Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  She saw me looking around and said quickly, “They moved me in here when my mother died. All the other rooms had been booked.”

  The sandals she’d worn earlier lay on the floor beside the bed. I peeked into the bathroom. A single makeup bag sat on the counter. A beige summer cardigan had been tossed over a chair in the living room, and a laptop was open on the desk. It would appear that Kevin Reynolds hadn’t taken up residence. “Did Kevin have to move out of the inn?”

  “They were able to find a room for him for a couple more days,” she said. “Robert checked out yesterday. He’s gone home.”

  I settled myself onto the sofa. Linda took a chair.

  “Why have you not told Robert you’re the real author of the books? He has to find out sometime.”

  “No reason, really, maybe just stubbornness. Obviously, we did almost all our business over the phone or by e-mail, but on the occasions when we met in person, he gushed and fawned over my mother and treated me like the hired help.”

  “Which you pretended to be.”

  “True enough. Maybe I resented it more than I thought I did. Anyway, Kevin and I think it’s a good idea to keep the news to ourselves for a while, until the dust settles and I decide what our best course of action is.”

  “Speaking of Kevin”—I leaned back, crossed my legs, and attempted to sound nonchalant—“did your mother not approve of your relationship with him, or did she not know because you kept it secret?”

  “What?” Linda jerked forward.

  “I had a bad marriage. I should have listened to my mother. Mum warned me not to rush into things.” That hadn’t actually happened. My mother had been picking out china patterns for us the day she met him. She’d adored the cheating rat and still phoned me regularly with updates (he’d broken up with the part-time shop clerk) and not-very-subtle hints that he’d take me back if I asked. “Mothers can be highly perceptive about their daughter’s boyfriends.”

  “Maybe you and your mom are close, but I never had that sort of relationship with mine. Kevin and I wanted to keep things discreet until we decided it was the right time to tell her.”

  “Discreet?” I asked. “Or secret? There’s a difference.”

  “I don’t see what business this is—”

  “You’re about to come into a lot of money, Linda. I hope you’ll take this bit of advice in the spirit of friendship in which it’s intended and think about Kevin’s motives.”

  “If you must know, the advances and royalties from the books came to me, the author. I paid my mother a salary out of it.” If I hadn’t known that was a lie, the way she lifted one hand to fiddle with her hair and shifted uncomfortably in her chair would have been sure giveaways.

  I gave her a friendly, just-between-us-girls smile. “I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t want to think he was only attracted to you for the money.”

  “I’m not a total dog, you know,” she snapped.

  “I . . . uh . . . don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that despite what you seem to be implying, I can get myself a boyfriend on my own merits. Not every man’s attracted to simpering idiots with a bigger bra size than IQ.”

  I might have thought she was making a dig at me except that my bra size was nothing to brag about, and when I’d had my IQ tested in primary school, the researcher had concluded that the test didn’t seem to be working properly.

  “Are you aware he’s offering a book signed by your mother for sale? At a highly inflated price owing to the date of the signature?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I’m a bookseller. I hear things about bookselling.”

  “Yes, I knew.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears, and she stared past me. The painting above my head was of a typical Cape Cod scene: sandy beaches, open ocean, splashing children, colorful umbrellas. Very nice, painted by a local artist, but not worth the amount of attention Linda was currently paying it. “Why shouldn’t he make a bit of extra money when he can? My mother . . . I mean me . . . I mean I don’t pay him all that well.”

  I smiled. “So he’s in need of funds.”

  “I do not know why you think any of this is your business. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  “Are you aware that he was fired from a previous job for embezzlement?”

  She blinked, but her face remained steady. “How do you know that?”

  “No matter. You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not. He had a dispute with a previous employer over his pay, which they were withholding for no reason, so expecting he was about to be cheated out of it, he helped himself to a portion of the money owed. He was never charged. And by the way, he was not fired. He quit because he wasn’t being paid. That was all discussed at his interview for the position with us.”

  “Fair enough,” I admitted.

  “I hate to rush you, but it’s time you were leaving.”

  I didn’t move. “In mystery novels, they always ask cui bono—who benefits? Who benefits from someone’s death? I’m thinking Kevin has a lot to benefit from the death of Renalta.”

  She leapt to her feet. Her fists were clenched, and a fire burned in her eyes. “How dare you.”

  “I’m trying to be helpful,” I said helpfully. “I want to make sure you’re aware that Kevin might not be entirely aboveboard.”

  “Get out.”

  “What?”

  She pointed a shaking finger in the direction of the door. “I said, get out. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to shift suspicion from your creepy friend by throwing it onto Kevin. Well it won’t work. If you tell anyone about this stupid fixation you have, I’ll sue you for everything you have.”

  “That’s not very much.” I stood up. “I’d hardly call it a fixation. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Her finger didn’t move. “I don’t need you to tell me anything about the people in my life. Good-bye.”

