The Final Crumpet (18 page)

Heaven! This crumpet is perfect.

She was about to take another bite when Olivia said, “Nigel tells me that your lunch at The Sussex Bowman wasn’t very good.”

Yikes!
Why would he tell Olivia about their trip to see Clive Wyatt?
It was our experience.
Flick wanted to glare at Nigel—instead, she gazed directly at Olivia.

“It’s true that the food wasn’t very good,” she said, “but the
companionship
was magnificent.”

Flick enjoyed seeing expressions of confusion, then annoyance, flicker across Olivia’s face. A few seconds later, the banker stood up and brushed imaginary crumbs off her skirt. “Well, I had best be running along.” She smiled sweetly at Nigel. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call my mobile phone. It’s always turned on.”

Flick ground her teeth.
I’ll bet you’re always turned on, too, honey.

Nigel flew to his feet. “Let me get one of our large umbrellas and walk you to your car. The rain has picked up.”

“That would be lovely,” Olivia cooed.

Flick watched them leave, a knot of anger toward Nigel rising in her chest. How could he fall for such obvious manipulation? Sure—Olivia was a flirt. But Nigel had more than enough smarts to see through her coy behavior and fend her off—
if he really wanted to.
She chomped down on the remainder of her crumpet. Somehow it had lost much of its taste. She applied a liberal dollop of Alain’s superb blackberry preserves.

Nigel returned faster than Flick expected him to, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank goodness that’s over. She showed upon our doorstep this morning eager to talk about Sir James Boyer.”

Flick made a face. “I’d have been too embarrassed to spring the schedule change in person. She must know we’ll never finish our investigation
and
write a report
and
develop a presentation by then. Why didn’t she send you an email or call you?” She smiled at Nigel. “By the way—when do we let her know that we can’t meet the new deadline?”

“Um
…Olivia came in person because she wanted to explain why we
must
complete everything in five days. It seems that James Boyer’s business trip is the prelude to a lengthy vacation. If we don’t get his final approval next Monday, we’ll have to wait three months—or begin again from scratch at another bank.”

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes! We have no choice. We have to meet Sir James’s impossible deadline.”

Flick stared at the two remaining crumpets. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Stark trepidation had overwhelmed her routine senses and emotions.

Whoa! How come Nigel doesn’t feel the way I do?

“The museum is facing a genuine crisis that could ruin our careers,” Flick said, “but when I arrived this morning, you and Olivia Hart were enjoying a cozy smile-in. How come?”

“Oh, that.” Nigel seemed uncomfortable to hear the question. “Well, of course I had to maintain a positive front for Olivia.”

“Of course.”

“It makes no sense to share our worries with our bank.”

“Uh-huh.”

Flick watched patches of red blossom on Nigel’s cheeks. “And what she had to say about Earl was rather amusing.”

“Olivia spoke to you about our parrot?”

“Actually, Olivia has diagnosed Earl’s loud clucking noises.”

Flick managed not to scream. “And how, pray tell, did Olivia learn about the weird sounds that Earl made after our news conference?”

“Well, I suppose that I mentioned the noises when I gave her a quick tour of the museum on Monday. Our last stop was in front of Earl’s cage.”

“I see—and what was her diagnosis?”

“Olivia believes that Earl is trying to call someone.”

“That’s…
nuts.”

“I thought so, too, until Olivia explained that many African Grey parrots mimic telephone bells because they see their owners come running whenever phones ring. Other Greys will imitate the beep of a microwave oven when the timer switches off—for the same reason. It makes perfect sense when you think about it. A parrot knows that its owner responds to a specific sound—so it duplicates the sound to call its owner. A remarkably clever thing to do.”

“And how did Olivia get so…so
knowledgeable
about parrots?”

“It seems that her aunt is one of the best-known African Grey breeders in England. Olivia told her about Earl’s noisemaking. According to her aunt, once we can figure out the sound, we will be able to figure out who Earl is calling.”

“Did Olivia—or her aunt—happen to reveal how to accomplish that little trick?”

“Not really.” Nigel’s brow furrowed. “You know, the tone of your voice suggests that you’re mad at Olivia. She seems to be doing her best to help the museum.”

Flick sprang out of her chair.
Were all men this dumb?

“The museum! Do you really believe that Princess Perfect drove all the way from Maidstone at the crack of dawn to warn us about James Boyer’s long vacation?”

“Well…”

“Nigel, you can’t be that big of a dunce.”

Flick whirled around.

“Where are you going?” Nigel called.

“To my office. To work. I have to shift our investigation into overdrive.”

She heard a clatter of crockery and silverware as Nigel pushed his chair away from the table. He came up behind her.

“Look—I’m aware that Olivia Hart has been flirting with me.”

“Wow!” she said, without looking back. “Let’s hold another news conference.”

“I’ve done nothing to encourage her.”

“You’ve also done nothing to discourage her!”

Flick strode through the World of Tea Map Room and started climbing the large staircase that wove its way from the ground floor to the top floor. She surprised herself by outpacing Nigel as she took two steps at a time. He finally caught up with her on the third-floor landing. They both were huffing and puffing.

He gripped her shoulders. “We need to talk about this. Now!”

Flick broke free and looked around. They were too close to the Conservation Laboratory for a personal discussion that might become noisy. She led Nigel to the open area that served as a foyer for the administrative side of the third floor. It was a multipurpose space that held a rank of file cabinets (solid walnut to match the wood paneling), housed the museum’s copying machine (discreetly hidden behind an Oriental screen), and served as the museum’s reception room (a seating area offered a sofa, two club chairs, and a coffee table).

