Page 65 of Welcome to Murder Week

“That she was having an affair with Stanley Grange,” Wyatt says. “It was his red Tesla that Bert saw parked behind the salon at night. And he’s tall with thick dark hair. Just like the man Edwina saw visiting Tracy on Mondays when the salon was closed.”

“And Edwina said the man leaving Tracy’s salon the night she was killed was tall,” Amity says.

“Are you saying that Stanley killed Tracy to stop her from telling his wife about their affair?” I say.

Wyatt looks bug-eyed, like we’re on to something big.

“I’m saying it gives him a very good motive.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

We get Stanley and Pippa’s address from the vicar and talk through a possible scenario in the taxi to their house. Assuming that Stanley and Tracy were having an affair, it’s possible that Tracy was pressuring Stanley to tell his wife about them and to declare that he was leaving her for Tracy. But maybe Stanley had been putting it off. Maybe he had no intention of ending his marriage and that, finally, Tracy called his bluff and gave him an ultimatum: either tell Pippa everything or Tracy would do it herself. She even gave him a deadline. He had to do it by the day noted in her Filofax, otherwise she would tell Pippa. In this case, it would have been Stanley who went to the salon that night, bashed in Tracy’s head, and shielded his departure from the salon with an umbrella.

The taxi stops in front of an imposing brick home with a conservatory on one side. The lawn is flat and wide, its grass as neat as a fresh crew cut. It’s a bland estate, with none of the charm of the village cottages, but it might be the kind of place Tracy had dreamed of moving into once Pippa was out of the way.

The doorbell echoes through what sounds like a sparsely furnished home. Indeed, the door opens to an abundance of glare—from the marble floors and sweeping staircase, a garish gold-and-glasschandelier in the foyer, and tall windows looking out over the back lawn.

Wyatt tells the maid we’d like to have a word with Mr. Grange. The maid nods and escorts us into the living room, which looks like a gallery of contemporary art, with abstract paintings on white walls and flat, black leather benches without backs or armrests. There is a single stone coffee table with nothing on it.

Stanley enters the room with long, confident strides. He is slick and polished, his dark hair combed back in the wet look, a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and slip-on leather shoes that look like they’ve never been worn outside. He offers a hand to Wyatt, a firm shake by the way Wyatt winces, and nods at Amity and me.

“Stanley Grange,” he says. “What’s this all about?”

He doesn’t sit, and neither do we.

“It’s about Tracy Penny,” Wyatt says.

Stanley glances quickly toward the foyer.

“Terrible shame. Ugly thing. Murder.”

“We may as well cut to the chase,” Wyatt says. “You were seen entering Tracy’s salon several times. On Mondays.”

That’s a leap. We don’t know for sure that Stanley was the man Edwina had said she’d seen on Mondays.

“Seen? Me? Mondays? Uh, yes. Haircuts. You know. Neat. Trim. Fastidious.”

“The salon was closed on Mondays,” Amity says.

“Closed? Right. Indeed. Funny, that.”

He looks to the foyer again, like he wants to finish this conversation before anyone comes in. I appreciate how well he is staying in character, but it’s an odd performance.

“Your car—a red Tesla, I believe—was also spotted behind Tracy’s building,” Wyatt says. “At night.”

Stanley paces back and forth. “Tesla. Yes. Brilliant car.”

“Mr. Grange, we believe you were having an affair with Tracy Penny.” Wyatt’s eyes are shining.

Stanley sighs. “Ethical lapse, yes. Crime, no. A mistake. Terrible mistake.”

Amity looks at me wide-eyed, like we may be on the brink of nabbing our man. I give her a thumbs-up.

“Did you promise Tracy you’d tell your wife about your affair?”

Stanley slumps, sinks down onto a couch-bench.

“Yes, yes. Many times. But did I? No. Couldn’t do. Terrible thing.”

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