Elementary, She Read: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery
Page 6
“What’s this about you two being told not to go upstairs?” Officer Johnson said. “I’m sure the detectives will find that very interesting.”
“We didn’t . . .” Jayne began.
“No talking,” I said. “I’ll explain everything in due course.”
I’d taken the seat behind the desk and began idly flipping through papers. Most of them were accounts payable, some long overdue.
“You shouldn’t be looking at those,” Johnson said.
“I get bored quickly without something to read,” I replied. The screensaver on the computer showed the hotel chain logo. I wiggled the mouse to clear it, and a password request came up. Drat, unlikely I’d have the time and privacy to hack in.
My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my bag.
“Leave it,” Johnson snapped.
“I have to get this. It’s my great uncle. He’s ninety years old, frail, and in ill health.” Okay, so I lied to the police. Not my first offense of the evening. “Hi, Uncle Arthur. Is everything all right? Do you need me to come immediately?”
“Why would I want that?” Arthur’s deep raspy voice is still full of the alleys of the east end of London, even seventy years after he left. I could hear the roar of the engine of his car in the background. “I’m calling to let you know dinner’s off. I decided to get a jump on my little holiday and left this afternoon rather than tomorrow. I’ll be home when I’m home.” If he’d been going to the airport, he’d have taken a cab, so I suspected he was planning to drive up or down the coast for a few days. He never told me where he was going or when he’d be back. He usually didn’t know himself until he, like Bilbo Baggins, walked out his front door.
“Should you be going out at night?” I said. “The streets can be dangerous.”
“On Cape Cod?”
“Where are you going?”
“Ask me no secrets, my darlin’, and I’ll tell you no lies.” He hung up.
“Very well,” I said to no one. “If I must. I’m on my way. Try not to move.” I put the phone away.
“You’re going nowhere,” Johnson said. “Arthur Doyle plays euchre with my grandmother on Tuesdays. He’s fitter than I am. So fit and frisky, I sometimes wonder what Grandma and Arthur get up to after those card games.”
Jayne laughed. I did not.
I wasn’t left to stew in boredom for too long. Ryan Ashburton came in, accompanied by a woman dressed as a female version of him—jeans, shirt, leather jacket, gun and badge. He told Johnson she could leave, and she marched out. I gave Ryan a strained smile, but it was not returned. He’d been flustered to see me for a moment, but now he was all business.
“This is Detective Louise Estrada. She’ll be giving me a hand with this.” He glanced at Jayne. “Jayne Wilson. Are you Jeff’s little sister?”
“Yup.”
“I heard you’d moved to Boston. We all come back eventually, don’t we? How’s Jeff doing?”
“Good. He doesn’t visit much though.”
I’ve lived in West London for five years, and I like to believe I’ve made a home for myself here, but every once in a while, I’m reminded of how much of an outsider I still am.
Pleasantries over, Ryan turned to me. “Tell us what brings you here today, Gemma.”
And so I did. I told him the whole story, most of it anyway. The magazine left behind, the hotel postcard in the shopping bag, coming here, finding the body, sending Jayne for help. I left out my estimation of the potential value of the magazine and my snoop around the dead woman’s room.
“You expect us to believe that?” Estrada snapped. She was as tall and as lean as a racehorse, well-muscled, with thick black hair, dark eyes, and a flawless olive complexion that only added to the racehorse image. But there was nothing at all horsey about her perfectly sculpted face. She glared at me, clearly having decided within seconds of meeting me that I needed to be clapped in irons. Jumping to conclusions, I thought, was not a good trait in a police detective.
“Why wouldn’t you believe me?” I asked, in all innocence.
She snorted. “You traced someone you’d never met halfway across town because of a discarded postcard, went to her room even though the receptionist tells us she didn’t tell you what room the woman was in? And all to return a magazine?”
I glanced at Ryan.
“Ms. Doyle and I have met before,” he said.
“Is that so,” she said.
“In light of past experience,” he said, “I don’t find her behavior out of character. How’d you get the room number, Gemma?”
“It was perfectly simple. I watched as the receptionist made the call to the room.”
“You expect us to believe that?” Estrada said again.
“It’s not just any old magazine,” Jayne said.
I threw her a look. Unfortunately, Ryan was watching me, not Jayne. “I thought as much. Go ahead, Jayne.”
“We have to tell them, Gemma,” Jayne said. “This whole case probably hangs on the magazine.”
“Very well,” I said. “The magazine was not simply left behind or forgotten, but rather deliberately hidden this afternoon in the Emporium bookshelves.”
“If it was hidden,” Estrada said, “then how’d you find it so quickly?”
Ryan lifted a hand. “Let her finish. We can come back to that.”
“It might be of some value, but only if it’s found to be authentic and in as good condition on the inside as would appear from a quick examination of the outside by a nonexpert.”
“Give us an estimate, Gemma,” Ryan said.
“Half a million to three quarters of a million dollars.”
Estrada snorted, but Ryan, who knew me, let out a low whistle. “Worth killing for then. Where’s this magazine now?”
“At my house.”
“Let’s go get it.”
