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“Scrumptious,” she says. She lifts up a little metal cup as if it’s a golden chalice. “Mushy peas!”
I think Amity’s enthusiasm is rubbing off on me and that my chicken tikka masala tastes better because of it. Selina is smiling as she picks at her vegetables, but I’m pretty sure she’s side-eyeing my naan as I tear off a piece and take a bite.
CHAPTER TEN
The dinner conversation, about mystery books and television shows, is a blur of names, only some of which I know. There’s DCS Foyle, a favorite of Mr. Groberg’s, and two women, Annika and Vera, who apparently don’t need last names. There’s someone called Josephine Tey, who was both an acclaimed mystery writer and a detective in a series of books, I’m not sure how, and Flavia de Luce, which sounds like an aperitif but turns out to be a fictional eleven-year-old aspiring chemist who solves crimes in her English village.
Amity asks the table what kind of person we think “our culprit” will be, and, before anyone offers up ideas, Deborah tells us about an essay that George Orwell wrote in 1946 in which he suggests that the British public’s most satisfying kind of killer, in the true crime cases that drew widespread attention, was middle class, a dentist or solicitor, and here she does air quotes, “a quiet and respectable little man” who commits murder, often via poison, out of passion and in fear of public scandal.
“What about greed?” asks Bix. “I’ve seen some money lust that’s downright murderous. My ex-wife—” He jumps like he’s been kicked under the table.
“Bix, please,” Selina whispers.
“In Nancy Drew, the culprits were usually seedy guys from the wrong side of the tracks,” Amity says.
“Seedy guys?” Deborah says. “And what do you think that’s code for? Nancy Drew books morphed over the years, but the earliest editions were classist, racist, and anti-Semitic. Quite a trifecta, no? The ‘criminals’ were always poor and uneducated and often described as being dark-skinned or having stereotypical Jewish features.”
Murmurs of surprise. I finally see an entry in this conversation that’s been swirling around me.
“I read an old Nancy Drew that I found at my grandmother’s house. It was definitely dated, I remember Nancy drove a ‘blue roadster,’ but I’m sorry to admit I liked it. My favorite was Nancy’s friend George, probably because she was tall, like me, and not afraid of anything.”
“Oh, don’t apologize, I loved them too.” Naomi puts a hand to her heart. “George Fayne was my first lesbian.”
Selina freezes, fork in midair. “There weren’t any homosexuals in Nancy Drew.”
“Eye of the beholder, honey,” Naomi says, touching Selina’s hand, which Selina snatches back.
After a lull, Amity turns to Selina and asks if she’s always been an avid mystery reader.
“I’ve long been a voracious reader,” Selina says. “I readeverything—mystery, literary fiction, poetry, nonfiction, even thrillers. Every category you can think of—except romance, of course.”
“Why is that?” Amity says, sitting up a little straighter.
“They’re so predictable,” Selina says.
“Lots of people think romance is silly,” Amity says. “And to that I say, you find love superficial? Well, then, I’m sorry for you.” She tosses back the rest of her wine. “What’s more important than the pursuit of love? Of cherishing someone and being desired in return? Ifa romance is written well, it’s a story of being fully human—of firing on all cylinders, sexually, emotionally, and intellectually. There’s nothing more exciting.”
“That settles it,” Wyatt says. “I’m downloading one of your books tonight.”
Selina’s cheeks go red. “You’re a romance writer? I didn’t mean—”
Amity waves a hand. “Not to worry, I’ve heard it all before.”
“Where should I start?” Wyatt says.
Amity looks at Wyatt like she’s sizing him up.
“I think you’ll enjoyComely Comeuppance.”
“Scrummy,” Wyatt says.
“Sounds adorable,” Selina says, picking at her zucchini.
An awkward silence follows.
“Time for another beer,” I say, standing up. “Anyone up for a second round?”
“I’ll take a glass of white wine,” Amity says. “And make sure it’s a big pour.”