by Vicki Delany
“He is not an adulterer,” Donald shouted.
“Sherlock Holmes is not trapped in hypocritical Victorian morality,” Renalta said. “But it seems to me as though you, sir, are. Am I right, ladies?”
The audience cheered.
“How dare you. Your interpretation of Mrs. Hudson is . . .” A vein began to pulse in Donald’s forehead.
I slipped out from behind the counter and put my hand on his arm. “Let it go, Donald. Please. You cannot win this argument.”
But Renalta wasn’t finished. She was enjoying herself far too much to stop now. “And thus we come to the crux of your complaint, sir. My Mrs. Hudson is a woman of courage and conviction. Not to mention smarter than your Victorian gentleman. She is a woman of the modern world. That, sir, is what you are so afraid of.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically. Renalta’s speech was nicely delivered, but it had the ring of being exactly that. A speech. Written and rehearsed, tested and delivered many times.
“Renalta would be delighted to sign your books now,” Kevin said. “If you could form an orderly line.”
“Someone needs to put a stop to you and end this travesty,” Donald yelled.
“Donald, that is quite enough,” I said. “Maybe it would be better if you left.”
He turned and leaned over the counter. His breath came in harsh gasps. I put my hand on his back. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” The two remaining bottles of water for Renalta were in front of us. I grabbed one and handed it to him. “Here. Do you want this?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I don’t hate intelligent women. You know that, Gemma. I only want Holmes to be left as his creator intended.”
“I know.” I put the bottle back down. “If you need to sit, go into the tea room. You can rest in the kitchen.”
“I’ll be fine,” he repeated.
I left him and headed for the signing table. People had formed an orderly line down the center of the store. Renalta sat at the table, surrounded by stacks of books. Linda stood beside her, turning the pages to the proper place for the author to sign. The PA no longer looked furious, just not entirely happy, but Renalta glowed with pleasure. Clearly signing books and talking to individual fans was not a problem for her.
I’d put slips of paper into the ones that had been preordered, indicating if they were to be personalized or only needed a signature. Linda opened them to the title page, Renalta signed, and Linda then put them to one side. When she’d taken care of them all, Renalta looked at the lineup, stretching to the back of the store, and smiled. “Thank you so much for coming, my darling,” she said to the woman who’d nabbed the first spot in line. “I am so sorry about that rude interruption. The poor man. Some of these people can carry their delusions to an extreme, don’t you agree?”
The woman tittered in delight, and then she leaned across the table. “My friend and I have a bet as to which of the original Holmes stories influenced you the most. I think it’s totally obvious, judging by what happened in An Elementary Affair, but she disagrees.”
Renalta blinked. “My favorite story is . . .”
“I don’t mean favorite, but the one you consider most influential.”
“Heavens, there are so many, each one as marvelous as the others, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Not really. Some are better than others. Some aren’t very good at all.” She stood firm, waiting for an answer. The people standing behind her shifted from one foot to another. A woman took a picture with her phone.
“I suppose,” Renalta said. “If I must say . . . it’s, uh . . . it’s . . .”
Linda leaned over and whispered in her boss’s ear.
“The Specked Band, of course,” Renalta exclaimed. “That incredibly brave young woman was such an inspiration to Desdemona and to me.”
The woman beamed and turned to her companion. “Told you so!”
I picked up the pile of signed books. “Do you need anything here?”
“Where’s my water?” Renalta asked in a voice that didn’t project to the line. “For heaven’s sake, Linda, can’t you do anything right?”
Linda flushed but said nothing.
Renalta clearly wasn’t an easy person to work for. “Sorry, my fault,” I said. “I’ll get it.”
I waded through the crowd. Several of my regulars stopped me to thank me for bringing Renalta to the shop. A couple wanted to ask when their favorite author might make an appearance. Ryan’s niece had joined the end of the signing line. “I’m sorry the questions got sidetracked,” I said to her. “When everyone has had their books signed, I’ll introduce you to Renalta, and perhaps you can talk to her for a few minutes.”
