Wherever Lynn Goes by Jennifer Wilde Page A

wheel. After declaring herself enchanted with the countryside, she promptly ignored it—and picked up another Brad Carter thriller. We had lunched at the side of the road, snacking in between, and neither of us had so much as mentioned the murder.
    It was almost five before reached Devon. We drove past a sprawling, majestic gray stone mansion set far back from the road, surrounded by formal gardens. It was over three hundred years old, festooned with turrets and battlements, rich with history and tradition. Bright red flowers grew in pots placed at intervals along the marble balustrade around the patio, and several giant oaks cast cool shadows over the lush green lawns. It looked like something out of a guidebook, and, indeed, tourists could tour it for a fee during certain months of the year.
    â€œWhat a lovely place,” Mandy remarked, turning to look back. “Do you know who owns it?”
    â€œThe local Lord. He owns most of the land around here, as well as the textile mill that employs many of the villagers. I don’t remember his name, but I do remember his son.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œA perfectly horrid little boy. He used to chase me through the woods at least once a week. One time he tied me to a tree and left me there to starve.”
    â€œReally?” She was fascinated. “Whatever happened to him?”
    â€œHe eventually went away to school. I think there was an older brother, but I never met him.”
    â€œIt must have been lovely growing up around here,” Mandy said thoughtfully. “All these trees, everything so quaint—”
    â€œIt was hell, believe me.”
    We róùnded a curve and, in the distance, caught our first glimpse of Cooper’s Green. The textile mill was over a mile away, its chunky gray bulk and huge smokestacks hidden behind a hill. Fortunately, it did nothing to mar the beauty of the town. The river that twisted its way through Cooper’s Green had several old stone bridges spanning it, and there were many trees to shade the pavements. Small and thriving, the village was undeniably modern, but there was a turn-of-the-century charm, despite the cinema, the Woolworth’s, the television antennas perched atop roomy Victorian houses and cottages mellowed with age. There were two historic old churches, and the shops and business establishments surrounding the square were uniformly faded, brown and yellow and tan, adorned with peeling white gingerbread woodwork. People turned to stare as we drove through the village. We must have presented an incongruous sight in the battered old Rolls.
    â€œWhat a divine little tea shop,” Mandy exclaimed. “I’ll bet they actually serve cucumber sandwiches and frosted cakes. Look at that character strolling into the pub. This is enchanting, Lynn, so serene. Of course, I wouldn’t want to live here.”
    â€œPerish the thought.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œI promised Sergeant Duncan I’d stop by the station house. I think the constable wants to talk to me.”
    â€œThat should be interesting.”
    â€œMandy, you—you’ll behave, won’t you?”
    â€œWhatever do you mean?”
    â€œYou won’t ask a lot of questions, play private detective?”
    â€œ Me? I just came along for the ride, pet.”
    The red brick station house with its sloping roof was surrounded by oak trees. Untidy beds of daffodils grew in front. Although there were bars over the rear windows, it looked cozy and, inviting with the bicycles parked at one side and a shaggy brown-and-white sheepdog snoozing contentedly on the front steps. He lifted his head and gave us an inquisitive look as we got out of the car, then yawned and went back to sleep. Mandy stretched, the skirt of her yellow dress billowing. She looked fresh and glorious, whereas I was travel-worn and weary, my own dress deplorably wrinkled. We had to step over the dog as we entered.
    The tan