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“And you’ll remind him to feed his fish? Sometimes he forgets.”
“The fish will be fed.” Kim is smiling now, rubbing her palms together. “Bravo. I knew you’d go!”
PART IIMurder Week
CHAPTER FOUR
THREE MONTHS LATER—END OF MAY
SATURDAY
I can’t sleep on the plane, or the train from London, but by the time I’m in the taxi that promises my first view of “the Peak,” I can’t help nodding off. When the cabdriver says, “Here we are, love,” I’m groggy and disoriented. I’ve seen nothing of the countryside or the village that will be home for the next week. We are on a steep, cobblestone street, parked in front of a wrought-iron gate that opens not to the freestanding, thatched-roof cottage I’d imagined, but to a row of two-story attached stone houses, each with a small garden in front. A sign by the first door says Wisteria Cottage, but I see none of the vine I’d assumed would cloak the cottage in bushy, lavender blossoms. A few rows of purple iris line the stone walkway to the door. I pay the fare and step out of the car.
As I’m unlatching the gate, hoping I’m the first to arrive, a voice from above says, “Good morrow, fair maiden!”
A man is leaning out the casement window and tipping an imaginary hat. The Shakespearean act is weird, but the accent is even more worrisome; I thought my cottage mates were supposed to beAmerican. Please let him not be part of the ruse, in character already. At least not until I’ve had a cup of coffee and a shower. My mind, which is still somewhere over the Atlantic second-guessing this entire venture, needs to catch up with my body here on the other side of the looking glass.
“Alas, I am mistaken,” the man says, a finger out as if to test the wind. “Morning has given way to the noonday sun, and we know who that’s fit for. Mad dogs and Englishmen!”
I ask if the door is unlocked, though I’m reluctant to go in.
“Hold on, I’ll be right down.” He now sounds 100 percent American, which is a relief.
My suitcase wheels bump over the path. The man from the window opens the door. He is extraordinarily tall and gangly, with boyishly bright red hair. His cheeks are sprinkled with freckles. He looks like he’s in his early forties.
“I’m Wyatt Green.” He shakes my hand and then hoists my suitcase over the threshold, all the while looking beyond me furtively, like he’s checking the perimeter for threats. “Come on in, but watch your back,” he whispers. “There’s a murderer among us.”
“Doesn’t that start tomorrow?”
Wyatt shrugs. “Beats me.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m jet-lagged and I get loopy when I’m tired. I adore my husband, but this was the most bizarre gift. I can’t believe I’m really here.”
“That makes two of us.” I introduce myself and step into the living room to put a little distance between myself and this marionette of a man. At five foot ten, I don’t often look up to people.
Wyatt says he’ll show me around.
The main room is sparse, free of the doilies or needlepoint wall hangings I’d feared. There are leather couches and a plush armchair positioned around a woodburning stove. The living area opens into a bright kitchen with lemon-yellow cabinets and a few open shelves fordishes. A vase of sunflowers as big as pancakes is on the windowsill above the sink. Wyatt opens the cabinets, which are surprisingly well stocked. There’s a French press and what looks like good coffee, a box of tea, some cookies, a jar of olive oil, and a bottle of champagne.
“And this,” Wyatt says, opening a closet, “is a combo washing machine–dryer contraption, big enough for a full load of Barbie clothes.”
“Small country, small appliances?”
“I guess so. At least the bathtub is American-size. Come, I’ll show you.”
He grabs my suitcase and carries it up, taking the stairs two at a time. On the second floor, I poke my head into the bathroom, which looks freshly renovated, all clean white tiles and sparkling fixtures. The tub is extra-long and deep. I hope there’s enough hot water to fill it. Each of the three bedrooms has a queen-size bed, although they probably don’t call them that here. Wyatt has taken the smallest room, which faces the back. It’s a generous gesture, considering that he arrived first. I choose one of the front rooms and ask Wyatt to put my suitcase there. The room is pretty but simple, with a fat white comforter and four fluffy pillows on the bed and a small dresser with an attached mirror. The mullioned windows open outward with levers and overlook the village, from this high vantage point all slate rooftops and narrow lanes. There is a church spire, lilac ballooning over stone walls, and, in the distance, velvety green hills dotted with what I assume are sheep. It’s a charming view, soothing and quiet, the placid mood interrupted only by what sounds like the clip-clop of horses. And there they are, two women, perhaps a mother and daughter, riding up the lane on shiny brown horses with swishing tails. They pass right in front of the cottage, backs straight and elbows tucked, chatting as they go as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
Leaning against the door, Wyatt says he’s glad he’s not the only singleton who signed up. “I mean, not that I’m single. Or not that there’s anything wrong with being single. I’m just here solo. Like I said, this trip was my husband’s big idea.”
“Because you love murder mysteries so much?”
“Maybe. I mean, I do love mysteries. I’ve watched themobsessivelyfor the past year, but that’s because I couldn’t help myself. It’s a long story. Bernard, that’s my husband, owns a birding shop, New Jersey’s best, Hi, Hi Birdie!—I know, it’s not funny even in an ironic way—but that’s Bernard. I work with him at the shop, where I’m mostly just comic relief, which means I can binge-watch mysteries on my phone. Anyway, Bernard said he thought I’d love this, and I’m not saying I won’t—I’m hoping the whole thing is campy, you know? But it also wouldn’t have been disappointing if he’d bought us a trip to Aruba.”
Wyatt looks a little self-conscious, folding and unfolding his long arms. But his nervous babbling puts me at ease. Maybe sharing the cottage with him will be all right. He nods toward the light on the bedside table. The lampshade is brown plaid flannel, with a few pleats and a russet-colored feather poking out at an angle. “Do you think you’re supposed to turn on the hat or wear the lamp?” he says, and I laugh, relieved that he is not at all the kind of housemate I expected.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Helloooo? Anyone home?”
In the garden below is a petite woman in a belted trench coat standing beside a large aluminum suitcase on wheels.