  I didn’t mention that if Kevin didn’t kill Renalta, then Linda herself was back at the top of my suspect list. Instead, I crossed the room and opened the door. As I was doing so, Linda’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the display. “Robert, hi. Give me a minute. I have an unwelcome visitor I have to get rid of.”

  I stepped into the hallway. “If you want to talk things over, I—”

  The door slammed in my face.

  Andrea greeted me as I crossed the lobby. “Everything okay, Gemma?”

  “That didn’t go exactly as planned,” I admitted.

  Chapter 13

  I headed back to the Emporium with my tail tucked between my legs, trying to figure out where my chat with Linda had gone wrong. If someone loved me only for my money (not that that’s a possibility), I’d want to be warned. If it was possible they’d murdered my mother to get at my inheritance, I’d want to be warned even more. Jayne has sometimes told me I need to be slightly more circumspect when talking to people about intimate or private things. I wondered if this was an example of what she meant. Clearly, some people simply can’t handle a frank exchange of information.

  I might have offended Linda, but I had discovered something that might prove significant. Kevin knew that Linda wrote the books, but it was unlikely he believed—despite what Linda told me—that she was the one being paid for them. Case in point: Ruth was given the nicest suite in the inn, not Linda. Did Kevin decide Ruth had to be taken out of the picture? Linda would not only inherit her mum’s money but could now continue to write the books under her own name—and get paid for it—rather than receiving a pittance of a salary.

  I reached the bottom of the hill and turned into Baker Street. The thick, leafy branches of the old trees lining the street closed over my head, the canopy stirred in the breeze, and it was delightfully cool.

  I thought about the call Linda had received as she was showing me the door. Robert was almost certainly Robert McNamara, the owner and publisher at McNamara and Gibbons. I hadn’t g
iven Robert much consideration as a suspect. Judging not only by the record of payments made from McNamara and Gibbons to Ruth but also by the way Robert fussed over Ruth while treating Linda like a hapless—and disposable—PA, he wasn’t aware Ruth wasn’t the author. No way would Robert kill the goose that was laying him so many beautiful golden eggs.

  I reached the entrance to the Emporium and placed a quick call before going inside. “Everything okay there, Donald? Have you had any more visits from the police?”

  He sighed heavily. “Estrada came around again this morning. She asked the same questions, and I gave her the same answers.”

  “Chin up,” I said.

  “Are you getting anywhere with your investigation, Gemma?”

  “I . . . uh . . . might be.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was getting nowhere fast.

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve been receiving calls and e-mails from Sherlock aficionados all across the country. They’re congratulating me on doing something about that ‘offensive woman.’ Their words not mine.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “That I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I’m sorry Miss Van Markoff is dead, Gemma. Really I am. Whoever killed her deserves to be punished with the full force of the law. But I have to say, I am pleased we won’t have to put up with any more of those dreadful books.” He barked out an awkward laugh.

  I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to him that a new Hudson and Holmes book would be on the shelves shortly. And perhaps many more to come after that. I told him to keep in touch and hung up.

  That was an angle I hadn’t considered. Could it be possible that a Sherlock fanatic, unknown to me, had slipped into the book signing, done the deed, and slipped out again before the police secured the door? If so, they could be on the other side of the world by now. A single murder is surprisingly easy to get away with, provided the killer has no obvious relationship with the deceased, has never come to police attention before, makes no attempt to get cocky and replicate the deed, and (probably most important of all) resists the temptation to brag about what they have done. If that was the situation here, we might never find out who killed Ruth Smith, a.k.a. Renalta Van Markoff, and the dark cloud of suspicion would lie over Donald Morris until the end of his days.

  Not to mention that this person or persons might then come after Linda when he or she found they hadn’t killed the author after all.

  I called Donald back. “I have a job for you.”

  “Anything. What do you want me to do?” The hope in his voice was almost too much to bear.

  “You say people are congratulating you on getting rid of Renalta. It might be possible that one of your fellow Sherlockians killed her for the same reason they think you did it.”

  “Heavens, Gemma. We’re a respectable group. I’d say the average IQ of our band of brothers and sisters is far—”

  “Into every group, it is possible someone bad might fall. Or something. Poke around on the Holmes message boards, pay attention to what people are saying. Find out if someone seems particularly interested in the killing and if they drop little hints that they might be responsible.”

  “You want me to be your Dr. Watson, Gemma. A wonderful idea.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t phrase it like that,” I said.

  “A modern version of the situation when Holmes sent Watson to Baskerville Hall in his stead to keep an eye on Sir Henry while Holmes supposedly had work to attend to in London, but in reality—”

  I cut him off before he could relate the entire plot of The Hound of the Baskervilles. “You know these people, or at least the circles in which these people move.”

  “I will attempt to get the guilty party to confess.”

  I imagined him rubbing his hands together in glee and tossing his Inverness cape over his shoulder. Subtlety is not one of Donald’s virtues. “All I’m asking you to do is listen in. Please, please don’t try to trap anyone into confessing. Remember what happened after your conference call with your Irregular pals.”

