Body on Baker Street: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  I could have called the West London police station with my concern. But it was too late, I told myself, for what was not an emergency. I could have called in the morning. But, I told myself, I wanted to do it while the thought was fresh in my mind.

  What I didn’t tell myself, however, was that I wanted to hear his voice.

  “I know it’s late,” I said, “but it sounds like you’re still up.”

  Ryan Ashburton said, “I’m having a drink with some of the guys and girls.”

  “If this isn’t a good time . . .”

  The voices fell away as he moved to a quieter space. “Time for me to be heading home anyway. Jim Erickson got a promotion, so the celebration might go on for a long time yet. Do you need me to come around?”

  I breathed. “No. I have a quick favor to ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You might have heard that a famous author’s doing a book signing at the Emporium on Saturday.”

  “I heard. Something Van something.”

  “Renalta Van Markoff. She was involved in an incident at the Blue Water Café earlier this evening. A woman accosted her. I suspect the woman is a stalker. She was certainly known to the author and her group. The police were called, and Officer Johnson ordered her to leave. Which she did, with no trouble, but things could have gotten ugly.”

  “You’re worried she might come to the store on Saturday?”

  “I am. I wanted you—the WLPD, I mean—to know. I’m hoping a uniformed officer can pop around, keep an eye on things. The program begins at one thirty. I expect people will start arriving a long time before that.”

  “I’ll see that it gets done.”

  “Thank you, Ryan.”

  Silence poured down the phone lines. Then he said, “If that’s all, Gemma, I’ll say good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I pressed the red button to end the call. I sat back in my chair with a sigh and picked my book off the side table. I was starting These Honored Dead by Jonathan F. Putnam. The idea of the young Abraham Lincoln as a cosleuth was an intriguing one, and I was eager to see if Putnam could pull it off. But tonight my mind was on other things. I soon gave up trying to pay attention to the story, put it aside, and reached for my iPad.

  It was looking as though Saturday’s appearance by Renalta Van Markoff was going to be unlike any book signing I’d had before. Some hugely successful authors have been in my shop, but they didn’t descend from Cadillac Escalades as though they were the Duchess of Cambridge attending a charity gala, and they weren’t followed by a team of flunkies, never mind crazed stalkers. I like to know who I’m dealing with, so I searched for what I could find about Renalta Van Markoff. The bio on her web page was probably as false as her accent, but I didn’t consider that to be a problem. Plenty of celebrities fudged their biographies. When Robert Galbraith’s first book was published, his bio said he was a former SAS soldier. In reality he was a middle-aged woman from Scotland. A woman who had achieved some fame under her own name of J. K. Rowling. Of considerably more interest to me at the moment was the number of bookstores I found with “postponed” slapped over their events pages. Renalta had been due to attend three book signings this weekend. One tomorrow night in New York City and two in Boston on Saturday. On Monday evening she was supposed to be in Scottsdale, Arizona, for an appearance at the Poisoned Pen.

  As I well know, bookstores don’t take kindly to authors canceling at the last minute. Particularly when they have no reasonable excuse. Linda had told me Renalta suddenly decided she wanted to go to the Cape for the weekend. Obviously the canceled appearances didn’t bother her one bit, but her publisher would be beyond furious. I suspect Kevin had to do some serious convincing to get her to even agree to come to the Emporium so as not to completely ruin the all-important first weekend of sales.

  I could almost hear Renalta’s voice now. Sooooo tedious, darling.

  Chapter 5

  Friday at the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium was all Renalta Van Markoff all day. If people weren’t buying her books, they were inquiring about tomorrow’s talk. The phone was ringing off the hook—and isn’t that an outdated expression?—with people wanting to make a reservation. I told them it was first come first serve but warned them to arrive in plenty of time. I debated asking Jayne if we could sell muffins and sandwiches and cold drinks to the early-arriving throngs of fans but discarded the idea on the grounds that we’d never manage to do that and run the tea room at the same time. Surely there were some people in West London who weren’t Van Markoff fans.

