Page 22 of Welcome to Murder Week

“My mother often got carried away. It’s totally possible she convinced herself that she had ancestors in England and that with a little digging, she’d trace her lineage back to some landed gentry. Or that like Sara Crewe inA Little Princessshe’d discover some wealthy relative who’d been trying for years to find her to make good on a promise to bestow an inheritance.”

My mother had given meA Little Princesswhen I was a girl. I’d loved the book as she had, but even then, unlike my mother, I knew that miracles like the ones in books don’t happen in real life.

Germaine looks skeptical.

“It seemed more grounded than that,” she says.

Behind us, the salon door opens. The constable leans out, again wiping his brow with a handkerchief, and tells Germaine that she’s needed urgently inside. Maybe the “corpse” is getting chatty again.

“Let’s continue this conversation later,” Germaine says. “I’ll share what I know, and you’ll do the same. Stop by my shop this afternoon.The Book and Hook. On Crane Street. Impossible to miss. Any time after two o’clock.”

“You see?” Amity says, once Germaine is gone. “There’s something there. I knew it.”

“You’ll go talk to her, won’t you?” Wyatt says.

I want to say I won’t, that I know better, but there it is again: that tiny spark of hope that never fails to emerge no matter how badly my mother has let me down. Even the finality of her death can’t extinguish it.

“What’s the harm?” Amity speaks gently, as if she knows how loaded this is for me. “I mean, you’re here, you might never be back. Maybe you’re right and it’s nothing, but what if there’s something you’d like to know?”

“Is it totally out of the question that it’s something good?” Wyatt says.

“You too?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Would I be here if I could resist a good mystery?”

Amity and Wyatt look at me expectantly. I may not be here with my mother, but nor am I alone. Maybe digging a little with Amity and Wyatt will be more of a lark than a threat. If we come up with nothing at all, I’ll have confirmed that I know my mother as well as I thought I did. If we find something ridiculous, we can have a laugh at my mother’s eccentricity, toast her fanciful approach to life, and put it to bed. And if my mother’s quest was for something worth finding? I don’t allow myself to consider it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Before we set out for Gordon Penny’s dance studio, Wyatt holds up a hand.

“Wait,” he says. “Check out that window.”

It’s an ordinary first-floor window in a narrow stone building. Lace curtains inside, a window box with bright red flowers outside.

“What are we looking at?” I ask.

“Give it a minute.”

The curtain lifts, and a woman’s face appears. It’s hard to make out her features, but then she seems to press her entire face against the glass, so much so that her nose and lips are smushed by the pressure until she looks like a melting clown. I don’t understand what I’m seeing until Wyatt says, “That, I believe, is the nosy neighbor.”

“Oh, yes,” Amity says. “There’s always a nosy neighbor.”

Mr. Groberg says we’re all nosy neighbors, unable to resist the allure of what goes on beyond closed doors, to expose what others are hiding. I think he’s right. Why else would Germaine, Wyatt, and Amity be so interested in my mother’s alleged quest? Why else would all these Americans have paid good money to pretend snoop in a village planted with fake secrets?

We cross the street, and Wyatt rings the bell. The door opensto reveal a plump, gray-haired woman with reading glasses hanging around her neck on a metal chain.

“Finally! I’ve been lifting and dropping that curtain all morning. I thought I’d never be noticed. Too subtle, that’s what I told Germaine, too subtle. But she insisted, promising me that this was a good and vital role.”

She introduces herself as Edwina Flasher and ushers us into her sitting room, which is decorated in early Jane Marple. Shag carpet, couch and easy chair upholstered in beige corduroy, and lace doilies on dark wood furniture. A black rotary phone that looks like a prop sits on a small round table. I’m tempted to pick up the receiver to see if there’s a dial tone. Edwina shakes Wyatt’s and Amity’s hands with brisk efficiency but stops when she turns to me.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Cath.”

“You’re American?”

“We all are.”

“Yes, of course.” She still looks befuddled. “Forgive me. I’m an old woman, and I tend to get things mixed up. Please, have a seat.”

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