by Vicki Delany
“How do you know these things, Gemma?” Irene asked.
I considered giving them a casual wave of my hand and saying, “Doesn’t everyone?” Instead I confessed. “My father was an enthusiastic amateur. He was extremely strict about forbidding us entry to his darkroom unless he was there to supervise. The place had about as many locks as the jewelry room at the Tower of London. The first time I met Robert, he mentioned that his wife was traveling and thus not able to attend his mother’s birthday party. When I began to put the pieces together, I concluded that only in her absence would he be able to search her darkroom and remove what he needed. It’s likely that over the years, he picked up some knowledge from her.”
“Amazing,” Irene said.
“Diabolical,” Donald said.
“We can get him on premeditated,” Ryan said. “This took some considerable degree of foresight and planning.”
“Renalta Van Markoff is the only bestselling author McNamara and Gibbons has. Without her, they’d be in danger of going under. Robert was furious when Renalta—Ruth—abruptly canceled several of her promotional appearances on the book’s opening week. He called her to try to convince her to get back on schedule, and they argued. She told him about the contract offer from another publisher for the next book, which she said she’d almost finished. I suspect she threw that detail into his face, twisting the knife a bit deeper, not realizing she was sealing her fate. He decided he had to kill her to get the unfinished manuscript. Not knowing Linda was the real author, he thought she’d simply hand it over and he could get a ghostwriter to finish it and then publish it quickly to take advantage of the publicity that would be generated by the author’s death.”
“She wasn’t suspicious when he came here and joined her for the book signing at your store?” Irene said. “I would have been.”
“She was, sorry to say, a vain and self-absorbed woman. He put on a friendly front and probably said something along the lines that he recognized she’d made a practical business decision and they could remain friends.”
Irene snorted.
“He made a serious mistake underestimating Linda’s role,” Grant said. “Aside from being the true author, she’s the one who made all their business decisions.”
“It was easy to underestimate Linda,” I said. “Everyone did. Ruth completely intimidated Linda, and Linda made no effort to stand up for herself.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” Jayne said. “Without that bullying, Ruth might still be alive.”
I yawned.
“Bed time,” Jayne said. “I haven’t forgotten, although everyone else seems to, that you had a blow to the head recently.”
I yawned again. “I think you might be right.”
* * *
When I arrived at work the following morning, I went to Mrs. Hudson’s for a cup of tea. Standing in line reminded me that I had one last task to do, and I placed a phone call while I waited.
Jayne heard my voice and hurried out of the kitchen. “Why are you not at home in bed?”
“Because I’m not sick.”
She studied my face. “I’ll admit that you look okay, as long as you keep that hat on. How’s the knee?”
“Perfectly fine,” I lied. It hurt like the blazes. “If anyone should be home in bed, it’s you. It was after midnight when you left my house last night, and you got almost no sleep the night before because you were looking after me. What time did you get up this morning?”
“The usual,” she said. Meaning four o’clock.
Jayne had hustled everyone out the door and, over Robbie’s protests, stayed with me until I was ready to crawl into bed. She offered to spend the night, but I told her that wouldn’t be necessary. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept what remained of the night through.
“I have special guests coming for tea at two,” I said. “Can you do a table for eight, Fiona?”
“Yup,” she said.
“I’ll be here to greet them.” I took my tea and opened the bookshop.
I wanted to tell Moriarty about yesterday’s excitement, but he didn’t appear at all interested.
At two o’clock, I left Ashleigh helping customers and went to Mrs. Hudson’s. A few minutes later, a large group came through the doors. Jason and Jolene introduced me to their pastor and his wife and the leaders of their youth group. Everyone complimented me on the decorating of the tea room, and Fiona showed them to the largest table.
“It’s so kind of you to treat us, Ms. Doyle,” Pastor Grayson said, “but unnecessary. Doing good should be its own reward.”
