by Vicki Delany
A waiter hurried over.
“Get you another, Jock?” Donald asked.
“Thank you.”
“Gemma?”
“A glass of Sauvignon Blanc, please.”
“It’s early in the day for whiskey,” Donald said. “A Nantucket Grey Lady, please. Have a good game?”
Jock was dressed in street clothes, and he didn’t look to have recently emerged from the locker room showers. “Didn’t play. Had to cancel the match. But I enjoy my afternoons at the club, having a private drink, so I came anyway.”
“How’s your lovely lady? Uh …?”
“Rose. She’s well, thank you.”
Donald spoke to me. “Rose is Jock’s wife. Marvelous woman.”
Jock grimaced into his glass.
We made small talk while waiting for our drinks. I said something complimentary about the view and the building, and Jock told me some of the history of the club.
The waiter placed cocktail napkins, a bowl of mixed nuts (no cheap peanuts), and our drinks in front of us.
“Cheers,” Donald said, and we clinked glasses.
Once we’d tasted our drinks, Donald said, “Terrible news about Elizabeth Dumont.”
Jock’s face clouded over. “Yes.”
I sipped my wine.
Donald crunched his face up as though he was thinking hard. “Wasn’t she a member here at one time? Wasn’t there some business about the suspicious death of her husband? I was in Boston then, so I didn’t follow the story, but I remember my father talking about it.”
“That was a long time ago,” Jock said. “Edward Dumont. No one ever called him by a diminutive of his name. He was always Edward. Good man. Close friend of mine.” He lifted his head and stared directly at Donald and then at me. He blinked and dropped his eyes. “I didn’t know her at all well.”
“But you thought she killed him,” I said.
“Pardon me, miss, but I don’t know that that’s any of your business.”
“Just making conversation. Surely murder in our community is everyone’s business. Some people are wondering if Elizabeth finally got justice for the killing of her husband.”
He stared into the depths of the smoky liquid in his glass. Donald popped a handful of nuts into his mouth.
“After all this time? Unlikely.” Jock lifted his head again. A small tick started in the corner of his right eye. He spoke rapidly, the words tumbling all over themselves as if he was in a desperate hurry to spit them out. “Can’t say I’m all that upset about it. She had it coming. She killed Edward, or had him killed. Same thing. I, for one, won’t be mourning her death.” He finished his drink in one swallow. “Excuse me—I have an appointment I can’t be late for.” He raised his hand. “Jason. I’m ready to leave. Bring me my crutches.”
“Certainly, Mr. O’Callaghan,” the waiter replied.
Crutches?
The waiter hurried over, a pair of crutches in hand. He gripped Jock under the arm and helped him stand. Jock’s face grimaced in pain and discomfort, and he balanced awkwardly to fit the crutches under his arms.
“Good heavens, what have you done to yourself, Jock?” Donald said.
I hadn’t seen Jock’s legs behind the solid block of the table. I saw them now. Jock O’Callaghan’s right leg below the knee was encased in a gray boot cast. “Broke my blasted ankle at tennis on Tuesday,” he said.
“Gave us all a fright when the ambulance arrived,” the waiter said.
“Thanks for the drink.” Jock limped away, watched over by the hovering waiter.
I dropped back into my seat. The person I’d chased across Elizabeth Dumont’s lawn on Wednesday night, the one who had almost certainly killed her, had not been Jock O’Callaghan.
“A wasted trip,” Donald said. “We didn’t learn anything of significance.”
“Wasted?” I replied. “Not at all. Jock didn’t murder Elizabeth Dumont, but that’s not the only killing we’re talking about here.”
Chapter Nineteen
Donald dropped me back at the Emporium at six o’clock, in time for Ashleigh to take her dinner break.
