Chapter Twenty-Three
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
We wait to speak until we’re across the courtyard and presumably out of earshot of Lady Blanders and any of her alleged staff. And then we all burst out laughing.
“She has got to be bogus,” Wyatt says.
“One million percent,” I say. “Roland and Germaine would know that a bunch of Anglophile Americans would be disappointed if we didn’t get to encounter a grand lady in a grand home so they created Lady Magnolia Blanders.”
“And hats off to her Oscar-worthy mash-up of Queen Elizabeth, Nancy Mitford, and the Dowager Countess What’s-her-face from Downton Abbey ,” Wyatt says.
Amity agrees Lady Blanders was playing a part but still thinks she might be the real owner of Hadley Hall.
“Did you notice how she said ‘home,’ like it had two syllables? Just like the Queen in The Crown . I think she was genuinely posh. In my town at home, they do house walks to raise money for the local schools, and there’s always some fabulously wealthy person who opens up their home, both to show it off and to help make the benefit a success.
And it doesn’t matter which one is the motivation.
” She stops and looks back at Hadley Hall, which from this vantage point looks a little creepy.
“It was a thrill to be in there, wasn’t it? The tea was top-notch.”
Amity consults her map and directs us toward a path under some oak trees that look like they’ve been growing for millennia. It’s marked as a bridle path. A little farther on is a small sign that reads, WILLOWTHROP VILLAGE , 1.1 MILES . There was a more direct route all along.
“We have to find a motive for Lady Blanders,” Wyatt says. “They would not have made her the last person to see Tracy Penny alive without providing a clue why she might have killed Tracy.”
I disagree. I argue that Lady Blanders was included for our entertainment, not because she has a role in the murder. She had never met Tracy before Saturday and didn’t know anyone in the village. She’s an outsider.
Our path winds through a lush forest dotted with deep red rhododendrons and pink azaleas, the kind of bushes people pay good money for back home.
Wyatt starts listing things we learned about Lady Blanders that could be clues: she has a personal hairdresser, a longtime maid, and a gardener; she’s being honored by some charity, has two sons and a snobby husband, with whom she doesn’t spend much time; and she goes to Sproton House spa every month.
She also said that Tracy’s husband is a loser and that Tracy is known for having lovers. Oh, and she has a friend named Demetra.
“Who doesn’t?” I say.
“Dissy,” Amity says. “They always use nicknames.”
“We’ll have to check her alibi at the King George Inn, but let’s go to the stationer’s first to question Tracy’s landlord, Bert Lott,” Wyatt says. “While we’re there, we can buy a bulletin board.”
“Yes!” Amity says. “And some red string.”
“What for?” I say.
“Seriously?” says Wyatt.
“Have you not watched Sherlock ? True Detective ?” Amity says.
“A little?”
“ Homeland ?” Wyatt asks.
“Most of it, I think.” I remember a wall covered with photographs and newspaper articles and red yarn linking them like Silly String. The whole thing looked like chaos.
“Didn’t Carrie Mathison lose the plot?”
“That’s not the point,” Wyatt says. “We have a lot of details to keep straight, and we need to see them to connect the dots.”
We must be close to the village, because we pass by some houses with cultivated gardens and then come to the footpath that runs behind the row of shops along the Willowthrop green.
The walkway is quiet and pretty. We pass behind the King George Inn and are nearly behind the hair salon when I trip over what I think is a branch but turns out to be the end of a long black umbrella.
I pick it up and am about to rest it against a fence so whoever lost it might reclaim it, but Wyatt says, “Stop right there.”
“This could be evidence,” he explains. “Edwina said whoever left the salon hid himself with a big black umbrella. Maybe this is it.”
Wyatt takes a photograph of the umbrella.
“Our first bona fide clue,” Amity says. “This could confirm what Edwina said, that whoever killed Tracy left on foot.”
“And must have gone down the alley on the side of the building and picked up the footpath,” Wyatt says. “If only we knew where he was heading.”
“He might have parked a car somewhere farther away so it wouldn’t be noticed near the salon,” Amity says.
