Body on Baker Street: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  “Including me. What did the fingerprint analysis show?”

  “The unused bottle clearly showed Ashleigh’s fingerprints on top of several unidentifiable ones, which we can assume came from it being handled prior to her purchasing it. But the bottle Renalta drank out of, the one that killed her, had been wiped down. In this weather, anyone wearing gloves would have stood out like a sore thumb, pardon the pun, so whoever did it had to use a handkerchief, the edge of their shirt, or something similar. Your prints are clear, indicating that you picked up the bottle after it was tampered with. Same with Renalta. Other than that, we did find a couple of smudged partials. Donald Morris’s is one. Ashleigh’s is another.”

  “We know Ashleigh bought the bottles and broke the seal. Only one bottle was poisoned?”

  “That appears to be the case,” he said. “The unused bottle contained nothing it shouldn’t.”

  “Any sign of the container that was used to carry the poison?”

  “No. We searched your shop thoroughly but came up with nothing. It would have been small, so I can assume the killer simply walked out with it in their purse or pocket. We didn’t search everyone.”

  “Whoever it was must have had nerves of steel.”

  “Yup. Let’s hope that self-control shatters before too much longer.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you learned at the bank?” I asked.

  “As it would appear you are prepared to go to great lengths to find out, I guess I have to. You didn’t hear it from me, Gemma.”

  “Understood.” Ryan had gotten into trouble before for listening to me about an investigation. It meant a lot to him—and to me—that he was sharing information with me now.

  “She was making a heck of a lot of money from those books. Twice a year she got a direct deposit from McNamara and Gibbons Press. Don’t writers use agents?”

  “Most do, but Renalta didn’t have an agent when she was first published so they decided to keep it that way. Linda had worked for a literary agency at one time, so she supervised their contracts.”

  “The account was in the name of Ruth Smith. Not Linda.”

  I cradled my teacup. “Meaning that even the publisher doesn’t know who wrote the books.” Also meaning that Linda might have negotiated the contracts, but she didn’t receive the income as is the standard arrangement between publishers, agents, and authors.

  “So it would seem,” Ryan said.

  I’d been present when Robert McNamara had argued with Linda about him getting his hands on the new manuscript. At the time, I hadn’t thought he was pretending not to know the author’s identity, but it was a possibility. Now that detail was confirmed. “Did Renalta—I mean, Ruth—pay Linda a salary?”

  “Every two weeks, money was transferred from Ruth’s account to Linda’s. The sum was slightly more than what you’d expect a successful author to pay her personal assistant but nowhere near what the books were earning. Ruth also paid the mortgage on Linda’s apartment and her car payments.”

  “Have you seen Renalta’s will?”

  “Everything went to her only daughter.”

  And that, I thought, opened a whole world of possibilities.

  Chapter 12

  Linda Marke zoomed directly to the top of my suspect list. Again, I had to ask if she resented her mother taking all the credit (and most of the money) for the hugely successful books that she herself was writing. Had it seemed like a lark at first? Let the flamboyant Ruth pretend to be Renalta Van Markoff, get the attention of the adoring fans, pose for pictures for the papers and the book jacket, and be the one doing TV and radio interviews and appearing on panels at literary festivals and mystery conferences. While Linda not only wrote the books but did the business side of it too, including acting as the author’s agent.

  Had Linda decided enough was enough? Did she want out of the arrangement? Did she want the credit for her work? Had her mother, who had been totally committed to the persona of Renalta Van Markoff, objected?

  Or had Linda simply wanted the money? Money she had earned but her mother controlled.

  Speculation is wonderful, but proof is another thing altogether.

  Ryan said on his way out the door, “You’re a superb observer of people, Gemma, and you have insights I can’t even begin to understand. But you are not a police officer, and you are certainly not a trained detective. You charge in like a bull in a china shop and rub everyone the wrong way.”

  “I can’t help it if—”

  He lifted one hand. “Talk to me if you learn something. I’ll share with you what I can and let you mull things over. But that’s all I want from you. Don’t interfere with the investigation, and above all, please don’t interfere with Louise. You do not want her as your enemy.”

  It was probably too late for that, but I said nothing and wished him a good night. I crouched in the doorway to the mudroom, my hand on Violet’s collar, and watched Ryan Ashburton drive away.

  * * *

  Shortly before noon the day following my aborted raid on the police station, I called Linda. “You haven’t been to Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room yet. Would you like to be my guest for afternoon tea?”

  “Thanks, Gemma,” she said. “I’d enjoy that. I’m sick and tired of hanging around this hotel, nice as it is.”

  “The police haven’t released your mother’s body yet?”

  “No. I suppose I could go home and come back later, but . . . well, I just want to be close to her. For as long as I can.” Her voice broke, and for a moment, I felt bad for suspecting her.

  I reminded myself that more than one killer had regretted what they’d done when the enormity of it settled in. “One o’clock? Early for afternoon tea, but we can call it lunch.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “I’ll make a reservation for two for one o’clock.” I hung up before she could reply, hoping she got the hint that Kevin wasn’t invited. Before I could get distracted and forget to reserve our table, I hurried next door.

