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I’m too famished to care if the woman is an actor or not. The array of savory pies is mind-boggling: short ribs and Roquefort; steak, bacon, and ale; beef and potato; Gruyère, butternut squash, and pork sausage; and something called “four-and-twenty chicken-and-ham pie,” which turns out to be layers of nuts, fruit, chicken, and “gammon,” which Amity thinks is a kind of ham.
We agree on the four-and-twenty chicken-and-ham pie for the name, and also choose the one with bacon, and the beef and potato pie because it sounds reliably simple. We eat them cold on a bench outside the shop.
“My sons wouldn’t like a lunch like this, a few little pies on a bench,” Amity says.
“They’re picky eaters?” Wyatt says.
“Not in the slightest, but they’d need scads more food,” Amity says. “When they were teenagers, there was no better value than taking them to an all-you-can-eat buffet. It’s a wonder they didn’t put some of those restaurants out of business.”
“My mother attributes most of her wrinkles to raising boys,” Wyatt says.
“We loved having boys,” Amity says, looking wistful. “They could be feral, of course, but also so sweet. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, one of them would yell, ‘Front porch!’ and the four of us would pile onto the wicker couch to watch the rain and count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. The boys would be all squirmy and excited, but then they’d settle down and cuddle with us.”
“You must miss those years,” I say, remembering how I used to ride out thunderstorms in my grandmother’s bed.
“I do, though not as much as I thought I would,” Amity says. “When my boys were little, I used to feel sorry for people with older kids, who just didn’t seem cute. But then I discovered that the older my boys got, the more interesting they became. I knew I’d always love them, but I didn’t know how much I’d genuinely like them.”
“They didn’t want to join you here?” I ask.
“On a mystery week?” Amity laughs. “I didn’t even suggest it.”
“They’re not BritBox watchers?” Wyatt says.
“Goodness, no. But they adore making fun of my shows.Stay tuned for scenes from next week, when Lady Esmerelda drops a teacup and Lord Croptopton scandalizes the county by burping!”
“In these parts, I believe it’s known as belching,” Wyatt says.
The pies are not bad but vaguely disappointing, less like something intentional than like leftovers eaten straight from the fridge the morning after a holiday dinner. Maybe they’d be better warm.
Wyatt goes off to find a cold drink, and Amity and I decide to stay put. The scene is so calm and orderly that I imagine all the activities are on a loop. That, eventually, I’ll see it all repeat just as before. First a pack of children, running with that school’s-out burst of energy, and behind them the harried-looking woman in a skirt and sensible shoes telling them to slow down. Then the double-decker bus, the jolly driver waving at the postman before pulling over just past the King George Inn, a stone’s throw from where the lady walking the terrier takes five steps, stops, and turns away as the dog crouches to relieve itself.
Now entering stage left is a woman, maybe in her late sixties, in a misbuttoned flowery blouse, jodhpurs, and boots. She’s wearing leather gloves and holding a long pair of hedge clippers.
“Incoming bogus,” I say to Amity, who is sitting beside me with an actual paper map spread out on her lap.
“Have you seen the hunt?” the woman says, not really lookingat us. “I had to prune the roses, so many roses, the floribunda was in a shambles, and now I’ve lost them.”
She’s doing a bang-up job at acting distressed.
Amity puts down her map and stands up.
“How absolutely dreadful,” she says to the woman in the kind of posh English accent you might hear at Buffalo’s best dinner theater. “The hunt is long gone. It was quite the spectacle. A veritable whirlwind of hounds and trumpets.”
Amity winks at me and takes a pen and notebook from her purse. She asks the woman her name.
“My name?” The woman puts a hand to her chest. She looks terrified. “You don’t know me?” She looks over her shoulder. “I think I’m being followed. I fear I’m….”
“About to be murdered?” I say, surprisingly excited.
The woman gasps. “Am I in danger?”
As she steps back, a startlingly handsome younger man rushes up and puts an arm around her.
“Okay, everything’s fine now, come with me,” he says. He’s got thick dark hair nearly to his shoulders and warm-brown skin. He’s got to be an actor; he’s way too gorgeous for this town. Giving us barely a glance, he starts to usher the woman away.
“Wait,” I say. “Can we please ask a few more questions?”
He stops and turns back. Even scowling, he makes me catch my breath. He’s several inches taller than I am, with dark eyes, a long, straight nose, and a beautiful neck.