Page 38 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Cripes,” mutters Bert, shaking his head. “Americans. So bloody competitive.”

Guilty as charged. We Americans love to win. It probably explains why we’re so baffled by the contestants onThe Great British Baking Show, with theirOh, Fiona, you’ll never crystallize those violet petals in time, let me do some.I’d help Naomi and Deborah in a pinch, and wouldn’t mind teaming up with them, but Selina and Bix make me feel as American as apple pie. I really don’t want them to win.

“Any other questions?” Bert asks Selina and Bix.

“Not at the moment,” Bix says, “but we may be back.”

Bert seems less than thrilled with the prospect of being interrogated again. He says that if we don’t mind, he’ll continue shelving merchandise while we talk. He answers our questions without offering much embellishment, which makes the charade feel unexpectedly real. Yes, he rents to Tracy. She was a good tenant at first, kept both her flat and the salon in good order.

“And now?” I ask, remembering how Gordon Penny and Lady Blanders each told us that Bert had been complaining about Tracy’s upkeep of the salon.

“Recently I’ve become aware of some troubling practices at the salon.” Bert ticks off his complaints: nasty odors, clogged drains, spills on the floor, toxic hair products.

“I thought everything she used was organic,” Amity says.

“Pfft.” Bert shakes his head. “You believe that claptrap?”

Wyatt asks when he last saw Tracy.

“I don’t know, maybe three days ago. I heard her on the phone in the evening. I couldn’t make out the words, but on my way upstairs it sounded like she was angry. On my way downstairs a little bit later, it sounded like she was sweet-talking someone. You know, trying to get more bees with honey.”

“Did it sound like she was talking to a boyfriend?” Amity asks.

“Maybe,” Bert says.

Wyatt asks if Bert has any idea who that might be. Bert shakes his head.

“Probably someone with money though,” he says.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“There’s been a red Tesla Model S parked behind the building on more than a few nights recently.”

“Know anyone around here who drives a red Tesla?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Can anyone verify your whereabouts on Saturday night?” I say.

“What, like an alibi?” Bert says. “I ate alone, went down to the pub, and was home by nine o’clock for a long talk on the phone with my daughter, Claire.

“And where might we find your daughter?” Wyatt asks.

“She works at Willowthrop Outdoors Outfitters.”

“Are you close to her?” I ask. It doesn’t seem relevant to the case, but I’m always curious about father-daughter relationships, probably because I never had one.

“I’m trying,” Bert says. “Claire was only two when her mum and I split. I didn’t stick around, didn’t see her much for years. I moved a lot. I wasn’t much of a dad, if you want to know the truth. Took me a while to realize what I’d missed. But I’m back home in Willowthrop and giving it a go now.”

Amity reaches out and touches his arm. It makes sense to me that she’s a fiction writer; she’s quick with empathy, even when the object of her concern is bogus. “That must be difficult after all these years,” she says.

Bert looks at her with an expression of long-awaited relief, like he either can’t believe that someone is finally taking his side or is buying this prepared monologue. “It’s all I want in the world, to be her dad again. But it’s hard for her to let me, that’s what hurts.”

In the midst of a faux interrogation, we seem to have fallen into a conversation that feels real. I know nothing about Bert’s daughter, or if “Claire” even is a real daughter, but there’s something about Bert that makes me want to believe him. Even stranger, I’m envious of his daughter, having a father who, despite the past, is trying to be a dad in such a normal way, not with grand, confusing gestures, but with phone calls and invitations. He probably asks her to meethim at the pub, have a pint. Would be more than happy to drop in, leave her some fresh muffins or maybe some books he thinks she’d like to read. Whatever he did in the past, or more likely, whatever he didn’t do, at least he knows now that the best way to make amends is to show up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When we step out of the stationer’s, I take a quick glance at Dev’s bar. The door is closed, and the lights are off. I’m disappointed in myself for caring. I was drunk, and he was chivalrous, getting me home safely. Period, end of story.

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