  Ashleigh arrived at one to begin her shift. Today she was done up like a lawyer heading for court in a severe black suit with the skirt cut precisely to the knee, gray blouse, neutral-colored nylon stockings, and black pumps with one-inch heels. All that was missing was the leather briefcase.

  “Where,” I asked, “do you get all those clothes?”

  “All what clothes?”

  “Most people have a certain style.” My personal style was “as little effort as possible.” “You have a different look every day. Even your hair.” Today, it was pulled back into a tight bun.

  “I like my attire to match my mood,” she said. “We’ll be getting ready for the big author signing tomorrow. In case there are any legal complications, I am in the moment.”

  “Okay.” I suppressed the thought as to what mood she would be in around Halloween. “Just keep it professional at all times, okay?”

  She held out her arms and gave me a quizzical look. “Isn’t this professional?”

  “It’s fine. Thanks for closing up last night.” I’d been pleased to arrive this morning and find everything shipshape. The floor swept, the countertops dusted, all the stock neatly in its assigned place. Even a content and well-fed Moriarty snoozing in his bed under the center table.

  “Not a problem,” she said.

  “I’ve been getting queries all morning about Renalta’s visit. We’re not taking reservations, and if anyone calls to ask us to put aside a personalized book, take their details, but make no promises. Renalta seems the sort who might decide that she doesn’t feel like signing books after all.”

  “Got it,” she said. “I was thinking last night, if you don’t mind a suggestion . . . That guy who came yesterday, Donald. He was wearing a Sherlock Holmes T-shirt. You should stock some of them.”

  “This isn’t a clothing shop.”

  “But you have all that other Sherlock stuff. The mugs, the games, the puzzles, the dish towels. Why not T-shirts?”

  “We’re primarily a bookshop. Because our stock of books is highly specialized, we expanded into Sherlock . . . uh . . . stuff. I don’t want to lose focus on books.”

  “Nope, but T-shirts would be a good seller.”

  “I don’t want . . .”

  “I’ll look into suppliers and prices. Don’t worry. I’ll do it in my own time. I’ll keep thinking about other ideas too. How about . . .”

  I reminded myself that Ashleigh was keen, and that was a good thing. I was saved from replying when a man came into the store. He wore handmade Italian loafers, khaki trousers with seams pressed to a knife point, and a blue-and-white-checked shirt buttoned to the neck. His slate-gray hair was short and expensively cut and his hands smooth and spotlessly clean. Maybe the business look was the in thing for today after all. Who knew?

  “Good mornin’,” he said to us with a smile full of blindingly white teeth. “How are y’all doin’ today?” His accent was so North Carolina, he could have done the voice-over for their tourism ads.

  “Good morning, Mr. McNamara,” I said. “Everything is in place for tomorrow. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I . . . uh . . . do I know you, ma’am?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re Robert McNamara of McNamara and Gibbons Press.”

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “Never mind her,” Ashleigh said. “It’s her party trick. Can I grab a coffee from next door, Gemma? I didn’t have time to
get one.”

  “Sure.” I smiled at the man. That he was not a casual Cape Cod vacationer was obvious by his clothes and by the closeness of his morning shave. That he was not a shopper was obvious by the way he’d studied the window display before coming in, as though ensuring it was satisfactory. That he was not interested in anything else I had for sale was obvious by the way he looked only at the center table where Renalta’s books were arranged.

  That he was worried was an obvious conclusion based on the research I’d done last night.

  Renalta was not published by one of the big five publishing houses. McNamara and Gibbons Press was a midsized company out of Raleigh, North Carolina. They had a handful of midlist authors, both fiction and nonfiction, but Renalta Van Markoff was their only major bestseller.

  Details on the website informed me that the publisher and owner were one and the same: Mr. Robert McNamara. The web page didn’t have a picture of him, but I didn’t need to see one to know that this was the man standing in front of me.

  “Your store is small,” he said.

  “We’ll manage fine. The shelves can be pushed aside, and I have a hundred chairs coming in tomorrow.” If one more person complained about the size of my shop, I’d . . . I’d do something.

