by Vicki Delany
I called her over, and she made her apologies to the customer. “Thanks for the rescue,” she whispered to me. “She’ll never decide.”
“I forgot about getting water for Renalta.”
“Oh, yeah. Four bottles. The caps unsealed.”
I opened the cash register and took out a ten-dollar bill. “Run to the convenience store on the corner and buy them. She wants Riviera.” I added another ten. “That’s the expensive stuff.”
Ashleigh dashed off. She stepped aside to let Jayne and Maureen through the front door. Jayne was dressed in her working apron, and Maureen was, wonder of wonders, smiling. I was immediately suspicious.
“Goodness,” she said. “You’ve got quite the crowd in here.”
“I told Maureen you’d ensure she got a good seat.” Jayne gave me a wink from behind Maureen’s shoulder.
“I will?”
“It was so thoughtful of you to ask Jocelyn’s mom to hold the seat for her.”
“It was? Yes, it was. Very thoughtful of me.”
Jayne winked again as she rubbed her thumb and index finger together. The universal gesture for a payoff.
Why hadn’t I thought of that? I was getting sloppy.
Jayne led Maureen to the front row, and I continued ringing up books.
A short while later, Jocelyn’s mum put a Sherlock Mind Palace coloring book, a DVD of the first season of the BBC Sherlock program, a Benedict Cumberbatch wall calendar, DVDs of the Complete Sherlock Holmes Collection starring Basil Rathbone, a copy of The Associates of Sherlock Holmes, and a thin copy of The Red-Headed League illustrated by P. James Macaluso Jr. on the counter. “Thanks so much, Gemma. I got a start on my Christmas shopping. My oldest granddaughter has the biggest crush on Benedict Cumberbatch—don’t you just adore that name?—my son enjoys reading short stories, my father-in-law says Rathbone was the best Holmes of them all, and I’m sure Eddie—that’s my grandson—will love those illustrations. Sherlock Holmes depicted in Lego. Have you ever seen anything cuter? Jayne said I had to show you what I’m taking, so you could mark it off against inventory.”
“Show me? Oh, right.” If this was the cost of keeping Maureen from calling the fire department on me, it was cheap.
A uniformed police officer approached the counter. “I’ll be close by, Ms. Doyle, in case you need any help.”
“Thank you,” I said. I’d met Officer Richter for the first time a couple of weeks ago at a murder scene. He was balding and trying (and failing badly) to disguise it with a greasy comb-over. He weighed a good twenty-one stone—that’s about three hundred pounds. The day was warm, although not excessively so, but Officer Richter pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped rivers of sweat from his brow and cheeks. When we’d first met, I estimated he was due for a heart attack in less than a month. I could only hope it wouldn’t be today.
He glanced around the room. The audience was more than 90 percent women, the majority of them middle aged and up. With half an hour to go, most of the seats had been taken, and an excited buzz filled the shop. Women chatted, drank coffee and nibbled on snacks, or were engrossed in the books they’d just bought. “Doesn’t look like the rioting sort to me,” he said.
“You never know,” I said.
“You got that right,” he replied.
I watched a line of sweat drip down the side of his face. “Why don’t you go into the tea room and get a glass of water. Or maybe an iced tea. Tell them I said it’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I could use something cold.”
“Be sure and ask for an unsweetened tea,” I called after him.
Ashleigh appeared bearing four bottles of Riviera-brand water. “What do you want me to do with these, Gemma?”
“Break the seals, as she asked, and put two on the shelf under the podium. I’ll keep the other two here on the counter until they’re needed. Then you can take over for me at the register.”
I took a position by the doors to keep an eye out for the author’s arrival and to direct patrons to the few chairs still unoccupied. This spot was directly underneath my office on the upper floor, and the bone-chilling howl of the Hound of the Baskervilles came through the ceiling. Or that might have been Moriarty’s cries of indignation. I absent-mindedly rubbed at the bandage on my left hand. I’d cleverly lured him upstairs with a special treat of Temptations, whereupon he had, after gobbling up half the snack, equally cleverly deduced my intentions and made a break for the stairs. I’d managed to escape the office before he could, but it had been a hard-fought battle.