She blushed furiously and mumbled something into her chest. It might have been thank you.
The two bottles of water were on the counter where Ashleigh had put them. Donald had dropped into a vacated chair, where he sat with his head in his hands, cape spread around him, the very picture of humiliation and dejection. Ryan chatted to Jayne, and Robert and Grant discussed classic books. Nancy was telling a woman, whose expression could be used to illustrate a dictionary definition of “bored,” that she was the head of the Renalta Van Markoff Fan Club (New England Chapter) and that Renalta was “soooo” grateful to her for everything she did.
I dumped my armful of books, swept up the two bottles of water, and once again fought my way through the crowd. I put the bottles on the table. “Here you go.” Renalta picked one up, twisted off the loosened cap, and drank deeply. Then she beamed at the woman next in line. “How do you spell that, my darling?”
“M-A-R-Y. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. An Elementary Affair is my favorite book of all time.”
“You are too kind.” Renalta’s signature was as large and flamboyant as she herself.
“I didn’t like Doctor Watson’s Mistake nearly as much.”
Renalta’s smile cracked ever so slightly. Linda’s eyes widened.
“Still, I’m sure the new one will be good. Is there any chance at all that Desdemona will eventually be free of her husband? I can’t bear . . . Are you all right?”
“I . . . I . . . Linda . . . I don’t feel too well.”
Linda leaned over the author. “It’s been a long, hard week. Miss Van Markoff, do you need to take a break?”
Renalta’s eyes were so wide, she put me in mind of Silver Blaze recognizing that his handler was trying to cripple him. She gripped her throat, and her ruby ring flashed.
“We need an ambulance here. Fast,” I shouted. The summer dress I wore, a nice light flowing thing, was without pockets, so I was without my phone. “You”—I pointed to the woman who’d been taking pictures—“call nine-one-one. Now.”
Renalta gasped for breath. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way beneath her.
Renalta Van Markoff toppled forward onto the table, landing face first on a copy of Hudson House. Her right arm thrashed. And then she lay very still.
Chapter 7
Linda screamed. Everyone in the immediate vicinity began to scream. Chairs were overturned as people either scrambled out of the way or ran forward to try to help.
As she fell, Renalta knocked over her bottle of water. It rolled toward the edge of the table, spraying liquid as it went. I snatched it the moment it tumbled into the air.
Ryan Ashburton pushed his way through the crowd, followed by Grant, Kevin, Irene, and Robert. “Stand back,” he yelled. “Everyone stand back. Grant, call nine-one-one. We need an ambulance here ASAP.” He gave me a look, and I held up the bottle to show him I had it. He approached the still form on the table. He leaned over her and gripped her shoulders. “Can you hear me, Renalta? Can you hear me?”
She didn’t move. Kevin put his arms around Linda and held her close. She sobbed into his chest.
“What happened, Gemma?” Irene asked.
“Heart attack,” someone whispered. The words spread through the store as if carried on a tsunami.
“Did you know she
had a bad heart, Kevin?” Irene asked.
“No,” Kevin said. “She could stand to lose a few pounds, and she didn’t get much exercise, but I never thought . . .”
“Exhaustion,” Robert said. “Stress. The pace of touring is too much for her.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as Kevin and Linda.
“Help’s on the way.” Ryan touched the side of Renalta’s neck and then lifted her hand. “Pulse is almost gone,” he said in a very low voice.
“I’m a doctor. Let me through. I’m a doctor.” I recognized one of my store regulars, Dr. Jennifer Burton. I scooped up the cap to the water bottle and grabbed the unused one. Before closing it, I lifted it to my nose and sniffed.
Bitter almonds.
I leaned toward Dr. Burton and whispered in her ear, “Poisoned. Probably cyanide.”
She nodded.
I then left Ryan and the good doctor to do what they could and made my way toward the front of the store.
