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“But she read a lot of detective stories?” Deborah says. “Fancied herself an amateur sleuth?”
“Not in the least. She loved romance novels and Jane Austen.”
“She was an Anglophile? Of the Masterpiece Theatre variety?” Amity says.
“Not really. But she likedThe Great British Baking Show. She liked trying the recipes, usually ones with funny names, like jam roly-poly and spotted dick.”
“Oh my,” Wyatt says.
“She was very impulsive,” I tell them. She called it spontaneity, but I always had the feeling she was running away.
“There’s got to be a reason she wanted to come here,” Amity says.
“I agree,” Wyatt says. “And we should get to the bottom of it.”
I’m tempted too, but I tell them not to bother.
“My mother was eccentric and unpredictable, all impulse and no reason. Following her trail will lead to a disappointing dead end. Trust me, I know.”
“If you say so,” Amity says, but not without a quick glance at Wyatt, who winks at her and then looks down at the table. I have a hunch they’re not going to let this go. They’re like cops in a television drama who’ve been officially taken off a case but are damned well going to continue to investigate.
“It’s an enticing puzzle,” Naomi says.
“Did someone say puzzle?” It’s the man who’d been talking toSiri behind me in the parish hall. “Bix Granby, venture capitalist. My wife, Selina.” Bix and Selina, with nearly identical pageboy haircuts, are both in tight sleeveless tops. Their upper arms look professionally toned. Pulling out a chair for Selina, Bix says, “We’re puzzle people. We do them all.”
“Not jigsaw puzzles, of course,” says Selina, unfolding her napkin. “We prefer puzzles that require mental gymnastics, a vast vocabulary, and considerable knowledge about, well, everything.” She bites her lip as if she feels bad for being so smart.
“I love the Sunday crossword. I do it every week,” says Amity.
“What’s your best time?” Bix says.
“I don’t know, usually in the late afternoon? Before dinner?”
“We usually finish a Sunday in under eighteen minutes,” Selina says.
“Impressive,” Naomi says, narrowing her eyes. “Will you be solving the murder in record time too?”
Her sister reaches out and puts a hand on her arm, as if to warn her against saying more.
“I can’t imagine it will be too challenging,” Selina says, as the waiters start asking who has the fish and who the chicken.
No one has ordered the steak-and-kidney pie. Bix and Selina have arranged for plates of roasted vegetables.
“In any case, this is a warm-up for us,” Selina continues. “An amuse-bouche. We’re going cycling in the Tyrolean Alps next week. Do you know Backroads?”
There’s an empty chair at the table, and the waiter asks if we’re expecting another diner. Did someone forget that my mother wasn’t coming, that I was traveling alone? The waiter picks up the extra place setting and takes it away, but the chair remains, like the specter of Skye Little. I wonder what she’d make of this crowd. She’d probably complain about how old everyone is, not realizing thatthe only people not in the average age group are Wyatt and me. But then she’d charm them all anyway, ask question after question, her intense interest getting them to spill their secrets and their dreams. I used to hate the way she grilled everyone. I never understood why people rarely seemed bothered by it.
“You’re nosy,” I told her once.
“I’m curious,” she answered. But all I could see was that she was collecting more people to leave behind.
“We’re doing a particularly challenging bike trip,” Bix says. “We’re hoping to do the steepest climbs faster than we did last time.”
“Well,” Wyatt says, with a sultry gaze at Bix. “I hope you don’t doeverythingquickly.”
Bix looks embarrassed and fiddles with his silverware. Wyatt winks at me. I give silent thanks that I’ve landed with Amity and Wyatt. For no apparent reason, we seem to have clicked. People often think they’re going to like each other because they have a lot in common, but it doesn’t always work that way. This is why even if I were looking for love, which I’m not, I wouldn’t use one of those dating apps that sends you to dinner with someone because you both like film noir, hate the beach, and never eat the ginger slices that come with your sushi.
Amity tastes her fish and chips and, as I’ve already come to expect, is ecstatic.