Page 9 of Welcome to Murder Week

“?‘As you perambulate through Willowthrop investigating the crime, you may question anyone you meet, but only Murder Week players will reveal significant clues.’?”

“Hopefully they’ll all be lousy actors and it will be easy to tell who’s bona fide and who’s bogus,” Wyatt says.

“Lucky for us this isn’t Stratford-upon-Avon,” Amity says.

We come to the village green, an inviting expanse of lush emerald grass with neat beds of red and yellow tulips. The streets are lined with shops, each with a colorful painted sign and some flying the Union Jack. Over the narrow lanes leading away from the center are strings of bunting, red and blue triangles flapping in the breeze. And there are flowers everywhere, climbing walls and trellises, spilling from window boxes and planters, and overflowing baskets hanging from lamp posts and wrought-iron hooks attached to the old stone buildings.

“Quaint-orama,” Wyatt says, taking pictures.

Hands on hips, Amity surveys the scene. “?‘Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places.’?”

Wyatt and I wait for her to say more.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes, inThe Adventure of the Copper Beeches. Isn’t that what we’re here for? A pretty village and a sordid crime?”

“Also shopping,” Wyatt says, stretching out an arm to display the stores within sight.

He suggests we start at the Willowthrop Cheese Emporium. We follow him inside, where the air is musty with milkiness. Chunks of veiny Stiltons and rounds of cheddars fill the display cases. The shelves are stacked with fruit chutneys, jams, and crackers. Wyattbuys a jar of Old Hag Real Ale Pickle for his husband, who he says will appreciate the gift and the joke. The cheesemonger, a slight man with pink cheeks, is pleasant but not particularly interested in us. As we leave, we agree he’s not playing a part of any kind.

Next door, at the Willowthrop Sweet Shoppe, we look at the glass jars of candies, pointing out the ones we’ve never heard of, like aniseed balls and honeycomb cinder toffee. The woman behind the counter seems to be listening to us and then, without any greeting, starts talking to us like we’re already in the middle of a conversation.

“As I said, he’s got to stop making trouble. She didn’t want to be married to him anymore, and that’s that. Enough with the threats and carrying on. Does he think he’s the first husband to be given the boot?”

The three of us look at each other, wide-eyed. I mouth: “Bogus.”

“Already?” Wyatt whispers. “No one’s been murdered.”

“But it might be a clue,” I say.

Amity steps toward the shopkeeper.

“Exactly who are we talking about?” she asks sweetly.

“Oy, did I speak out of turn?” the woman says. “Don’t mind me. I do prattle on. What can I get for you? Some strawberry bonbons? Jelly babies?”

I buy a bag of rhubarb and custard sweets in hopes of getting her talking again, but a group of Dutch backpackers comes in asking for salty licorice and the shopkeeper turns her attention to them.

We spend the next hour or so checking out more shops. Amity buys a Peak District National Park dish towel, and I get a tin of tea and a package of stem ginger biscuits for Mr. Groberg. Outside a beauty salon, a young woman with spiky red hair vapes and looks us up and down with enough disdain to suggest she’d rather die than play-act murder. We’re less sure about the man sweeping thesidewalk and whistling an Adele song in front of the haberdashery. When he winks at us like he’s in on a secret, we decide he’s definitely, possibly bogus.

We come to a pet shop advertising “all things for birders,” which Wyatt starts to pass by but then says, “Oh, why not, let’s just have a quick sticky beak.”

The store smells like sunflower seeds and wood chips.

“Look at this!” Wyatt says, touching a bright red feeder in the shape of a classic British phone box. “And oh my god, this!” He points at a birdhouse that looks like a pub and is customizable with the name of your choice.

“Bernard would adore these.”

We follow Wyatt around the store.

“I used to have such fun working with him. We met a few weeks before the pandemic, and during that first year, it was just the two of us at the shop, filling orders for people to pick up outside, giving advice—well, Bernard gave advice, I stood by and admired my smart, sexy beau. I loved being with Bernard all the time. It didn’t matter what we were doing, I liked doing it with him. But once the shop opened again, things gradually changed. Not for Bernard, who could talk about birds all day, but for me. I learned enough to help customers with the basics—bird feeders and birdbaths and birdhouses—and I amused myself by trying to stump the regular customers with weird bird trivia.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“Did you know that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward? That the flamingo can eat only with its head upside down? I could go on, but I’ll spare you. In fact, I’ll spare you all of this. We can go now.” He leads us outside.

I don’t realize how hungry I am until we’re standing in front of a gourmet store displaying a wide variety of small pies. Inside,we’re greeted by a young woman with skin so dewy and glowing it doesn’t seem real.

Amity whispers, “English rose.”

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