Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We enter the salon and practically trip over Tracy Penny, who lies face down on the floor, wearing a silky bathrobe printed with green vines and bright red poppies.
She has long, wavy dark hair, luxurious for a woman of forty, but not totally surprising, as stylists always seem to have fabulous hair the way dermatologists have skin as unblemished as a baby’s bottom.
As we circle Tracy, I try to ignore the gentle rise and fall of her torso.
I take several pictures with my phone, not only of Tracy’s body but of the crimson liquid on the floor.
Maybe that’s a clue? At least it was in one of the old shows I watched with Mr. Groberg.
If you look carefully, you’ll see that the blood splattered forty-five degrees due northwest, which means the culprit could only be left-handed.
Constable, arrest Lord Dastardly immediately!
I’m finding it hard not to laugh, but Wyatt is all seriousness, opening and closing the front door. “No sign of forced entry.”
The constable informs us that the front door was closed but unlocked when the assistant arrived to open up.
“Did Tracy usually lock the door at night?” Wyatt asks.
The constable turns to Germaine, who’s watching from the side of the salon. She gives a quick, approving nod.
“Mrs. Penny’s habit was to lock the door,” the constable says.
“So, then, the murderer was known to Mrs. Penny?” Amity says.
“Or had a key,” Wyatt says. He pulls a notebook from his pocket and scribbles in it.
“And left in a hurry, not bothering to lock the door,” Amity says.
The salon is sunny and clean. Three seats, one of which has a robe draped over the back, face a wall of mirrors.
A shelf runs the length of the mirror. On it are two glass jars of blue disinfectant filled with combs and scissors and a chrome shaving set with a wood-handled blade and a shaving brush in a small bowl. There is also a damp towel.
I pick up the shaving brush, which is sticky, and am about to ask Wyatt if it’s real animal hair when the constable barks, “No touching!” and I drop it.
In the back of the salon are two sinks for washing hair and a small washing machine and dryer.
I walk over to the washing machine and ask the constable if I can open it.
He nods. But inside is nothing but a single black nylon robe.
The dryer is empty. The back door opens to a vestibule where there is a staircase leading to the apartments on the second and third floors and another door, bolted from the inside, which opens onto the parking lot.
“You said Tracy lived upstairs,” I say to the constable. “Did she live alone?”
“She used to live there with her husband, Gordon Penny, but he moved out six months ago,” he says, and hands me a business card for an establishment called Gordon’s Cha Cha.
“Is that a strip club?” I ask.
“In Willowthrop?” The constable looks as shocked as a Downton Abbey butler asked to serve dinner with only one footman.
“This is a cozy mystery,” Germaine says. “Gordon’s Cha Cha is a dance studio.”
I pocket the card and turn my attention to the framed photographs on the walls.
They’re all of Tracy Penny, captured in excellent light in a variety of hairstyles.
Here she is in hiking clothes on the shores of an emerald-green mountain lake (hair in braids).
Here she is on a sun-drenched terrace (hair in a sleek short bob) hoisting a margarita glass as big as her head.
Here she is in her wedding portrait (hair in a glamorous updo and her head bent into a bouquet of white calla lilies).
There’s also a framed magazine article about a stable, featuring a full-page photograph of Tracy, now with a perm, standing in the middle of a corral, holding the reins of a speckled pony on which sits a little girl with unruly red hair.
The caption says, “Staff member Tracy helps little Ambrosia get comfortable in the saddle.” I take photos of all the pictures on the walls and move on to examine a shelf of hair products with labels that look homemade.
When the constable turns his back, I open one and take a sniff.
“If it smells like almonds, it could be cyanide,” Amity says.
“More like Froot Loops.”
“It’s one hundred percent organic, love,” comes a whisper from the floor. Tracy is peering up at me. “If you want to buy some, stop in at the end of the week after I’ve been resurrected.”
From the side of the room, Germaine tsks and rolls her eyes.