“It’s perfectly safe where it is.”
“Gemma, let’s go,” he said, and I gave in.
Estrada led the way out of the office and across the lobby. Jayne and I followed her, and Ryan brought up the rear. I tried not to look as though I was being marched out under arrest. “Gemma?” Irene Talbot fell into step beside me. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing to do with us,” I said. “I’m going home.”
“If it’s got nothing to do with you, why are the detectives escorting you?”
A flashbulb went off in my face. “What’s happening here?” a man yelled. “Louise! You can tell us.”
Estrada didn’t bother to answer.
“Did you come in your own car?” Ryan asked once we were outside and standing under the portico.
“Yes.”
“Still have the Miata?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to leave it here. We’ll take my car.”
“I’m not going to drive off,” I said, thinking that if I could get rid of them, I’d snatch the magazine and go to ground while I figured out what to do with it.
“Detective Estrada and I will be there to ensure you’re not tempted,” Ryan replied.
A group of cruisers were parked in a confused jumble all over the hotel lot. Ryan held the back door of one car for Jayne and me. We climbed in while onlookers whispered and pointed. I did not like the view from back here, peering through the screen that separated us from the front seats. I noticed that the doors did not have handles on the inside.
Ryan drove, and Estrada twisted in her seat to talk to me. “What’s this magazine anyway?”
“Beeton’s Christmas Annual, December of 1887.”
“Does it have something to do with Sherlock Holmes? I know you own that store on Baker Street.”
“Yes,” I replied. “The first Sherlock Holmes story was published in that edition.”
“And you just happen to be in the Sherlock business,” she muttered.
“I hope you’re not implying . . .”
“I never imply, Ms. Doyle. If I have something to say, I’ll come out and say it.”
Estrada opened the door, and Jayne and I climbed out. The trip had taken no more than ten minutes, but that was enough for me to decide that I did not want to sit in the back seat of a patrol car ever again.
I led the way up the sidewalk to the front door. I put my key in the lock and swung the door open. The house was dark and quiet except for the clatter of Violet’s toenails on the wooden floors as she hurried to greet us.
“Hi, Violet.” Ryan gave her a hearty pat. “How’s my girl? All grown-up now, are you?”
She wagged her stubby tail.
The house was quiet, the dog happy, but I knew immediately something was wrong. The familiar scents were stronger; something was out of place. “Someone’s been in the house.”
“How the heck do you know that?” Estrada said. “I can’t see a thing. Turn on the lights.”
I did so.
We rarely come in via the front door, so it has none of the clutter of shoes, boots, coats, umbrellas, hats, discarded winter scarves, and long-forgotten mittens found in the mudroom off the kitchen. The wide oak paneling of the floors gleamed, and the curving staircase rose up into the darkness of the second floor.
“It’s not okay,” I said. “Someone has been here.”
“I don’t see . . .”
“Shush.” Ryan pulled out his gun. He gave me a look and a slight nod. “We’ll go first. You and Jayne wait here.”
He moved cautiously into the house. Estrada followed, her weapon also drawn. Violet trotted after him, her tail still wagging. I followed them.
“Gemma,” Jayne whispered. “Stay here.”
“He’s gone,” I said. The front hall opens into our living room on one side and the den on the other before proceeding to the formal dining room and then to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Ryan stepped into the living room, gun at the ready, and Estrada threw open the door to the den. I took one look at the living room—pillows tossed, ornaments overturned—and ran past Estrada.
“Hey!” she called.
The den was a picture of chaos. All the drawers of the reproduction Chippendale secretary had been pulled open and the contents scattered across the floor. The books had been pulled off the shelves; Uncle Arthur’s neatly arranged stack of CDs lay in a muddled heap. Everything had been disturbed, but this was no act of random violence. The cushions were not slashed, the books not torn, and the pictures not taken down from the walls. My iPad had been pulled out of the secretary and tossed onto the floor, but not stolen, and the TV was still in place.
“Upstairs,” Ryan said to Estrada.
“They’ve gone,” I said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I know.”
“Because you had something to do with it, maybe?” The look she gave me was not friendly.
Mine was not friendly in return.
“Louise,” Ryan snapped, “I said check upstairs. Gemma’s probably right, but it’s worth a look anyway. I’ll call this in.”
The black-haired diva stared at us from her place on the wall. She didn’t appear to have been disturbed. I shuddered when I thought of Uncle Arthur’s reaction if she’d been damaged. We had no other art of any particular value, and none of it appeared to have been touched. Presumably our visitor was not a reader of classic mysteries, and thus didn’t know to check behind the paintings for a safe. Assuming, that is, they were after the magazine. And there could be no other reason for this.
I walked across the room.
“Gemma!” Ryan called. “Don’t touch anything.”
I took the painting down from its place and stood Uncle Arthur’s diva carefully on the floor. Ryan sucked in a breath. He and Jayne stood behind me, peering over my shoulder as I spun the dial on the safe and swung it open.
“Someone’s been upstairs.” Estrada came back in. “Dressers and closets were searched, the mattress tossed.” She saw what we were looking at and let out a low whistle.
