Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s a short walk to the village center, down the hill and then four blocks along a two-lane road with a sidewalk so narrow that we have to go single file. Wyatt takes the lead. Amity, who is reading as she walks, lags behind.
Wyatt stops by a red cylindrical pillar, which turns out to be a Royal Mail postbox. He rests an elbow on it and takes a selfie. His jaunty pose reminds me of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins , a film I watched a zillion times on VHS as a child and that my mother loved to ridicule.
“Chim Chim Cher-ee?” she used to sneer. “God help us.”
“How many villagers are part of Murder Week?” Wyatt asks.
Amity flips through her pamphlet. “Here we go: ‘The mystery has a cast of twenty-five characters, some of whom will be playing characters while others may seem to be characters but will be playing themselves, albeit with adjustments to their words and actions to adhere to the storyline of their given characters.’ Goodness, I hope the quality of the mystery exceeds the quality of the writing.”
She continues.
“?‘As you perambulate through Willowthrop investigating the crime, you may question anyone you meet, but only Murder Week players will reveal significant clues.’?”
“Hopefully they’ll all be lousy actors and it will be easy to tell who’s bona fide and who’s bogus,” Wyatt says.
“Lucky for us this isn’t Stratford-upon-Avon,” Amity says.
We come to the village green, an inviting expanse of lush emerald grass with neat beds of red and yellow tulips.
The streets are lined with shops, each with a colorful painted sign and some flying the Union Jack.
Over the narrow lanes leading away from the center are strings of bunting, red and blue triangles flapping in the breeze.
And there are flowers everywhere, climbing walls and trellises, spilling from window boxes and planters, and overflowing baskets hanging from lamp posts and wrought-iron hooks attached to the old stone buildings.
“Quaint-orama,” Wyatt says, taking pictures.
Hands on hips, Amity surveys the scene. “?‘Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places.’?”
Wyatt and I wait for her to say more.
“It’s Sherlock Holmes, in The Adventure of the Copper Beeches . Isn’t that what we’re here for? A pretty village and a sordid crime?”
“Also shopping,” Wyatt says, stretching out an arm to display the stores within sight.
He suggests we start at the Willowthrop Cheese Emporium.
We follow him inside, where the air is musty with milkiness.
Chunks of veiny Stiltons and rounds of cheddars fill the display cases.
The shelves are stacked with fruit chutneys, jams, and crackers.
Wyatt buys a jar of Old Hag Real Ale Pickle for his husband, who he says will appreciate the gift and the joke.
The cheesemonger, a slight man with pink cheeks, is pleasant but not particularly interested in us.
As we leave, we agree he’s not playing a part of any kind.
Next door, at the Willowthrop Sweet Shoppe, we look at the glass jars of candies, pointing out the ones we’ve never heard of, like aniseed balls and honeycomb cinder toffee.
The woman behind the counter seems to be listening to us and then, without any greeting, starts talking to us like we’re already in the middle of a conversation.
“As I said, he’s got to stop making trouble. She didn’t want to be married to him anymore, and that’s that. Enough with the threats and carrying on. Does he think he’s the first husband to be given the boot?”
The three of us look at each other, wide-eyed. I mouth: “ Bogus .”
“Already?” Wyatt whispers. “No one’s been murdered.”
“But it might be a clue,” I say.
Amity steps toward the shopkeeper.
“Exactly who are we talking about?” she asks sweetly.
“Oy, did I speak out of turn?” the woman says. “Don’t mind me. I do prattle on. What can I get for you? Some strawberry bonbons? Jelly babies?”
I buy a bag of rhubarb and custard sweets in hopes of getting her talking again, but a group of Dutch backpackers comes in asking for salty licorice and the shopkeeper turns her attention to them.
We spend the next hour or so checking out more shops.
Amity buys a Peak District National Park dish towel, and I get a tin of tea and a package of stem ginger biscuits for Mr. Groberg.
Outside a beauty salon, a young woman with spiky red hair vapes and looks us up and down with enough disdain to suggest she’d rather die than play-act murder.
We’re less sure about the man sweeping the sidewalk and whistling an Adele song in front of the haberdashery.
When he winks at us like he’s in on a secret, we decide he’s definitely, possibly bogus.
We come to a pet shop advertising “all things for birders,” which Wyatt starts to pass by but then says, “Oh, why not, let’s just have a quick sticky beak.”
The store smells like sunflower seeds and wood chips.
“Look at this!” Wyatt says, touching a bright red feeder in the shape of a classic British phone box. “And oh my god, this!” He points at a birdhouse that looks like a pub and is customizable with the name of your choice.
“Bernard would adore these.”
We follow Wyatt around the store.
“I used to have such fun working with him. We met a few weeks before the pandemic, and during that first year, it was just the two of us at the shop, filling orders for people to pick up outside, giving advice—well, Bernard gave advice, I stood by and admired my smart, sexy beau. I loved being with Bernard all the time. It didn’t matter what we were doing, I liked doing it with him.
But once the shop opened again, things gradually changed.