  “We’re booked pretty solid, Gemma,” Fiona said. “But as it’s just for two, I can probably fit you in.”

  * * *

  At five to one, I told Ashleigh I’d be out for a while.

  She sighed heavily, and I felt a pang of guilt as I realized that I was leaving a lot of the workload to her. When I got back yesterday from observing Estrada at the bank and then talking to Donald, the shop had been packed. A lineup waited impatiently at the cash register while Ashleigh struggled to answer a customer’s vague questions about which Conan Doyle books she should read to best understand the nuances of the Benedict Cumberbatch series.

  The look on Ashleigh’s face when I came in and took over speaking to the customer was one of pure relief.

  I needed an assistant because the shop was too busy in the summer months for one person to handle, so I’d hired her, and then I’d left her to it. What else could I do? I’d committed myself to helping Donald clear his name. Right now the best chance of proving his innocence was to find the guilty party. And that couldn’t be done only in off-business hours.

  If she dressed according to her mood, Ashleigh’s mood this morning must have been gloomy: gray Bermuda shorts bagging in the knees and the seat, a gray golf shirt, black socks in hiking shoes, hair pulled into an untidy ponytail, and a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses perched on her nose. She’d never worn eyeglasses before. When I peered closely at them, I could tell that the lenses were plain glass.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not usually like this around here. We’re still busy because of the Van Markoff visit and what happened with that. And, well, I’m trying to do what little I can to help Donald.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said with another sigh that indicated she minded very much.

  As if he knew I was about to be criticized, Moriarty jumped onto the counter to hear better.

  “It’s just that I don’t know all that much about Sherlock Holmes. I’ve been trying to learn. I’ve been reading those books you
loaned me, and I watched the TV show and some movies on Netflix, but some of the questions people ask are really weird.”

  “I have an idea to get you some help. Right now, I have to pop next door,” I said. “Won’t be long. When I get back, you can go for your lunch. Tell Fiona it’s on me.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she said.

  Fiona showed me to a table for two. I pulled out my phone while I waited for my guest and texted Uncle Arthur. How’s your trip?

  The reply was almost instant: Fell out with sister of RN chap. Kicked off their boat. Heading for Key West.

  I didn’t bother to ask what sort of a “falling out” that might have been. Key West? Isn’t Florida hot in summer? Why not come home?

  He replied, Am I needed?

  Super busy in shop. Keen interest in SH. Could use your help. SH was, of course, Sherlock Holmes. If that didn’t get Uncle Arthur back to West London, nothing would. He didn’t work out very well as a shop clerk, being more inclined to pull up a chair and discuss details of the canon and its numerous offshoots with the customers than try to sell them things, but if Ashleigh needed help with the “weird questions,” no one was better equipped than Arthur Doyle to answer them.

  On my way.

  I imagined him leaping into the Triumph and speeding out of the parking lot of wherever he happened to be and put my phone away with a smile.

  Linda had not gotten the hint and had brought Kevin with her. They came into the tea room holding hands. Kevin grabbed a chair from another table and dragged it over. I pasted on a frozen smile as we squeezed around the table for two.

  “This is so charming,” Linda said. “I love afternoon tea and all the formality around it. There’s something about tea that inspires tradition, isn’t there, Gemma?”

  “That’s certainly true, and in cultures as varied as England and Japan. You don’t have to stay, Kevin, if you have something else you’d rather be doing.”

  “I’m good,” he said.

  “Would you like menus?” Fiona asked us.

  “How about the basic afternoon tea for three?” I suggested. “Darjeeling for me, please.”

  Linda said she’d also have Darjeeling, and Kevin asked if he could have coffee instead. I repressed a grimace of disapproval.

  “I wasn’t happy to hear that the man they arrested got out on bail,” Kevin said. “Bail on a murder charge. Ridiculous.”

  “The evidence is nothing but circumstantial,” I said. “And barely even that.”

  “Should Linda be worried, Gemma?” Kevin asked. “Might he come after her next?”

  “Donald Morris? Goodness no.” That was something I hadn’t considered. If Linda hadn’t killed her mother, then might the killer now be after her if he (or she) learned the identity of the real author?

  Kevin put his hand on Linda’s, and she left it there. They hadn’t shown any sign of affection in front of Renalta. Was that because I’d only seen them with her when they were conducting business or because Renalta didn’t know of their relationship—or if she did know, didn’t approve? I’d thought Kevin had an interest in Linda but didn’t see signs of it being returned. Now freed from her mother’s disapproving influence, did Linda feel able to express herself? Then again, might this be an entirely new development? Had the death of Renalta been the catalyst to bring Kevin and Linda together?

  Again, I had to ask myself if the handsome Kevin might have decided to hurry things along. Today Linda was wearing a flowing dark-blue tunic over calf-length black leggings and sporty sandals. Small gold hoops were in her ears, and the same necklace she wore yesterday was around her throat. She’d added a touch of pink lipstick and a swipe of blush and combed her hair out. The change from when I’d first met her wasn’t dramatic, but it was noticeable. Was this, I had to ask myself, the real Linda, and the dowdy but efficient PA nothing but an act she took on the road? Or was the real Linda only allowed to express herself by the death of her domineering, bullying, overly flamboyant mother?