I’d decided that I had to try to talk to Dan Lamb. Even if he knew nothing about the deaths of Elizabeth and Kathy, he might be able to tell me if Elizabeth had enemies. Maybe someone had been bothering her lately about the death of her first husband. On the way to the West London Yacht Club, Donald and I had driven past Elizabeth’s house. The gates, I couldn’t help but notice, had been secured with a thick chain and shiny new padlock. Clearly, Dan didn’t want any impromptu visitors. I didn’t have his cell number, and a quick look at 411.com failed to turn up a number for the house. Which didn’t come as a total surprise, as I hadn’t seen a landline phone when I’d been in the house.
No point in calling Ryan to try to get Dan’s number. He’d never give it to me.
Then I remembered. About a year ago, Dan had wanted a copy of The Art of Detection by Laurie R. King, a rather clever book in which King managed to introduce Sherlock Holmes into a twenty-first-century San Francisco detective novel. I hadn’t had the book in stock, so I took his number and phoned him when it came in.
I called up the store’s contact list, and there it was. I gave him a call.
A hesitant voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dan. It’s Gemma Doyle here. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Glad to hear it. I haven’t seen you in the store for some time, and I understand that you’re probably busy these days, so I thought I’d drop off a book for you. My treat. Something came in recently I know you’ll enjoy. It’s the newest one by—”
“That’s kind of you. You can leave it in the mailbox.”
“I suppose I could do that, but—”
“I’m not receiving visitors. Thank you for understanding, Gemma.” He hung up.
That closed that line of inquiry.
* * *
It opened again at six thirty when Crystal Lamb came into the shop. She was dressed well but causally in ankle-length trousers, pink shirt, linen jacket, and flat sandals. She didn’t see me at first, and I watched her from the reading nook where I’d gone to pick up a discarded book. She glanced around the shop to get her bearings, as any first-time customer might do. Her eyes passed over the merchandise and settled on the Pastiche shelf. She stepped up to it and began scanning titles.
“Good evening,” I said. “Can I help you find anything?”
She turned to me with a smile, and I could tell the moment she recognized me, which meant she had not come in looking for me. “Oh, hi. You were at my mother’s visitation.”
“Yes, I was. This is my shop.”
“It’s lovely and so original. I finished the books I brought with me and need to find something else.”
I liked the sound of that—books. Plural. “You’re staying in West London longer than you expected?”
“I can’t really afford to take more time away from the office, but my mom’s funeral has been put back a couple of days because of … developments in my father’s life. As long as I’m here, I’d like to apologize for what happened on Tuesday evening. My father and I have our differences, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to air our family laundry in public.”
“Funerals are emotional times.”
“That they are. And now I seem to be airing our laundry again. Sorry. What would you suggest? I love a good historical mystery.”
We chatted about books for a few minutes, and she eventually chose A Treacherous Curse by Deanna Raybourn and Let Darkness Bury the Dead by Maureen Jennings. She carried her purchases over to the counter, and I rang them up.
“Your father’s a frequent shopper here,” I said. “Did you know that?”
She shook her head.
“Although he hasn’t been in for several months.”
She let out a soft chuckle. “Families, you can’t escape them. Maybe I inherited something from my father after all. Do you do mail order
?”
“Happy to,” I said.
“I love your store, but it’s unlikely I’ll be back in West London for a long time. If ever. I grew up here and I love it, but without Mom to visit, and my father’s situation …”
It was absolutely none of my business, but given an open door, I’ll always step through it. “Situation?”
“People are saying my father killed my mom and Elizabeth. We might not get on all that well—we never really did, and the divorce reinforced the divide—but I know my father is no killer. He and Mom were going through a rough patch when he met Elizabeth and fell under the spell of all that money. Easy to do, I suspect.” She laughed without mirth. “My brother, the so-called musician, is always looking for someone to be his sugar momma. I suspect that’s the only reason he still went with Mom to her yacht club. It wasn’t because he liked the people there. You’d think he’d have learned from Dad’s example.”
“In what way?”
