{"product_id":"aunt-dimity-and-the-widows-curse-isbn-9781101981344","title":"Aunt Dimity and the Widow's Curse","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNancy Atherton's twenty-second cozy mystery in the beloved, nationally bestselling Aunt Dimity series.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's early April in the small English village of Finch. Lori Shepherd's husband and sons are spending Easter break camping, and Lori is perfectly happy to be left at home with Bess, spared a week of roughing it with a curious toddler. The two attend a village events committee meeting and Lori is astonished when the elderly, soft-spoken widow Mrs. Annabelle Craven stands to make an announcement: she's decided to hold a quilting bee in the old schoolhouse. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the quilting bee, Lori ends up seated beside Mrs. Craven, delighted at the opportunity to learn more about her neighbor's life in the village of Old Cowerton. But dear, sweet Mrs. Craven's stories reveal a startling secret about her first husband's death. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith Aunt Dimity's advice, Lori sets out to learn the truth about what the residents of Old Cowerton refer to as the \"widow's curse\"--and the deeper she digs, the more horrifying the tale becomes, until she discovers the most astounding revelation of all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWatch out for Atherton's latest, \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eAunt Dimity and the King's Ransom\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e, coming out in July 2018!\u003c\/p\u003e“Perhaps the most heartwarming entry in this long-running series...one that presents a very different path to solving the case.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e \u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePRAISE FOR THE AUNT DIMITY SERIES:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eAunt Dimity and the Summer King\u003c\/i\u003e illuminates the layered writing room of Nancy Atherton's mind. . . . The best of Nancy Atherton on full display.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eElectric Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Atherton is a superb writer who brings a lot of charm and wit to her story.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSuspense Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e (on \u003ci\u003eAunt Dimity and the Village Witch\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In the realm of the cozy mystery, there are few series that can hold a candle to Atherton’s Aunt Dimity series.”\u003cb\u003e—Everydayebook.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Cozy and charming as a cup of Earl Grey, \u003ci\u003eAunt Dimity and the Family Tree\u003c\/i\u003e is a novel to be savored.”—\u003cb\u003eBookpage.com\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Always a charming read, the Aunt Dimity series is just right for when life gets too hectic and you need to slow down a bit.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeadly Pleasures Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e (on \u003ci\u003eAunt Dimity Down Under\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Atherton smoothly blends history, village life, and the otherworldly.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e(on\u003ci\u003e Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure\u003c\/i\u003e)Nancy Atherton is the bestselling author of twenty-two Aunt Dimity Mysteries. The first book in the series, \u003ci\u003eAunt Dimity's Death\u003c\/i\u003e, was voted \"One of the Century's 100 Favorite Mysteries\" by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. She lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Annabelle Craven was an ideal neighbor. Quiet, tidy, and      unfailingly polite, she was the sort of neighbor who could be      relied upon to lend a frantic baker a cup of sugar or to water a      window box while its owner was away on holiday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one knew Mrs. Craven's exact age. She never mentioned it, and      it would have been impertinent to inquire, but anyone with eyes      could see that she was elderly. Her tweed skirts and blazers hung      loosely on her shrunken frame, her soft gray eyes peered out from      a face webbed with wrinkles, and she wore her long white hair in a      wispy bun on the back of her head. Her tweed skirts and blazers      were elderly, too, as were her sensible shoes, but her clothes      were well made and well kept and would in all likelihood outlast      her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven was in remarkably good health for a woman of her      advanced years. Her eyesight was undimmed, her hearing was      excellent, and her nimble fingers could undo knots that defeated      much younger women. She moved slowly but surely, without the aid      of a cane or a walker, and everyone who knew her agreed that her      mind was as agile as her fingers. She could hold her own in any      conversation and she wasn't the least bit forgetful. If Mrs.      Craven made an appointment, she kept it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven lived in Finch, a small and somnolent village set      among the rolling hills and the patchwork fields of the Cotswolds,      a pastoral haven described in countless guidebooks as one of the      prettiest regions in England.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I agreed with the guidebooks. My family and I lived near Finch, in      a honey-colored cottage on a narrow winding lane lined with tall      hedgerows. Although my husband, Bill, and I were Americans, as      were our twin sons and our daughter, we'd lived in England long      enough to develop a minor addiction to scones, clotted cream, and      strawberry jam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We kept our addiction in check by leading full and busy lives.      