by Vicki Delany
Like Jayne, he’d been skeptical. “It’s a heck of a stretch, Gemma. And with no physical evidence, it’s also useless.”
“Have you spoken to Robyn Kirkpatrick?”
“I have no reason to, Gemma, other than that you say you saw her going into the Cape Cod Yacht Club one afternoon.”
“Ask at the club if anyone saw her talking to Elizabeth. If they did, then you have enough of a connection to question Robyn. Find out if she has an alibi for the time of Elizabeth’s murder.”
He sighed. “Okay, I’ll go back to the club. We’ve interviewed many of the members at length. Plenty of people told us Elizabeth was not an easy woman to work with. They say she seemed to think of the place as her own private club and bossed everyone around accordingly. If it matters, there was never the slightest hint that she might be sneaking around behind Dan’s back or that he was doing so to her. Despite that, some of the women said Elizabeth could be extremely jealous. About a month ago, she publicly accused one of the club’s longtime members of having designs on Dan. The woman quit the club in a rage. Before you ask, that woman is not a suspect in the killing of Elizabeth. She’s in Europe at the moment.”
“Elizabeth didn’t seem to be popular anywhere.” I thought back to the auction and the first time I’d seen her. “Jock O’Callaghan.”
“What about him?”
“He was at the auction. Made a big deal about having important things to do so he couldn’t stay to answer police questions. He was with his mother.”
“I know who you mean. You think he has something to do with this?”
“He had no reason to kill Kathy that I know of, so I never gave him any thought. But he hated Elizabeth, and that was clearly no secret. He’s with the West London Yacht Club, and he was friends with Elizabeth’s first husband, Edward Dumont. Mr. Dumont has been dead for seven years, and Elizabeth out of the WLYC, but the animosity between the two seems to be as strong as ever. Was as strong as ever, I should say. They squared off at the auction tea and threw insults at each other.”
“You’re thinking this O’Callaghan finally got his revenge for the killing of Edward? Unlikely he’d act after all this time, Gemma.”
“Unless he’s an exceedingly patient man who’s been biding his time. I overheard him say to her that one of these days she’d get what was coming to her. Is it possible,” I thought out loud, “that Jock, or someone else, decided they could get rid of Elizabeth right after Kathy’s death so the police would think the same person had committed both crimes?”
Ryan groaned. “You’re muddying the waters, Gemma.”
“I’ll agree that does seem to be happening in this case.”
“I can look into O’Callaghan, but I’ll have to be discreet about it. He’s an important man in these parts. Old family money and lots of influence.”
“Thanks,” I said. I, on the other hand, never had to worry about being discreet.
“Good night,” I said.
“Sweet dreams,” he said.
* * *
While I waited for Ashleigh to come into work and debated what to do about visiting Dan Lamb, I placed a call to Donald Morris. I was always a bit wary of involving Donald in any of my queries. Being a lifelong dedicated Sherlockian, he wanted nothing more than to be the Watson to what he considered my Holmes, but he couldn’t help thinking of it as a game.
I had considered visiting the WLYC in disguise, as I earlier had the CCYC, but I decided it would be easier and simpler to take a page out of Jayne’s book and simply ask what I wanted to know. Donald Morris was the only “in” I had at the WLYC, and so I reluctantly made the call. It crossed my mind that I might suggest Uncle Arthur join every club in town, just in case I needed to drop in sometime to question a suspect, but that would get rather expensive.
“You talked to Jock O’Callaghan at the charity auction. How well do you know him?” I asked Donald when he answered the phone.
“Well enough to say hello or have a drink at the bar with. Why are you asking, Gemma? Is he on your suspect list?”
“I don’t have a list,” I said, “but I would like to talk to him.”
“About Elizabeth Dumont, no doubt. Everyone’s talking about it and wondering when the police are going to make an arrest. It’s not looking good for the WLPD, Gemma: two killings in a week and no arrests. You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t revealed your secret to anyone.”