  “That should be fine.” He let out a long sigh. “It’s good of you to do this at the last minute’s notice.”

  “We have a mutual interest,” I said. “Renalta’s books consistently sell well here, but there’s nothing quite like an author visit to encourage sales.”

  His strained smile only served to emphasize the worry lines under his eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Everything’s under control. I have plenty of books in stock, but I’ve ordered more. I checked with my distributor this morning, and the books are on their way. They should arrive later today. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Good. I’ll be here for Renalta’s visit. To keep an eye on things.”

  “I assume Renalta needs keeping an eye on.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. The difference between authors and petulant children is that children eventually grow up. But Renalta takes it into a whole new league. After she arbitrarily canceled a weekend full of appearances at the last moment—to my horror I might add—I thought I’d better be here in person. Tomorrow afternoon’s my mother’s ninety-fifth birthday party. I am not happy about having to come to Cape Cod instead.”

  I made a sympathetic face. Moriarty yawned.

  “To make things worse, my wife’s away on a business trip. Not that Mama’ll notice if we’re not there, but my brothers and sisters certainly will.” He forced out a smile. “You can call me if anything comes up.” He recited his number, and I put it into my own phone.

  * * *

  At three o’clock the door flew open, and Renalta Van Markoff burst into the store. I blinked and looked again.

  It wasn’t Renalta, but darn close.

  She wore a long scarlet cape and red stilettos; her black hair was piled into a wind-blown mass on the top of her head. Her eyelashes were false, her eyes outlined with thick black liner, and purple shadow had been excessively applied. Her red lips matched the polish on her fingers and the earrings in her ears. She swooped down on me with a dramatic swirl of the cape. “My darling, I hope I’m not too late to sign up for tomorrow.”

  “You mean the talk by Renalta Van Markoff? We’re not taking reservations.”

  “In that case, I will be sure to arrive in plenty of time.” Closer up, I could see that her cape had a tattered hem and was almost worn through in a couple of spots. The earrings were red glass, and her hair tilted ominously to one side. A wig.

  Was this supposed to be an early Halloween costume? If so, I doubted Renalta Van Markoff would be amused. I made a mental note to ask Ashleigh not to impersonate a certain famous author tomorrow.

  “You’re so lucky to have her coming here. Imagine, Renalta herself, in your tiny store.” She clutched her hands to her chest and fluttered her eyelashes at me. “My dream come true.”

  Not just a costume then, but something, dare I say, creepy.

  “I’m Nancy. I’m the president of the Renalta Van Markoff Fan Club, New England Chapter, and her greatest admirer. We have so much in common.” She waved her hand in what was rapidly becoming a very familiar gesture. Her ring, being a cheap piece of dull glass, chipped and tarnished, did not throw back the light. “We’ve met many times, of course, but I never tire of hearing her speak.”

  “The program begins at one thirty,” I said. “You should come early if you want a good seat. I suggest buying your book ahead of time to avoid possible disappointment.”

  She ignored my hint. “I was planning to go to her signings in Boston tomorrow, but then the Renalta fan page on Facebook said she was coming here instead. So much more convenient for me as I live near New Bedford.” She glanced around the room, checking that no one was listening. Other than Ashleigh arranging the children’s books that had been tossed by a family who’d just left (after buying nothing, I might add) and a woman flipping through a book on the making of the BBC series Sherlock, the Emporium was empty. Nancy leaned across the desk. “Has she been here yet?”

  I saw no reason not to answer. It wasn’t exactly a secret. “She came in yesterday. To meet the staff and check out our facilities.”

  Nancy shivered. “That is so kind of her. She’s always like that, you know. So many other writers just assume everyone will jump at the idea of hosting them. Did she leave anything behind?”

  “Why would she do that? We have her books in stock already.”

  “I mean like a signing pen, maybe. A small token of her affection. Something I could have. If you don’t need it, that is.”

  Creepy all right.

  At that moment, the phone rang, and I was saved from continuing with that conversation. “Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, Gemma speaking.”

