Page 46 of Welcome to Murder Week

“No, I mean a vacation from murder. From the mystery. Have you been to Stanage Edge?”

I remember the name from my first Google search about the Peak District, but that’s it. Dev tells me it’s one of the area’s great attractions, a gritstone ridge that runs for four miles.

“It’s got stunning views of the moors and the valley. You can’t leave the Peak without visiting.”

“Is it far?” I ask.

“About a half-hour drive. You can park and climb straight up, takes about five minutes, or you can take the longer, scenic hike from Hathersage that they’re now calling theJane Eyretrail.”

“Jane Eyre? That’s one of my favorite books.”

My mother and I both loved it, but while she swooned over the happy ending for Jane and Mr. Rochester, I loved Jane’s strong sense of her own worth despite being mistreated and dismissed since childhood.

“We can go tomorrow morning if you’d like,” Dev says.

“Are you trying to distract me from my sleuthing?”

“I suppose I am.”

I watch him waiting for me to answer. He looks hopeful and sincere, like he’s made a perfectly friendly offer. And that’s all it is. It’s not like we’re going to start anything. By next weekend, I’ll be gone.

“You cannot go back to the States having seen nothing but little Willowthrop. I won’t allow it.”

He’s right. I should see Stanage Edge. It would be silly to refuse an offer to go there.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Great. Pick you up at ten?”

“It’s a date.” I regret my choice of words until Dev repeats them.

“It’s a date.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Sure enough, it starts raining shortly after I leave Dev’s cottage. But the air is still warm, and the moisture feels nice on my face. I jog back into town and take what I think is a shortcut but which takes me to a dead end as the light rain turns into a downpour. I dash into a shop filled with racks of North Face and Patagonia fleece pullovers. This must be the outdoors store where Bert Lott’s daughter works. I figure I should try to interview her, though I feel funny about going rogue. Hopefully Amity and Wyatt won’t mind. I shake off the rain and walk toward a young woman behind the counter. She has her hair in braids under a knit cap and a tattoo of a carabiner clip on her forearm.

“I’m looking for Claire Lott.”

“And who might you be?”

Saying that I’m investigating a murder seems unwise; what if this person is not part of the game or not even aware of it?

“I know her father and wanted to say hello.”

“You know Bert?”

“You do too?”

“Well, I should do. He’s my dad.”

“So you know what I’m up to?”

Claire Lott drains her bottle of kombucha, sets it down, and raises her chin toward me.

“You don’t look the type.”

“Meaning?”

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