I didn’t want to ask, but I did anyway. “What secret is that?”
“That you’re investigating. Like you did those other times.”
“I don’t investigate, Donald. I just ask a few questions.” Although that did sound a lot like investigating.
“If you say so, my dear. Now, how can I help you? If you need to know about the death of Edward Dumont, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I was living in Boston at the time of that unfortunate incident. My father talked about it, but I have to admit I didn’t pay much attention. I was busy with my own law practice in those days.”
“The police investigated Elizabeth, but she had a solid alibi, and there was never any evidence she hired anyone to do it for her. But Jock O’Callaghan still seems to think Elizabeth killed her husband. Did other people at the club think the same?”
“From what little I remember, Gemma, it was more a matter that people didn’t like Elizabeth and thus were quick to accuse her.”
“Why didn’t they like her?”
I could almost hear his shrug come down the phone. “Some people said reverse snobbery, that she didn’t like rich people as a matter of principle. I considered it to be more a case of her not pretending to like people she didn’t. She never made any attempt to fit in and didn’t seem to care what people thought of her.”
I remembered her lack of attention to her appearance and her off-the-discount-rack clothes. “I’d like to talk to Jock O’Callaghan. I looked him up in the phone book but can’t find a number. Do you know it?”
“No, but I can take you to meet him,” Donald said.
“That would be good. When can we do that? I don’t want to wait too long.”
“This afternoon. I don’t go to the club often, Gemma.” He coughed in embarrassment. I assumed he didn’t go because he couldn’t afford the prices. When the elder Mr. Morris died and Donald inherited his parents’ small estate, he gave up his family law practice in order to devote himself to a study of the Great Detective and his creator. Being a Sherlockian isn’t at all lucrative, not in the monetary sense, but Donald Morris was a happy man. “I’m occasionally invited to a dinner or a celebration at the club by people who were friends of my parents. I was last there in the spring for an anniversary party, and much of the talk was of the roster for the upcoming tennis season. Jock O’Callaghan was present, and he mentioned that he’s on the mixed doubles team that plays every Tuesday and Friday afternoon at two.”
“That’s great. Thanks, Donald.”
“I’ll pick you up at two thirty, shall I?”
“You don’t need to do that. I can go by myself.”
“Jock will likely go to the bar after his game. The members’ bar isn’t open to the general public, Gemma. You need me to get you in.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Two thirty it is.” He hung up.
* * *
At promptly one minute before two thirty Donald pulled into the loading zone in front of the Emporium. I dashed out and opened the passenger door. Before getting in, I noticed several years’ supply of the Sherlock Holmes Journal, some back issues of Strand magazine, a copy of The Sign of Four nibbled around the edges by what creature I did not want to contemplate, and a couple of guidebooks to London on the back seat.
“Thinking of going to England?” I said, fastening my seatbelt.
Donald drove a 2001 Toyota Corolla held together by luck and rust. He spun the wheel and edged into the traffic, inch by painful inch.
“There’s a major conference being held in London in January. I’ve been saving all year and
am excited about going. You should consider coming too, Gemma.”
“Why?”
“One of the streams is on Holmes and his effect on popular culture. You can look into what’s forthcoming that you might want to stock in the Emporium, and maybe give a talk on what you’re finding popular.”
“January’s not the best time of the year to go to London,” I said. “It gets dark early and rains a lot. You could have made that light in plenty of time, you know.”
“Better safe than sorry,” he said as we drifted to a halt to the accompaniment of the screaming horn of the car behind us.
“I’ll mention your name to the conference organizing committee,” Donald said.
“You do that,” I said. “Tell me about Jock O’Callaghan before we arrive. Has he been at the yacht club for long?”
“Forever. His baptism party was probably held there. His parents were members. The WLYC has a lot of legacy members, unlike the Cape Cod club, which is much newer.”
“He has family money?”
