Page 40 of Welcome to Murder Week

“It was a gift,” Dinda says, stomping her cigarette butt into the dirt. “She changed her mind.”

“And you have your own key to the salon,” Wyatt says.

“You think I killed Tracy? I’d never.”

“And you support yourself?” Amity says. “That must be difficult with a child.”

“Who said I have a kid?”

Has she forgotten her lines?

“You did,” I say. “A baby who needs some kind of therapy.”

Dinda looks at us, speechless, and then starts cackling. She walks over to the garage, climbs the outside stairs, opens the door, and whistles. In a flash, a mangy terrier clammers down the steps, whizzes by us, and leaps into the kiddie pool, yapping and splashing in a chaotic froth. Dinda stops at the bottom of the steps, arms folded.

“Meet the apple of my eye. My baby, Petunia.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Was that intentional?” I ask as we head back toward the village center. “Were we supposed to assume that Dinda’s baby was human?”

“Could it be a clue?” Amity says. “Maybe Dinda fooled Tracy too, and that’s why she demanded the money back? Because the ‘baby’ was a dog?”

Wyatt puts the kibosh on that idea, convinced that if Dinda had worked for Tracy for a year, Tracy would know Dinda didn’t have a human baby. “Also, Dinda doesn’t seem smart enough, either as an actor or as herself, to pull off a murder, even one written for her.”

“I’m so confused,” I say.

“Yeah, we’re not really getting anywhere,” Wyatt says.

“Let’s switch gears,” Amity says. “Maybe we need a little break from this case. It’s only Monday, and we’ve got until Thursday evening to figure it out. Let’s go talk to Germaine about Cath’s mother.”

“Let’s not,” I say. I’ve liked being distracted by the fake murder; turning back to my mother’s secrets is unsettling.

“Germaine is not going to let this go,” Wyatt says.

“I think the two of you are not going to let this go,” I say.

“We’re not, are we, Wyatt?” Amity says.

“Not a chance. And would you look at that, we’re already on Crane Street.”

I know when I’m defeated.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” I say.

My spirits lift when I’m standing in front of The Book and Hook, which looks like the kind of place I would visit even if I hadn’t been summoned there. The shop sign, which runs the width of the store above the window, is a painting of a young girl with long blond braids, canvas overalls, and tall rubber boots. Her tongue pokes out as she strains against an arched fishing rod to reel in her catch, which is not a fish but a book. I take a picture of the sign, adding to my collection of photographs that I wish I could share with my grandmother. She loved fishing almost as much as she loved reading.

The shop has a sweet, musty scent, a mix of books and old upholstered furniture. It’s a comforting smell, reminiscent of home. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves. More freestanding shelves fill the two connected rooms. There are also stacks of books on tables, chairs, and the floor.

We find Germaine behind the counter, perched on a stool between a laptop and an old cash register, reading. She doesn’t look up from her book until Wyatt clears his throat.

“My favorite trio!” Germaine takes off her reading glasses and rummages around the books and papers on the counter until she finds another pair of glasses and puts them on. “Much better. Now it’s the three of you in focus.”

“Have you considered progressives?” I ask. “One pair of glasses for both reading and distance?”

“Have I what? Oh, of course. Your mother mentioned that you’re an ophthalmologist.”

“Optician.”

---