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he boys’ headmistress telephoned on Sunday afternoon to inform me that Morningside
     School’s ailing heating system had been restored to good health and that classes would
     resume on Monday morning. The news didn’t sit well with Will or Rob, who’d hoped to
     spend the rest of their lives building snow yurts with Bree in the back meadow, but
     they cheered up when I reminded them that their friend intended to stick around for
     a few more days.
    “I’m glad I didn’t ask Peggy Taxman for shelter,” Bree said. “The look she gave me
     at church this morning would have curdled milk. I don’t think she approves of my hair.”
    It was early evening. We’d finished dinner and repaired to the living room to lounge
     lazily on the couch. Stanley had emerged from his self-imposed exile in the guest
     room to take possession of Bill’s favorite armchair and the boys knelt at the coffee
     table, drawing pictures of deformed skulls to take to school for show-and-tell.
    “I like your hair,” Will said loyally.
    “Me, too,” said Rob. “It’s cheerful. Like a clown’s.”
    “Thanks, Rob,” said Bree, grinning. “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow, Lori? You’ll
     let me know if I’m in the way, won’t you? I can always make myself scarce.”
    “You can make yourself at home,” I said. “I’ll be in Upper Deeping for most of the
     day, helping out at the charity shop.”
    “Charity shops are known as op shops in New Zealand,” Bree informed me. “Short for
     opportunity shop.”
    “I know,” I said. “Op shops are called thrift stores in America, but in England they’re
     known as charity shops.”
    “An English op shop,” said Bree. “Sounds thrilling. May I tag along?”
    “Of course,” I said. “We can always use an extra pair of hands.”
    Will and Rob, who’d caught every word of our conversation, glanced up from their artwork.
    “The charity shop in Upper Deeping is called Aunt Dimity’s Attic,” said Rob, bending
     to blacken a hollow eye socket.
    “And it’s Mummy’s shop,” Will chimed in, putting a jagged edge on a broken tooth.
    “Is it?” Bree asked interestedly, turning to me.
    “It was my brainchild,” I replied, “but it doesn’t belong to me. It’s one of a chain
     of six shops owned by the Westwood Trust, a charitable organization founded in the
     1950s by the woman who left me this cottage.”
    “Dimity Westwood,” said Bree, nodding. “The vicar’s mentioned her a few times and
     I’ve seen her headstone in the churchyard.”
    “Dimity was the sort of person who’d appreciate a good thrift store,” I said, “and
     since I happen to be the Westwood Trust’s current chairwoman, I named our shop after
     her—Aunt Dimity’s Attic.”
    “Who gets the money?” Bree asked.
    “It’s all about locals helping locals,” I said. “The trust owns the property, but
     local people manage the shop, donate the goods, and buy the goods. The money they
     raise goes to local schools—publicly funded schools, that is. Places like Morningside
     don’t get a penny.”
    “Places like Morningside don’t need a penny,” Bree observed.
    “Exactly,” I said. “Aunt Dimity’s Attic helps to pay for cultural programs—art, music,
     drama, the sort of thing that’s all but disappeared from state-funded education because
     of budget cuts.”
    “I’m impressed,” said Bree.
    “You’re also optimistic,” I said. “Monday mornings at Aunt Dimity’s Attic aren’t so
     much about treasure hunting as they are about trash collecting. You’d be surprised
     at some of the garbage people dump on our doorstep on Sundays. We’re closed on Sundays,”
     I explained, “so donors who wish to remain anonymous leave their so-called donations
     in our doorway when no one’s there to stop them. Some thoughtful soul once left a
     sack filled with dirty diapers.”
    “One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure,” Bree said confidently. “I intend
     to find