Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  They continued smiling at each other.

  Alrighty then.

  Kevin finished his beer and waved to the waiter for the check. “We’d love to have dinner with you, Gemma, but we’ve got plans already. A boring business meeting. How’s that for good timing? Here he comes now.”

  Robert McNamara hurried into the bar. He spotted us and headed over. “Great idea, folks. I could use a drink right about now.” He plopped himself down. “I’ll have a beer,” he said to the waiter.

  “Sir?” the waiter asked Kevin.

  “Might as well,” he said. “Another round for us too.”

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said.

  “Detective Estrada called me this morning,” Robert said. “She had some questions about Renalta. If we, as her publishers, had ever received any threats directed at her, that sort of thing. I told her we got the occasional crank complaining about her books. Like that guy at the bookstore Saturday, dressed up like Sherlock Holmes and prepared to take Renalta on.” He let out a bark of a laugh. “That never ends well. Not for them. Renalta loved nothing more than being challenged by that bunch.”

  The waiter put the drinks in front of us.

  Robert picked up his glass. “To Renalta.”

  We drank.

  “That crank,” Kevin said, “was arrested for the murder this afternoon.”

  Robert’s eyes widened. “Is that so? Glad to hear it. Now you can get on with your life, Linda. Detective Estrada told me you’re Renalta’s daughter, is that right?”

  Linda dipped her head, and a loose lock of hair fell over her eyes.

  “Can’t say I was surprised.” He reached across the low table and patted her hand. “Anyone could tell how devoted you were to her. And she to you, of course.”

  I glanced at Linda. She pulled her hand away and picked up her wineglass. “Devoted” was not the word I would have chosen. For neither mother nor daughter.

  “Keep it in the family is what I always say. My dad started McNamara and Gibbons Press, and we worked well together for years. When he passed, I was able to slip easily and comfortably into the saddle.” Robert cleared his throat. “I still can’t believe she didn’t use Dropbox.”

  “What’s Dropbox?” Kevin asked.

  “Cloud storage,” Linda said. “A way of sharing documents between computers or backing up files off-site.”

  “Renalta didn’t use it or anything else, it seems,” Robert said.

  “Why is that a problem?” I asked.

  “Robert wants to see the latest manuscript,” Linda said. “And he wants to see it now.”

  “Of course I do.” He threw up his hands. “We have to see if it’s viable. She told me the new book’s almost finished, but who knows how much work still has to be put into it to make it publishable. If she used cloud storage, Linda could give me her password and I’d have my people pull it up.”

  “It’s viable,” Linda said. “I told you. I’ve seen it. Only the last couple of scenes need to be written and then given a light polish.”

  “Didn’t she have a computer with her?” Robert asked. “In case she felt the urge to write or something?”

  Linda stared at her hands, folded neatly on the table in front of her. “Miss Van Markoff never wrote when she was touring. She claimed she needed all her energy for meeting her fans.” That was true enough: Ruth Smith never wrote when she was touring as Renalta Van Markoff. She never wrote at any time. Linda wasn’t lying, but she was dissembling, and she appeared to be comfortable doing so. Very interesting.

  Linda had told me she liked to write at night. In that case, it was highly possible, probable even, that she’d brought the manuscript with her to work on. I studied her face. It showed not a hint of deception, but that might not be significant: she and her mother had been playing this game for years. It would be second nature to her by now.

  “Look, Linda,” Robert said in a soothing, father-knows-best tone, “I know all this must be very difficult for you, but I need you to understand my position. The sooner I can get the manuscript to a ghostwriter, the sooner we can release the book. I promise you, no expense will be spared. I’ll get the very best people working on it. It will be a tribute to Renalta. It’s what she would have wanted.”

  “Linda told you . . .” Kevin said.

  “I can speak for myself, Kevin, thank you.” Linda sat up straight in her chair. “I am not leaving until I can take Renalta . . . my mother . . . with me, Robert. And that’s final. You will have to wait.”

