Read Nooks & Crannies for Free Online

Why can’t you behave normally? “I just meant that I’m Tabitha.”
    Oliver’s gaze shifted across the room as Barnaby Trundle’s family made a noisy appearance. “I wouldn’t be too certain about all of us being harmless. Some seem fit to win a game that hasn’t even been announced yet. I say,” he said, taking a fleeting but not unnoticed glance at Tabitha’s apron, “you look quick-witted enough to know what the sport is. You’re not some sort of spy, meant to throw us all for a loop, are you? If a sinister event occurs over the weekend, I shall blame you immediately,” he promised, eyes twinkling.
    Tabitha blinked. “Sorry?”
    He smiled at her kindly. “Joking.”
    â€œOh. Right. It’s just that I’m very used to getting blamed for things, you see.” She gave herself a mental slap for saying another idiotic thing. Oliver was joking, so she should joke as well. “Er, um, do I look the guilty type, then?” she asked.
    Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Hard to say, hard to say.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps we’re all guilty of something.”
    Tabitha let out a fumbled laugh and felt herself longing for the simple glares and whispers of the school yard. At least those were straightforward. Why, oh why, was it so much easier to interact with Pemberley than with people? It was desperately confusing to both yearn for others to include you and half wish that they wouldn’t.
    As observation was familiar enough, Tabitha settled into Inspector mode. Character study, Tibbs, is an integral and constant part of an invest igator’s modus operandi. She watched the auburn-haired girl curiously from the corner of her eye. Ignoring the chitchat around her, Frances Wellington had lifted her hand casually to the marble desk. Her finely manicured fingers crept toward a small pile of short pens, which were next to an ink pot, which was next to the large leather guest book. She snatched a pen and stashed it in her elaborately beaded reticule before a full second had passed.
    What would a rich girl want with a silly hotel pen?
    Barnaby Trundle continued to stand next to his parents. His father, who wore a larger, bolder version of his son’s signature sneer, was gripping Barnaby’s arm. Quite tightly, it would seem from the pained expression on the boy’s face. Raising a finger and jabbing it repeatedly into Barnaby’s chest, Mr. Trundle gave some sort of instruction and then shoved his son toward the other children.
    Barnaby bumbled over in a just-been-smacked-for-piddling-on-the-floor puppy manner that Tabitha had never seen from him. The sailor suit his mother had chosen for him was unfortunate. He aimed a hesitant smile toward Frances, nodding at the small open space between her and the front desk.
    Lips pinched together as though appearing pleasant was becoming an intolerable and loathsome task, Frances scooted over so that all six were seated on the bench.
    â€œMight as well introduce ourselves,” said Oliver. “The name’s Oliver Appleby and I’m eleven, near twelve. From London, attend Abbott Academy. My father is the head of Appleby Jewelry, so if you ladies are in need of a nice necklace or bracelet, he’s your man.” He winked and rolled his eyes.
    Nobody laughed.
    Oliver gave an embarrassed grin. “He likes to have me say that. I’m lined up to take over the business, though I’d rather be an engineer. I want to work with motorcars.” He pulled the silver tool from his pocket and held it up for general view. “I nearly fixed a faulty engine just last week using the knife and metal toothpick from this.” His lips twisted to one side. “Didn’t work out too well, actually. Anyway, I’m pleased to meet you all.”
    â€œI’m Viola Dale,” said the sweet-faced blond. Her voice was light and breathy, but confident. She had a lovely