“Okay,” she said. “Talk.”

“Olivia Hart is a pain in the posterior. I’ve let her bat her eyelashes at me because I don’t want to jeopardize our loan. We need Olivia on our side for the next few weeks.”

“And I need to know that you’re on
my
side.”

“What?”
Nigel took two steps backward. “How can you doubt that I am? I follow you around like a puppy. I blither like a fool. I defer to your judgment continuously. I apologize at the drop of a hat—about everything from my clumsy behavior to the excessive rain in Kent.”

“All of that’s true, Nigel, but I need to be sure that you won’t hurt me. Yesterday you asked what’s bothering me. Well, I have a significant problem with relationships—I choose men who run off with other women. Can I trust you not to do that to me?”

Flick watched Nigel’s face metamorphose. In a split-second, his confident countenance gave way to a frightened “deer in the headlights” expression. She felt a chill that seemed to gyrate through her torso—from her stomach to her heart.

“Oh boy! I’ve seen that face before,” she said. “Right about when I get dumped.”

“Flick…you don’t…wait…you’re wrong…”

“You’re blithering again, so let me help you. Repeat after me: Flick, I didn’t mean it to happen, but when I saw Olivia Hart, I fell head over heels in love with her.”

“I’m not in love with Olivia Hart; I’m in love with…” She put her hand to his mouth. “Don’t say it! I won’t believe it! I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I saw the sheer panic on your face just now.”

He tried to take her hand. She pulled away.

“It’s not true,” he said. “You have to believe me. You need to understand
my
significant problem with relationships.”

“Hey! Everyone knows that it’s stupid to fall in love at work. We’ve just made our lives a lot simpler. We have a paltry five days to pull off a miracle—that doesn’t leave any time for silly emotional turmoil.”

“Flick,” Nigel said softly, “you have the wrong idea about everything.”

“Go. We both have work to do.”

“Flick…”

“Please, go.”

Nigel looked beaten as he walked slowly to his office.

It was only then that Flick realized the door to the Staff Office was open and that Polly Reid—standing just inside the office—had seen and heard everything. Flick felt sure that the stunned look on Polly’s face mirrored her own bleak expression.

She had driven Nigel Owen out of her life.

Seven

I have no excuses!

Nigel swung his office door shut with a thump, retreated behind his desk, and slumped into his swivel chair. He should have been ready to answer the question he knew Flick was going to ask. Instead, he had panicked and blown their relationship apart.

It was his fault—from start to finish.

What should he have said to Flick? What
could
he have said to her? Nothing would have made much difference, because Flick had guessed right about him. She had seen the light early, before she’d invested enough of herself in their friendship to be really hurt.

Lucky her.

He loved Flick. Serious, studious, beautiful, tea-drinking Flick—a woman who’d apparently been wounded by other men. But he didn’t deserve her. Not with his checkered history. As Sheila so forcefully pointed out on the day she left, Nigel had committed an unpardonable offense when he conspired with two “fast and friendly” females to wreck his first marriage.

A great irony, of course, was that women rarely flirted with the
unattached
Nigel Owen. But pair him with Flick—or in the past with Sheila—and straightaway he became an interesting prospect to unattached ladies. Even a stunner like Olivia Hart might have a go at him.

You can’t blame Olivia. Neither can you change the past.

For the past ten years, he had tried to comport himself as a wholly decent chap—as a man a woman could rely on. But he had no way to undo what he had once done, no way to start over again. He knew in his heart: The past is prologue. He accepted the reality: His past deeds would haunt him forever.

That’s why he’d remained a bachelor, condemned to fleeting liaisons with women who preferred a relationship du jour. He had been foolish to hope for more with Flick.

“I shall leave the museum, of course,” he murmured, “and also Tunbridge Wells. This is too small a city for both of us to rattle around in. I couldn’t bear knowing that Flick lived only a few streets away.”

Cha-Cha raised his head and gave a little yip. Nigel noted that he didn’t seem to be sporting his usual doggy grin.

“Fear not, old chap, I’ll make sure that the next director lets you sleep on his aged leather sofa.”

The Shiba’s large brown eyes seemed to gaze forlornly at Nigel for a moment; then he laid his head atop his front paws.

“What else can I do, old boy? Flick wants assurances that I can’t give her.” He let himself sigh. “I wouldn’t trust me.”

Cha-Cha made a delicate whining sound.

“Well, if you feel that way, tell me how this tiger can change its stripes.” He paused a few seconds. “Aha! You can’t see a way out either.”

Nigel fired up his computer and accessed the museum’s current financial reports. Over the years, he had found reviewing columns of numbers a brilliantly effective way to push emotional matters from one’s mind. After more than an hour spent in arithmetical contemplation, he heard a gentle tapping on the door.

Nigel felt a tremor of excitement. It had to be Flick; Polly knocked, and Conan Davies pounded. He hurtled out of his chair to let her in.

She held up a sheaf of papers. “I may have found a mother lode of information about Etienne Makepeace.”

Nigel studied her face. Her eyes looked puffy—
Has she been crying?
—but her expression seemed all business.
Good—she’s here to talk about the investigation.
Whenever they talked about personal dealings, he seemed to dig himself a deeper hole.

She sat down on the sofa next to Cha-Cha. Nigel turned a visitor’s chair around and straddled it.