At quarter after one, Grant Thompson walked into the Emporium.
“Surprised to see you here,” I said. “I put your books aside, as you asked.” I’d had a number of other requests to have books signed, and they were stacked in a neat pile on the table awaiting the attention of the author.
“I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. And it looks to be quite a fuss indeed. Not many seats left, I see. I’ll stand.”
“You’re a true gentleman,” I said.
He gave me a grin. Grant Thompson was handsome, charming, clever, well read, well traveled, and highly educated. What more did I want in a man? True love? No, I’d had that once. Twice, counting my marriage. It hadn’t worked out. True love belonged between the pages of a Renalta Van Markoff novel. Not in the real world.
Not in my world, anyway.
I was about to hint to Grant that I’d be looking forward to a drink and dinner this evening, if anyone felt like suggesting that, when Ryan Ashburton arrived. I didn’t recognize the young girl with him.
“Wow,” he said. “Looks like we should have come earlier.” He gave Grant a nod.
“Detective,” Grant said.
“I didn’t mean for you to come yourself,” I said to Ryan. “Officer Richter is here. Somewhere.”
“I was planning on attending anyway. Gemma Doyle, this is my niece, Madison. Madison and her family are visiting my folks, and I figured she’d enjoy meeting Renalta Van Markoff.”
“Hi,” the girl mumbled. She buried her head into her chest. She was twelve or thirteen, all freckles and curly red hair, knees and elbows.
“Are you a fan of Van Markoff’s books?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Madison wants to be a writer,” Ryan said. “She’s really good. I thought maybe Ms. Van Markoff could give her some tips.”
The girl blushed furiously.
“Not many seats left,” Ryan said. “You grab one, Madison, and I’ll stand over there.”
She scurried away. The last rows of chairs, the ones leading into the tea room, were now almost full. People were squeezing onto the bottom of the stairs.
“She’s sweet,” I said.
“Smart as they come,” Ryan said. “But so shy, it’s painful to watch.”
“She’ll grow out of it.” I knew of which I spoke. The teenage years were rarely kind to smart, awkward girls.
Ryan took a place with his back against the wall, and Grant went to stand against the sales counter next to Irene Talbot. She had a digital recorder in her hand and a camera slung around her neck.
By one twenty the room was packed solid.
At one twenty-one, my worst fear was realized when Donald Morris sailed into the Emporium dressed in his full Sherlock getup. Houndstooth Inverness cape, deerstalker hat, unlit pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Don’t you dare cause a scene,” I hissed at him.
“Me? Perish the thought, dear lady. I’m here in order to hear what words of wisdom the great Renalta Van Markoff has to expound on the nature of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“You are not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Please, Donald, don’t make trouble.”
“I’ll stand over there, next to Mr. Thompson and Miss Talbot. You won’t even know I’m here. I will imitate Dr. Watson’s words: ‘Silent and furtive were his movements.’”
I groaned.
At one twenty-two,
my second worst fear was realized when Paige, last night’s stalker, strolled into the shop.
I decided that beating about the bush was not in order today. I walked up to her. “I am the owner of this shop. I was in the Blue Water Café Thursday night at nine thirty.”
“Were you now?”
“Yes, I was. That was quite a scene you caused. The police took you away. Weren’t you charged?”
“Ruthie wouldn’t do that to me. That’s never good publicity. I promised I’d be a good girl, and her tame monkey told the police he wouldn’t press charges.” She gave me a smile that put me in mind of Andrew Scott in the role of Moriarty (the human Moriarty) in Sherlock. “I’m only here to observe. I’m preparing my suit, and my lawyer told me to get as much ammunition as I can.”
“Your suit?” Despite myself, I had to ask.
