by Vicki Delany
“Now that he’s dead, what do you suppose will happen to his collection?”
“The heirs might keep it intact. They might sell it off in bits and pieces or as a group. He must have some marvelous books.”
“What about Sherlock’s possessions? Wouldn’t something genuine be valuable?”
“As Sherlock Holmes was not a real person, Jayne, there’s no such thing as his possessions.”
“You know what I mean. Of the author. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Quite possibly there are letters to and from him. Something from his publisher to do with the books would bring a handsome price at auction, particularly if it discussed a previously unknown matter. Photographs of him are not rare, but as always, if there’s anything significant or unusual about it, it might be worth something. This is all speculation.” I discarded the obituaries and found a news article. Mr. Kent’s estate was currently in the courts. His children were fighting the terms of his will. “Excellent,” I said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Where precisely are we getting?”
“Pass me the iPad, will you?” Jayne handed it over, and I did a Google search for Kurt Frederick Kent. The screen filled with hits. All the photographs of the man himself were at least twenty years old. In his later years, Mr. Kent had been somewhat like Howard Hughes. A millionaire recluse. Shots of his house showed nothing but a high fence, sturdy gates, thick hedges, and angry guards.
News articles reported that Mr. Kent’s daughter and two sons were fighting the terms of his will. Said will had apparently left items of considerable value to his private nurse, a woman by the name of Mary Ellen Longton. Bingo! The name on The Small Woman’s driver’s license. The Kent children claimed that the nurse had exerted undue influence on the elderly, confused, dying man and tricked him into mentioning her in his will. She had been in his employ for eight months before his death. I handed the iPad to Jayne. “Read this.”
“‘Items of considerable value,’” she said. “I’m thinking a magazine.”
“As am I. I’m also thinking jewelry that didn’t match the woman’s apparent means.” I picked up a sticky rib with my fingers and nibbled on it. Violet stared intently at me through her deep liquid eyes, attempting to mesmerize me into dropping a bone.
It didn’t work.
“Are we going to take this information to the police?” Jayne asked.
“No. They have their own resources, and Ryan is no fool.”
“What’s the story there, anyway?” She dug into her plate of orange-colored chicken with her chopsticks while I twirled a noodle on my fork. Jayne always eats Chinese food with chopsticks. I have never been able to manage anything smaller than a dumpling. A large dumpling.
“No story.”
“Don’t give me that. I wish I’d taken a picture of the look on your face when you saw him in the hotel. You were shocked, and he looked surprised to see you too. He kept saying things about knowing you.”
“We were friends once, and then he moved away. Now it would appear he’s back.”
“Friends?”
“More than friends, if you must know. We were in a relationship for a while. We both thought it might turn out to be something significant.” I swallowed and turned away from Jayne’s questioning eyes. “It didn’t work out, and we went our separate ways. That’s all.”
“How do you feel about that? About him being back in West London?”
“Feel? It’s none of my business what he does. I presume he found the world of big city policing not to his liking.” I stood up and began gathering dishes. “It’s late. I’m going to bed. I’ll approach this all fresh in the morning.”
Jayne remained in her chair. She glanced nervously around, as though checking the shadows.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking home alone. Suppose he’s out there?”
“Suppose who’s out there?” I asked.
“The killer, of course.”
“The killer will have no further interest in us. We don’t have the magazine. But if you’re worried, I’ll take you home. Violet would enjoy the walk.”
“No! Then you’ll be out at night all alone, and he’s more likely to come after you than me. Violet’s no protection. I’ll call Robbie to come and get me.”
I refrained from making a comment while Jayne placed the call to her knight-in-rusted-armor.
Robbie can’t have been far away, because he arrived mere moments later. I could hear his rusty Dodge Neon, long overdue for an oil change, the moment it turned into our street.
“Bummer, Gemma,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “News is all over town that you found a dead woman. For the record, I don’t think you did it.”
“Thank you so much for that vote of confidence,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” He put his arm around Jayne and pulled her close. “You’re safe now, babe.”
She smiled up at him. I refrained from gagging. He was lightly built and shorter than I am, although taller than Jayne, with intense dark eyes. He might even be good-looking, I thought, if he shaved off the goatee and washed his hair regularly. But that was all part of the starving-artist persona he liked to put on.
Speaking of a starving artist. “You don’t mind if I take the leftovers, do you, Gemma?” Jayne said. “Robbie can always eat.”
I swallowed my disappointment. Nothing I like better than reheated Chinese food for breakfast. Considering Jayne had earlier packed the containers back into their bag and was now swooping them up off the kitchen counter, it was too late to object.
“Do you know your door’s broken?” Robbie said.
“I did notice that, thank you.”
“I’ve a great idea,” Jayne said. “Why not hire Robbie to fix it? He’s done some construction work, haven’t you, honey?”
