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“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 thattheir 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.