“Oh, yes. I’m suing Ruthie for all she’s worth. And then some. She stole my idea and turned it pretty much verbatim into An Elementary Affair. Looks like all the seats are taken. Guess I should have come earlier.” She sauntered across the room. Grant shifted aside to give her space to stand next to him.
I spotted Officer Richter outside doing some crowd control. Fans had gathered on the sidewalk to await Van Markoff’s arrival, and another bunch was curious as to what all the excitement was about. Richter was telling everyone to keep to the sidewalk.
Robert McNamara, Renalta’s publisher, was next to arrive. I was beginning to feel like the Queen at a Buckingham Palace garden party greeting my guests. “Good afternoon. Standing room only, I’m afraid.”
“That’s what I like to see,” he said. “A full house. Renalta’s a wonder.”
At one thirty on the dot, the Escalade pulled up to the front of the Emporium and parked in the loading zone. Middle-aged women squealed like fangirls at a boy-band concert, and the crowd pressed forward. Many of them held up phones to take pictures and others waved books.
The passenger door opened, and the waiting women squealed once again. A great sigh of disappointment echoed down Baker Street as Linda got out. Her jaw was tight and her eyes dark with repressed anger. She made no attempt to look happy to be here, but that didn’t matter. No one was interested in her anyway. Kevin leapt out of the driver’s seat and walked around the back of the car to open the door for Renalta. She stepped out in a swirl of black and scarlet.
I decided that as the host, I should greet my guest. “Excuse me, excuse me. Coming through.” The mob parted politely.
Renalta glared at Linda and whispered something short and sharp. That taken care of, the author broke into a radiant smile and extended her hand to me. We shook, and I felt the giant ruby dig into my palm and a wave of Chanel No. 5 wash over me. “Darling,” she breathed, loud enough for the back of the crowd to hear, “such a wonderful greeting. So many marvelous fans. You truly are a miracle worker.”
“We’re very happy to have you here,” I said.
“How wonderful to see you, my darlings,” Renalta trilled to the onlookers. “So lovely of you to all to come.”
“Please allow Miss Van Markoff through,” Kevin said. “She’ll be delighted to sign your books and pose for pictures after her talk.”
Squealers or no, this was a group of middle-aged women after all—they stepped back politely, making a path to the door.
All of them, that is, except for Nancy, the rabid fan. She shoved the woman in front of her so hard, she would have fallen had I not grabbed her arm. “Renalta, it’s me. Nancy. Yoo-hoo! Over here! I’ve come all this way to see you. Let’s have dinner later.”
A look that I can only describe as horrified came over Renalta’s perfectly made-up face. She snapped her fingers, the sound so loud it cracked in the clear air. Kevin dropped her arm and stood in front of the intruder. “Get lost, Nancy.”
“Renalta, tell that man to get out of my way.”
Officer Richter stepped forward. “We don’t want any trouble here.”
“Trouble? I’m not making trouble. I’m only trying to arrange a time for Renalta and me to have dinner later. This is a public street. You tell him to get out of my way. Renalta, wait!”
I held the door for Renalta and she sailed into the shop, trailed by the scowling Linda. People had risen to their feet and were clapping enthusiastically. I swear more than one woman was almost in tears at the sight of her idol.
I led a smiling and waving Renalta to the front and took my place at the podium. I glanced down to check that the two bottles of water were on the shelf. I tapped the microphone. People gradually resumed their seats, and the mutter of conversation died down.
Maureen beamed at me from the front row. Next to her the Amazon-buying group who’d been first to arrive perched on the edges of their seats. I looked across the rows of tightly packed heads to see Ryan Ashburton leaning against the wall next to the door to the tea room. Jayne stood on one side of him, and on the other was a life-sized cutout of Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock. I chuckled to myself, seeing them together. The fictional detective and the real one. Ryan gave me a thumbs-up, and Jayne silently capped her hands together over her chest.
