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And there I am imagining things again, this time Dev all sudsy in the shower. I’ve got to stop.
“When were you with Dev?” Wyatt asks.
I tell them about taking Dev’s mother home.
“You were in his house?” Amity says.
“We had tea.”
“You don’t like tea,” Wyatt says.
“But she likes Dev,” Amity says.
“Anyway, he said he showered and then went to work at the bar,” I say. “Which I suppose seems likely.”
“He easily could have slipped out of the bar for a little while, couldn’t he?” Wyatt says.
I know for a fact that he could. No one seemed bothered when he stepped out to walk me home.
“I can question him further.” I tell them about my plans to go with Dev to Stanage Edge the next day.
“Scrummy,” Wyatt says.
“This is an excellent subplot,” Amity says.
They both look at me, waiting for me to tell them more.
“It’s a hike, not a date.”
“Get a photo at least,” Wyatt says. “We want pinup boy on the board.”
Amity reminds me to be back from Hathersage in time for our turn in Tracy’s flat. We’re the last group to get in, which seems unfair, but Amity is not deterred.
“I’m sure we’re going to find answers there,” she says. “Unless we’ve all overlooked something dreadfully obvious, that’s where the key to this case is going to be.”
I assume we’re done for now and get up from the couch to go upstairs. But Wyatt says, “Not so fast, young lady.” He flips around a second bulletin board, which was resting against the wall. Smack in the middle is a photograph of me that one of them must have taken on the way to Hadley Hall. It’s a bit blurry and not particularly flattering. My hair is swooping up behind me on a gust of wind and I look tired and hungover. Maybe because of the unusual angle, I see my mother in my face, which is rare. Unlike me, she was fair and petite. But in this picture, I can see our wide-set eyes,short straight nose, and what I like to think of as our “gentle chin.” The unexpected resemblance lets me imagine her walking through this countryside with her quick strides, following a footpath across a meadow and striking up conversations with farmers and other walkers. If she were here, she’d ask so many questions in her usual quest to charm everyone that she’d probably solve the fake crime without even trying.
Wyatt takes out a pile of index cards.
“Now what was in the story your mother used to tell you?”
Amity speaks up before I can answer. “Swans. Bluebells. Church with a crooked spire. Kippers.”
“Again, kippers were not in the story,” I say.
“Again, they’re English, so they stay,” Amity says.
She writes each thing on a card and tacks them all onto the board. She adds another that says “Searching for someone. Male? Female?” And she tacks on photographs of Gordon Penny and Bert Lott. When she sees my face, she shrugs and says, “We have to consider everything.”
“It’s not much,” Wyatt says. “Is there anything else here that’s reminded you of your mother?”
I think back over the day.
“It’s not really about my mother, but I bought an old book.” I show themSummer Term at Mellingand explain why I purchased it.
“Your mother gave you an English book?” Wyatt says.
“She gave me old books all the time.”