Up from the Grave by Marilyn Leach

would, meet with Ivy, Lillie, Cara, and Mrs. Braunhoff at the Butz home.
    “Designing the children’s Easter festivities,” was the way Hugh put it when he placed the responsibility of it squarely on Berdie’s shoulders. She then, as a good vicar’s wife, adeptly passed it on to Ivy Butz. The mother of six was so very good at this sort of thing and despite her many demands as wife and mother, Ivy enjoyed every minute of creating and hosting a fête.
    Then, there was dinner this evening at Le Petit Chaumier, the lovely French Restaurant in Timsley. Dr. Meredith invited her and Hugh to accompany him and Lillie to dinner, an attempt Berdie was sure, to bandage the effects of yesterday and the Roz ordeal.
    Yes, now dinner at Le Petit Chaumier, that was something quite worthy of eager anticipation.
    Berdie approvingly checked her light coral lipstick, a new shade that complimented her increasingly red hair and tortoiseshell glasses. She was decidedly happy with the look when the hallway telephone rang.
    “Oh, bother,” Berdie fussed and stepped to the ringing apparatus. “Vicarage,” she announced with a pluck in her voice.
    “Thees ees Senora Elliott?”
    “It is,” Berdie replied with a note of caution, “with whom am I speaking?”
    “Ah, Senora Elliott, I ama Ortensia Orono. I ama the aide to Contessa Santolio.”
    “Yes, good morning.” It took considerable effort to follow the heavily accented words.
    “The Contessa, she wishes you for tea tomorrow, three thirty. Yessa, you come?”
    “How very kind.” Berdie didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Please tell the Contessa thank you, grazie , and yes, I will come for tea.”
    “Ah, bella .”
    Berdie could hear the smile in the aide’s voice.
    “Tomorrow. Pronto .”
    “Oh, indeed, I’ll be on time,” Berdie assured.
    Click.
    Berdie looked at the receiver. “Apparently the conversation is over.” She placed the receiver in the telephone cradle. “Hum, I wonder why the contessa’s inviting me to her lodgings. Nonetheless, an invitation to spend time with the mystery benefactor, I couldn’t have planned it better.”
    Berdie glanced at the hall clock. “Deary me.” She took a deep breath and raced out the door for Kirkwood Green Bed and Breakfast.
    It was a cheerful walk down the High Street. The fresh-washed air brought a sparkling scent to her nose. Shopkeepers cleaned and cleared their storefronts in the aftermath of the previous days’ deluge. The light kiss of sunlight felt warm on the cheek.
    Villette Horn, who wiped the exterior of the large Copper Kettle window, even managed a bright smile and a “Good morning.”
    Jamie Donovan stopped his work lorry dead in the middle of the road to tell Berdie that he had found Snowdrop playing with Fritz near the Gordon’s home. No surprise there.
    Berdie decided it must have been the return of the sun lifting its royal head above the occasional clouds that brought a sense of well-being to the village. Not one person asked about the bones.
    By the time Berdie reached the front step of Kirkwood Green Bed and Breakfast, she was ready for a hot cuppa.
    When she rang the buzzer, she could see the figure of Cherry Lawler through the door’s etched glass window.
    Cherry advanced towards the door, a lovely smile decorating her pixie face.
    Berdie admired the energy and work ethic of both Cherry and her husband, Jeff. It was a sizeable operation, this twelve-room inn. They took it over from Jeff’s father just a year ago almost to the day they returned from their honeymoon.
    Berdie became aware that someone from behind approached the step where she stood. She turned to see Patricia King. Yes, indeed, she was Aidan Kirkwood’s own version of Pat the Postman. Athletically built, and very unlike the character of the children’s books, she raced her route with great precision and very little conversation.
    “Mrs. Elliott,” she greeted, then thrust a stack of mail in Berdie’s direction. “Going in? Give