Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton Read Free Book Online Page B

desk and tried to take in an array of furnishings that would have made an antiques dealer dizzy with desire.
    A superbly carved pine fireplace held pride of place in the west wall, flanked by glass-fronted display cabinets that held a stunning collection of silver snuffboxes, Venetian glassware, Georgian candlesticks, and portrait miniatures. A walnut-framed Queen Anne settee sat before the hearth, grouped with a George IV elbow chair and a Gainsborough chair with the original needlework upholstery. Above the mantel shelf hung a seventeenth-century Dutch painting of peasants skating on a frozen canal, and pieces of early Chinese porcelain littered the Regency rosewood sofa table behind the settee.
    A double-sided Regency bookstand stood at the east end of the room, between a deep-seated Sheraton library chair and a George I wing chair upholstered in gold damask. In one corner, near a mahogany corner cupboard, four slender-legged Chippendale chairs clustered around an eighteenth-century satinwood card table.
    “The games room,” I murmured with a bubbling giggle, but the laughter died in my throat when I thought of a sick old woman playing endless games of solitaire in her lovely, lonely flat.
    The living room should have felt crowded, but it didn’t. Each piece of furniture was perfectly proportioned to fit the space it occupied, and each was in excellent repair. A thin film of dust dimmed the wood surfaces, but none were scratched or chipped or stained, and although the luxurious fabrics showed signs of wear, the colors were still brilliant.
    It was too much, entirely too much to take in all at once. I felt overwhelmed, overheated, as if I’d overindulged in a rich meal. I put a trembling hand to my forehead, reached into my shoulder bag, retrieved my cell phone, and punched the speed-dial for Bill’s number.
    My husband must have detected a note of incipient hysteria in my greeting because the first words out of his mouth were: “What’s wrong, Lori?”
    “Ohmygod, ohmygod,” I babbled. “It’s incredible, Bill. It’s . . . just . . . simply . . . incredible . If you were standing here next to me, you wouldn’t believe it. And I’ve only seen two rooms! If the rest are like this, my head will explode.”
    “Breathe, Lori,” Bill advised. “Sit down and take a deep br—”
    “Sit down?” I exclaimed. “I can’t sit on any of these chairs. They’re not meant for sitting . Remember that pretty little desk Miss Beacham mentioned? She must have been delirious when she suggested that I bring it home with me. I could never bring it to the cottage, not unless we built a twin-proof fence around it. It’s a Sheraton Revival cylinder desk! It should be in a museum !”
    “Lori, my darling,” Bill said calmly, “let’s take it from the top, shall we? Did you find Miss Beacham’s apartment?”
    “Of course I found Miss Beacham’s apartment!” I cried. “I’m standing in her living room! And if you ask me, she kept the outside corridor bare on purpose, just so people’s eyes would bug out when they saw what was inside.”
    “What is inside?” Bill asked.
    “Wonderful things,” I breathed, with deep fellow-feeling for the man who’d first peered into King Tut’s tomb. “Rosewood and satinwood and mahogany and brocade and needlepoint and miniatures and snuffboxes—oh, Bill, the snuffboxes alone would knock your socks off. The auction’ll have to be held by Sotheby’s. No one else is equipped to deal with things like this. They’ll need professors and historians and antiquarians and . . . and experts .”
    “So the flat’s come as a bit of a surprise,” Bill understated.
    “Remember the first time I opened Aunt Dimity’s journal?” I asked. “It’s like that.”
    “Wow,” said Bill, impressed.
    “‘Wow’ doesn’t even come close,” I said, and gasped as a horrible thought flittered into my mind. “Ali Baba,” I said in a broken whisper. “Bill! Miss Beacham must have been a