  “Okay, so we don’t have the manuscript here. That shouldn’t be a problem. Give me the keys to her apartment and the password for her computer, and I’ll send someone to get it.”

  “No,” Linda said. “I told you already that’s not going to happen. I won’t have strangers poking through her files until I have had time to sort them out.”

  “Then I’ll go,” Robert said. “I’m no stranger. She and I had a long, close working relationship. We were as much friends as colleagues. Or you can send the Boy Wonder here.”

  “I won’t leave Linda alone at this difficult time,” Kevin said.

  Robert held his hands out. “Look, all I’m asking is for you to see where I’m coming from. It’s in all our interests that I get ahold of that manuscript as soon as I can.” He smiled at Linda.

  She did not smile back. For the first time, I saw a touch of steel in her spine. “You can’t have it now. And that’s final. Whether or not I have access to it at the moment is irrelevant, because I don’t intend to hand it over to you unfinished. I will work on it myself.”

  “Be reasonable, Linda. You might be Renalta’s daughter, but you’re only the PA, remember. Leave the business decisions to me.”

  “I don’t work for you, Robert, and I never have. I work for . . . with . . . my mother.”

  “Which is kinda the point here,” he said. “As your mother is no longer—”

  “Enough,” Kevin said. “This is all very upsetting to Linda.”

  She didn’t look upset in the least to me. She looked like a woman prepared to do battle and confident that she would win. She sipped her wine.

  Quite a transformation from the nervous, twitchy woman who’d come into my shop for the first time only four days ago. Ruth had cast a long, deep shadow over her daughter; it had now been removed. I wondered if Linda even knew how much she’d changed so quickly.

  Robert took a long drink of his beer, and then he put his glass down with careful deliberation. “Okay, I get it. You want a little something to help you get things sorted out. I’m prepared to chip in to help with your expenses. We won’t even take it off the advance for the new book or royalties for the others. I assume you’re your mother’s heir. Perhaps we can talk about upping the advance this time around.” His words were clipped. He was trying hard to keep a lid on his annoyance. “Once I have the manuscript, that is.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

  “There is nothing to think about,” Robert said. “Help me here, Kevin. We’re all in the same boat here. We want to get that manuscript finished as quickly and as professionally as possible. If you don’t hand it over, Linda, I might have to reconsider my options. I can decide not to publish it, you know.”

  I don’t know how I expected Linda to react, but leaning back in her chair with a roar of laughter wasn’t it. “Don’t be ridiculous. The only thing keeping McNamara and Gibbons afloat is the Hudson and Holmes books. According to the terms of my mother’s will, I am not only her heir but also her literary executor. That means I am empowered to make all the decisions around the books. You’ll have it when—and if—I’m ready to hand it over. Not before.” The small diamond at her throat caught the light as she moved.

  “Speaking as your publicist,” Kevin said, “not to mention your friend, Linda, you do not want to get into a contract war. Neither of you do.”

  Robert glared at Linda. She gave him a soft smile. With considerable effort, he forced his expression into
a smile in return. “You’re so right, Kev. We all want the same thing here—to do the very best we can to honor Renalta’s memory.” He turned to me. “I hope we haven’t bored you too much, Gemma. Just another day in the publishing world.”

  “Not bored in the least,” I said.

  Robert waved for the waiter. “Now let’s forget about it and get some dinner, why don’t we? More boring business, Gemma. You won’t find it at all interesting.”

  I was about to reply that I expected to find it very interesting when Linda stood up. “Oh, I’m sorry, Robert. Didn’t I say? Kevin and I want to have some private time tonight. I’ll be in touch.” She walked away. Kevin scurried to follow.

  * * *

  I’d considered going to the chief of police’s press conference (if they’d even let me in) but decided my time would be better spent talking to Linda. And it had been. I found the conversation (more of a verbal battle) between her and Robert highly interesting. Not so much in what was said but in the way Linda handled herself. Smooth and calm and confident. She’d been released from her mother’s shadow like a butterfly coming out of the cocoon. I wondered when she was planning to tell him that she was the real author of the books. That would make him a happy man indeed.

