he claimed, from Bringham. Dixie’s image of something out of a Regency romance didn’t last long. The coach proved to be nothing more exotic than a long distance bus. The so-called “express” bus made a dozen stops in a couple of hours. Dixie vowed to walk next time. Shoot, there wouldn’t be a next time. She should have taken the lawyer’s advice and let him sell the house and send her the proceeds. She settled back in the surprisingly comfortable seat and shut her eyes. Time to catch up on lost sleep.
“I’m sorry but I think you’re in my seat.” Dixie blinked. The reincarnation of Miss Marple half-smiled at her.
Dixie’s neighbor settled with a flurry of packages and a gracious smile and chatted for the next hour. Or rather nattered on while Dixie listened to details of Miss Marple’s married son, his wife’s taste in kitchen decor and her grandsons’ success in football. Dixie knew enough to know she meant soccer, however she did learn that Leatherhead was one word.
“Here’s your stop, the same as mine,” her neighbor announced and Dixie found herself and her suitcases on the sidewalk.
“Someone picking you up?” her companion asked.
“I thought I could get a taxi.” Truth was, she hadn’t thought beyond the bus ride and had no idea how far she still had to go. “I’m going to Bringham.”
“Bring’em,” she said and Dixie made a mental note to remember to swallow the ‘h’ like everyone else. She held out a wrinkled but surprisingly strong hand. “I’m Ida Collins. My son will give you a lift. He lives near Bringham. Stanley,” she said to the man who’d appeared on the sidewalk with a young boy. “This young lady needs a ride to Bringham. No sense in her wasting money on a taxi.”
Stanley took this in his stride. Maybe his mother foisted strangers on him all the time. “If it’s not too much trouble….” Dixie began. She figured she’d be safe. Rogues and abductors wouldn’t have a small boy trailing behind them.
Stanley grinned. “Nah. We live in East Horsley, it’s on the way.”
“I’ve got luggage.”
“We’ve plenty of space. I brought the Rolls. Mum likes it.”
Stanley, with his blue jeans and zippered windbreaker didn’t quite fit the Rolls-Royce image, but the coach hadn’t matched her imagination either. “Thanks, I’m really grateful. My name’s Dixie LePage.” She held out her hand.
He took it. “How do you do? Stanley Collins. You’ve met my mum, Ida, and here’s Joey.”
Dixie smiled at a small boy, complete with freckles, Dallas Cowboys’ sweatshirt, and a Chicago Bulls’ cap. “Hello,” he said through a wad of chewing gum.
Settled on the butter-soft leather upholstery, Dixie appreciated why Ida liked the Rolls. “Beautiful car,” Dixie said, eying the rosewood dashboard and the soft carpet.
She’d said the right thing. Stanley beamed. “Best one we have. We keep it for weddings mostly—and picking up Mum,” he added with a chuckle.
Dixie’s jet-lagged mind clicked. “You rent it out?”
“Right you are! Collins Car Hire. That’s me. If you ever need a car…”
“I do. Like now. You have regular cars?” She leaned over the high seat back, wide awake at the prospect of transportation.
Stanley grinned. “What’s a regular car? I’ve a nice little Metro on the lot and a Fiesta due back in Saturday.”
“I’ll take whatever you have today.” Dixie would have handed over her plastic money there and then.
Stanley chuckled. “You Americans make up your minds quickly.”
“I made up my mind hours ago. The airport rental companies couldn’t deliver.”
Stanley grinned. “Cheers then! Let me drop Mum and I’ll take you down to the shop.”
The Metro turned out to be a small, red car—stick shift, but Dixie could handle that.
Stanley called Joey over to look at her license. South Carolina driver’s licenses were an obvious novelty here. For her address, she gave the one Mr. Caughleigh had written, Orchard House, Bringham. “That’s all I have. No street or number I’m afraid.”
Stanley’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. “You’re living at Orchard House? You bought it or renting or something?”
“I’ve inherited it. It was my great-aunts’.”
“Sheesh!” Stanley muttered between tight lips, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You’re an Underwood?” He made Underwoods sound like roaches.
“My grandmother was. She died just before Faith Underwood.”
Stanley Collins sucked in his cheeks and looked Dixie up and down like a secondhand car of doubtful provenance. “I heard there was another sister who ran off with an American during the war.”
Gran would laugh at that one. She and Charlie Reilly were married in the Grosvenor Chapel with his commanding officer’s blessing, even if Gran’s sisters had boycotted the ceremony. “That was my Gran.”
Stanley rubbed at an invisible mark on the car hood. “Mentioned this to Mum, did you?”
“It never came up. Did she know my aunts?”
Stanley shrugged and looked away, intent on aligning the windshield wiper blades. “Everyone knew them. Interesting old ladies but you’d know that.”
Dixie shook her head. “Never met them. And Gran never came back here after she married either.”
He looked straight at her for twenty long seconds. “Good luck to you then. Now how long would you be wanting the car?”
They agreed on two weeks, or what Stanley called a fortnight and Dixie drove off with directions to Bringham scribbled on the back of an old envelope. She wondered about Stanley’s words as she maneuvered the narrow lanes, remembering, most of the time, to stay on the left. A black sports car passed with about two inches to spare. Dixie gasped. Had renting a car been such a good idea with drivers like that on narrow roads?
Stanley’s directions got her to Bringham in fifteen minutes. It took longer than that to find a parking place. The packed High Street stretched for fifty yards, a snarled mass of cars, pedestrians and baby carriages. At one point, it was blocked by a baker’s van. Dixie looked around as she waited, fascinated by the narrow street and the old buildings. A wool shop and its neighboring florist had bow windows and paneled doors that hinted of hooped petticoats and reticules. On the opposite side of the street, a modern grocery store sat next to a Tudor tea shop. Definitely a street to explore on foot.
She parked in an impossibly narrow space in a crowded “car park” hidden behind the grocery store. Actually getting out of the car involved gymnastic feats, and she eased herself sideways between her car and the large BMW beside her.
Mr. Caughleigh’s address was Mayburn House, 29 High Street. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. A narrow alley led from the car park to High Street, and a sign on the fence asked, “Have you paid and displayed?”
“Paid and displayed what?” Dixie muttered to herself, a vaguely obscene image coming to mind.
“You’re American,” a cheery voice announced.
Dixie turned. A young woman pushing a stroller loaded with two toddlers and groceries stood at her elbow. “You were thinking aloud. Pay and Display. It’s for parking.” She slowed her voice as if talking to a child. “You did park in the car park didn’t you?” Dixie nodded. “You have to pay.” She led Dixie to a yellow machine. It needed £1 and 50p coins.
“I don’t have change. I’ll have to skip it and take my chances with the fine.”
“You can’t do that! The fine’s fifty pounds.”