Page 55 of Welcome to Murder Week

Men his age shouldn’t try to keep up with the times, I think, until I remember that he’s talking according to a script.

“Why did you lie about this?” Amity’s voice is so soothing. She would make an excellent therapist.

“I didn’t want anyone to know I’m doing this kind of dating. Like I’m some kind of loser who can’t meet women any other way.”

“Have you gone on many online dates?” Amity motions for me to take out my phone, whispers to me to open a picture of my mother.

“A few,” Bert. “What’s that got to do with the case?”

“Nothing, honestly,” Amity says sweetly. “This is another matter entirely.”

She holds out my phone to him, displaying a picture I took during my last visit to my mother in Gainesville. She’s in a string bikini, her hair swept into a ponytail, standing by the Ichetucknee River. She made me take a lot of pictures that day, probably because she knew she looked good.

“Bert, if your real name is Bert, have you encountered this woman online?”

“Did something happen to her?” Bert asks.

“You recognize her?” Amity says.

I don’t dare tell him the truth.

“I feel like I might have seen her,” Bert says. “Do you have any other photos?”

I take the phone and look through my photos until I find another one, the kind my mom might pick for a dating profile. Here’s one she sent me from a fundraiser to save the manatees. Her hair looks lush, and her lips are bright red. Her smile is appealingly mischievous.

“Oh yeah, I FaceTimed with her for a while.”

“You did? When was this?” I ask.

If he says last month, we’ll know it’s a mistake.

“It’s been a while, maybe it was last summer. She was funny and very curious. Had a lot of questions. Wanted my whole life story. She said she was thinking of coming to England.”

Bert is not a bad-looking guy, and he’s about my mother’s age. But would she come all the way to Willowthrop to meet him? It seems like a stretch. Maybe she was just looking for information about the village. But again, why?

“What happened?” Amity asks.

“Never heard from her again. What do the young people say? She ghosted me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Tracy’s place is above the salon, a one-bedroom flat with a living room that includes a corner kitchen and table for two. The decor is pretty, if a little frilly, and surprisingly disheveled. The windows have lace curtains, though a few of the hems are undone and dip down on the dusty sills. There’s a glass vase of white calla lilies on a table, the petals beginning to brown and the water cloudy. The coatrack by the door looks like it’s about to topple over from the weight of coats and jackets piled onto it.

We’re only allotted fifteen minutes to investigate the flat, so we decide to take lots of photographs so we can continue going over the evidence later. There are a few things that might be significant: a paper on the glass coffee table that’s headed “A legal notice of forfeiture issued to Tracy Penny, sole proprietor of Hairs Looking at You,” and which details a timeline, starting the following week, for an eviction procedure, and a pink Filofax calendar, which is open to the page two days after Tracy’s murder, where someone—presumably Tracy—has written in all capital letters “TELL PIPPA!” I flip through the previous days and see only things that seem ordinary—a volunteer commitment at Whitby Stables, a delivery date for a new salon chair, and a reminder to watchThe Big Blow Outon Channel 4.

On the table is also a copy ofHair Magazine, dog-eared at articles for Barbiecore Hair and TikTok Hair Trends, both of which I photograph for no logical reason. I feel guilty snooping around Tracy’s apartment and have to remind myself that it might not even be hers and, even if it is, at the moment it’s a stage set.

Wyatt pulls a tiny white card from the wastepaper basket and hands it to me. The top of the card reads “Willowthrop Florist” and the message scribbled below says, “Forever Yours.” I take a picture of that too.

Tracy’s bed is unmade, the pink sheets rumpled and slightly depressed as if someone had been lying there not too long ago. On the floor by the closet is a silky black negligee, the kind put on to be taken off. I hope Amity has plenty of paper for printing photos.

The kitchen counters are clean, but there are dishes in the sink. The refrigerator is nearly empty. Just a bowl of roasted almonds, a container of nonfat Greek yogurt, a large package of salad greens, and a ready-made macaroni and cheese from someplace called Tesco. The freezer contains only double-chocolate ice cream, full-fat.

“I have deduced that the deceased was conflicted about food,” I say, hoping to get a laugh from Wyatt and Amity, but there’s no response. They are standing by the little dining table, their backs to me. I wedge myself between them to see what they are looking at. On the table is a bottle of gin and two glasses. The bottle has a familiar blue label.

“That’s Dev’s gin,” I say. “Good for him. Nice to see he’s getting some business.”

“Hmm,” Amity says.

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