Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sticking to our plan to question Gordon next, we follow a cobblestone lane down to the river.
It’s a bucolic scene, with tall weeping willows on the far bank draping their strands in the water.
The side closer to us is walled and edged by a wide walkway for strolling.
Young couples push baby carriages, and some schoolboys are skipping stones.
The river looks calm, but the ducks paddling upstream and then being pushed back down hint at a deceptively strong current.
As we cross a low bridge over the river, Amity stops to take pictures of two swans gliding beneath us. “Aren’t they regal?” she says.
“They’re literally regal,” I say. “Owned by the British royal family.”
“Those two particular swans?” Wyatt looks doubtful.
“All the swans in England. Queen Elizabeth the First wanted to corral some swans and was told their owners might resist giving them up. So she took the issue to court, which ruled that she had a right to any swan on open waters.”
“She nationalized the swans?” Wyatt says.
“How ever do you know that?” Amity says.
“I’m not sure. I might have heard it from my mother. She used to concoct stories for me all the time. It’s probably not even true.”
Amity scrolls through her phone. “She didn’t make it up.
It was in the 1500s, and since then the royal family holds a ceremony on the Thames every summer where a census is taken of the local swans, weighing them and inspecting them for injuries.
Pity, it’s in late July. I would have liked to have seen that. A swan inventory, imagine that.”
The other side of the river is not as densely built as the village center.
We pass a few buildings, still old but not particularly charming, and find Gordon’s studio next door to the community pool, which has a sign on the front that reads, CLOSED.
SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE . In the studio, four elderly women are paired up, dancing the rumba.
A man in the obligatory dance instructor outfit—black V-neck top, stretchy black pants, and soft black shoes—none of which flatter his slightly paunchy physique, swirls around them chanting, “And back, side, together. And forward, side together.” When he spots us, he glides our way, calling over his shoulder, “Hips! Activate your hips, ladies!” He stops in front of us, his feet turned out in a ballet dancer’s first position.
“Looking for lessons?” he asks.
Wyatt flips open the top of his notebook with Sam Spade panache. “Are you Gordon Penny, husband of Tracy Penny?”
The flash of disappointment on Gordon’s face suggests that he’d forgotten about the murder mystery. He rubs a hand over his head as if he’s pushing hair back, but it must be an old habit, because other than a few lonely strands crossing his scalp, he’s bald.
Gordon sighs. “The one and only,” he says.
“If you don’t mind, we have a few questions,” Wyatt says.
“Give me a moment.” Gordon turns back to his students and claps his hands. “Okay, ladies, brilliant work today. I’m afraid we’ve got to wrap up early.”
Gordon switches off the music. There are some oohs and aahs as the women seem to recall what’s going on in their village this week. A plump woman with purple-tinged hair swats Gordon on the hip. “I hope you didn’t kill anyone, you cheeky fellow!”
“Do you need an alibi?” another woman asks. “I’ll tell them you were with me all night and that I know it for sure because we didn’t sleep a wink!” More laughter.
The women pick up their things and head out of the studio. Gordon leads us to folding chairs lined up on the wall. He pulls out a chair and sits down opposite us.
“Our deepest condolences,” Amity says, patting Gordon on the knee. “Such a shock to lose a dear one in so brutal a manner.”
I love how sincere she seems. It’s interesting how taking all of this so seriously, acting like we really are detectives investigating a crime, makes it more fun.
My drama teacher in high school used to say the first rule of improv was to agree with whatever scenario anyone else created, but I was too self-conscious to listen.
“Yeah, yeah,” Gordon says. “Cry me a river.”
“Were you married for long?” Amity asks.
Gordon gives us the rundown. Tracy and he were married for fifteen years.
Seven years ago, they moved down from Sheffield with plans to run the dance studio together.
“I thought she’d finally found her thing after changing her mind all the time.
First it was scuba diving and all ‘Let’s move to the Bahamas and run a dive shop.
’ And then it was horses—she said she’d never been as happy as doing horse therapy over in Whitby. ”
“Helping anxious horses?” Wyatt asks.
“Nah, helping kids with horses. You know, troubled kids. With various issues, brain damage, born with differences, that kind of thing. They live in a special school over there, next to the stables, which they visit once a week. Tracy still volunteers there.”
“You must mean equine therapy,” Amity says. “I’ve heard of that. Working with horses, communicating with them, can be very calming and help with impulse control.”
“If you say so,” Gordon says. “Anyway, Trace settled on the dance studio, until she didn’t. Then it was hairstyling and certification lessons and, voilà, she opened the salon. And made a solid business of it. Good for her, but I’m left with this place on my own. As if that was my big dream.”
It’s hard to imagine it was. The dance studio is dreary.
The chairs are old with ripped vinyl seating.
The music comes not from the upright piano in the corner but from a dated-looking boom box.
Gordon seems genuine, and I’m guessing Roland Wingford kept his storyline close to the truth to make it easier for him.
Maybe Gordon and Tracy are actually husband and wife and he was dragged into this role once she agreed to be murdered.
“Tracy didn’t have any enemies?” I ask.
“Like unhappy clients? Not that I know of. The landlord was a bit of a thorn in her side, complaining she was negligent about the salon. She thought he wanted her out. I guess the problem’s solved now though.”
I write down LANDLORD and ask where we can find him. Gordon tells us his name is Bert Lott and he runs the stationer’s shop in the village.
“And where were you last night?” Wyatt asks.
“I was here, working until about five, then down to the local for a pint. Then back here to watch telly. Been sleeping here. Just temporarily you know. There’s a room in the back.”
“What did you watch?” Wyatt asks.
“The horse races. I’d put a few bets on earlier and wanted to see how I did.”
His tone is casual, but something in it makes me think he’s trying to justify his gambling or make light of it, like it’s not something he takes seriously or does too often.
One of my mother’s old boyfriends used to sound that way when he talked about betting, like it was just a silly diversion and not something he cared about or put too much time and money into, despite the fact that he spent weeks at Saratoga every summer and had an OTB account.
Nevertheless, his gambling was a deal-breaker for my mother, who broke up with him because of it.
And he was a good guy, as I recall, even-keeled and funny in a kind way. That’s how much she despised gambling.
Wyatt is still talking about the races with Gordon.
“And how’d you make out?” Wyatt asks.
“In the first race, I put a fiver on Hopeless Romantic to win. I lost.”
Amity laughs. Gordon glares. He’s taking his role awfully seriously.
“And after that?” Wyatt says.
“In the second, I had Cloudy Day to show, and he didn’t even place. Had a tricast on the third, no good there either. Then I had an exacta in the last, betting on Raisin Spring and Mud Flat to win and place. Finished with thirty pounds in my account. I came up all right in the end.”
“Raisin Spring, you say?” Wyatt asks.
Gordon nods, and Wyatt writes it down with great care, like he’s going to look up in a moment and say, But you can’t have won on Raisin Spring, old chap. Raisin Spring was pulled from the race just before entering the gate. Constable, arrest this man immediately!
Gordon starts fidgeting.
“Is that it?” He stands up, starts ushering us out. “I have a private lesson coming in.”
We’re about to leave when Wyatt asks if Gordon still has a key to Tracy’s salon and apartment.
“Sure, what of it?” Gordon says. “You think I killed Tracy? And why would I do that? She’d already dumped me. Killing her wouldn’t bring her back now, would it?”