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“Should we take it?” Amity says.
“Is that allowed?” I say. “It’s evidence.”
“But we’re the detectives,” Wyatt says.
“The sleuthhounds,” Amity says.
“Is this cheating?” I say.
“There’s nothing in the rules about not taking evidence,” Wyatt says.
“What about the others?” I say.
“Finders keepers?” Amity says.
I remind them of the motto of the Detection Club, which Roland Wingford told us was “Play Fair.”
“That means the authors have to reveal enough clues that observant readers could solve the crime,” Amity says. “It has nothing to do with what we’re doing here.”
“Right,” Wyatt says. “This is a competition.”
“And itisnearly over,” I say.
The question is clear: Do we play this American-style, because we’re Americans? Or British-style, because we’re in England? Do we act like contestants inThe Great British Baking Show, who would gather their fellow contestants and lead them to the murder weapon, or do we follow our natural, cutthroat, new-world instincts?
In the end, it’s no choice at all. We’re American. We take the weapon.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
By the time we’re back at the cottage we have three hours and forty minutes before the deadline to turn in our written solution at the parish hall. We kick off our shoes and settle in around the coffee table to map out the case. Amity volunteers to write it all down. She makes herself a pot of tea and sits at the kitchen table scribbling, handing pages to us as she goes. The more she writes, the faster she seems to get. From time to time, she emits a loud “Ha!” or shakes with laughter. I’ve never known writing to look like so much fun.
We go over what she’s written to make sure all the details are there and that she’s covered the who, the why, and the how. We go through all our photos and notes again to make sure we haven’t missed anything.
By six forty, we’re done.
“There’s just one thing,” Wyatt says. “I’d like to play Poirot—that is, if we win.”
“You mean you want to take the stage?” I say. “Fine with me.”
“Absolutely,” Amity says. “You’re overdue for a comeback.”
Wyatt wants to stay home and practice how he’ll spin the tale. Amity and I head down to the parish hall to drop off our solution, after which we go directly to the Goat and Spur, where we settle ata table near the entrance. Amity looks at the painting on the wall above us, four men in knickers and argyle sweater-vests playing golf.
“Golf,” Amity sneers. “Douglas loved golf. He called it his ‘me time.’ I never minded. He’d do sixteen or eighteen holes or whatever, and I’d have the entire day at home alone to write. It was a win-win, or so I thought. When he told me he’d met someone on the golf course and was in love, he kept saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ which I figured was just a line to soften the blow.” She takes a big swallow of beer. “But maybe it was about him. Maybe he bought into all the things I wrote about—the thrill of plummeting. He was willing to give up on me and our family to chase excitement again.”
“I don’t think you invented the midlife crisis,” I say.
“But maybe I should have put epilogues on my stories. You know, like in the movies when they update you on all the characters before the credits roll?Elaine and Alan continued to desire each other, but over the years with less frequency and intensity and sometimes in the exact same sequence and position as the week before. On occasion, they fell asleep binge-watching shows, now and then on different televisions in different rooms. But they loved each other and stayed true.”
“Or maybe it’s time to give up romance,” I say.
She looks at me like I’m missing the point.
“Give up romance? That’s not what I want. I still want love and lust, but notonlythat. You know why? Because I’m sad and I’m angry. Why not write about grief and rage too? Yesterday, when I saw how angry you were, something opened up in me. You’re right. It’s terrible being lied to. It’s awful being abandoned. It’s infuriating and it’s not fair. Douglas chose a do-over, and the boys and I were collateral damage.”
Amity leans in closer.
“Do you know what I was hoping?” she whispers. “I was hopingthat Pippa was the murderer. That she took all that rage and righteous anger at stupid, stupid Stanley and sought revenge. Wouldn’t that have been fun—to see a sassy, gorgeous older woman let her fury fly and do something ghastly? That’s what I should write, something deadly and cathartic. What I need now is to pick up my pen and kill someone!”