“Stand back, please,” I said to the barrage of questions. “Help’s been called. Everything is under control.”
Ashleigh stood behind the cash register, her eyes wide and her hand to her mouth. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Give me a plastic bag, quickly.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. Just give it to me.”
She did so, and I slipped the water bottles inside and tied the bag shut with a firm twist.
“What happened?” Ashleigh asked. “She’s going to be okay, right?”
“Okay? Uh, sure. Maybe.”
Jayne leaned toward us. “You sound awfully unsure of that,” she whispered. “How can you know what’s happened? You’re not a doctor.”
“I smelled bitter almonds. Cyanide.”
Ashleigh gasped. Jayne said, “You’re kidding, right? Sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to for a moment. You never kid. Don’t be telling people that, Gemma. You’ll cause a panic.”
I glanced around the room. No one was paying me any attention. Most people were frozen in place, gaping, not knowing what to do. Some were leaving the shop.
Officer Richter burst through the front door. Sirens sounded in the distance, coming closer.
“Open the tea room,” I said to Jayne. “Offer hot or cold drinks to anyone who wants one. No charge.” I glanced at the bag in my hand. “Maybe don’t offer them water.”
Thank goodness we’d bought Renalta’s water at the convenience store and not gotten it from the tap in Mrs. Hudson’s.
“You think something might have been in the water?” Jayne said.
“I know it was.” I crossed the floor and grabbed Officer Richter’s arm. “You need to stop people from leaving. The detectives will want to question everyone.”
“No need,” he said. “She had a heart attack.”
We stepped aside as the paramedics arrived with a stretcher.
Mindful of Jayne’s reminder that sometimes people don’t react well to total honesty, I said, “Better safe than sorry.”
“Thanks, Ms. Doyle, but I think I can handle this,” Richter said.
“She might have been poisoned,” I said. “Detective Ashburton said so.”
Ryan had said no such thing, but I figured Officer Richter wouldn’t take my word for it.
“In that case.” He moved to block the exit.
I ran to the back of the room. Ryan had ordered people to keep away to give Dr. Burton room to work. Most of them had complied. Linda stood watching, her pose the same as Ashleigh’s: eyes wide with shock and hand to mouth. Kevin’s arm remained around her shoulders. Robert McNamara shook his head silently, and Irene observed the scene dispassionately.
The paramedics loaded Renalta’s unmoving form onto their stretcher.
“People are leaving,” I said to Ryan. “You need to secure the scene.”
“You think this was deliberate?”
I kept my voice low enough to be heard only by people in the immediate vicinity. “The water was poisoned. No doubt about it. Dr. Burton, didn’t you smell anything?”
She shook her head. “If it’s what you seem to be suggesting, Gemma, I might not be genetically disposed to detecting the scent. Many people aren’t.”
“Which might be why Renalta took such a deep drink,” I said.
“I’ll get this place locked down.” Ryan pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and walked away, talking rapidly.
I turned and saw Irene Talbot standing closer to us than I’d realized. Her ears were flapping. “Don’t you dare repeat a word of that conversation. It’s pure speculation.”
“My lips are sealed,” said the ambitious reporter.
“We’re ready to go. Are you coming with us, Doctor?” one of the paramedics said.
“Yes,” she replied.
Linda burst into another round of tears. “I need to come too. Please.”
“No room,” the paramedic said.
“I’ll drive her,” Kevin said. All the color had drained out of his handsome face. He held Linda tightly to him.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Robert McNamara said. “Stress on top of exhaustion. She’s been working so hard lately.”
“Of course, you’re right,” Kevin said over Linda’s head. I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t believe it for a moment.
“I’ll tell Detective Ashburton where he can find you,” I said.
Kevin gave me a nod of thanks, and he hustled Linda away. Robert followed. People shouted questions at them, but Kevin merely said, “Excuse me, please,” while Linda wept.