  Irene called me as I was putting together something to eat. I’m not much of a cook, but in New England in the summer, anyone can throw together a quick, delicious, and highly nutritious meal with little effort. I put the phone on speaker and talked while I cooked. I threw a seasoned chicken breast onto the Foreman grill and tossed together everything I’d bought at the market on Monday: lettuce, beans, peas, spring onions. When the chicken was cooked, I chopped it into chunks, added it to the bowl of greens, and stirred in a vinaigrette dressing.

  The press conference, Irene told me, had been so well attended, not everyone could fit into the media room at the West London police station, so the chief gave his statement outside on the steps. “He looked very natty with a fresh shave and new haircut. He must have been up all night ironing his uniform.”

  “Or his wife was,” I said.

  Irene laughed. “All the trouble he went to was worth it. There were a lot of out-of-state newspapers and even a TV station from Boston. Renalta Van Markoff was a dramatic figure. Suitable, I guess, that her death was dramatic also.”

  “What did you learn?”

  The autopsy, Irene told me, confirmed that Renalta Van Markoff had been poisoned by cyanide contained in her water bottle. Donald Morris, resident of West London, had been arrested and charged with her murder.

  “Do you think he did it, Gemma?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “The chief did say they were pursuing other avenues of inquiry.”

  “I hope so. It’s easy for them to become fixated on one suspect, to the exclusion of others. Did he say anything about fingerprints on the water bottle?”

  “I asked that question. The bottle appears to have been wiped down, but they were able to get some prints off it. The water in the second bottle was not tampered with. Louise Estrada was there, looking highly pleased with herself. I didn’t see Ryan. What’s that banging noise?”

  “I’m cooking.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  I stirred the contents of the big bowl in front of me. “Anyone can prepare a simple and delicious meal, Irene. You should try it sometime.”

  She laughed. “That’s what restaurants are for. I learned to cook from my mother. She always said what she made best in the kitchen was reservations.”

  “Thanks for this.”

  “Any time, Gemma. Any time.”

  I ate my dinner, washed up the dishes, and yelled, “Walk!” to Violet. She leapt to her feet and ran into the mudroom. I took the leash off the hook, fastened it to her collar, and we set off. While she sniffed under bushes and followed trails only she could see, I thought about the case. I didn’t see what more I could do. I’d identified Nancy and Paige to the police as people with strong motives. I’d tried to find out what I could about the financial affairs of the bestselling books but had run smack into a dead end. Grant had said he’d keep his ears to the ground and let me know if he heard about anyone selling a signed-on-the-day-of-her-death Van Markoff for an excessive amount of money, but nothing so far.

  I had one thing in my favor in this case: the range of suspects was fixed. Only someone who had quick access to the water bottle would have been able to add the cyanide without anyone noticing. Ashleigh had bought the water and broken the seals, but I could see absolutely no reason for her to kill Renalta. After the unfortunate circumstances with my last employee, I’d checked Ashleigh’s references very, very carefully. She was precisely what she’d told me she was: a young woman from Nebraska seeking a change in her life.

  Ashleigh had bought the water, broken the seals, put two on the speaker’s podium and two on the counter where they’d been left unattended and unwatched for a short period of time.

  That left me (and I knew I hadn’t killed Renalta), Grant, Paige, Nancy, Linda, Kevin, Robert, Irene, and Donald as the only possible culprits.

  I dismissed Irene, as she, like Ashleigh, had no reason to kill the author. I shouldn’t dismiss Grant because I liked him and because I knew he liked me, but I did on the grounds that a signed Van Markoff wasn’t worth killing over.

  I didn’t know what else I could do. I needed financial information, but I was not with the police. I had no way of finding it, save hacking into the bank’s computers. I could try that, if I had to, but I didn’t even know which bank handled the Van Markoff affairs.