  It was yet another Van Markoff fan asking what time she should arrive tomorrow. Nancy wandered off to check out my shop. She didn’t seem terribly impressed and soon gathered her cape around her. “Until tomorrow, then. Oh, one more tiny thing. You don’t know where Renalta’s staying, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “We’re such good friends. I know she’d be thrilled if I took a room at the same hotel.”

  Creepy. “Why don’t you call or send her an e-mail and ask?”

  “I would, of course, but that silly girl who answers her phone and reads all her letters won’t put me through. Personally, I think it’s long past time Renalta fired her. But she’s much too kind.” She waved her fingers at me and left with a swirl of the cape. Her wig slipped and she grabbed at it as the door shut behind her.

  “Weirdo,” Ashleigh said.

  “Yup,” I replied.

  “Your store attracts weirdoes,” she said. “I mean, anyone who thinks Sherlock Holmes is a real person or who cares if he was having a secret affair with his landlady is a weirdo by definition.”

  Most of them, maybe. Great Uncle Arthur is a Sherlock fanatic, but no one would call him a weirdo. Not to his face, anyway. “Don’t let it bother you. They’re harmless.”

  “Bother me?” Ashleigh roared with laughter. “I think it’s great!”

  Chapter 6

  Saturday morning people began arriving even earlier than I expected. Fortunately, I’d thought to ask Ashleigh to come in early. We pushed shelves against the walls and moved tables aside while Moriarty supervised. I set the podium, borrowed from the library, at the front of the store and dragged the chair out of the reading nook to put it against a table we’d cleared for the signing. Boxes of books arrived yesterday afternoon, and I’d stacked them behind the sales counter, with instructions to Ashleigh to fill up the center table and the shelves as needed. I’d added some copies of Laurie R. King’s Mary Russell series and Carole Douglas Nelson’s Irene Adler books, hoping to appeal to those interested in the women in the Great Detecti
ve’s life.

  I’d brought my camera to work today and placed it under the counter. “Once she arrives, I’ll be kept moving,” I said to Ashleigh, “so I want you to take pictures, if you don’t mind. I’d like shots of Renalta when she’s speaking or signing. Try to get something that shows the size of the crowd and people holding their copies of the books.”

  “Happy to,” she said.

  The rental company van pulled into the loading zone, and two men carried the chairs in and set them up in neat rows. They’d barely left when the first of the patrons arrived. Four women, heavyset, dyed hair ranging from light blonde to brassy red, and garishly dressed in the worst of summer vacation wear (including black socks in Birkenstocks), plopped themselves into the front row. They’d never been in my shop before. Once settled, they pulled sandwiches out of cavernous handbags, opened thermoses, and poured iced tea.

  “You might want to buy your books ahead of time,” Ashleigh said to them. “Then you can have them signed as soon as Miss Van Markoff’s ready.” Today my assistant looked almost normal in a colorful summer tunic worn over black leggings.

  They laughed. “Don’t you worry, young lady. We’ve got our copies right here. We preordered them on Amazon.”

  I gritted my teeth. Fortunately, the next bunch who came in were buyers, and I was kept busy as the flood of patrons began. Many picked up snacks or drinks at the tea room first, and book sales were brisk. Ashleigh was turning out to be a good salesclerk. She deftly guided the Renalta enthusiasts to other Holmes-pastiche books or suggested selections from the gaslight shelves. This wasn’t a Holmes-loving bunch though; they mostly just liked Desdemona Hudson and the historical setting, so the Conan Doyle books and most of the associated merchandise were left untouched.

  Jocelyn’s mother came in and gave me a wave as she made a dash for the last available seat in the front row. She sat down and pulled out the book she’d bought on Thursday.

  I was ringing up a paperback of An Elementary Affair for a young woman when the bottle of water in her hand caught my attention. I mentally slapped my forehead. The lineup at the cash register was three deep. I glanced around the room. Ashleigh stood next to the shelves, helping a highly indecisive patron make a selection. She’d been with that patron for what seemed to be forever.