“Quite right, but it’s my pleasure. You’re so fortunate to have such lovely young people in your group.” Jason bowed his head, and Jolene flushed. The pastor’s wife beamed. The group took their seats in a burst of excited chatter. Jason politely pulled out a chair for Jolene, but when he went to take the one next to her, a broad-chested, no-nonsense woman dropped into it. Jason slunk into the last empty chair, across the table from Jolene. He saw me watching him, gave me a big grin, and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I left the group consulting with Fiona on what teas to order.
Back in the bookshop, I found Donald Morris browsing the pastiche shelf while Moriarty supervised. “Can I help you with anything, Donald?”
“No! I mean, maybe. Well, yes, I suppose you can. That book that caused me so much trouble was nothing but nonsense. And badly written nonsense, at that. But it did get me thinking—these Holmes-related stories are so popular, surely some of them must have some merit.” He peered at me. “Or am I being overly optimistic?”
“Not at all. Many of them are very loyal to the spirit of the canon.”
“What about that one?” He pointed to A Study in Scarlet Women by Sherry Thomas. “The title is intriguing.”
“Perhaps not the right place to begin,” I said, thinking that Thomas’s interpretation of Sherlock as a woman might not be the best way to introduce Donald to the complex world of the pastiche. I plucked The Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch off the shelf. “Read this by a master of the short story form. His stories are respectful to the original but not tied to an attempt to imitate.”
He carefully took the book from me.
The bells over the door tinkled, and Linda and Kevin came in holding hands. She had a yellow scarf loosely tied around her neck, giving a pop of color to her otherwise drab brown ensemble. She enveloped me in a hug, and I caught the scent of citrus shampoo and vanilla hand lotion. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?” Ashleigh said.
“We’re on our way to the airport,” Kevin said. “We wanted to come and say good-bye.”
“Not good-bye,” Linda said. “I’ll be back. Back to West London and back to this store. Baker Street Showdown will be coming out soon. It’s being rushed into production by my new publishers, and I’d like to do a signing here for it.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said.
“What happened yesterday?” Ashleigh said again.
Donald’s face might have showed a moue of disapproval at the title of the newest Hudson and Holmes book, but he wisely said nothing.
“Your store will be the only signing I plan to do for it. In honor of my mother. That’s the last Hudson and Holmes book.”
“Isn’t that too bad,” Donald said.
“I had a lot of fun writing that series, and it was great trying to re-create Sherlock Holmes’s mind in Desdemona.”
Donald tut-tutted in disapproval. “As if anyone could have a mind like his.”
“But I’ve had enough of it. I want to write something more serious, and my new publisher is excited about that. We’re thinking maybe something on the periphery of Holmes. Characters who live in the world he lives in and who are aware of him, but he doesn’t have much of a role to play in the books.”
“That might be interesting,” Donald admitted.
“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Mo
rris. I’ll keep him faithful to the Conan Doyle representation.”
“Glad to hear it.” Donald dug in his pocket. “Let me give you my card. I’d be happy to help with any research you need. As well as being a noted Sherlockian, I am somewhat of an expert in the life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Did you know he was heavily involved in spiritualism? That would make an interesting storyline in your book. Perhaps rather than being in Holmes’s world, your book could be in Sir Arthur’s world.”
“That’s a marvelous suggestion. I’d love your help.” Linda slipped Donald’s card into her purse. She gave me another enthusiastic hug, Kevin thanked me again, and they left.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text.
It was Great Uncle Arthur: What’s going on at the house? When will we be able to move back in? Are you sure Violet is OK at Jayne’s?
I’d forgotten to tell Great Uncle Arthur he could come home.
Donald placed his new book on the sales counter.
“What happened yesterday?” Ashleigh asked him.
Moriarty yawned and began to wash his whiskers.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Luci Zahray, a.k.a. the Poison Lady, for helping me consider various poisoning methods. And what fun was that! I’ve had the pleasure of listening to Luci speak at mystery conventions, and it’s always great fun, and informative too. Thanks also to my good friend Cheryl Freedman for reading my manuscript with her keen editor’s eye and sense of fun.
And to my agent, Kim Lionetti, and the good people of Crooked Lane for believing in me and Gemma.