“I’m beginning to think Dad regrets leaving us. Leaving Mom, I mean. He had absolutely no reason to kill her. The divorce was over, and they’d both moved on. As for Elizabeth …” Crystal shrugged. “She wasn’t a nice person, and Dad was pretty darn unhappy in that marriage. He’d have left her soon enough—no need to get rid of her.”
“You don’t have to explain to me,” I said.
“People can be mean once gossip and rumors start.” Crystal let out a long sigh. “Poor Dad. Poor Brad. My mom loved us both equally, but Brad never believed that. He always thought I was the favorite.” She accepted the package of books I handed her. “If Brad, who grew up with a chip on his shoulder, wants to let the past go, I should be able to. He wants me to make up with Dad. Maybe he’s right; maybe it’s time.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said. “I don’t think your father killed either of them. Certainly not your mother.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I agree with you. He had no motive. Yes, people sometimes kill without what would look to others like a sensible reason, but when that happens, they’re driven by sudden passion or rage. To do it calmly and lay a path of escape and not be detected requires some degree of presence of mind.”
“You’ve spent some time thinking about this.”
“I get curious sometimes. It means nothing.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Thanks for this. I’ll drop by again before I leave.”
On her way out, she passed Ashleigh coming back from dinner.
The shop was busy for the rest of the evening. I thought over what Crystal had said, but I couldn’t see anything of relevance. If Dan Lamb did reconcile with his children, at least one good thing would come out of the two deaths. Quite often, families that had fallen out came together again in the face of tragedy.
I’d told Crystal I didn’t think her father had killed either woman, and that was true. I shouldn’t judge his character, having only met the man a handful of times, but I could see no reason for him to have murdered Kathy, the ex-wife, who was no threat to him. If he had, it would have been noisy and messy, the result of an argument out of control, not quiet and stealthy.
But Elizabeth? Yes, Dan might have killed Elizabeth and then run off into the night with me in pursuit. Maybe he thought, as I had, that Elizabeth had killed Kathy, and he wanted revenge.
“Basil Rathbone,” Ashleigh said.
I blinked and returned to the here and now. “What about him?”
“Are we getting any more of those Basil Rathbone DVDs? The customer wants two sets for Christmas presents, and only one’s on the shelf.”
“Oh yes. Sorry. I have them on order. Should be in by Monday.”
I forced my mind back to the running of my business and went to help a woman dithering over the young adult selection.
* * *
Ashleigh finished work at eight thirty, but before she left, she said, “I’ve had a great idea.”
I tried not to groan. Ashleigh seemed to enjoy working here, and that was good. She was enthusiastic about our stock and keen to learn more about Sherlock Holmes and the books we sold, and that was also good. She had ideas for improving the business, some of which were not good—or at least not things I wanted to do. Such as open a second location or offer franchise opportunities.
I smiled at her. “What idea is that?”
“Have you considered stocking children’s books?”
“We have children’s books. Ones that suit the theme of our store.”
“Those are YA—young adults. I mean real children’s books, like with the alphabet and primary colors and lots of pictures. I know it’s not what we’re about, but those women just now were looking for gifts for a baby shower. They’re hardly going to buy a biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or The Complete Sherlock Holmes, volumes one and two, for a newborn.”
I opened my mouth to say that wasn’t our business, but shut it again.
I didn’t think there was a Sherlock Holmes alphabet book, although just about everything else that could feature the Great Detective did. People came into a bookshop looking for books. If I could offer them board books for infants, maybe they’d pick up something for themselves as well. “That might be worth considering.”
Ashleigh grinned.
“Do we have the space for another line of stock?”
“If you moved that shelf further down the wall, we could fit in a low rack. Get in a few books to start and see how they do.”
“Let me think about your idea. On Sunday, I’ll have some time to check out children’s book catalogs.”
She bade me a cheerful good night and left.
It had been a good day. A steady stream of people had come through our doors, and most of them bought. Some bought a lot.
