Page 49 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Nevertheless.” Wyatt writes “Melling School Book” and tacks it to the board. All the cards make this quest seem important, like we’re going to figure it out, but they add up to so little that it’s hard to take it seriously.

It’s still raining hard, so we decide to stay in for dinner andorder pizza, which we agree is the best kind of savory pie. We drink a bottle of wine and come up with elaborate scenarios for Amity’s next romance novel.

“A beautiful bird-watcher leading a campaign to ban hunting in her country town goes head-to-head with the area’s best marksman, who turns out to be a soulful and bookish artist who’s been hunting since he was a kid and only kills what he’s going to eat,” Wyatt says. “Can she love an animal killer?”

“Soulful hunter sounds like an oxymoron,” Amity says.

“How about this,” I say. “A lonely female optician pines for the shy, distracted manager of the pet shop next door, whose only friend is the ancient boa constrictor that no one wants to buy. But when he realizes he needs glasses, he gets them from the optician next door. When he puts on his spectacles, he really sees the optician for the first time and falls madly in love.”

Amity laughs. “And he abandons the boa? That could be problematic. Animal lovers will cry foul, and everyone else will be creeped out by a protagonist with a snake fetish.”

“Do you ever write things from your own life?” I ask.

“Not really,” Amity says. “Whenever I write something real, it ends up sounding like bad fiction. The first time I wrote a romance, I tried using Douglas’s marriage proposal. Total flop.”

“It was a bad proposal?” I say.

“Not at all, it was very good.”

“Go on,” Wyatt says. “Please?”

Amity laughs.

“We were in Florida visiting Doug’s parents, and we fled to a Publix supermarket for some space and to escape the heat. We were in the cereal aisle having a silly conversation about which of the eight billion cereals to choose. There were so many things to consider:Does the bran in Raisin Bran make up for the excessivesugar around the raisins? Why isn’t Lucky Charms in the candy aisle? What’s so special about K?” Amity touches the base of her neck like she’s fiddling with a necklace that used to be there. “I was prattling on when Douglas took my hand and said he knew which one he wanted. ‘Say Grape-Nuts,’ I told him, ‘and you’ll break my heart.’ And he said, ‘I want only you, Amity, for all time.’ He pretended to slip a ring on my finger and there we were, kissing and crying in aisle five.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Golly,” Wyatt says.

“But that,” Amity says, “was a long time ago.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, and then Wyatt says, “I think Douglas is a wanker.”

Amity puts a hand to her mouth, like she can’t believe what Wyatt said. But then she giggles and says, “Complete and total wanker.”

When I finally go upstairs to bed, I’m too wired to sleep. I consider downloading one of Amity’s novels, but I’ve never been drawn to reading straight-up romance. I’ve always figured they offer a false sense of what’s possible. Also, they’re supposed to be an escape, but what about the letdown when you close the book and come back to reality?

I toss and turn and listen to the rain on the roof. I wonder if it sounds the same from inside Dev’s cottage. I can’t deny it, I liked being in his kitchen and talking to him. Who knew a conversation could feel easy, sincere, and sexy at the same time? I hope I didn’t overdo it, blabbing on about my mother. But he wasn’t judgy at all, either of her for leaving or me for having been left. I’m usually not drawn to people who seem entirely well-adjusted and stable, but there’s nothing boring about Dev, nothing at all.

I still can’t sleep, so I pick up my phone. There’s an email from Kim from our office account:

Cheerio, Cath, I hope all is well in merry England. First things first, the display cases were installed and they don’t look crowded at all. More important, I couldn’t bring myself to make lentil soup (it’s so gross) so I cooked up a batch of spicy Thai shrimp soup for Mr. G. He was skeptical but said it was very interesting. So that’s good, right?

There’s also an email from Mr. Groberg.

Dearest Cath, I hope all is well and that the week will fly by, not only because that will be an indication that you are having fun (time flies when, you know) but because it will mean you’ll be home soon. I don’t think I can survive another of Kim’s meals. Thai soup for an old man? My mouth is still aflame. Kim is entertaining (so much energy), but maybe not wise? In other words, you are missed. And not only for your cooking.

I write them back, giving each a brief account of the murder and everyone I’ve met. It’s so many people, after only three days. It makes me realize how small my circle is at home and how little happens in a typical day.

I flip through the Melling School book, which is comfortably nostalgic, but I’m not in the mood to read about girls away at school. Finally, I turn toMurder Afoot.

The first chapter begins with Cuddy Claptrop, “stooped of back, bent of finger, and sly of expression” in his blacksmith shop, tidying his tools after his latest disaster of an apprentice left behind a mess. Cuddy, muttering about the “indolent youth” who is more trouble than he’s worth, begins to put his things away. This gives Roland Wingford an apparently irresistible opportunity to display the resultsof his extensive research into the art of forging. Tools are named and described in excruciating detail. Ball-peen hammers for spreading rivet heads, splitting punches for making swelled holes, flatters, and anvils. Each has a purpose and a place. The effect is undeniably dull, but also pleasantly numbing. As I read about chisels and drifts, I start to feel drowsy.Murder Afootmay not be a page-turner, but it’s as good as a Xanax.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TUESDAY

Dev gets out of his tiny car surprisingly quickly considering his size. He’s smiling as he comes around to open the passenger door for me. But then he pauses.

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