Page 27 of Welcome to Murder Week

“No.” The tips of my fingers are tingling. I’m probably dehydrated.

“Do we add the handsome barkeep to our list of suspects?” Wyatt says.

“I think he’s only helping out.” And then I realize that I don’t know for sure, that I never got a read on when he was kidding and when he was not. Maybe that’s why he’s having such a strong effect on me; it’s not attraction, it’s confusion.

Back at the cottage, jet lag finally catches up to me. I crawl under the comforter and fall into a deep sleep. When I wake up, I’m surprised to see I’ve been out for nearly three hours. I fill the tub and take a long, hot bubble bath. The citrus scent tickles my nose and is at once relaxing and invigorating. I sink down into the water, let my hair swirl around me. I stretch my legs, wiggle my toes. I am on vacation, free of responsibilities. I imagine myself on a map, across the ocean, up from London, in the heart of the Peak District, in a village, in a cottage, in the bath. I stretch out and give silent thanks for this extra-long tub.

By the time I get dressed, I’m famished. Wyatt’s back, and I ask if he wants to join me to get something to eat.

“You’re not going straight to cocktails? At a nice little place that opens at eight?”

I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it. But what would be the point?

“Food first,” I say.

Wyatt declines my offer. I walk back down to the village center and buy some sausage rolls, which I’ve heard are popular in England. With the first bite, I have to laugh. Of course they’re popular. They’re pigs in a blanket. Why in God’s name have we not made them into fast food too? They’re delicious, greasy, and salty, and they leave me with an undeniable thirst. I come upon a pub and look through the window. Inside, there are two tables filled with people I recognize from the parish hall. Naomi and Deborah and some other wannabe detectives. I’m not in the mood for more mystery talk. I walk slowly to the place on the corner, which is still playing jazz. There aren’t many people inside. Maybe I’ll have one drink.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“You came.”

Dev plants his palms flat on the bar in front of me. He looks happier than last night, which probably has to do less with being in my presence than in being at his own bar instead of helping out at a dinner for tourists.

“I figured I should try artisanal gin,” I say.

“Which is, indeed, a thing.”

I think he’s making fun of me, but he’s smiling, so I don’t mind.

Dev gestures to the bottles behind him and says, “What’s your fancy?”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Not on my watch.”

He hands me a small menu in the shape of a bottle. I scan the cocktails. I point to something called a Bramble and say, “This sounds good, but I have no idea what crème de mûre is.”

“It’s a French liqueur, from blackberries.”

“My favorite berry.” I remember getting stains on my fingers from picking the wild berries that used to grow behind my grandmother’s house. I should have taken better care of the bushes.

“One Bramble, coming up.”

Dev fills a cocktail shaker with ice. He runs his fingers over a row of fat little bottles with blue labels—his gins, I suppose—and pulls one out. With the excited focus of an artist starting a new canvas, he pours in gin, and simple syrup, and squeezes in some lemon juice. He flicks the shaker back and forth, watching me watching him, and then strains it into a tumbler of crushed ice. He picks up a bottle with a long, thin neck and displays it for me the way a sommelier would present a fine wine.

“Voilà, le crème de mûre.”

I lean in and say, “I concur.”

He has a warm laugh. I want to believe what he told me yesterday, which is that he was not playing a role in the fake murder. Until I remember that even if he was telling the truth about his mother, his flirtation could be scripted. I’m going to have to observe him carefully. Slowly, he pours the liqueur into the drink, which turns a purplish pink, and tops it with a lemon wheel and two blackberries. He places it on a cocktail napkin in front of me. Eyes on him, I take a sip. It’s a perfect blend of sweet and tart.

“Not bad.”

There are three women at the other end of the bar now, members of the mystery book group from Tampa. They glance my way but show no signs of recognition, maybe because I’m not with Wyatt and Amity. Dev walks over and says something that makes them all laugh. One of the women tucks a loose tendril behind her ear. Another whoop of laughter. I remember that bartenders are professionally social and that it’s their job to make customers, especially women, feel comfortable and even desirable.

My drink goes down easy, like lemonade. Dev is busy now, making drinks for the Tampa women, who are getting louder, leaning in toward him. When he looks my way, I hold up my glass and mouth, “Another?” He nods, keeps moving, pouring and shaking,delicately placing herb sprigs and citrus slices. When he brings my second drink, he says, “Cheers,” and turns to wipe down the bar where he’d been working. A few more customers come in. By the time Dev comes back my way, I’m buzzed.

“You’re sure you’re not an actor? Never been on the stage?” I ask.

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