“Uh, yeah. I guess,” he said with his usual level of enthusiasm when talk of work was directed his way.
“I’d love to throw the job your way, Robbie,” I lied. Conveniently, at that moment a van rattled to a stop in the driveway. “But here’s the locksmith now.”
Jayne and Robbie left, and the locksmith got to work after explaining that I would be charged extra for the emergency callout. I told him to go ahead and stayed in the mudroom to watch him work. He installed a new lock and fitted a section of plywood into the broken window frame. Then, after giving me a quote for a new door with security features, such as not having a pane of ordinary glass within reaching distance of the door handle, he left.
I was giving my brand new lock a satisfying twist when my phone rang. I was dead beat and considered not answering, but the display showed Irene Talbot. I’d have to talk to her sometime, or she’d hunt me down. Might as well get it over with.
She didn’t bother with greetings. “Gemma, what can you tell me about the dead woman found at the West London Hotel?”
Clearly, this was not a social call. Irene had been born and raised on Cape Cod and had eagerly left its shores as soon as she finished high school for the rarified world of journalism college and then a beat at a national newspaper. But newspapers were not exactly thriving these days, and Irene had consistently been laid off when the papers she worked for either went out of business or made cutbacks after merging with another. Eventually, the only job she could get was at the West London Star, and home she came.
She put on a brave face and talked to anyone who would listen about her love of the Cape and needing to breathe the free air of a small town again. But she didn’t want to be here, and her crushed ambition was plain. She was Jayne’s and my friend, but I couldn’t allow myself to forget that she might view a sensational murder case as a springboard back to the limelight.
“I can tell you nothing,” I said. “Police orders.”
“You can hint, give me something off the record. Why were you there? Did you know the woman?”
The hotel receptionist would have been more than happy to tell the me
mbers of the press that I’d asked specifically to speak to the dead woman and that I’d been turned away. It couldn’t hurt, I thought, to verify what would by now be common knowledge. “She left something at the Emporium this afternoon. I was returning it, that’s all.”
“The police haven’t released her name yet, pending notification of next of kin. But you can tell me, Gemma. I won’t tell anyone where I heard it.”
“I don’t know her name, Irene,” I said. Okay, that was a lie, but officially I didn’t know it. Neither the hotel nor the police had told me. “They ordered me not to talk about this to anyone, certainly not you or your colleagues. Sorry, but I have to go.”
“You’ll give me the scoop, right? When this is over and you’re free to talk.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I knew Ryan Ashburton in high school. He always was a sharp one. He’ll get to the bottom of it soon.”
“Speaking of Detective Ashburton,” I said. “Do you know what brings him back to West London?”
“Something’s happening. The elevator just pinged. Gotta run. Talk to you later, Gemma. Remember, I expect an exclusive.”
Chapter 6
I don’t know if I dreamt of Ryan Ashburton or not, but my first thought on waking was of him.
Which might be because he was on the phone to tell me the police would be paying a call on me shortly. I fell out of bed and let Violet outside before scrambling into the shower. My hair needed a wash, but I didn’t have time to dry it. I have excessively curly hair, and left unattended, it tends to resemble an overused mop. I had only just pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—the first things that came to hand—when the doorbell rang.
Detective Louise Estrada stood there, accompanied by one of the fingerprint people from yesterday. I swallowed my disappointment, not entirely sure if it was disappointment or something more like relief, that it wasn’t Ryan on my doorstep. Estrada’s eyes were concealed behind large round sunglasses, making it difficult to know what she was thinking.
She didn’t bother giving me a good-morning. “We’re here to take your fingerprints. That didn’t get done yesterday. Can you please put the dog outside or lock it up while we’re here?”
I peeked outside. The police van and a marked cruiser were parked in front of my house. Once again, the neighbors were either at their windows or on their front porches, pretending not to be watching. Mrs. Macintosh—three doors to the west—takes her two miniature Dobermans for a fifteen-minute walk every day (regardless of the weather) at six AM and six PM. It was now quarter to seven, and she was dragging the confused dogs out of the house. Mr. Gibbons—on the opposite side of the street, two doors to the east—was getting a very early start on trimming his front hedge, which was already so immaculately trimmed he might have used a plumb line.
Violet was eager to greet our visitors, but I picked her up, took her into the office, and shut her in. Estrada didn’t remove her sunglasses the entire time she was in my house. Perhaps she feared I could read her mind.
“We’ll have to take your prints for elimination,” she said.
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” I replied. “They’re on file.”
Her eyebrows rose above her glasses. “Is that so?”
“Not because I’ve ever been accused of a crime, but I have offered to assist the police on other occasions.” I refrained from adding that my well-intended offers of assistance had been strongly rebuffed.
“Humor me,” she said, and I did so.
I knew the routine, but I allowed the fingerprint tech to explain it all to me. I rolled my inked thumb on the provided paper. “My uncle Arthur lives here also. He’s out of town right now, and I can’t say when he’ll be back.”
