Read Online Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince by Nancy Atherton - Free Book Online Page B

located in an enclave of low-rent housing that had
     been built in the 1950s and quickly forgotten. Everywhere Bree and I looked we saw
     signs of neglect and poverty: peeling paint, broken windows, overflowing trash cans,
     and multiple layers of graffiti. It hurt my heart to imagine Daisy living in such
     squalor, but it helped me to understand why Amanda took her daughter to work with
     her instead of leaving her at home.
    The neighborhood’s run-down row houses were set back from the street, behind small
     grassless gardens separated by waist-high cinder block walls. Fifty-three Addington
     Terrace looked every bit as decrepit as its neighbors.
    “Reminds me of Takapuna,” Bree said as we pulled up to the curb. “My hometown.”
    Her remark would have puzzled a native New Zealander, but I was familiar with Bree’s
     background and knew exactly what she meant. Though Takapuna was an affluent community,
     Bree had been raised by a father who drank too much and worked too little. Their shabby
     apartment building had been a blot on an otherwise pristine landscape.
    “Not all of Takapuna,” she went on. “Just my part of it. I’m glad Daisy has a lively
     imagination. You need a good imagination when you live in a place like this. You need
     to believe that one day things will be better.”
    “They got better for you,” I said encouragingly.
    “Not everyone has a pair of great-grandaunts to see them right,” said Bree. “I doubt
they
do.”
    She nodded at three ill-clad children playing in the garden next door. The dark-haired
     girl appeared to be the same age as Daisy, but the two boys looked a bit younger.
     The boys paid more attention to their soccer ball than they did to us, but the girl
     stood at the cinder block wall to watch us open Number 53’s rickety gate and approach
     the front door.
    “Hi,” Bree said, lagging behind me to speak to the girl. “I’m Bree Pym. What’s your
     name?”
    “Coral,” said the girl. “Coral Bell.” She tilted her head toward the boys. “Those
     are my brothers, Tom and Ben. Did you color your hair yourself?”
    “I did,” said Bree. “Like it?”
    “Daisy has ginger hair, too,” Coral said thoughtfully, “but hers is quiet. Yours is
     like a . . . like a shout.”
    “Just what I had in mind,” said Bree. “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome,” said Coral.
    “I don’t mean to pry,” said Bree, “but shouldn’t you and your brothers be in school?”
    “The school nurse sent us home,” Coral explained. “We’re infectious. Mum had to take
     the day off work to look after us, but she couldn’t stand the noise, so she sent us
     outside to play. She says the fresh air will do us good.”
    “What do you say?” Bree asked.
    “I’m glad it’s warmer today than it was yesterday,” said Coral.
    “Me, too,” said Bree, smiling. She waved good-bye to the girl, then hastened to join
     me on the doorstep.
    I’d already tried the doorbell several times without success, but three sharp raps
     on the door brought a harassed call of “I’m coming! I’m coming!” from within. A short
     time later the door was opened by a tall, angular woman in late middle age. She had
     short, wiry, gray hair, a long bony face, and a pair of brown eyes that held not one
     hint of softness. She was dressed in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, black trousers,
     and fluffy blue bedroom slippers. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the corner
     of her mouth.
    “Yes?” she said coldly.
    “Good morning,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd.”
    “And I’m Bree Pym,” Bree piped up. She put out her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. . . . ?”
    “MacTavish,” the woman said in a clipped Scottish accent. Her eyes lingered on Bree’s
     hair for a long moment before she deigned to shake Bree’s hand. “Mrs. Eileen MacTavish.
     If you’ve come about the flat—”
    “You rent apartments?” I said.
    “I let one flat at the rear of the house, complete with