by Vicki Delany
“There’s no jewelry store at 195 Baker.”
“Exactly. He, the store owner, set up the other crimes as a smoke screen for his ultimate intention, which was to burn his own business to the ground and thus claim the insurance money, not only for the store but for the contents as well, which themselves were fake, as he’d sold the genuine jewelry to his mob debt collector. Ryan and his senior detective, a fat, balding fellow by the name of Rick Mertz—who has, fortunately for the good people of West London, gone on to a comfortable, if totally undeserved, retirement—at first suspected me of being the arsonist.” And that’s why my fingerprints are on record with the West London police.
“Because you knew the details.”
“Because I took the time to observe what was going on. Fortunately, the guilty party wasn’t particularly clever—desperate men rarely are—and I was able to convince Ryan, if not his superiors, where and when to catch him in the act, and the case was brought to a successful conclusion.”
“That doesn’t explain why you broke up with him.”
“I attempted to help on some of his other cases. He didn’t want my help. His stubborn male pride got in the way. I might have said that publicly. That was a mistake.”
“No kidding,” Jayne said.
“Everything okay here, ladies?” Brian asked.
“I’ll have another,” Jayne said. “Can I also see the bar snacks menu, please?”
“Gemma?” he asked.
“What?” I blinked.
“Do you want another glass of wine?”
“No thanks.” He handed Jayne the small menu, and she flipped it open. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes with a sigh. My relationship with Ryan had not ended because I tried to help the police with their cases. Yes, that had always been a sticking point between us, but the climax had been far more personal than that.
I’d made the unpardonable error of saying “yes” before giving him the chance to pop the question.
We’d gone to one of West London’s finest restaurants, on Ryan’s suggestion. It was a gorgeous early summer evening, much like this one, and I knew something special was in the air.
When the main course was over and the plates taken away, he’d cleared his throat, looked around the restaurant, caught the waiter’s eye, blushed to the roots of his hair, patted his jacket pocket and said, “Gemma.”
And I, far too clever for my own good, had enthusiastically replied. “Yes!”
“Yes what? I haven’t asked you anything.”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The color drained from his handsome face. “How did you know?” He looked, frankly, horrified, but I blundered on, not noticing.
“You’re wearing your best suit and a brand new tie, if I’m not mistaken. You’ve gone to the trouble of shaving after work, which you don’t normally do. You’ve even polished your shoes. You have a touch of sweat on your brow, but this room isn’t hot. Somewhat the contrary, I think. They’ve turned the air conditioning on too early. The bulge in your jacket pocket is the size and shape of a ring box. You gave the waiter an unobtrusive nod that had him grinning like a fool, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s bringing the champagne now. Veuve Clicquot, excellent choice.”
“Gemma,” Ryan said. “I . . . I . . . can’t.”
“Can’t what?” I asked in all innocence.
He stopped patting his jacket pocket and looked straight at me. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I love you like crazy, but everything I think, you know it before I do. There will never be any surprises. No secrets.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? No secrets between us?”
“There’s such a thing as good secrets, Gemma. Birthday presents. Surprise parties. Marriage proposals.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can try not to notice . . .”
“No, I’m sorry. This was such a mistake. I guess I hoped that for once, you’d just enjoy the evening. Yes, you can try. But then you wouldn’t be you, Gemma, and how miserable would that make you? You’d blame me.”
“I wouldn’t . . .”
“You would. Whether you wanted to or not.” He stood up. “I’ve been offered a job in Boston. I was about to turn it down, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry, Gemma. It’s not going to work. I’ll take care of the check on my way out.”
He left me sitting there, surround by the hum of conversation, the clinking of silver, and the dying light of the candle on our table.
The waiter gaped at me, towel draped over his arm. “Don’t bother opening that bottle,” I said.
I’d managed to get out of the restaurant and halfway home before I started to cry.
But Jayne didn’t need to know all the details.
“So that’s the story,” I said. “A promising romance that came to naught. Happens to us all. What did he have to say to you over coffee and sandwiches?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. He asked questions about last night. I told him what happened, and that’s all.”
“Ryan knows me, as you pointed out. He believes me. But I’m worried about that Detective Estrada. She’s got a shifty look about her. If she discovers Ryan and I once dated, and it’s hardly a secret around town, she might try to get him taken off the case.”
“So? We didn’t do anything.”
“Miscarriages of justice have been known to happen, Jayne. And I don’t intend to be the victim of one. Now let’s examine the events surrounding the situation.”
“Want anything?” the bartender asked. “Andy says it’s on him.”
“How nice of him,” Jayne said. “I’ll have an order of bruschetta. Gemma?”
“What?”
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No thanks. I’ll have some of yours.”
“In that case bruschetta and the calamari, please.” She handed him the menu with a smile.
“That Mary Ellen Longton is—or I should say, was—involved in a legal quarrel with the estate of her previous employer is not in dispute. That the previous employer was a Sherlockian tells us why she was able to take possession of the magazine. Either he left it to her in his will, and she took off with it before the presumptive heirs knew what was happening, or she stole it the moment he kicked the bucket.”