A toilet flushes, and a young woman in a white smock appears. She is holding a washcloth to her face, dabbing her eyes, which look red from crying. The constable introduces Dinda Roost, the salon assistant. Wyatt asks Dinda if there was anything unusual about her arrival at the salon this morning.
“Other than my boss on the floor dead as a doornail?”
“Answer the question, please,” Germaine says.
“Well, the door was unlocked, which was unusual. I’m always the one who opens up at eight thirty. Tracy usually comes down at eight forty-five.”
“Was Tracy seeing anyone?” I ask.
“Like a boyfriend? She wouldn’t tell me if she did. We weren’t exactly besties.” Dinda looks at her fingernails.
“Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against Tracy?” Wyatt asks.
Dinda purses her lips. She shrugs.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask.
“Going on a year now.” She sounds proud, like this is an enormous accomplishment.
“Was she a good boss?” Amity says.
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”
Wyatt is behind the reception desk, looking through the appointment calendar.
“Who’s this L. M. Blanders who came in for the last appointment of the day yesterday, a blow-dry at four o’clock?” he says.
“That’s Lady Magnolia Blanders,” Dinda says.
“A lady?” Amity’s voice rises with excitement. “Was she a regular here?”
Dinda laughs. “Lady Blanders a regular? Don’t be daft.
Toffs like that don’t come here unless they have to.
Tracy acted like she was annoyed by the booking, like she’d be damned if she’d have to treat Lady Blanders like the Queen or something.
But I could tell she wanted to make a good impression.
She was probably hoping she’d get more business out of it.
She even made me google Lady Blanders to find out what kind of tea she drinks and what she likes to gossip about.
Rather full of herself, if you ask me. I found an article about how she’s getting some kind of award from a children’s charity, something about being a model wife and mother. ”
“I’m sure she does her best,” Amity says.
“Don’t count on it,” Dinda continues. “Lord Blanders is even worse. Total snob. In that same article, he said he married Lady Magnolia because she was ‘a fine specimen,’ who would ensure that their children would be a credit to the Blanders line. Can you imagine? He called their boys ‘perfectly bred’ in every way—well-mannered and handsome, accomplished athletes, scholars, and gentlemen. And they’re only seven and eight years old! ”
“And how was Lady Blanders in person?” Wyatt asks. “As horrid as you expected?”
“I wouldn’t know. Tracy made me leave early. She even did the hair wash herself. Probably didn’t occur to her that I could use the tip.”
I’m standing by the sinks and notice in one of them a plastic face shield, the kind people used to wear during the pandemic.
“Did Tracy always wear a face shield?” I ask.
“Are you kidding?” Dinda says. “She wouldn’t even wear a mask during Covid.”
“So Lady Blanders made her wear it?” Wyatt asks, looking up from his notebook.
“Like I said, I wasn’t here,” Dinda says.
The constable clears his throat and says, “As far as we know, Lady Blanders is the last known person to see Tracy Penny alive. Which makes her a prime suspect.” He hands us a paper with the address for Hadley Hall, the home of Lady Blanders, a schedule of interviews (ours is tomorrow at eleven thirty in the morning), and directions for getting to the house by foot, bus, or car.
I take photographs of other pages of the calendar—last month’s and the coming months.
The salon was busy; Tuesdays through Saturdays have back-to-back appointments for cuts and color, and, on the Friday following, a notation about a court date.
Mondays are blank except for a standing appointment for someone’s blow-dry on Mondays at three. I ask who that would be.
Dinda peers over my shoulder at the calendar. “Dunno. We’re closed on Mondays.”
The constable looks at his watch.
A sneeze. Again from the direction of the floor.
“Gesundheit,” Amity says.
“Could you hand us a tissue, love?” Tracy whispers.
Amity takes a tissue from her purse. “May I?” she asks Germaine.
Germaine sighs and nods. Tracy reaches up to take the tissue and winks.
The door opens, and Naomi, the older and plumper of the Pittsburgh sisters, pokes her head into the salon. “I believe it’s our turn.”
Behind her, Deborah calls out, “Is it gruesome? I hate the sight of blood.”