Ashleigh stood behind the cash register. She lifted my camera and snapped a picture. Irene Talbot, Grant Thompson, and Donald Morris stood in front of the sales counter along with Robert, the publisher; Linda, the PA; and Paige, the stalker. Nancy slipped into the shop, glanced around for a seat, and, seeing none, joined them. She was followed by Kevin, who didn’t look at all happy. I suspected he’d failed to convince Officer Richter to keep her out of the shop. Richter himself took his position beside the front door, feet apart, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.
In the monetary hush, the Hound of the Baskervilles could be heard calling across the Great Grimpen Mire. I hoped no one would call the SPCA to report me for animal abuse.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” I spoke into the mic. Like the podium, it was on loan from the library. “I know we’re all delighted to have Renalta Van Markoff with us today.” A round of enthusiastic applause. “After she talks to us about her hugely popular Hudson and Holmes series and the latest novel, Hudson House, Renalta will be happy to sign your copies.” Someone cheered. “Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room will then be reopening to serve afternoon tea.” Another cheer. “Now let’s give a big Sherlock Holmes Bookshop welcome to Renalta Van Markoff.”
I clapped my hands together, and the audience joined in. I stepped back to give the stage to Renalta. She hesitated, and for the briefest instant, the look on her face was of nothing but sheer unbridled panic. My heart went out to her as I realized that the poor woman was absolutely terrified of public speaking. I touched her elbow and guided her to the podium. I grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to her. She took it in shaking hands and gave me a weak smile. “When you’re ready,” I whispered.
She pulled the loosened cap off and took a long drink. She breathed heavily, put the bottle down, flung out her arms, and said, “Darlings! What a marvelous welcome.”
I joined Ashleigh at the cash register. Once Renalta started to speak, she was fine. She talked about her writing routine—seven days a week, three hours a day. She talked about her lifelong love of Sherlock and about her new book, giving little hints at the plot and at the developing relationship between Desdemona Hudson and Sherlock Holmes. She finished the first bottle of water and reached for the second. She drank water constantly. I suspected it gave her time to organize her thoughts and helped calm her nerves.
Paige snorted when Renalta discussed her writing routine, and Donald snorted whenever Renalta mentioned the name of the Great Detective.
After about fifteen minutes, Kevin caught Renalta’s eye, and she nodded. He stepped into the center aisle. “Perhaps we have time for a few questions from the audience.” Hands shot up.
“I have a question,” Paige bellowed without waiting to be called upon. “When are you going to acknowledge the true author of those books and . . . ?”
She didn’t get a chance to finish the
question. I’d pointed her out to Officer Richter as the person I wanted him to keep an eye on. He had hold of her arm and was hustling her out the door before most of the people in the room had a chance to turn and see who was speaking.
Nicely done, I thought.
I should have asked them to send two uniformed officers.
“What makes you think,” Donald called, “that you have the right to interfere with one of the greatest literary characters ever created?”
“Not that question again,” Renalta said.
“Sherlock Holmes is a Victorian gentleman. A man of great integrity. Honored by his sovereign and trusted by his government at the very highest of levels. Your suggestion that he would take up a sordid affair with a married woman of lax morals is impossible to comprehend.”
Kevin took a step forward.
Renalta raised one hand in the universal stop gesture. “Allow me to answer the question. Sherlock Holmes, I hate to tell you, is not a real person.”
The audience laughed.
“I am perfectly aware of that,” Donald said.
“And as such,” Renalta continued, “I am free to use my imagination as much as anyone else is.”
“Preposterous. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s greatest creation—”
“Why, take a look at you, sir. It’s a long time until Halloween, so I assume you’re pretending to be Sherlock yourself. Talk about using your imagination.”
The audience laughed again. Some thought Renalta’s dig was terribly funny. Some laughed out of embarrassment. Donald turned bright red.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Renalta went on, “is so much more than a Victorian gentleman, as you call him, sir. He is all of us.” Her voice rose. “He is our better nature. He is our better selves. He is what we all want to be. Not only intelligent and perceptive, but compassionate and kind.”
“You tell him, Renalta,” someone called from the middle row.
“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?”