“Oh yes. Quite a bit of it. Jock’s grandfather founded a hotel chain, I believe. Don’t know much about it—sorry.”
“At the auction tea, Elizabeth made a crack about his wife not being with him. You know anything about that?”
“You met his mother, right?”
“I wasn’t introduced to her, but I noticed her.”
“She makes sure she’s noticed everywhere she goes. Iris O’Callaghan’s her name. A formidable woman in her day. They say Jock’s father would have drunk and gambled his father’s fortune away, but Iris took charge of the company and the money. She still has firm control, much to Jock’s dismay. Or so they say.”
“What about Jock’s wife?”
“I don’t remember her name.” Donald drove with his hands in the approved ten-to-two position, his head forward and his eyes fixed firmly on the road. “I don’t like to repeat gossip, Gemma.”
“That’s why we’re going on this outing, to dig for dirt. Spill.”
“Only in the interests of discovering the truth. His wife is from one of the richest families in New York, and it was most likely more a marriage of money than of love, but despite that, they seemed happy together. My father loved nothing more than gossip, particularly among the great and the good, which he disguised as an interest in maintaining the moral fiber of the club community. So I know more about some of these people than I’d like. Apparently, Jock and his wife—she has some sort of flower name—had a reasonably successful marriage for many years, but then, as I suppose often happens, they drifted apart. Since then, rumor and innuendo has linked his name with the wives of other members over the years, and the lady members pretend to be scandalized by her behavior.”
“Her behavior being?”
“It’s said that Mrs. O’Callaghan, who is the same age as her husband, late fifties, is … uh … enjoys the company of younger men. Much younger men.”
“Does she now? That would explain Elizabeth’s dig. All worth knowing, Donald. I don’t suppose you know if Jock, his wife, or his mother have anything to do with Scarlet House?”
“That I can’t say. I know nothing at all about them outside of the club. It’s likely Jock only attended the auction at the insistence of his mother, who’s a stalwart of many worthy organizations. He, on the other hand, is not known for his charitable activities.”
For reasons unknown to me, the Cape Cod Yacht Club is in West London, and the West London Yacht Club is not, being located twenty miles up the coast. It took us about forty minutes to get there, although traffic was light. That is to say, traffic in front of us was light. Behind us, it was a stream of tooting horns, anxious drivers, and cars edging up to our bumper, trying to get past on the narrow, winding road.
“We should have taken a hansom cab,” I said as the sign to the club came into sight at last.
“Wouldn’t that have been great fun,” Donald said.
“We might have made it in time.” If Jock’s tennis game had been short and his drink quick, he might have left by now.
We pulled into the farthest corner of the almost deserted parking lot and got out of the car. Donald had dressed in well-worn beige chinos, a white shirt in desperate need of the attentions of an iron, an excessively rumpled white linen jacket, and a large blue bow tie. I hadn’t gone home to change, thinking that my new blue and green dress was perfect for drinks at the yacht club.
The West London Yacht Club is older than the Cape Cod one, and it pretty much screams history, money, and influence. We walked up the sweeping crushed-gravel driveway, past immaculate lawns, ancient trees, and flowerbeds bursting with color, to the main building. The building itself had been built to impress, and it did. Mid-nineteenth century, perhaps a private home at one time. It was all weathered stone, large chimneys, and ivy-covered walls. Dormer windows dotted the third level, and a green and white awning hung over the entrance. We climbed the wide stone steps. A man dressed in a white uniform, with the intertwined letters WLYC on the breast pocket, greeted us and held open the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Morris,” he said. “Madam.”
“Good afternoon, Albert,” Donald said. “I hope the family is well.”
“Very well, sir,” Albert replied.
“Geez, Donald,” I whispered, “you sound like Mycroft Holmes arriving at the Diogenes Club.”
We walked in, and I let out a low whistle. The resemblance to ancient London men’s clubs continued inside. High ceilings, a huge chandelier at either end of the room, brown leather chairs and couches, low tables, rich red rugs, wide windows, and an enormous fireplace.