Bill ran the European branch of his family's venerable Boston law      firm from an office overlooking the village green; our      ten-year-old sons, Will and Rob, attended Morningside School in      the nearby market town of Upper Deeping; and I juggled the      challenging roles of wife, mother, friend, neighbor, community      volunteer, and chief baby wrangler.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our daughter, Bess, was thirteen months old and terrifyingly      mobile. She kept me on my toes by toddling eagerly toward anything      that might kill her. Her death wish list included, but was by no      means limited to, stairs, stoves, streams, snakes, wasps, and      well-sharpened knives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The sixth member of our family was Stanley, a sleek black cat with      dandelion-yellow eyes. Stanley had a decided preference for Bill,      though he was kind enough to tolerate the rest of us. He divided      his time between sleeping in Bill's favorite armchair and keeping      his long, curling tail out of Bess's reach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bill's father, William Willis, Sr., had made our happiness      complete when he'd retired from his position as the head of the      family firm and moved to England to be near his grandchildren. A      genteel and well-heeled widower, Willis, Sr., had broken many a      hopeful heart in Finch when he'd married the noted watercolorist      Amelia Bowen. The newlyweds lived just outside of Finch, in      Fairworth House, a graceful Georgian mansion surrounded by a      modest estate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven lived in Bluebell Cottage, a tiny gem in the necklace      of golden-hued stone buildings that encircled the village green.      She'd moved into her small cottage a few years after Bill and I      had moved into our somewhat larger one, and I'm ashamed to say      that I wasn't on hand to greet her when she arrived. I'd been      toilet training the twins at the time—an exercise guaranteed to      concentrate the mind—and I'd been too preoccupied with Making      Toilet Time Fun to spare a thought for an elderly newcomer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd spared many thoughts for Mrs. Craven since then. I paused to      chat with her whenever our paths crossed, and they crossed almost      daily. Like the rest of our neighbors, Mrs. Craven and I took tea      breaks in Sally Cook's tearoom; joined in the weekly sing-alongs      at Peacock's pub; attended services at St. George's Church; and      shopped at Taxman's Emporium, Finch's grandly named general store.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could also count on seeing Mrs. Craven at the many villagewide      events that kept Finch from becoming too somnolent. Nothing, not      even the changeable English weather, could keep her away from the      flower show, the art show, the church fete, and the harvest      festival, and she always arrived in plenty of time to snag a      front-row seat at the Nativity play. She was famous in Finch for      using a pair of antique opera glasses to view the annual sheepdog      trials and she seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in watching      my horse-mad sons and their friends compete for ribbons in the      local gymkhana.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven had no children of her own and no close relatives.      She'd outlived most of her friends and she'd lost her beloved      husband to the ravages of Alzheimer's disease. She'd once told me      that his lengthy decline and his final passing had prompted her to      leave her old village behind and to make a fresh start in a place      untainted by painful memories. I'd told her that she'd chosen her      new home well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everyone in Finch liked Mrs. Craven. Though she didn't own a car,      someone could always be found to take her to Upper Deeping to do      her banking, to see her doctor, or to hunt for bargains at the      Saturday sales. Sally Cook never tired of swapping recipes with      her, Dick Peacock named one of his undrinkable homemade cordials      after her, and George Wetherhead, the most bashful man in Finch,      was relaxed enough in her presence to meet her gaze when they      exchanged pleasantries. Mr. Barlow, who served as our local      handyman as well as the church sexton, looked after her cottage      free of charge, and James Hobson, a retired schoolteacher and an      enthusiastic amateur historian, loved to listen to her stories      about \"the olden days.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven could have spent every minute of every day in what      passed for a social whirl in Finch, but she chose to spend much of      her time alone in Bluebell Cottage, pursuing her primary passion:      making quilts. She'd turned her sunny upstairs front bedroom into      a workroom, but it wasn't the only room she'd dedicated to her      craft. She'd lined the dining room, the lumber room, the attic,      and the back bedroom with shelves built to her specifications by      Mr. Barlow to hold row upon row of clear plastic boxes in which      she stored what appeared to be a lifetime's accumulation of      vintage fabrics.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Though she kept her best china in a handsome mahogany sideboard in      the dining room, she used the equally handsome mahogany table as a      work surface. I'd often seen a quilt's three layers—backing,      batting, and top—spread one atop the other on the dining room      table, awaiting the next phase in production.