Nothing in the safe appeared to have been disturbed. The magazine, wrapped in its binding and protective plastic, lay on top of my passport. I took it out. Ryan’s gun had been returned to its holster. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic bag, which he held out to me.
“This is potentially rare and extremely valuable,” I said. “You can take a picture of it for your investigation. But I’ll take care of it.”
“Gemma, it’s evidence in a murder case. Not to mention that if your visitor had a bit more time, he would have found this hidden safe.”
“He, or maybe she, wouldn’t have been able to get into it if so,” I replied. “Only Uncle Arthur and I know the combination.”
“I’m sure they would have asked you nicely to open it,” Estrada said.
I didn’t dignify that with a retort.
Ryan shook the bag. With a martyred sigh, I placed Beeton’s Christmas Annual into it.
“I want a receipt,” I said.
“I’m not going to steal it,” he said.
“That magazine is potentially worth an enormous amount of money. I didn’t open it myself once I saw the cover. A bit of mishandling, a knocked over coffee cup, or a cigarette burn would reduce the value substantially if not eliminate it completely.”
“I don’t smoke,” Ryan said. “And I’m not a clumsy oaf either.”
“I need you to promise me you’ll not allow this magazine to be opened or handled any more than necessary until a rare book dealer can be contacted to do it for you.”
“I don’t know any rare book dealers,” Ryan said.
“Fortunately, I do.” I was still wearing my small handbag, and I dug out Grant Thompson’s business card with my free hand. I handed the card to Ryan with a flourish.
“I’ll see that it’s protected,” he said.
I dropped the magazine into the outstretched bag.
“I’m going to take this down to the station and put it under protection,” Ryan said. “And then go back to the hotel to see what the forensic guys have turned up. I might need to talk to you later.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. “I appear to have a lot of cleaning to do. I’d better start with the kitchen.”
“How’d you know the kitchen’s been ransacked?” Estrada said. “I didn’t tell you that, and you can’t see into the kitchen from the entrance.”
“Do you doubt everything you’re told, Detective Estrada? Must be a very difficult way to go through life.”
She bristled.
“It was perfectly obvious,” I said. “I smelled flour, tea, and sugar the moment we came in. Those are normal scents in anyone’s house, but tonight they’re of a strength that indicates they’ve been recently dumped from their containers. Overlaid with the odor of rotting vegetables, by which I assume the fridge door has been left open. I keep meaning to eat that kale because it’s supposed to be healthy, but I really don’t care for it.
“We can also assume that our intruder is a nonsmoker and doesn’t apply perfume or aftershave regularly. Unfortunately, it hasn’t rained for several days, although the forecast did call for some, so he or she didn’t track mud into the house. The flour! An unforgiveable oversight on my part. You will, of course, want to take casts of footprints that have tracked through the spilled flour and sugar.”
“It didn’t get on the floor,” Estrada said. “But it’s all over the counter.”
“As the front door appears to be untampered with, and I don’t hand spare keys for my house to all and sundry, I’ll assume our intruder came in through the back door. Therefore the kitchen would be the logical first place to search.”
“Enough, Gemma,” Jayne whispered to me.
“I only want to point out the obvious facts.” I’ve been told on more than one occasion that some people don’t understand my attention to
detail and thus misunderstand the conclusions I draw from it. I have tried to stop, but I might as well stop thinking. And this didn’t seem like a suitable time in which to stop thinking.
“The back door’s been forced open, yes,” Estrada said. “I’ll admit, that was a good guess.”
I was about to inform her that I never guess, but Jayne elbowed me in the ribs.
“I still think,” Estrada continued, “you know way too much about what went on here when you were supposedly not at home. Never mind the dog. She doesn’t seem to have done much to frighten off an intruder. She didn’t have to be locked up or restrained while this person broke in and searched your house.”
“That was no curious incident,” I said. “She’s a pet, not a guard dog. What does she care if someone tosses my living room as long as that person doesn’t attempt to abscond with all the dog biscuits?”
“I’ve asked the fingerprint techs to come over right away,” Ryan said. “This is your home after all. In the meantime, I need you and Jayne to remain in this room.”
“It scarcely matters,” I said. “My fingerprints are everywhere. This is, as you pointed out, my house.”
Ryan’s phone rang. He lifted one hand, telling us all to stay in place, and answered. As he listened, his eyes opened wide. He let out a low whistle, turned, and walked to the window, so his back was to us. The sneak! He didn’t want me reading his face. “Is that so? Looks genuine? Very interesting. Take them into custody. I’m coming back.” At last, the police searching the hotel room must have found the jewelry. Took them long enough.
He put the phone away. “We’re done here, Estrada. For now.”
“Sir,” she said, with a glance at me that I didn’t care for one little bit. “If I might have a word.”
They went into the hall. Estrada closed the door behind her. I righted the overturned desk chair and took a seat. Violet settled onto the floor beside me. Jayne tiptoed across the room and stood with her ear pressed to the door. Fortunately, she heard them returning and leapt out of the way in time to avoid being knocked senseless.
“You two are not to leave town without my permission,” Ryan said.
I nodded.