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books, who’s undercover, doing research, I presume. I’m guessing you’re a writer.”
    I was immensely flattered. So pleased, in fact, that I didn’t refute it. He was so proud of himself that I hated to dissuade him. Then words popped out of my mouth that surprised me. “You got it. I’m a writer.”
    He leaned back and nodded. “It’s the way you look around. You seem to be studying everything.”
    “Really?” I asked.
    “Yes. You have an air about you. How you notice things. The questions you ask. What do you write?”
    I didn’t have to think twice. There was only one kind of writer that I would ever want to be. “I write mysteries.”
    “Of course,” he said, nodding his head. “Thus your need to find a way to murder someone.”
    “I’m doing research.”
    “Yes, I see.”
    “I’m working on a new mystery—it involves a crime of passion, a vengeful woman.” I was continuing to be amazed by how easily these lies were coming to me. It was as if my life was a story and I was simply rewriting it.
    “Tell me more.”
    My own life opened like a book. With the oddest sense of remove, I started to recount it to Caldwell. “This woman has been planning a trip to England for a long time with the man in her life, and on the eve of their departure, he tells her that he doesn’t love her anymore, that he’s seeing someone else. Of course the woman is brokenhearted, but quickly feelings of revenge overtake her and she decides to figure out a way to kill him that is so cunning that she won’t get caught. She makes it look like the new girlfriend killed him. For his money.” I stopped, surprised by where my imagination had taken me.
    His eyes twinkled. “Sounds fascinating. So yourheroine is also the murderer? That’s a different spin.”
    “I’m still working that all out. Not sure if she’ll go through with it.” I needed to change the subject. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Do you run this bed-and-breakfast all by yourself?”
    “Yes, my partner left me several years ago, ran off with someone. No warning and it was all dumped in my lap.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “Why ever would I joke about a serious subject like that?” He smiled while he was saying this and I wondered if the smile was genuine. I didn’t know him well enough to tell, but everything about him seemed honest.
    “How awful. I know how you feel.” I quickly took a sip of tea so no more words could come out of my mouth. I didn’t want to talk about Dave. I asked the obvious next question. “Who was your partner?”
    He laughed. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t use that word with you Americans. You think it means a homosexual arrangement. No, in my case, for better or for worse, and mostly worse, it was with a woman. The bad news is she left me the B and B, but the good news is she did really leave it to me—I am now unofficially the owner.”
    “You’ve done a nice job of keeping the place up.”
    “Thank you. I know the rooms aren’t as grand as some people like—no swags, no chintz, no twee figurines—but that way it’s easier to keep clean.”
    “Except for the books,” I teased him.
    The bill arrived and I tried to grab it, but Caldwell was quicker.
    “Please let me treat you,” I said.
    “Not in a million years. I expect to learn a lot more about murder from you.”

SEVEN

    Twad and Tweed
    M y first big mistake was not figuring out the way the Brits drink in a pub.
    At the Cock and Bull we ran into some friends of Caldwell’s, two older gentlemen, who introduced themselves as Twad and Tweed. They were both tall, with full heads of silver-gray hair. They occasionally watched cricket with Caldwell on Sunday afternoons. Within moments of greeting us, Tweed was taking orders for a round.
    Caldwell suggested I might like to have a shandy instead of the beer.
    “A shandy?” I asked. “Is that a kind of beer?”
    “Beer and lemonade. Women tend to like it.”
    “Real lemonade?” I cringed.
    Twad