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The dining room table met Mrs. Craven's requirements because she      didn't make full-size quilts. She specialized in baby quilts, and      her baby quilts were very special indeed. Each was handmade from      start to finish, and no two were exactly alike.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She would have nothing to do with prepackaged polyester quilt kits      or with the insipid appliquéd kittens, puppies, and teddy bears      the kits' manufacturers deemed suitable for a nursery. Mrs. Craven      used only the softest of cotton fabrics to make brightly colored      patchwork quilts in a seemingly limitless array of traditional      patterns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew next to nothing about quilt making, but the names of the      patterns delighted me. Pastel kittens, puppies, and teddy bears      seemed anemic compared with Old Maid's Ramble, Johnny 'Round the      Corner, Victorian Fans, Tumbling Blocks, Pinwheels, and Broken      Dishes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven \"signed\" her quilts by embroidering each one with a      tiny black-and-white cow. She'd once told me that the little cows      were a tribute to her father, who'd managed a prize-winning herd      of Friesians for a local landowner when she was growing up. My      sons made a game of finding the cows in her finished quilts when      we visited Bluebell Cottage, and quite a few adults played the      same game when she displayed her quilts at the church fete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Of the many quilts Mrs. Craven created, my favorites were also the      rarest. They were what she called her \"whole-cloth\" quilts.      Whole-cloth quilt tops were neither pieced together from scraps      nor brightly colored. They were made from a single piece of      cream-colored fabric embellished from edge to edge with intricate      patterns of meticulous cream-colored embroidery. Celtic knots,      entwined hearts, feathers, fans, flowers, leaves, spirals, and      shooting stars were but a few of the patterns that found their way      into Mrs. Craven's whole-cloth quilts, and while the color palette      was undeniably subtle, the needlework was nothing short of      extraordinary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who ran an art appraisal      and restoration business from their home in Finch, classified Mrs.      Craven as a genius. They could have introduced her to a dozen      museum directors who would have jumped at the chance to exhibit      her handiwork, but she was too humble even to consider showing her      quilts to a knowledgeable curator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instead, she sold her small masterpieces from a stall at the      annual church fete and donated every pound of the proceeds to St.      George's. Thanks to her fund-raising efforts, the churchyard had a      drainage system that could handle heavy downpours, the south porch      had a watertight roof, and the lytch-gate had a new set of      wrought-iron hinges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mothers who were lucky enough to own one or more of Mrs. Craven's      quilts tended to keep them well away from their infants, for fear      of the stains associated with infants. I'd framed the three      whole-cloth quilts I'd purchased from her and hung them on a wall      in our master bedroom. To me, they were works of art.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Craven couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. She      believed that her quilts served a practical purpose and she was a      bit disappointed in me for treating them so reverently. She would      have been better pleased if I'd allowed my children to chew on      them, spit up on them, dribble on them, and anoint them with      applesauce, pureed carrots, and other less savory substances. To      Mrs. Craven, a well-used quilt was a well-loved quilt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On a damp Thursday evening in early April, Bess and I spotted our      elderly neighbor as she took a seat in one of the folding chairs      Mr. Barlow had set up in the old schoolhouse, which had for many      years served as Finch's village hall. The flower show, the art      show, and the Nativity play were held there, but the orderly rows      of folding chairs signaled the advent of a village affairs      committee meeting. By the time Mrs. Craven arrived, nearly      everyone who lived in Finch was present.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Millicent Scroggins, Opal Taylor, Selena Buxton, and Elspeth      Binney—whom Bill had dubbed \"the Handmaidens\" because of their      devotion to his father—sat together in the second row of chairs. I      could hear them discussing Sally Cook's new pageboy haircut and      whether or not it would suit Christine Peacock. Christine and      Sally sat side by side between their respective husbands, making      it easy for the Handmaidens to compare neck lengths, brow widths,      and cheekbone breadths.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the back row, Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham were deep      in conversation with Horace Malvern, a local dairy farmer who      wished to commission a portrait painting of his two-year-old      grandson, little Horace Malvern III. James and Felicity Hobson had      also chosen chairs in the back row, but though they sat together,      they were engaged in separate conversations. While Felicity      described the layout of her herb garden to Mr. Barlow, James      described his newest piece of metal-detecting equipment to Lilian      Bunting, who shared his interest in local history.