I put the umbrella back on the ground, and we resume walking.
A squawk, and a plump black-and-white bird flies in front of my face. I jump back.
“What the hell?” I say.
“Magpie,” Wyatt says.
“Like the rhyme?” Amity says. “One for sorrow, two for joy?”
“Yup. Member of the crow family.”
“You know a lot about birds for someone who doesn’t really like them,” I say.
“Osmosis,” Wyatt says.
“But why do you work at your husband’s store if you don’t love birds?” Amity asks.
“Because Bernard loves birds and I love Bernard.” He stops to pick a daisy, which he puts behind his ear. “And the truth is, I don’t know what else I’d do.”
“What have you done in the past?” I ask.
“I was a paralegal for a while, which was good money at least. Then there was the law school debacle. Some retail jobs. I was very good at selling cutlery.”
“What did you love doing when you were a child?” Amity asks. “That’s what I asked myself when my boys grew up and I wanted to get back to work. I loved writing stories when I was a little girl. It was pure joy. So that’s what I returned to.”
I’m glad Amity didn’t ask me what I loved doing as a child.
I don’t remember wanting much other than to have everyone home all the time.
I wanted to know my father, to have a father, and to bounce on my grandfather’s knee like my grandmother said I used to do.
I wanted my mother there too. To have all of them around the table for dinner every day, like families in books.
“When I was a kid?” Wyatt says. “That’s easy.
I loved performing. I’d put on shows for my family all the time.
We had a drama program in middle school, but by eighth grade I was six foot three, had a staggering case of acne, and hair the color of Orangina.
I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence.
I gathered all my courage and tried out for The Music Man and got cast as the understudy for Harold Hill.
I never expected to go on, but there was a vicious stomach bug going around, and I had to step in on opening night.
And boy, did we have trouble in River City. ”
“What happened?” I say.
“Early in act one, I hurled.”
“You mean you—” Amity stops in her tracks.
“Yup.” Wyatt turns to face us. “Projectile vomited all over Marian the Librarian.”
“The school librarian?” I say.
“No, Micaela Finkelstein, who played the leading lady.”
“Oh my god,” I say.
“I was mortified. I rushed offstage to clean up, and while I was back there, Amaryllis and Unnamed Townsman Number Three threw up too. It was a nasty virus, and the show was canceled. After that, I pulled the plug on my acting career.”
“Why?” Amity says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Too traumatic. I joined the stage crew. Much safer. I like helping other people shine. Besides, the small stage of retail has its charms.”
Wyatt picks up his pace and then says, “Shit!” and lifts one foot. “I’ve stepped in horse crap.” It’s a huge pile, right in the middle of the path. I don’t know how he didn’t see it.
“Oh dear,” Amity says. “A hazard of country life.” She takes a wet wipe out of her purse and hands it to Wyatt, who’s scraping the bottom of his shoe against a rock. “Here you go, friend.”
When Wyatt’s shoe is clean enough, we continue walking, following the path until we’re behind Tracy’s building, where we turn down the narrow lane that brings us back to the village green.
The stationer’s is on the next block. On the way, we pass a fishmonger’s with a pile of golden smoked fish, splayed out flat, in the window.
“Those are kippers,” I say. “My mother used to love kippers and scrambled eggs.”
“I’ve only encountered them in British literature,” Amity says. “In The Remains of the Day , the butler serves them to Lord Darlington. For breakfast.” She shudders.
“That’s four things now.” Wyatt’s voice rises with excitement. “Swans, bluebells, a crooked spire, and kippers.”
“Which were not in my mother’s story,” I say.
“But they’re British, so still significant,” Wyatt says. “That settles it. We’re getting two bulletin boards. One to solve the fake murder of Tracy Penny—”
“And one to figure out why Cath’s mother wanted to bring her to Willowthrop,” Amity says.
“Guys, come on, my mother is not why you’re here. I promise you, whatever brought her here is not worth the trouble. Let’s just focus on the fake murder.”
“And leave your story unsolved?” Wyatt says. “Not a chance.”