“‘Kicked the bucket’?”
“Isn’t that a phrase you Americans use?”
“I’m surprised to hear you using it.”
“I’m trying to fit in.”
“Her son says the magazine was left to her in the will.”
“No, her son says she was left something in the will. He obviously doesn’t know what that is. And I would advise you to take everything he has to say with a grain of salt. He has an agenda of his own. It might be worth dropping a word into Ryan’s ear to check Roy Longton’s alibi for last night.”
“You don’t think her own son would have killed her?”
“Right now, Jayne, I have not the slightest idea of who would. All I know is who didn’t. You and me. Someone followed Mary Ellen Longton to West London with the intention of retrieving the magazine. They may or may not have intended to kill her, but that’s irrelevant.”
“Not to her.” Our food arrived and Jayne selected a slice of bruschetta. It was too early in the season for the tomatoes to be fresh and local, but they did look delicious, so I helped myself also. The herb toppings, I knew, were fresh and local, having been grown by Andy in the small greenhouse on his property.
“First, let’s examine events around the time that may be relevant. Donald Morris told me he’s searching for a copy of the Strand that has been rumored to have come onto the market. I wondered at the time why he was interested, as the Strand isn’t at all uncommon unless it has some distinguishing feature such as a signature or notation by Conan Doyle. In that case, it would be possible, almost likely even, that such an item would be in the possession of a wealthy, longtime collector. Question: Is Donald genuinely looking for this rumored Strand, or was that a ruse to get m
e to reveal that I am in the possession of the much more valuable Beeton’s?”
“You didn’t have the magazine when Donald first mentioned it to you.”
“Excellent point. Still, we have to ask to what lengths Donald would go to obtain the magazine.”
“You can’t be thinking Donald Morris killed Mary Ellen?”
“He’s a fanatical collector, Jayne. And a collector without much in the way of funds. Donald is on our list.”
“We have a list?”
“We will shortly.” I wiped my fingers on my napkin and selected another piece of bruschetta. “Next, Grant Thompson. Rare book collector and dealer.”
“Oh, yes. The handsome one.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed. He came into the shop the day before The Small Woman. Coincidence? Unlikely. Was he hunting her? My shop would be an obvious place for her to go if she wanted to sell the magazine but hadn’t done enough research to know that I’m just a small-town, main-street retailer. I didn’t think to ask Ryan if Grant showed any prior familiarity with the Beeton’s when he examined it at the police station.” I popped the last piece of bruschetta in my mouth, dug in my pocket, and pulled out my phone. “I’ll do so now.”
Jayne’s left hand was holding a piece of calamari. She put her right hand on my arm. “That might not be such a good idea. You said he told you not to get involved.”
“But this might be important information.”
“Who’s next on this list?”
I put the phone away and selected a piece of calamari. “Kurt Kent’s son Colin. Ryan called him last night to tell him what had happened, and he came to West London first thing this morning.”
“Nothing unusual about that.”
“No, but what did attract my attention was that he stopped at the Emporium before going to the police station. I can’t help wondering why he did that.”
“You would think the police would be his first priority,” Jayne said.
“Yes, you would. If not Colin himself, what about the other heirs? We have to ask the same questions about the jewelry I found in Mary Ellen’s hotel room as we do about the magazine. Had Mary Ellen stolen it, or was it bequeathed to her and she decided to head out of town lickety-split before the will could be contested?”
The loud group next to us was told their table was ready, and they moved away. Two young women hopped onto the vacated stools. I eyed them, wondering if we’d have to save this conversation for another time. They immediately took out their phones, and their fingers began to fly.
I lowered my voice anyway, just to be sure, and leaned toward Jayne. “And then there’s the bridge bus tour group.”
“What about them?”
“They were in the shop the same time as Mary Ellen Longton.” I mentally pulled up a view of the Emporium as it had been yesterday afternoon. The Small Woman came in. She spoke to no one, at least as far as I could tell, and I soon lost track of her. The women of the bus tour were shopping, chatting, laughing. No one appeared to be acting suspiciously, whatever that might mean. Then again, we were very busy. I might have missed something. I hated the thought. “I wonder if any of them noticed anything. It might be worth asking. I don’t suppose they told you where they were going next on their tour?”
“Nope. You want that last piece of calamari?”
I waved my hand.
“What about Ruby?” Jayne asked.
“Ruby? My new assistant? What about her?”
“She saw the magazine, Gemma. She might not have realized the value of it, but your reaction told her something was up.”
“True,” I said. “But I don’t see it. Even if she did decide she wanted the magazine, she, along with only you and me, knew The Small Woman didn’t have it any longer. Plus, she’d left the shop when I discovered the postcard from the West London Hotel, so how would she know where to go? I suppose she might have decided to steal the magazine from me, but I find it impossible to believe that the murder of Mary Ellen Longton and the ransacking of my house are not directly related.”
“Remember,” Jayne said, “that ‘once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’”
“Spare me,” I said.