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lilian was married to the vicar of St. George's Church, but her      husband hardly ever attended committee meetings. Theodore Bunting      had inadvertently inspired the sin of envy in his flock by      receiving a special dispensation from our all-powerful chairwoman,      Peggy Taxman, to spend committee evenings at home in the vicarage,      where he could enjoy a nice cup of cocoa while he worked out the      kinks in the sermon he would deliver on Sunday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jasper Taxman and George Wetherhead sat at the long table on the      dais that also served as the stage for the Nativity play. Jasper      was the committee's treasurer and George was its secretary, but      both men were overshadowed by Jasper's formidable wife, Peggy      Taxman, who sat regally between them in the chairwoman's chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bree Pym, a young New Zealander who'd inherited a house near Finch      from her great-grandaunts, the late and much lamented Ruth and      Louise Pym, arrived only minutes before Peggy called the meeting      to order. Bree was temporarily on her own because her boyfriend,      the noted conservationist Jack MacBride, was on a lecture tour in      Scandinavia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bree Pym stood out in Finch because of her youth, her spiky hair,      her tattooed arms, her pierced nostril, her highly original sense      of style, and her refusal to be intimidated by Peggy Taxman.      Peggy's gimlet gaze and stentorian harrumphs had absolutely no      effect on Bree's behavior. If Bess wanted Bree to chase her around      the schoolhouse in a game of Big Bad Bear during committee      meetings, Bree would chase her, growling menacingly, regardless of      the poisonous looks thrown at her from the dais. Bree was the      young aunt I would have chosen for Bess, if I'd had a say in the      matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like Bree, Bess and I were temporarily on our own. Easter break      was upon us and Bill had decided to put it to good use by taking      Will and Rob on a ten-day, boys-only camping trip in the Lake      District. To beat the weekend traffic, they'd loaded Bill's car on      Wednesday evening and driven off in the wee hours of Thursday      morning. I'd waved good-bye to them without the slightest twinge      of resentment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was perfectly happy to be excluded from their adventure. The      Lake District was the rainiest region in England, and while April      wasn't one of its rainiest months, I could almost guarantee that      April showers would do what they had to do to bring May flowers.      The thought of being cooped up in a wet tent with a toddler who      was still in diapers didn't fill me with glee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even a fair-weather camping trip wouldn't have appealed to me. I      could too easily envision Bess toddling merrily into campfires,      toasting forks, wasps' nests, and patches of poison ivy to regard      camping as anything other than a hospital visit waiting to happen.      If Bill and the boys had been spending ten days in a country hotel      on the shores of Lake Windermere, I would have been green with      envy. Since they weren't, I wasn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Craven never missed a village affairs committee meeting,and I tried very hard to miss as few as possible. Peggy Taxman, who ran the post office, the general store, the greengrocer’s shop, and every committee meeting that had ever been held in Finch, had a nasty habit of “volunteering” absentees for duties that invariably required the use of a broom and a small fleet of rubbish bins. Needlessto say, her meetings were always well attended.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough Mrs. Craven had a spotless attendance record, she contributed nothing to the proceedings. In stark contrast to the rest of the villagers, who could discuss the pros and cons of purchasing a new tea urn for months on end, Mrs. Craven was content to sit in silence while vital decisions were made—usually by Peggy Taxman— about the harvest festival, the church fete, and the other events that filled the village calendar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI suspected that Mrs. Craven’s reticence stemmed from her humility. She was willing to share her opinions with me over a cup of tea in her snug little kitchen, but I couldn’t convince her to express them to a wider audience. The limelight possessed no allure for her,and while she seemed to enjoy watching her neighbors engage in lively debates, she was too diffident to add her voice to theirs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSilence was an alien concept to the voluble villagers, but they respected Mrs. Craven’s right to maintain hers. She was such a willing worker that Peggy Taxman didn’t feel the need to volunteer her for any task, and no one demanded that she take a stand on a hotly contested issue. In a schoolhouse filled to the rafters with chatter, some of it quite acrimonious, Mrs. Craven was notable only for her reluctance to speak up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich was why my jaw dropped—along with everyone else’s—when Mrs. Craven got to her feet at the end of the meeting, smiled cordially at Peggy Taxman, and for the first time in living memory, made her voice heard.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301765402853,"sku":"NP9781101981344","price":15.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101981344.jpg?v=1767721959","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/aunt-dimity-and-the-widows-curse-isbn-9781101981344","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}