  My phone rang. Donald Morris, said the display, and I was glad to see it. “Donald, where are you?”

  “I’m at home, Gemma. I was granted bail.”

  “Thank goodness. You found a good lawyer?”

  “I hated every minute I spent practicing law, and I was glad to leave it all behind me. Fortunately, I kept in touch with a few colleagues who also have an interest in the Great Detective, and I was able to engage the services of Margaret Hastings.”

  “Should I know who that is?”

  “You remember the case two years ago of that major league baseball player who killed his wife’s female lover when he caught them in flagrante delicto?”

  “I certainly do remember. It was a news sensation. He got off scot-free. A lot of people were outraged at the verdict. I was one of them. Wasn’t his barrister named Hastings?”

  “My old friend and law school classmate Margaret. I was able to do Margaret a small favor a year ago and put her in the way of a pristine first-edition The Valley of Fear signed by Sir Arthur himself before it was put up for auction. Sadly, the cost of the volume was far beyond my limited means.”

  “Margaret returned the favor today and got you bail.”

  “She dispatched an underling, but the very mention of her name was enough to have the judge quaking in his boots. I’m home now. I am under orders not to leave the town limits of West London, and I have no intention of doing so. How is your investigation coming, my dear? Can I be confident that an arrest—of the true killer, that is—is expected shortly?”

  “Uh,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it. By the way, Detective Estrada came to my bail hearing. She was forced to admit that the presence of my fingerprints on the bottle is evidence of nothing, as the bottle was in a public place and surrounded by people. I have to warn you that she is not happy. She managed to corner me outside the courtroom and told me to tell you that if she finds you meddling, she’ll arrest you for interference.”

  “Let her try,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I’m doing my duty as a concerned member of the public.”

  “I’m glad you’re on my side, Gemma.”

  “Good night, Donald.”

  “Good night.”

  “Oh, joy,” I said to Violet. “Estrada’s been humiliated in court, and now she’s on the warpath against me. How do I get myself involved in these things?”

  Vi
olet did not have an answer.

  Chapter 11

  The West London Police Department pays its employees through the Regional Bank of New England. I gained that tidbit of knowledge when Ryan and I were together. Thus I was surprised on Wednesday afternoon to see Louise Estrada going into the West London offices of the First Bank of New York shortly before the branch’s three o’clock closing.

  I was outside the Emporium deadheading flowers, watering plants, and watching the traffic pass by. Across the street, next to the bank, Maureen peered through the windows of Beach Fine Arts, no doubt hoping to catch me in an infraction of the bylaws. I waved cheerfully, and her face disappeared from the window.

  There is, of course, absolutely no reason Detective Louise Estrada might not have personal affairs to conduct at First Bank.

  I took the basket of dead blooms and the watering can inside the bookshop. “I’m going out for a couple of minutes,” I called to Ashleigh.

  “Have you considered my idea?” She’d come to work today in a Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room uniform: a stiff white apron with the Mrs. Hudson’s logo worn over a plain black dress and black tights, flat shoes, and hair tied back into a tight bun.

  “No,” I said.

  “Franchising is the big thing these days, Gemma. I’m thinking a branch of the Emporium in Boston for sure—they love history in Boston—then maybe another in . . .” First thing upon arrival at work today, Ashleigh had verbally presented me with the beginning of her business plan. That I had not asked her to draw up a business plan for me seemed to be of no consequence to her.

  I had to wait a few minutes before crossing as a long line of motorbikes were coming down Baker Street, engines roaring. Most of the drivers, male and female, were showing a lot of gray hair beneath their helmets and bandannas. A few drove those three-wheeled bikes that remind me of tricycles. But some of the drivers were stone faced and hard eyed in leather jackets bristling with patches, and they revved their powerful machines to scream at pedestrians to get out of the way. A big classic rock concert was scheduled to be held in the town park tonight, featuring a variety of cover bands. Gray-haired groupies and excessively tattooed bikers had been pouring into town all day.