Not for Bernard, who could talk about birds all day, but for me.
I learned enough to help customers with the basics—bird feeders and birdbaths and birdhouses—and I amused myself by trying to stump the regular customers with weird bird trivia. ”
“Such as?” I ask.
“Did you know that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward? That the flamingo can eat only with its head upside down? I could go on, but I’ll spare you. In fact, I’ll spare you all of this. We can go now.” He leads us outside.
I don’t realize how hungry I am until we’re standing in front of a gourmet store displaying a wide variety of small pies. Inside, we’re greeted by a young woman with skin so dewy and glowing it doesn’t seem real.
Amity whispers, “English rose.”
I’m too famished to care if the woman is an actor or not.
The array of savory pies is mind-boggling: short ribs and Roquefort; steak, bacon, and ale; beef and potato; Gruyère, butternut squash, and pork sausage; and something called “four-and-twenty chicken-and-ham pie,” which turns out to be layers of nuts, fruit, chicken, and “gammon,” which Amity thinks is a kind of ham.
We agree on the four-and-twenty chicken-and-ham pie for the name, and also choose the one with bacon, and the beef and potato pie because it sounds reliably simple. We eat them cold on a bench outside the shop.
“My sons wouldn’t like a lunch like this, a few little pies on a bench,” Amity says.
“They’re picky eaters?” Wyatt says.
“Not in the slightest, but they’d need scads more food,” Amity says. “When they were teenagers, there was no better value than taking them to an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a wonder they didn’t put some of those restaurants out of business.”
“My mother attributes most of her wrinkles to raising boys,” Wyatt says.
“We loved having boys,” Amity says, looking wistful.
“They could be feral, of course, but also so sweet. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, one of them would yell, ‘Front porch!’ and the four of us would pile onto the wicker couch to watch the rain and count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. The boys would be all squirmy and excited, but then they’d settle down and cuddle with us. ”
“You must miss those years,” I say, remembering how I used to ride out thunderstorms in my grandmother’s bed.
“I do, though not as much as I thought I would,” Amity says.
“When my boys were little, I used to feel sorry for people with older kids, who just didn’t seem cute.
But then I discovered that the older my boys got, the more interesting they became.
I knew I’d always love them, but I didn’t know how much I’d genuinely like them. ”
“They didn’t want to join you here?” I ask.
“On a mystery week?” Amity laughs. “I didn’t even suggest it.”
“They’re not BritBox watchers?” Wyatt says.
“Goodness, no. But they adore making fun of my shows. Stay tuned for scenes from next week, when Lady Esmerelda drops a teacup and Lord Croptopton scandalizes the county by burping! ”
“In these parts, I believe it’s known as belching,” Wyatt says.
The pies are not bad but vaguely disappointing, less like something intentional than like leftovers eaten straight from the fridge the morning after a holiday dinner. Maybe they’d be better warm.
Wyatt goes off to find a cold drink, and Amity and I decide to stay put.
The scene is so calm and orderly that I imagine all the activities are on a loop.
That, eventually, I’ll see it all repeat just as before.
First a pack of children, running with that school’s-out burst of energy, and behind them the harried-looking woman in a skirt and sensible shoes telling them to slow down.
Then the double-decker bus, the jolly driver waving at the postman before pulling over just past the King George Inn, a stone’s throw from where the lady walking the terrier takes five steps, stops, and turns away as the dog crouches to relieve itself.
Now entering stage left is a woman, maybe in her late sixties, in a misbuttoned flowery blouse, jodhpurs, and boots. She’s wearing leather gloves and holding a long pair of hedge clippers.
“Incoming bogus,” I say to Amity, who is sitting beside me with an actual paper map spread out on her lap.
“Have you seen the hunt?” the woman says, not really looking at us. “I had to prune the roses, so many roses, the floribunda was in a shambles, and now I’ve lost them.”
She’s doing a bang-up job at acting distressed.
Amity puts down her map and stands up.
“How absolutely dreadful,” she says to the woman in the kind of posh English accent you might hear at Buffalo’s best dinner theater. “The hunt is long gone. It was quite the spectacle. A veritable whirlwind of hounds and trumpets.”
Amity winks at me and takes a pen and notebook from her purse. She asks the woman her name.
“My name?” The woman puts a hand to her chest. She looks terrified. “You don’t know me?” She looks over her shoulder. “I think I’m being followed. I fear I’m….”
“About to be murdered?” I say, surprisingly excited.
The woman gasps. “Am I in danger?”
As she steps back, a startlingly handsome younger man rushes up and puts an arm around her.
“Okay, everything’s fine now, come with me,” he says. He’s got thick dark hair nearly to his shoulders and warm-brown skin. He’s got to be an actor; he’s way too gorgeous for this town. Giving us barely a glance, he starts to usher the woman away.
“Wait,” I say. “Can we please ask a few more questions?”
He stops and turns back. Even scowling, he makes me catch my breath. He’s several inches taller than I am, with dark eyes, a long, straight nose, and a beautiful neck.
“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 my mother ,” 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.