his chair. “You see, Lori, Mae Bowen has become something of a cult figure. Her acolytes have developed a philosophy of life based on her art.”
    “They call themselves Bowenists,” Grant elaborated, “and their philosophy is based on the direct perception of the universe. They regard Bowen as a sort of guru whose paintings demonstrate the correct way to view nature.”
    “They’re a great nuisance,” said Charles, with a disparaging sniff. “They show up at every exhibition and stand for hours before each painting, meditating. One has to elbow them aside in order to view the painting oneself.”
    “Bowen has never done anything to encourage them,” said Grant, “but in a strange way, her lack of encouragement has strengthened their faith in her. They see her reticence as a form of integrity.”
    “The filthy hypocrites,” Charles said disgustedly. “They say that they respect her need for privacy, yet they follow her everywhere, pelting her with questions and requests. She has to have a security escort whenever she makes a public appearance.”
    “Do her acolytes follow her home?” I asked.
    “I’m afraid they do,” said Grant. “Before she moved here, she evaded them by living on a gated estate similar to your father-in-law’s.”
    I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Mae Bowen gave up a gated estate for Pussywillows ? I mean, it’s a sweet little cottage, but it’s no Fairworth House. Why would she make such a radical change?”
    “Peculiar, eh?” Charles clucked his tongue sadly. “Pussywillows offers her no protection whatsoever from her worshipers. She’s made herself a sitting duck.”
    “Not necessarily,” I said. I was proud of my village, but I was also aware of its limitations. “Finch isn’t exactly the center of the art world. Finch isn’t the center of any world, except ours. She may feel safer here than she did on her estate.”
    “If so, she’s deluding herself,” said Grant. “Finch may be a backwater, but it doesn’t have a moat. Once word gets out that Mae Bowen is here, the Bowenists will flock to Finch.”
    “They’re not dangerous, are they?” I asked.
    “No,” Charles said. “They may be nutters, but they’re law-abiding nutters.”
    “They wouldn’t harm her physically,” Grant agreed. “But emotionally? Psychologically? Spiritually? They could destroy her. And they could do a great deal of harm to Finch.”
    “How could they harm Finch?” I asked, suddenly alert.
    “By changing it out of all recognition,” Grant replied. “Finch could become a center for New Age pilgrims.”
    “Hippies camping on the green?” I suggested tentatively. “Rainbow-colored