  Fiona placed a large teapot on the table as well as a small jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a plate of sliced lemon, and two cups and saucers. She dropped a mug of coffee in front of Kevin.

  “What a beautiful tea set,” Linda said. The pot and cups matched: roses of pink and pale blue on fine white china trimmed with gold. “May I pour?”

  “Go ahead.” I leaned back to allow Fiona to place the three-tiered silver tray in the center of the table along with pots of butter, strawberry jam straight from the kitchen of a West London woman, and proper clotted cream.

  Ignoring any pretext of good manners, I snatched one of the cucumber sandwiches before my dining companions could get it. We’d also been served salmon, roast beef and arugula, and curried egg salad. The middle level of the tray held scones plump with raisins and on the top layer tiny perfect strawberry and lemon tarts nestled beside miniature coconut cupcakes piled high with buttercream icing.

  “I try to have at least one scene involving afternoon tea in each of my books,” Linda said. “It gives Desdemona and Sherlock a chance to get together and talk over what they’ve learned.”

  I refrained from mentioning that I couldn’t imagine Sherlock Holmes, man of action, pipe tobacco and lover of a seven percent solution, enjoying a cream tea.

  “One thing about this forced idleness,” Linda said, sipping her tea, “I’m getting a lot of work done, and that helps to get my mind off my mother’s death.”

  “So it wasn’t true, what you said to Robert? That the manuscript is locked in a computer back in New York?”

  “Of course not. Consider it a little white lie. I’m not going to lay all my cards on the table, am I? We’ll be renegotiating contracts now that circumstances have changed. I trust you remember that you promised to honor my confidence, Gemma?”

  “I remember, and I have no intention of breaking that promise.” I had told Ryan, but I didn’t feel at all guilty: the matter might be critically important in determining the motive for the killing of Renalta. “How far along is the book?”

  “Almost finished.”

  “As a bookseller, I’m glad to hear it. I put in an order this morning for more stock of Hudson House as well as the backlist. The new book should do extremely well.”

  “Robert wants to hurry it up,” Kevin said. “Take advantage of the publicity around Renalta’s death.”

  Linda grimaced, and I said, “That’s putting it a bit bluntly.”

  “It’s business,” Kevin said. He slathered butter and jam on a scone and added a huge dollop of cream.

  “I understand that,” Linda said. “Robert’s worried about his investment now that the apparent author has died, but I won’t have him shouting orders at me.” A single salmon sandwich sat on her plate, uneaten. “He wants me to hand over the unfinished manuscript so he can hire a ghostwriter to finish it. Obviously, that’s not necessary.”

  “Why haven’t you told him the truth? I expect he’ll be thrilled. That means there will be more Hudson and Holmes books.”

  “He might be happy. He might not,” Kevin said. “More books is good, but speaking as a publicist, I can tell you that people don’t like being tricked. All those Renalta fans won’t be pleased to hear that the woman they fawned over, whose every word they hung onto when she talked about her writing routine and where she gets her ideas, didn’t pen so much as a word or have a single idea.”

  “I need time to think, Gemma,” Linda said. “And time to mourn my mother. I won’t be rushed into any rash decisions by people wanting to take advantage of Mother’s death.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She found a packet, took one out, and wiped at her face. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I said.

  She blew her nose. “People like that horrible woman who wants to take over the public appearances.”

  “What horrid woman?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew.

  “Nancy Brownmiller. She’s a pest. She was a pest when Renalta was
alive,” Kevin said, “and now she’s proving to be even more so. She showed up at the hotel last night, lurking in the lobby like some sort of giant spider, and ambushed us when we were coming in after dinner. She wants us to hire her to impersonate Renalta at fan events.” His expression showed what he thought about that idea.

  Yesterday afternoon, Nancy told me she was going home because she couldn’t afford to continue paying for a hotel. Instead, she’d hung around town waiting to talk to Linda. I tucked that piece of information into the back of my mind, where I was accumulating a rapidly growing folder labeled “Suspects’ Movements.” “Tasteless,” I said. “But assuming she doesn’t know Renalta was Linda’s mother, it’s not downright offensive.”

  “Offensive enough,” Kevin muttered.

  “Anyone mind if I have the last cucumber sandwich?” I asked. “They’re my favorite.”

  Kevin shook his head, and Linda said, “Go ahead.”

  I did so. Delicious.

  “What do you intend to do now?” I asked Linda.

  “Take Mother home when the police let me. Settle her affairs. Finish the book. I know what I want to do with the nearly finished manuscript, but after that, I haven’t decided.”

  “We’ll do all those things together,” Kevin said. She gave her eyes another wipe, smiled at Kevin, and put the used tissue into her purse. The packet remained on the table.

  The restaurant was full. Fiona and Jocelyn bustled about with laden trays and empty dishes while Lorraine served takeout customers. People chatted over their tea and scones at the tables, and others lined up at the counter for coffee, sandwiches, and pastries. Groups milled about outside, patiently waiting for tables to come free.