I turned to see Donald grinning at me. “Impressed?” he asked.
“I am.”
“You’re supposed to be.”
“What do the fees for this place run?”
“I have no idea, Gemma. I don’t pay any. My great-grandfather was a founding member, and one of the conditions was that the eldest male heir be granted membership in perpetuity. Sadly, it looks as though the legacy will die with me.”
“How could Kathy Lamb possibly have afforded this place?”
He lowered his voice. “She couldn’t. After Dan left her, and all their money went to lawyers, she would have had to leave at the end of this year.”
“The prospect of that must have been humiliating.” Kathy had plenty of reasons to hate Elizabeth. Destruction of her pride, perhaps most of all. If Kathy hadn’t died first, she’d be top of the list for the murder of the woman who’d taken everything from her.
“Let’s track the path of our prey into the bar,” Donald said.
“You start the conversation, as you know Jock,” I said, “Make pleasantries and introduce a passing comment about Elizabeth, but then sit back and leave the rest up to me.”
He gave me a wink I didn’t like one little bit. Now that we were here, I could think of no way to get rid of Donald. We walked through the main room. A few people nodded politely to my companion. He stopped abruptly in front of a line of portraits of distinguished-looking gentlemen down through the years. “Club Commodores,” he said. He pointed to the first painting, thick layers of oil paint in an ornate gilded frame. “My great-grandfather.” Muttonchop whiskers, formidable mustache curling at the ends, bushy white eyebrows, chubby cheeks, small eyes, red nose, tweed suit, and choking necktie. Exactly the sort of man who might be found knocking at the door of 221B Baker Street one fog-wrapped morning, needing to hire a consulting detective on a sensitive matter.
“You don’t look much like him,” I said to Donald, bearer of a face that was all bones and sharp angles.
“I take after my mother’s side of the family,” he said. “Let’s go in.”
I guessed that there must have been one heck of a battle over recent renovations to the members’ bar. Modern was the word that came to mind. That wouldn’t have sat well with some of the older, more traditional members. One wall was all glass, and everything else was chrome, steel, and cement accented by splashes of bright r
ed in the abstract paintings on the walls and the leather stools at the bar.
The windows looked out over the spacious lawns and down to the harbor. Rows of masts and furled sails, blue water and fluffy clouds.
A handful of people, singles or in groups, were scattered around the large room. More were sitting outside on the deck. The man I was after sat alone in a far corner, nursing a crystal glass containing an inch of amber liquid. His phone was on the table in front of him, but he wasn’t using it. He stared off into space, and his expression indicated he was wrapped in thought, and those thoughts made him sad.
“This room and the ladies’ writing room are the only ones in the main building in which one is allowed to access electronic devices,” Donald said.
“There’s a ladies’ writing room?”
“Used these days primarily for small-group functions such as meetings of the fund-raising committee.”
“You open the conversation about Elizabeth,” I said, “so I can gauge his reaction. But be subtle. Don’t accuse him of anything.”
“Furtive will be my movements.” Donald marched across the room. “Jock,” he bellowed in a voice that was not only far too loud for the room but also totally out of character for the quiet, timid man I knew.
Jock looked up with a start. He blinked. His eyes might have been wet; then again it might have been the effect of sunlight pouring in and bouncing off all that spotless chrome.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Donald said. “Mind if we join you?” He dropped into a chair without waiting for permission to be given.
I smiled at Jock apologetically, so sorry to interrupt. He shrugged and the sadness behind his eyes vanished. “Please,” he said, “do have a seat.” He pushed a button to close the image on his phone, but not before I got a quick glimpse of the picture on it. A woman, not young, staring out to sea with a dreamy smile on her face. He stuffed the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Thanks,” I said.
Jock sat on a cushioned bench against the wall, and Donald and I took chairs at a solid metal block of a table that allowed barely enough room for me to squeeze my legs in.