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“I knew I recognized her!” Selina Granby grabs her husband’s arm. “She played the crazed lover in that musical version ofFatal Attraction!”
Lady Blanders/Imogen wraps her arms around Germaine. I see the resemblance, especially now that Imogen has dropped the haughtyexpression and posture. “In addition to being a great actor, my niece has also been honored for her support and work on behalf of disability rights in Canada,” Germaine says. “The child at the center of this mystery, Ambrosia, does not exist. The photograph in the magazine was a result of some clever photoshopping in which we put a picture of Imogen as a child on horseback with a photograph of Tracy when she had a perm. Sproton House and the Whitby Children’s Home are also fabrications. Whitby Stables, however, not only is real but also has a wonderful equine therapy program for children throughout England. It was our pleasure to use some of the proceeds of this event to make a donation.”
Germaine waits for the applause to subside and then expresses her gratitude to her dear friend Lady Cressida Sterling, who is the real owner of Hadley Hall, for giving them use of the estate.
“Lady Cressida, unfortunately, could not be with us tonight, but she invites you all to return to Willowthrop next summer when renovations are complete and Hadley Hall will be open to the public,” Germaine says.
“I’m coming back for that,” Amity tells me. “Maybe it will overlap with the swan census.”
Holding the microphone, Germaine flits around the room introducing the others. Dinda Roost works for Tracy but does not owe her money. Petunia, Dinda’s terrier, does not need therapy of any kind and is in perfect health. Edwina Flasher has lived in Willowthrop her entire life and is known as a bona fide busybody, though she prefers to call herself the unofficial village historian. Bert Lott is the local stationer. He has never acted before and doesn’t plan to do so again. His daughter, Claire, who is neither estranged from her father nor interested in opening a vegan café, is one of the area’s most accomplished hang gliders. Sally, the vicar, is the vicar. Stanley and Pippa Grange, real names, are husband and wife, dinner theater actorswho believe that playing turbulently married couples keeps their own marriage alive. The village doctor is the village chiropractor. And Gladys Crone is not and has never been a maid; her real name is Alice Sweet, and she’s a pastry chef.
“What about Dev?” shouts one of the Tampa book club women.
Germaine looks toward the kitchen door, beside which Dev is leaning against the wall.
“And this is Dev Sharma, who is everything he’s told you he is. He owns Moss, a marvelous bar, and he makes top-notch artisanal gin.”
The kitchen door swings open, and the light from within pools around Dev. He glows with warmth and kindness as he looks around the room. I will him to find me in the crowd. When his eyes finally meet mine, I put my hand to my heart and he does the same. I can’t look away.
“There is one person I have saved for last,” Germaine continues. “She volunteered for the most thankless part, a starring role that was at the center of this mystery but that did not require learning a single line. Ladies and gentleman, I give you our victim, a veritable wunderkind of playing dead, Tracy Penny.”
The kitchen door opens again, and Tracy Penny rushes to the center of the room like a ballerina flitting to the spotlight. She’s done her hair into an elaborate updo with perfect tendrils spiraling down to her bare shoulders. The sequins in her long, slinky dress sparkle in the light as she twirls and blows kisses and strikes poses. And then she throws her arms up in the air and her voice rings out strong and clear.
“It’s bloody brilliant to be alive!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The party is in full swing now. Someone has turned on music, and there are some funny pairings on the dance floor: Gordon is trying to teach Naomi, Deborah, and Edwina Flasher the Cha-Cha Slide, and Pippa Grange is dancing cheek to cheek with the village chiropractor. I head over to the kitchen to find Dev. When a waiter comes by with a tray full of dirty dishes, I ask if he’d get Dev to come out.
“Who?”
“Dev Sharma. The bar owner. The gin guy?”
“I know who he is, but he’s gone.”
“Back to his bar?”
“Nah. Said he had to go down to London tonight.”
Would he leave without saying goodbye? I was a weepy mess the last time we were together, when he brought me back to the cottage. Maybe it’s all too much for him.
I find Dev outside, closing the trunk to his car.
“Hey, I was just about to come find you,” he says. “There’s a plumbing disaster at my flat, and my tenant’s away. I’m afraid I’ve got to head down to London.”
“And I’ve got to shuffle off to Buffalo.” I hate that I’m joking with him, but I’m afraid to be serious.
“Buffalo. Right.”
“Do you have any idea where Buffalo is?” I ask.
“Kind of?”
“It’s on Lake Erie. Does that help?”
“Geography’s not my forte.”
“It’s very far away,” I say.