Page 80 of Welcome to Murder Week

Amity’s cheeks are pink. She’s beaming with energy and beauty. I raise my glass.

“Okay, then,” I say. “To murder!”

She clinks her glass with mine.

“To bloody murder!”

We throw back the rest of our beers. We’re still smiling at one another when the Tampa book club ladies spill noisily into the pub. They’re so amped up they appear to be celebrating, but one of them sees us and says, “We’ve completely failed! We haven’t a clue!” She’s smiling like it couldn’t please her more.

Selina and Bix walk in too. They come right to us.

“Drowning your sorrows or toasting your success?” Bix doesn’t seem sarcastic. “Our solution is inelegant, to say the least, and most likely wrong.”

Selina, right behind him, gives a devil-may-care smile. “We’re not as good at this as we thought. It’s been confusing, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” I say at the same time that Amity says, “Not really.”

“You think you’ve got it?” Bix says.

“We’ve definitely figured some things out,” Amity says, and winks at me. “I think we’ve got it.”

“Impressive.” Bix nods.

“Bravo,” says Selina. “What are you drinking? The next round is on us.”

This week is full of surprises.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

FRIDAY

The dining room of the King George Inn is plush and glittery, like the inside of a jewelry box. The guests are suitably bedazzled. Germaine, standing by the door, is nearly unrecognizable in a long, sleeveless black velvet dress and a gold art deco choker. Roland Wingford, who’s sticking close to Germaine, has retired his tweed ensemble in favor of white-tie—a black tailcoat and white bow tie that make him look very old Hollywood. Constable Bucket, still in uniform and still perspiring, has adorned his black jacket with ribboned military metals that look surprisingly real. The Americans are no less glamorous. There are sparkly dresses and sequins, high heels, suits with cuff links, and hair so sleekly coiffed that I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Tracy revived herself to open for business.

Wyatt looks dashing, not boyish like he did that first day, but more confident and elegant, in a slim-fitting suit, a narrow tie, a linen handkerchief in his breast pocket, and buttery leather shoes. Amity is all smiles, her flowery silk dress a happy match to her mood, which is impressively perky for someone who spent most of the day thinking up vicious scenarios for her thriller-in-progress. I’ve madean effort too. After a long run on the Monsal Trail this afternoon, I took a bubble bath and then a shower, washing and conditioning my hair so I could wear it down without looking like I put my finger in an electrical socket. I think it worked, because Wyatt and Amity both whistled when I came downstairs, and that was before I fancied up my black wrap dress with some of Amity’s jewelry. I’m also wearing heels, “leaning into my height” as my grandmother used to advise. I don’t, however, feel as sleek as my dress. I’m overloaded on revelations and plot twists, both fictional and real. When Amity brings me a gin and tonic, I down it quickly, even though I’ve barely eaten today. I hope it calms my nerves so I can enjoy the silly and fun finale to this mind-boggling week.

A microphone squeaks. Germaine, Constable Bucket, and Roland Wingford are at the front of the room.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Germaine begins. “We have spent the day going over your solutions, which have been exceedingly entertaining and, dare I say, creative. Your many hours in front of the telly and reading our golden age classics have paid off grandly. You sought out the obvious suspects, and most of you added to your lists the usual archetypes—the vicar, the nosy neighbor, and the village doctor.”

Wyatt and Amity and I exchange astonished looks.

“How did we miss the village doctor?” Wyatt whispers.

“Other than dead Tracy sneezing, no one was sick,” I answer.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t matter,” Amity says, but she looks troubled.

“In the end, however, only one team figured out the entire scheme,” Germaine says. “In so doing, they utilized all the reasoning suggested—observation, careful questioning, and most of all, a keen eye forevery detail. They did such a good job that I’ve already told Constable Bucket that if Willowthrop ever experiences a realmurder, which I sincerely hope it does not, he should call in this team. And so, without further ado, I’d like to invite to the microphone three people who not only have never worked together to solve a real or a fake murder, but until arriving in Willowthrop a week ago had never met.”

The three of us exchange delighted looks. Amity squeezes my hand.

“They have become a formidable trio and, I hope, good friends. The winners of the First Annual Willowthrop Fake-Murder Week, ladies and gentlemen, are the residents of Wisteria Cottage—Amity Clarke, Wyatt Green, and Cath Little.”

A burst of applause and cheers. Wyatt grabs us each by the hand and pulls us to the front of the room. As we take our bows, the kitchen door swings open and Dev steps out and joins the applause. I want to find him later to ask if his mother remembered anything. And I need to say goodbye, though I’m not sure how I can or why the thought of never seeing him again makes me so sad.

Germaine steps toward Wyatt.

“It is now my pleasure to hand the microphone to Wyatt Green, who will explain this devious crime to us. First, however, I’d like to say a special thanks to Wyatt, Amity, and Cath for sparing us the embarrassment of being accused of not playing fair. We were concerned that the crime we devised might be too tricky, but we refused to dumb it down. A mystery that’s easy to solve, after all, is not worthy of the name. Wyatt, the floor is yours.”

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