Page 11 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Whatever for?” he says. Tied around his waist is the white apron of a chef or a waiter.

Amity waves her notebook. “Clues? We’re on the case.”

“You’re on the—” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead.

I feel a little lightheaded, like I should have eaten more of those pies.

“Oh, that.” He sounds annoyed. “It’s not what you think.”

“Come now,” I say, trying to be playful, like we’re all in on the joke. “Riding gloves? A brooch of the Union Jack on her blouse? Seriously?”

He steps forward, putting himself between us and the woman.

“She’s got dementia,” he whispers. He looks genuinely concerned; the man is not only hot, but he can act.

“Oh, does she?” How gullible do these villagers think we are? “And you happened to swoop in before she could say more?” I feel Amity’s hand on my arm, but I shake it off.

“I happened to have ‘swooped in,’ as you say, because she’s mymother,” the man says. The woman gazes up at him with watery blue eyes.

I turn my attention back to the man, who I realize resembles the woman though she is white and he is not.

“Not used to mixed-race families in Arkansas?” His face is hard to read; I’m not sure if his smile has a tinge of a smirk or vice versa.

As he turns away, I find myself quietly uttering “I’m from Buffalo,” as I realize that nothing about what just occurred was bogus and that I’ve been a bona fide ass.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The parish hall is only a few blocks from the village green. When we arrive, Wyatt and I talk Amity out of taking seats in the first row and settle in the third. Two women in front of us twist around and introduce themselves as sisters from Pittsburgh, retirees who love traveling together.

“We’ve been cramming for months, watching reruns ofGrantchesterandFather Brownand deconstructing the cozy mysteries of M. C. Beaton,” one of them says. “We love Agatha Raisin. Wasn’tThe Quiche of Deathdelicious?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“A delightful book!” Amity says.

“I don’t do quiche,” Wyatt says with a wave of his hand. “Lactose intolerant.”

The people gathered look middle-aged and older. I count about thirty participants, most of whom are seated in pairs or small groups, which makes me glad I’m also part of a team.

On the stage, a woman wearing a corsage taps on the microphone. Her blouse is untucked and hangs over a denim skirt that nearly reaches her bright green Crocs. The ensemble strikes me as more hippie school principal than English countrywoman, but theparish hall is not particularly quaint either. With rows of folding chairs and the small stage edged by a faded maroon curtain, it’s the kind of place you’d expect to watch a spelling bee.

“Maybe we have it all wrong,” I whisper to Wyatt. “Maybe what looks bogus is bona fide and vice versa.”

I’m still confused by my encounter this afternoon with the mother-son duo and hoping that it will become clearer who’s part of the mystery and who’s not.

The microphone squeaks. The schoolmarm leans in.

“Welcome to Willowthrop’s first ever Murder Week! We are delighted to have you here in our humble village. We trust that you all are well and truly afflicted with what the great nineteenth-century novelist Wilkie Collins called ‘detective fever.’ You see, our local constable is a lovely chap but unfortunately is a few egg whites short of a soufflé, if you catch my meaning. So, in the case of a murder in our midst, we will rely on you.”

Ripples of applause. The speaker introduces herself, and I’m disoriented all over again.Thisis Germaine Postlethwaite? Of the imperious email and the extensive correspondence with my mother? I’m not sure what I expected—more tweed, less shlumpiness? At the least, more intimidating. I should have pushed harder on the refund.

“Before we begin,” Germaine continues, “I’d like to state, at the request of the head of the parish council, that Willowthrop is utterly and completely safe. There has not been a suspicious death here since 2012, when the village orthodontist unexpectedly expired.”

“That explains the teeth,” Wyatt whispers.

Amity shushes him.

“There was an inquest—” Germaine continues.

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