Page 13 of Welcome to Murder Week

Amity giggles.

As Roland Wingford speaks, Germaine appears to be scanning the audience in search of someone or something, until her lips twitch and her gaze stops on me. Or at least I think it does. I look over my shoulder. Perhaps she’s looking at someone else, maybe the guy behind me who was talking to Siri and has offended her by having his phone out again. When I turn back, she’s still focused on me. Am I supposed to wave? I shift in my seat so I’m no longer in her line of sight.

“Here we are,” the man behind me says to his companion. “According to this article, Roland Wingford published his first book in 1995… it was reviewed by theTimesof London, well,that’s something. Oh. They called the book ‘not unaccomplished.’ The other ten books were self-published.”

“Upon induction into the Detection Club,” Roland continues, “members take an oath, which I abide by myself, promising that their detectives shall detect the crimes presented without reliance on nor making use of divine revelation, feminine intuition, jiggery-pokery, coincidence, or act of God.”

I peek out at Germaine, who is looking at her watch.

“What’s wrong with feminine intuition?” Amity whispers. “And how will they know if we use it?”

“Thank you, Roland,” Germaine says, moving to take over the microphone. “That was quite elucidating.”

Roland doesn’t budge. He is now close enough to the microphone to kiss it. “To solve the crime I have devised, you must use ingenuity and employ the arts of observation and deduction. In accordance with the rules of detective fiction set out by the American crime writer S. S. Van Dine in 1928, I have not employed any of the clichés of the amateurs. To wit, the perpetrator will not be identified by comparing the butt of a cigarette left at the scene of the crime with the brand smoked by a suspect. The culprit will not be the newly discovered identical twin of a suspect. Servants, such as butlers, footmen, valets, gamekeepers, cooks, and the like, will not be chosen as the culprit. And a dog that does not bark will not be your indication that an intruder was familiar. In addition, the motive for the crime will be personal, not political. A golden age detective story, or an English-village murder mystery, for that matter, must be kept gemütlich.”

Germaine frowns.

“Which, of course, is the German word for ‘pleasant and cheerful.’?” Roland steps back.

“A cheerful murder is really the best kind,” says one of the Pittsburgh sisters.

“Well, that clarifies things,” Wyatt says. “We’re going to solve a gemütlich crime that doesn’t involve cigarettes, a twin, a servant, or a dog.”

“Easy peasy,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it’s going to be nothing of the kind.

Germaine asks if there are any questions. One of the Pittsburgh sisters raises her hand.

“I have a dodgy hip. Will all suspects be located in the village center, or will we have to walk far?”

“Walking is encouraged but not required. Most of the action occurs in the village, with a few suspects farther afield and reachable by foot, bus, or taxi,” Germaine says.

“What happens if more than one group solves the crime?” asks the man who’d been conversing with Siri.

“Such confidence,” Amity whispers to me.

“There are many details to the crime scenario,” Germaine says. “The team that identifies the most details will be the winner. If all details are identified exactly the same way, we will have to investigate the crime of cheating.”

Roland Wingford leans in.

“All participants are requested to adhere to the motto of the Detection Club, which is ‘Play Fair.’?”

Germaine invites us to proceed to dinner, which is not, as I’d thought, at the swanky King George Inn but at another establishment, The Lonely Spider, down the block. As we rise from our seats, Germaine catches my eye again. Her interest makes me nervous, like I might need to pay more money or something, so instead of walking toward her, I beckon Wyatt and Amity and suggest we hightail it to The Lonely Spider so we can be first in line at the bar.

CHAPTER NINE

We are assigned to the same table as the Pittsburgh sisters, Naomi and Deborah. Both have ruddy cheeks, brown eyes, and curly gray hair, but Naomi, the older sister, is plump and Deborah, only a year younger, is thin, which makes them look like a before and after of the same person in a weight-loss ad.

They barrage us with questions, eager to know how each of us came to sign up for this adventure alone. They’re delighted that Amity also was drawn to England by Austen, the Brontës, andMidsomer Murders. They seem genuinely disappointed that Wyatt’s husband didn’t come too, because they are avid bird-watchers. And when they hear about my mother, they shower me with affection, which makes me feel a little guilty for not being as broken up as they assume I must be, but is surprisingly comforting. Naomi rubs my shoulder, and Deborah pats my back. Being touched by strangers usually makes me cringe, but I have a strong desire for these sisters to wrap me in their arms and hug me tight. They remind me of my grandmother.

“We know loss,” says Naomi, as we take our seats. Four years ago, she says, her wife died of pancreatic cancer, and a year after that, Deborah’s husband dropped dead from a heart attack. They’ve lived together ever since.

“Had you and your mother spent a lot of time planning this trip?” Naomi asks.

She looks shocked when I tell her that my mother booked it as a surprise and that I have no idea why.

“She hadn’t expressed interest in traveling to the English countryside?” she asks.

“Never. She’d never gone abroad and didn’t seem to care.”

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