Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
SUNDAY
“What a misty, murderous morning!” Wyatt throws his head back and breathes in the damp air.
We’re standing on the village green with the other contestants, waiting to hear who’s been bumped off during the night.
The grass is shimmering under swaths of fog.
It’s barely raining, more like moist air, but we Americans are dressed for a deluge, in slickers and ponchos and rubber rain boots, some of us under black umbrellas.
It’s like we’re gathered for a funeral, though we don’t yet know who has died.
A man in a police uniform steps up to a podium, his big belly pressing against his jacket, the buttons of which are mismatched.
He introduces himself as Constable Bucket.
I wonder if he’s just playing the part of a constable or if he’s the real constable playing the part of a fictional one.
Flanking him are Germaine Postlethwaite and a young woman in a tightly belted black trench coat holding a clipboard.
“Good morning, ladies and gents,” the constable says.
The paper in his hand is shaking. He might have a bit of stage fright, although he could be worried about impersonating a constable, which might be a crime even if you are one.
“I regret to inform you that at eight thirty this morning, the body of Mrs. Tracy Penny was discovered, dead, at Hairs Looking at You salon.” He gestures to the block behind him, where blue-and-white police tape is strung across the front of a three-story building.
“Mrs. Penny, forty, was the owner of the salon. Upon arriving at work as usual, the salon assistant, Dinda Roost, found Mrs. Penny on the floor, with apparent trauma to the head. The coroner estimates the time of death to be last night between eight o’clock and ten o’clock.
The precise cause of death will be ascertained by an autopsy, the results of which will be distributed to you in due time.
Mrs. Penny and the entire crime scene will be available for viewing and photographing throughout the morning.
Each group will have fifteen minutes to examine the scene.
In addition, you will have the opportunity during the week to visit the residence of Mrs. Penny, which is located above the salon, to search for clues. ”
The constable takes out a cloth handkerchief and mops his brow.
He announces the order in which each group will examine the crime scene.
Selina and Bix are first. They high-five and speed-walk toward the salon.
Next are the five members of a mystery book club from Tampa, Florida, who jump up and hug one another.
Amity, Wyatt, and I are third. We settle on a bench on the edge of the green to wait our turn.
“A hairstylist was not what I expected,” I say.
“I wanted to murder my stylist once,” Amity says.
“Do you think Mrs. Penny was a churchgoer?” Wyatt says. “I’d love to interview the vicar.”
“Is there a vicar here?” I ask.
“There’s always a vicar,” Wyatt says.
“I hear their vicar is a looker,” Amity says.
“A dishy vicar?” Wyatt says. “Yes, please.”
I take my notebook out of my bag and write VICAR on the first page.
I have a rush of being eleven again and pretending I’m a spy.
I used to roam our neighborhood, recording the movements of the residents.
I never saw anything criminal, and never found any mysteries to solve, but I witnessed some moments meant to be private, like when Sissy Lampkin, the prim president of the Junior League, stood at her kitchen sink picking her nose.
My grandmother hooted when she heard about this, though it hadn’t surprised me.
By then I already knew that people weren’t always what they seemed.
My grandmother said I was cynical beyond my years, which I always took as a compliment even though she never sounded pleased about it.
I’m starting to settle into the fact that, as strange as it is, I’m here in England to solve a fake crime and that I might even enjoy it.
Selina and Bix, after their allotted fifteen minutes, come out of the salon looking miffed at each other. Another fifteen minutes pass and the Tampa book club ladies exit laughing. I guess the crime scene is suitably gemütlich.