At the front of the store, Ryan had clipped his badge onto his shirt, and Officer Richter guarded the door. Cruisers screeched to a halt out front and parked half on the sidewalk, blue and red lights flashing. Outside, the curious gathered. Inside, people were either trying to get someone to tell them what was going on or continuing to shop. Ashleigh had resumed ringing up purchases.
I slid up beside her. “Where’s my camera?”
“Under the counter where you left it.”
“Did you take many pictures earlier?”
“Some.”
I found the camera and quickly flicked through it. Ashleigh had been at the sales counter, and she’d pointed the camera at the back of the store, toward Renalta standing at the podium or moving to the signing table. Lots of shots of the back of people’s heads with Renalta facing the audience. A couple of close-ups of Renalta, holding a copy of Hudson House to illustrate a point she was making. Not one picture was of the group lining the counter, standing near the bottle of water.
Some of these pictures would have been great for promoting the store. The packed house, the rows of attentive readers, the dramatically gesturing author holding up her book.
All now completely useless. It would be tawdry beyond belief to try to get any promotion out of Renalta Van Markoff’s last signing.
No one else was saying it, but I was positive this would indeed prove to be her last signing.
I went into the tea room where Jayne and Fiona were pouring glasses of lemonade and iced tea and Jocelyn was making coffee.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“Load those glasses on a tray, take them into the bookshop, and pass them around,” Jayne said.
I did so. Donald was sitting alone, where I’d seen him last. He’d found a book and was reading. I offered him a drink, but he shook his head without looking up. I circulated through the store, handing out iced tea and lemonade. Grant Thompson had sat down next to Madison, Ryan’s niece, and was telling her about a rare copy of an early Agatha Christie book he’d recently bought. She actually looked interested. I gave him a smile. Maureen snatched a glass off my tray while continuing to tell a group of tourists that she wasn’t at all surprised the Great Author had taken ill in the Emporium.
“Can I have your attention, please?” Ryan shouted.
Words were left unfinished as conversation died immediately. The only sound was Moriarty howling. Mau
reen gave her companions a “told you so” smirk.
“Until we determine exactly what happened here,” Ryan said, “I have to treat this as a crime scene.”
Murmurs swept through the store.
“Please give your contact information to one of the officers. We will be in touch later. If you believe you saw something significant, please let me know. If you took any pictures here this afternoon, you will be given an address where you can send them. Thank you for your cooperation.”
He turned to me. “How many people would you say are still here, Gemma?”
“Including those sitting in the tea room, ninety-seven.”
“I was going to say ‘approximately.’ I should know better by now.”
“I might be off by one or two,” I admitted. “People keep moving around. We had seats for one hundred people. That plus standing room only and those who sat on the stairs meant one hundred and twenty people were here at the height of Renalta’s talk. I did a count when I was at the front introducing her. After Renalta collapsed, a handful slipped out under Officer Richter’s watchful eye before he secured the door. Maybe twenty got away—I mean, left. I don’t see Jocelyn’s mother. Knowing her, she was well mannered enough to want to get out of everyone’s way. Kevin and Linda went with the ambulance. Robert accompanied them.”
“Who are those people?”
“Publicist, personal assistant, and publisher. All the Ps in a writer’s life.” I held up my tray. “Would you like a glass of lemonade?”
“No, thanks. I’m afraid you’ll have to keep the store closed for the rest of today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Understood. Ashleigh took some photographs of the event. I was hoping to use them for promotion. I doubt there’s anything significant, but you should look. My camera’s under the counter. Ask Ashleigh for it.”
“Thanks. Here’s Louise now,” Ryan said. I scurried away before Detective Louise Estrada could accuse me of being the guilty party. Estrada and I had met before. We did not depart as friends.
The two detectives huddled in a corner. More than a few people casually wandered close to them, heads tilted to one side. Ryan gave them a hard stare. The effect, I thought, was spoiled somewhat by Benedict Cumberbatch peering over his shoulder.