Page 34 of Welcome to Murder Week

Lady Blanders finishes serving us all tea and then, with a cold smile, says, “On to murder. I am at your service.”

It’s hard not to laugh. She’s obviously acting, and I remind myself to play along.

Wyatt flips through the pages of his notebook. “You are believed to be Tracy Penny’s last client yesterday, and the last person known to have seen her alive,” he says.

“Golly.” Lady Blanders brings a hand to her chest. “Does that make me a suspect?” She clears her throat. “Hold on, let me try that again. Golly! Are you suggesting I’m asuspect?”

I can’t tell if Lady Blanders has been scripted to act snobby one moment and “we’re all in on the joke” the next or if she can’t help breaking character. It’s confusing and also funny.

“At this point, everyone is a suspect,” Wyatt says, his voice deeper than usual, his manner suggesting he is fully committed to his role as detective. “If you would, Lady Blanders, what brought you to Tracy Penny’s establishment yesterday?”

“Bad luck, I suppose.” Lady Blanders crosses one leg over the other. “I had a photographer coming to take my portrait for an upcoming gala at which I’m to be honored for my great integrity. Such a lovely gesture for little old me. I just am what I am, what you see is what you get. Where was I? Oh, yes, my personal hairdresser was detained in London. Something about Camilla, apparently. She’s really gotten to be too much since all the brouhaha.”

“Since the coronation, you mean?” Amity asks. Her posture is exemplary, like a young lady taught by a governess never to let her spine touch the back of her seat.

“Call it what you will.” Lady Blanders waves a hand dismissively. “It was terribly inconvenient. Was I to dry my hair myself? Fortunately, or I supposeunfortunately, my maid suggested I go to that little place in town with the silly name, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

“Hairs Looking at You,” I say.

“And you.” She lifts her teacup and winks. I take a photo, and Wyatt continues jotting down notes.

“So you arrived and left at what time?” he asks.

“I got there at four o’clock and I left at four forty-five. I remember because I was already in my car when I got a call from my gardener, who was leaving for the day. He was inquiring if I’d come up with a name for a new rose. It’s become such a challenge. We’ve gone through the whole family, including some of the lesser relatives and the pets. The Rocky Graziano Rose is absolutely stunning.”

“Named for the boxer?” I ask.

“Heavens no, our Rocky is a French bulldog. Purebred, of course. Lord Blanders wouldn’t have it otherwise. He wouldn’t tolerate a pet with imperfections.”

“Back to your hair,” Wyatt says.

“Anything unusual about your experience at the salon?” Amity asks.

“The result was a little frizzier than I like. More tea?” Her bracelet glitters as she picks up the pot.

“Did you and Tracy talk while she was doing your hair?” Wyatt asks.

“She talked. She’s quite the chatterbox. She went on and on about her soon-to-be ex-husband, who sounds rather a bore. Although my maid tells me that Tracy Penny herself wasn’t a paragon of fidelity and that she hasn’t precisely been on hiatus, carnally speaking, but you didn’t hear that from me.” She runs her thumb and forefinger over her lips as if to zip them closed. “Tracy Penny also complained about her landlord. How after years of telling her she was the model tenant, he’d taken to badgering her about all sorts of things, as if she was not only being negligent but ruining the building, which, if you ask me, looked like a crime scene even before the murder.”

“Did Tracy say he complained about the condition of her flat too?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t believe so,” Lady Blanders says.

Amity asks if she knows if Tracy Penny had any enemies.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. We don’t spend much time here. Digby, I mean Lord Blanders, prefers one of our other homes, Claddington Castle. I come here from time to time to oversee renovations. This place has been in my husband’s family for centuries, but it’s been quite neglected. I plan to bring it back to life. A legacy for the children.”

“How old are your children?” Amity asks.

“I have two sons. Charles and Benedict. Seven and eight years old. At boarding school, of course.”

“I’ve also got only boys,” says Amity. “Did you wish for a daughter too?”

Lady Blanders stares coldly. “Why ever would you say that?”

Amity looks deflated. I want to remind her this is all an act, that she shouldn’t let herself feel dismissed by someone who isn’t real.

I point to one of the framed photographs on the table. It’s Lady Blanders, standing in front of another grand home, not as old as Hadley Hall and considerably more inviting. “Is that Claddington Castle?”

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