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“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 wasmybig 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?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We go directly from Gordon’s Cha Cha to the nearest pub, where we sit outside at a table under a red umbrella and have a lunch in which the only vegetables are the red onion on my hamburger and the crushed garden peas that come with Amity’s cottage pie and Wyatt’s steak sandwich.
I ask Amity if she ever writes about married people, and she says never, that she only writes about what she calls “the threep’s—prelude, plummet, and perfection,” otherwise known as flirting, falling in love, and living happily ever after.
“No one wants to read about how people gain weight once they marry, or spend evenings doing crosswords separately, each on their own phone, or how divine it is when your husband goes away on a business trip and you can eat scrambled eggs for dinner and wake up in the morning with the sheets barely rumpled. Just flip back one corner, and the bed is made. It’s practically orgasmic.”
“Sounds… exciting?” Wyatt says.
Amity laughs.
“It’s not, but that’s okay. Married love ebbs and flows. Soon enough, your husband makes you snort with laughter, or says something so perceptive you’re blown away by how well he knows you, oryou’re watching aSeinfeldrerun together and find yourself holding hands. If you didn’t drift apart now and then, you wouldn’t get to rediscover each other.” She pokes at her cottage pie with her fork. “That’s how I saw it anyway.” Amity pushes back her plate. “But we didn’t come here to talk about my marriage. What’s next?”