“Are his prints on file too?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“Arthur Clive Doyle.”
“Have you thought of anything you should have told us last night?” Estrada asked.
“No. I told you the whole story.”
“Sure you don’t want to change a few details here and there?”
I wiped my fingers on a tissue. “Nothing to change, Detective.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Estrada said.
I didn’t bother to ask her what the police had discovered (if anything) since last night. She kept her face impassive, and her words were polite enough, although short, but her entire body bristled with hostility toward me.
I had no idea what I’d done to make her dislike me so.
Once they’d left—watched by an enormous crowd, only some of whom pretended to be going about their business—I galloped down the hall, freed Violet, and got ready for work. I should have stayed home and cleaned up the mess, both from the previous night’s break-in and then the police activity, but I’d get around to that later. I decided to dispense with a second shower and a hair wash, but I changed out of the jeans and T-shirt into a pretty summer dress of white cotton sprinkled with large pink flowers, secured with a thin black belt, and slipped my feet into black ballet flats. When I’d opened the door to my visitors, the big yellow ball of the sun had been rising over the ocean into a cloudless sky and the fresh salty air had blown in on a light, warm breeze.
Violet stays at home every day when I go to work. Every day, judging by the look on her face, you’d think it was the first time she’d been abandoned. Shortly after Moriarty set up residence in the shop, I thought it would be nice if the dog came with me sometimes. She could spend the day in the office, and I could take her for short walks when I wasn’t busy. We’d come through the front door of the Emporium, the dog trotting happily at my side, and Moriarty had flown across the room in full attack mode, teeth and claws bared, hair rising. Suffice it to say that after I’d swept up shattered china, righted the bookshelves, and calmed the traumatized dog as best I was able, I’d decided not to try that again.
On days when I didn’t have breakfast at home, my first stop of the working day was Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room for tea and a blueberry scone dribbled with white icing. If my mother could see what they called a scone in America, she’d have a heart attack, but I have to admit I greatly prefer the ones Jayne makes to the dry rocks with raisins my mother baked every Monday of my childhood. For afternoon tea, Jayne changes the recipe and bakes what she calls a tea biscuit (which seems like a scone to me) but the menu still says scones because, she tells me, that’s what people expect to have with their tea. Why Americans have to confuse everything by using the same name for two different things is beyond me.
This morning, all the tables were occupied; Jocelyn was bustling about with laden trays, and Fiona was busy behind the takeout counter.
“Busy morning?” I asked Fiona when it was my turn to be served.
“Is it ever. You got the last of the scones. You and Jayne were seen last night at the site of a murder. And left in the presence of the police. People are talking.”
I spun around. Everyone behind me suffered whiplash as they turned their heads and pretended not to have been trying to listen in on our conversation.
“Is Jayne in the kitchen?” I asked Fiona.
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear she made it home alive,” I said.
I took my breakfast through to the Emporium. At the sound of the key in the lock and the door opening, Moriarty strolled down, as he always did, from the upper floor. He arched his back and hissed at me in his usual greeting.
“Good morning to you, too,” I said.
I keep his litter box in the staff washroom and his dishes in the office. I filled the bowls and emptied the box. He never thanks me, and I’d soon learned that I might lose a fingertip if I tried patting him while I poured kibble and refreshed the water.
I went onto the office computer and checked the local news. The killing at the West London Hotel was the feature story, as could be expected, but it provided few details. According to Irene Talbot, staff reporter, the deceased was named as Mary Ellen Longton of
Boston. West London Police Detective Ryan Ashburton was asking anyone who’d been at the hotel yesterday evening to . . . blah blah blah.
I’d given the card of the rare book dealer I’d met on Monday to Ryan, but not before jotting down Grant Thompson’s number for myself. I gave him a call.
“I appreciate the recommendation, Gemma,” he said once we’d exchanged greetings and I’d told him why I was calling. “Not that I’m likely to get any business out of the local police, but word spreads and that’s important for a newcomer. Maybe I’ll even get a mention in the paper.”
“Did you examine the magazine?”
“Far too briefly, and in the presence of a room full of cops. I didn’t open it past the cover page. I want to do that in a controlled environment and when I have time to do it properly. But based on far too quick of an examination, I’d say it might well be genuine.”
“Worth a lot then?”
“If it’s complete, it’s probably priceless. Meaning worth whatever anyone is willing to pay.”
“Do you collect yourself?”
He laughed. “I specialize in Victorian and Edwardian detective novels and the golden age of English crime writing. I have a few first editions, and I buy and sell others, but mostly I act as a middleman for people who do collect at that level.”
“Did the police say what they plan to do now?”
“Not to me, but surely they’ll be trying to find the owner. They’re working on the assumption that the dead woman stole it.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“What does that mean?”