  “Oh, yes, that.”

  “It’s possible the police have the same idea as me and they have someone monitoring the boards. That’s more likely to bounce back on you than trap anyone.”

  “Discretion is my middle name,” he said.

  Another cheap supermarket bouquet had been laid at the door of the bookshop. I scooped it up with a sigh on my way inside.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day, I tried to put aside all thoughts of the murder and attend to my shop. Ashleigh finished work at six, and almost as soon as she left, I had a rush of customers. I smiled and chatted and rang up purchases and reminded myself that I really do love owning this business.

  By the time I’d flipped the sign on the door to “Closed,” switched off all but the lights in the window and behind the sales counter, checked that sufficient food and water were in the cat bowls in the office (not that Moriarty ever thanked me for my attention to that detail), I had a kink in my back and my shoulders were stiffening up.

  I needed a swim.

  I walked home through the darkening streets. It was after nine, and the shops along Baker Street were closed, but the bars and restaurants overflowed with music and laugher. The lights in the harbor moved gently as boats rose and fell on the incoming tide. Long lines formed at the ice cream and candy booths on the boardwalk, and patrons waited patiently outside the Blue Water Café for a table on the deck to come free. The fourth-order Fresnel lens of the West London Lighthouse flashed its steady rhythm. I turned off the boardwalk at Blue Water Place and headed up the gentle hill to my saltbox. The light of the setting sun was a pink glow in the western sky, and the first of the stars were coming out. The night air was warm, but the heat of the day had broken, and there was no humidity. It was a nice night to take Violet for a ride in the car. I’d have my swim and then let her romp on the beach for a while.

  I collected the day’s post—flyers advertising fast food restaurants and a postcard from my parents on holiday in Scotland—from the box at the end of the drive and went around to the back of the house. I let myself in through the mudroom, and Violet was there to greet me, as she always is. She yipped, and I rubbed her favorite spot at the top of her head. I tossed the mail onto the counter, refreshed her water bowl, and poured kibble into the food dish. While she dined, I went to my bedroom and slipped out of my work clothes and got ready for the beach.

  By the time I returned to the kitchen, Violet had finished eating. I said, “Car,” and she dashed to the door. I took the leash and the car keys off the hook, and we set out.

  The streets were busy with evening traffic as people returned to their summer homes, rental properties, or hotels. I turned off the main street and headed toward the public beach. Large houses on spacious grounds surrounded by neat woods line the road to the shore, and I paid no attention to the handful of cars on the road.

  A few cars were parked in the public lot of the West London Beach. It’s a popular spot for late picnics and for those who like to walk on the sand or swim at night or who, like me, don’t have time during the day. The area is regularly patrolled by the police, so it’s not a gathering spot for the wilder of high school partiers. The lot’s well lit, and the beach is close enough to town that the glow of civilization breaks the darkness of the night.

  I left Violet in the car, promising to return. I locked my handbag in the trunk, put the keys into a plastic container on a lanyard and slipped it around my neck. A narrow path leads from the pavement through a line of low dunes and scruffy vegetation toward the beach. A group of chairs were gathered in a circle around a roaring bonfire about a hundred yards from where I emerged. Red sparks leapt into the night, the music was turned up, and people laughed. A young couple passed me, holding each other close. We murmured greetings.

  I kicked off my flip-flops at the edge of the water. The sand retained the last vestige of the heat of the day. The tide was nearing its highest point, washing ove
r tidal pools in the rocks.

  I took off my shirt and shorts and laid them along with my shoes on my towel, and then I waded into the water. It was warm enough not to be shocking but still crisp and refreshing. The ground here slopes gently, and I had to wade out a long way before I could dive forward and plunge beneath the gentle waves. I only wanted to work out the kinks, so I didn’t swim for long. No one else was in the water, although a few couples and the occasional single person waded in the surf. Eventually, I flipped onto my back and floated, arms stretched out. Stars were popping out in the sky above. I identified the most noticeable constellations and watched the steady beam of a satellite pass overhead. Closer down, a jet was heading east, toward the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. I thought of England and my parents. They were promising (threatening?) to come for a visit at the end of summer.

  Finally, I clambered out of the water. I dried myself off with my towel as best I was able and put my clothes back on. Flip-flops in hand, I walked across the sand. I stopped where the sand ended and the path to the parking lot began to put on my shoes. The scent of flowers in the bushes surrounding me was strong, mingling with wood smoke drifting from the bonfire and the smell of hot dogs roasting over the open fire. I dropped the flip-flops to the ground and wiggled my right foot into place, trying to get the thin strap between my toes.

  Behind me a branch broke, and I was aware of someone standing far too close. I started to turn.

  Pain streaked through my head, and all went dark.

  Chapter 14

  An airplane zoomed overhead. It was flying too low over the water. My mum and dad were in it. They were coming to visit me, but they were going to crash into the sea! I had to get help. I had to swim out to warn them.