Irene Talbot came onto the deck. She was with a group of men and women I didn’t recognize, but I took to be out-of-town reporters. Freelancers, probably, snooping around for something—anything—of interest. The death of Mary Ellen Longton hadn’t gotten any press outside of Cape Cod, no doubt because it wasn’t particularly newsworthy. Give it time though. A rich man, a wealthy family, a greedy (according to some) private nurse, a disputed inheritance ending in murder. The stuff sensational cases are made of. Irene spoke to her companions, gestured for them to follow the hostess to their table, and approached us.
“Hi, Jayne. Gemma. Lovely night, isn’t it? My mom says it’s going to be another record-breaking summer in terms of the numbers of tourists.”
“Good for business then,” Jayne said. “If not for getting a last-minute table at a restaurant.”
“Want to tell me what this afternoon was about?” I asked. “Bringing Roy Longton to Mrs. Hudson’s to meet us?”
“Can’t you figure that out for yourself? Maybe if he twitched his right eyebrow or something.”
I was suddenly angry. “Don’t treat me like a fool, Irene. You didn’t tell him to drop by for tea and tarts because you thought I needed a new friend.”
She lifted her hands. “Okay, don’t bite my head off.” She glanced around the room, checking no one was listening. “This is all on the down low, you understand. Even my,” she gestured to the other reporters, “buddies over there don’t know yet. Someone I know, who just happens to work for the WLPD says that a magazine was left in the Emporium, and that’s why you went to the hotel in pursuit of Mary Ellen Longton.”
“Hardly in pursuit.”
“Don’t shoot me, I’m only the messenger. I said, ‘Who cares about some magazine?’ but my friend went on to tell me that a rare book dealer showed up at the police station this morning to examine it. He told them it was worth thousands.” She studied my face. “You don’t look surprised.”
“If I wanted you to think this was news to me, Irene, I would look surprised.”
“She can do surprised,” Jayne said. “Flabbergasted, even.”
“Considering that your contact told you this magazine is currently in the protection of the police,” I said. “I still don’t understand why you brought Roy Longton to meet me.”
Jayne sipped at her drink, her eyes watching me over the rim of the glass.
“Mary Ellen gave the magazine to you, Gemma,” Irene said. “Before she died. That might give you a claim to being the rightful owner.”
Jayne spat pink liquor all over herself and Irene. The intrepid reporter yelped and leapt out of range, swatting away beads of liquid forming on the front of her shirt. A young, handsome male waiter appeared instantly, clutching a handful of cocktail napkins. He basically shoved Irene aside and helpfully dabbed at Jayne’s blouse.
“Is everything all right?” Brian, the bartender, asked. “You okay, Jayne?”
“She’ll live,” I plucked the napkins out of the waiter’s hand. “Thank you for your help. I can manage here.” I handed the napkins to Irene and spoke to Brian. “Another glass of wine for me, please.” The table of reporters was watching us. Seeing as to how nothing further seemed to be happening, they returned their attention to their beer bottles.
I accepted the fresh glass and took a sip.
Irene continued to dab. “This is an expensive shirt, I’ll have you know.”
“Sorry,” Jayne said.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I said. “Mary Ellen did not give me anything. She hid her property and scampered, no doubt intending to come back for it at a better time.”
“Why would she do that?” Irene asked.
“If I knew that,” I snapped, “I’d know who killed her and why
. Good heavens, Irene. Are you telling me you told that man, her son, that I own the magazine?”
“I merely pointed out that if you can prove she gave it to you, willingly and without being coerced, then yes you’d have a claim.”
“Cool,” Jayne said. Brian brought her a fresh drink to replace the one that was now soaking into Irene’s nice shirt.
“I want no part of this,” I said.
“You could stake your claim. Tell the court she intended it to go to a good home, and who better to take care of it than a noted Sherlock Holmes aficionado?”
“Who better?” Jayne agreed.
“Which I am not,” I growled.
“You could give it to Arthur,” Jayne said. “He’d love to have it. Or you could use it to attract customers to the shop.”
I almost yelled at her, but I noticed the twinkle in her eyes in time.
“This conversation is over,” I said. “I don’t have any claim to the magazine, and it’s a moot point because I don’t happen to have it. The police do. The Kent and Longton families can fight it out in court.”
“Which is the problem,” Irene said. “Roy’s Mary Ellen’s only child, and his parents are long divorced. It’s perfectly obvious he can’t fight the Kent family legally. All they have to do is delay, and any money he has for legal fees will run out, probably in the middle of the first billable hour.”
“I hate to point this out to you, Irene,” Jayne said. “But Gemma isn’t rolling in the big bucks either.”
“Not that Gemma has any claim to stake,” I replied.
“I thought Roy should meet all the players, that’s all,” Irene said.
“I am not a player. And don’t tell me you bought his grieving son act, never mind all that about what a loving, kind woman she was to the dying old man abandoned by his heartless family.”
“Whether I believe it or not is irrelevant. It makes good copy.”
“This is a pointless conversation,” Jayne said. “As of right now, no one has the magazine.”