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“Isn’t gin one of England’s biggest exports?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s popular.”
“So there must be hundreds of distilleries.”
He smiles and says, “My gin isreallygood.”
He’s brimming with something, maybe optimism or excitement, neither of which I’ve felt in a long time. It’s alluring; not only is there no trace of that scowl, but his dark eyes shine and his lips curl into a sweet smile. He seems to have forgiven me for my earlier offense, which is more of a relief than it should be considering I barely know the guy.
He takes out a cocktail napkin and scribbles an address on it. “That’s my bar. Pop in one night and say hi.”
“It’s really your bar, not a stage set?”
“Come see for yourself.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” He holds out the napkin. “I’m Dev, by the way. Dev Sharma.”
“Real name?”
“Does it sound fake?”
“Another deflection.”
“Excellent observation,” he says. “But of course, you’re a detective, so…”
He’s enjoying this, and so am I. Until I remember that even if he’s telling the truth about his mother, his flirtation may be scripted. And I’m not going to be the gullible American who falls for his lines.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the napkin. “I’ll try.”
Without looking at what he’s written, I shove the napkin in my pocket, crumpling it in the process. I pick up the drinks and walk away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SUNDAY
“What a misty, murderous morning!” Wyatt throws his head back and breathes in the damp air.
We’re standing on the village green with the other contestants, waiting to hear who’s been bumped off during the night. The grass is shimmering under swaths of fog. It’s barely raining, more like moist air, but we Americans are dressed for a deluge, in slickers and ponchos and rubber rain boots, some of us under black umbrellas. It’s like we’re gathered for a funeral, though we don’t yet know who has died.
A man in a police uniform steps up to a podium, his big belly pressing against his jacket, the buttons of which are mismatched. He introduces himself as Constable Bucket. I wonder if he’s just playing the part of a constable or if he’s the real constable playing the part of a fictional one. Flanking him are Germaine Postlethwaite and a young woman in a tightly belted black trench coat holding a clipboard.
“Good morning, ladies and gents,” the constable says. The paper in his hand is shaking. He might have a bit of stage fright, althoughhe could be worried about impersonating a constable, which might be a crime even if you are one. “I regret to inform you that at eight thirty this morning, the body of Mrs. Tracy Penny was discovered, dead, at Hairs Looking at You salon.” He gestures to the block behind him, where blue-and-white police tape is strung across the front of a three-story building. “Mrs. Penny, forty, was the owner of the salon. Upon arriving at work as usual, the salon assistant, Dinda Roost, found Mrs. Penny on the floor, with apparent trauma to the head. The coroner estimates the time of death to be last night between eight o’clock and ten o’clock. The precise cause of death will be ascertained by an autopsy, the results of which will be distributed to you in due time. Mrs. Penny and the entire crime scene will be available for viewing and photographing throughout the morning. Each group will have fifteen minutes to examine the scene. In addition, you will have the opportunity during the week to visit the residence of Mrs. Penny, which is located above the salon, to search for clues.”
The constable takes out a cloth handkerchief and mops his brow. He announces the order in which each group will examine the crime scene. Selina and Bix are first. They high-five and speed-walk toward the salon. Next are the five members of a mystery book club from Tampa, Florida, who jump up and hug one another. Amity, Wyatt, and I are third. We settle on a bench on the edge of the green to wait our turn.
“A hairstylist was not what I expected,” I say.
“I wanted to murder my stylist once,” Amity says.
“Do you think Mrs. Penny was a churchgoer?” Wyatt says. “I’d love to interview the vicar.”
“Is there a vicar here?” I ask.
“There’s always a vicar,” Wyatt says.
“I hear their vicar is a looker,” Amity says.