was prepared to go on about this pleasant subject indefinitely but Fredericka felt it would be wise to call a halt. “Well, you needn’t help here, either. Why don’t you run along and join in the preparations.”
But Margie, contrary as always, pouted and said slowly, “I’d just as soon help. Mom said I could so long as it wasn’t dirty work.”
“I really haven’t anything for you to do.” Fredericka felt suddenly tired. “Unless you’d like to sit down with a book and wait on any customers.”
“Oh, there won’t be any customers this morning—and I don’t like reading much, so I guess I will go along then.”
And before Fredericka could attempt a reply, Margie had flounced out the front door and disappeared down the path. Once more Fredericka returned to her desk and this time she was not disturbed. Margie’s prediction proved accurate and there were no customers at all. For once, Fredericka was glad of this as she planned to shut up shop early and spend the afternoon as well as the evening at the bazaar.
When Peter Mohun called for her at half past two she was quite ready and waiting outside in her best pink linen and large straw hat.
“You don’t half look a picture, you don’t,” he greeted her. “And if that’s too negative for you I’d say, ‘ascribed to Gainsborough’; will that do?”
Fredericka laughed and a feeling of holiday took possession of her. “Did he ever paint the oppressed working classes? I feel like Maid’s Day Out and more than ready for it,” she answered. “Not in the least like gentry keeping their gloves clean.”
“Good. So do I, or rather, so don’t I. These things must always be approached with the whole heart committed. Otherwise—hello! There’s friend Carey—Thane Carey and his wife, Connie. I’d like you to meet them. Shall we ask them to sit with us at dinner?”
“Yes, of course. But who is he?”
“Oh, he’s our chief of police—swell guy—and shares our passion for murder. And luckily Connie’s a fine listener.”
“Enter the cop,” Fredericka muttered.
“No need to be snooty,” Peter said stiffly. “He happens to be my good friend.”
Fredericka blushed and then stumbled over her words. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I was only thinking of that murder mystery you and I were talking about last night.”
“Did I hear the words ‘murder’ and ‘mystery’?” Thane Carey greeted them. “My bloodhound’s ears prick eager forward.”
As Peter introduced them, Fredericka decided that she liked this young man and his wife. He had an honest, serious and ugly face in which none of the features seemed to match, but he was tall and well-built and immediately gave the impression of being both capable and businesslike. His wife was equally attractive. Her calm blue eyes gave one a sense of repose and she seemed the perfect foil to his restless energy.
“I’m on ‘dooty’, Mohun, so don’t detain me long. Not murder, I fear. Only after pickpockets and petty thieves.” He laughed pleasantly and Connie smiled.
Peter suggested that they should all sit together at the bean feast and talk shop—both book and crime, and the others agreed with alacrity.
“You’ll like Thane and Connie,” Peter said when the two had disappeared in the crowds.
“I like them both already. Does he do anything besides police the town?”
“Oh yes. He teaches, like me—and writes a little, also like me—”
“And me—”
“You, too, Brutus? Now how did you keep that interesting fact from me all this time?”
“I’m more eager than successful,” she said quickly. “I haven’t much to talk about yet. But I’m hoping to have time really to produce something now.”
“Well, you know my line of country from the books I buy. What’s yours?”
“I’m trying to write a joint biography of that band of Victorian novelists, the ones Hawthorne called ‘scribbling women’; Susan Warner, Maria Cummins, Mary J. Holmes, etc. It’s a far cry from your Indian warfare.”
“Do you find you are getting any time to write?”
“So far, not much. That bookshop seems more of a thoroughfare than I’d realized and no amount of planning keeps customers away.”
“Which is, perhaps, fortunate. But I think you ought to use Margie more. I couldn’t possibly write at all unless I had some quiet mornings.”
“Margie doesn’t seem to me the perfect answer,” Fredericka said a little stiffly.
“Perfect? Of course not. Nothing in this world is perfect. But she’s a good kid at heart and will be O.K. when she gets rid of her adolescent complexes and that very bad case of acne which is part and parcel of the same thing.”
Fredericka said nothing. Her feelings about Margie were best not expressed to anyone so obviously sympathetic to her as Peter. They walked on in silence until they came to a gaily decorated booth marked “Herbs and Tussie-Mussies.”
“Bet you don’t know what a tussie-mussie is,” Peter announced. “Here. I’ll buy you one and then you’ll know.” He dragged her to the booth and then stopped in surprise. “Why, Mrs. Sutton, are you tending shop yourself? Where are all your assistants?”
“Hello, Peter. How do you do, Fredericka—I hope I may call you by your first name. As a matter of fact you see me in a state of distress. Catherine promised to take the booth for me—I’m not supposed to stand, the doctor says, because of a wretched sprained ankle. Catherine’s just not appeared. However, that’s not your worry. What can I sell you? How about a tussie-mussie for the lady, Peter?” She picked up a small bouquet and smiled.
Fredericka had met Mrs. Sutton, who had made several visits to the bookshop. She was tall and must once have been handsome, but now she looked old, and lines of worry had left only a memory of beauty in her face. She’s ill, or sick with anxiety, Fredericka felt, but she had no time to dwell on these thoughts because Peter was saying: “I like the look of that one, Margaret, but is the message fitting?”
“Poor Miss Wing looks bewildered. A tussie-mussie is a bouquet with a message in the language of the flowers. I’ve written them all out and perhaps you’d better read this one first, Peter, and see.”
Peter read the scrap of paper and grinned. “Perfect,” he said.
“Can’t I see it?” Fredericka asked.
“Not yet, but you can have the pretty posy,” Peter answered, folding the paper carefully and hiding it away in his pocket. Then he looked across at Mrs. Sutton. “Can’t we relieve you for a while?”
“Oh no, dear Peter. It is good of you, but I’ve sent for Margie. She may sulk but I’m sure she’ll come. Oh, here she is now—thank goodness.”
Margie pushed her way through the crowds, and as Fredericka