Great-Uncle Arthur might not be much of a businessman, but he’d accidently hit on a great idea when he’d opened this store. If there was anything like a sure bet in this world, the continued popularity of Sherlock Holmes was it. After a hundred and thirty years, the craze showed no signs of dying down. If anything, it kept getting stronger.
At nine o’clock on the dot, I locked the door and flipped the sign to “Closed. I took most of the day’s cash and receipt slips out of the register, switched off all the lights except for the ones behind the sales counter and in the display window, and climbed the seventeen steps to my office. Before going home, I needed to place orders for books we were running low on. Moriarty followed me upstairs. Not because he liked my company, but because my last task of the day was always to fill his food bowl.
I didn’t bother to turn the office light on. The last long traces of the setting sun lingered outside the windows, and that, combined with the glow from lamps on the street, gave me enough light to see by. I locked the money away, dropped behind my desk, and wiggled the mouse to bring the computer back to life. Moriarty leapt onto the desk and settled himself on the keyboard.
I pushed him off.
He came back.
I lifted him up and put him on the floor.
He returned.
“Enough of this,” I said. “The sooner I get this work done, the sooner you’ll be fed and I’ll be out of your fur.”
Very, very slowly, he stood, yawned mightily, stretched languorously, and leapt to the floor.
I opened my purchasing file.
From downstairs came the sound of breaking wood.
I stopped, my fingers poised over the keys. I glanced at Moriarty. He stared into the hallway, his ears up, his whiskers twitching, the long hairs along his back standing at attention.
I got slowly to my feet. I slipped off my shoes and silently crossed the floor. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it in my left hand.
I took care not to make a sound as I crept to the top of the staircase.
I heard nothing but the soft murmur of cars driving past on the street. I held my breath for a long time. All was quiet.
The building that houses the Emporium was once a house, before Baker Str
eet became the main shopping area of West London. It was built at the beginning of the twentieth century and still has many of the original features, such as wide-planked floorboards and foot-high baseboards. Over the years, the old wood has shifted and settled and shifted again. Some of the floorboards are coming loose. The worst one is by the back door, behind the YA bookshelves. Step on it just so, and it makes a noise as though it’s about to break right though.
It creaked now.
I breathed softly.
I should have called nine-one-one from the landline in my office. I wouldn’t have to say anything: just keep the line open and they’d come. The same couldn’t be said for my cell phone; I didn’t know if they’d be able to trace its location fast enough. The intruder might be a common thief, thinking the shop was closed, everyone gone home, and this a good time to rifle the cash register. If so, I didn’t want him to know I was here. He was welcome to the ninety-seven dollars and sixty-five cents in cash that I’d left.
It was also possible I’d stirred something with my questions about the deaths of Elizabeth Dumont and Kathy Lamb, and if so, I wanted to know what I’d stirred. And, more importantly, whom.
I moved carefully, knowing the location of every creaky board on the steps. I didn’t have anything at hand I could use as a weapon, but I was counting on my knowing how to move silently and being able to get around this building in the dark to outmaneuver my opponent.
I put my foot over the edge of the bottom step, intending to place it in exactly the right spot so as to avoid the squeak of old wood. The light shifted as something moved in front of the sales counter. If I could get a peek around the wall, I’d be able to see who was there. Then I’d go upstairs and call nine-one-one. Very loudly.
A high-pitched screech sounded behind me, and I leapt into the air with a startled cry. A ball of black fur flew past my head, and my foot missed the step. I slipped, fell the rest of the way, and hit the floor hard, landing solidly on my rear end. I let out a grunt of shock and pain. Someone yelled in surprise mixed with pain of their own. Moriarty screeched again, and the intruder’s voice rose.
Bright white light washed the inside of the shop. I heard a muffled cry, running footsteps, protesting floorboards, and then legs streaked past me. Too late, I reached out, but I only grabbed the soft night air.