The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  Renee joined our little circle. In contrast to Jayne, her eyes were like chips of ice. “Hollywood’s loss, I’m sure. Still, people have to be fed, don’t they? Someone has to do the cooking.”

  “Now, now, put those claws away, Renee.” Eddie slipped his arm around her shoulders, but he kept his eyes on Jayne. “Everyone knows you’re going to be fabulous in this role. If you can only get that accent right.”

  She snuggled closer to him. “Maybe you can give me some tips, Eddie, honey. When we can get some private time.” She was also looking at Jayne as she spoke. “Non-theater people have no idea how hard it can be.”

  What an interesting interpersonal dynamic we have here.

  “I feel the same way when I order three copies of The Beekeeper’s Apprentice and only two arrive,” I said in an accent so pretentious it would do the Dowager Duchess of Grantham proud. “Life as a bookseller can be so difficult sometimes. I often wonder how I cope.”

  Renee’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at me for the first time. Eddie laughed out loud. He took his arm back and stepped away from Renee. “The wardrobe mistress is waiting for me, and she’s a right dragon. We’re still on for tonight, Jayne?”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.” He gave her a smile and vaulted onto the stage as though he were Holmes leaping from crag to crag across the moors.

  “Take some advice from me,” Renee said, “and stay in your kitchen, where you belong.”

  Jayne, innocent Jayne, who’d missed all the undercurrents flowing around, said, “What do you mean?”

  “She means there’s nothing a chap likes more than a good home-cooked meal,” I said. “I’m sure Eddie’s no different than any other man. He must get so tired of living in a hotel and eating restaurant food.”

  Renee glared at me.

  “I suppose,” Jayne said, “but you know I don’t cook at home, Gemma. I do that all day. The last thing I want to do when I get home is take out more pots and pans. If you think he’d like that though . . .”

  Renee stalked off.

  “What do you suppose got into her?” Jayne asked me.

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  Rebecca picked up her purse and got to her feet. “I’ve seen all I can handle. This is a disaster. A total and absolute disaster.”

  “Early days yet,” I said. “Give Eddie time to get into the role.”

  “He’s had more than enough time. I wanted an actor with gravitas. I got someone who could be on the cover of a magazine providing fashion tips for preteen girls.” She stalked off.

  “I thought Eddie was doing a fine job,” Jayne said.

  “Give me a minute, will you?” I said.

  When we’d first arrived, I’d noticed the man sitting in the back row of the theater, wrapped in darkness. When the actors took their break, he’d stood up and moved into the aisle, where Pat joined him. I’d seen him at the tea on Sunday. The one with the man-bun and the pink shorts. The hair was still in place, but his clothes were less flamboyant today, beige slacks and a brown golf shirt. I made my way up the side aisle toward them. He’d been at the party, but I hadn’t met him. Time to correct that oversight. I needed to know all the players here.

  “That was interesting,” I said to Pat. “Thanks for letting us watch.”

  “My pleasure,” she said. “I have to get back to your tea room soon.”

  I offered the man my hand. “Gemma Doyle.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pat said, “I didn’t realize you hadn’t met. Gemma Doyle. Leo Blackstone.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” we chorused.

  “Gemma owns a Sherlock Holmes-themed bookstore in West London,” Pat said. “It’s a delight.”

  “I’ll have to check it out.” He could barely control his total lack of interest.

  Notably, Pat did not tell me what Leo Blackstone did or why he was here. I rectified that omission. “What brings you to rehearsal today, Leo?”

  “Curiosity,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell much about him by his appearance or the way he talked. American, for sure. His fancy Rolex and Italian loafers indicated some money. The man-bun and permanent tan probably meant California, perhaps Arizona or Florida, so the Escalade, which was the sort of vehicle he would drive, would be a rental. The fat gold wedding ring he wore indicated he wasn’t on the make, and his attitude toward Pat eliminated that as a possibility anyway. Their behavior toward each other indicated that they weren’t friends; they might be relatives who didn’t know each other too well, but I could see no traces of family resemblance. He was likely here on business, and his hair style, dress, and demeanor indicated something in the arts. Because he was here, it must be theater. Judging by the tan, he was more likely to work in movies than the stage, but there was no reason he couldn’t have an interest in both.

  I put him down as a financial backer of the play. I don’t know much about how these things work, but it seemed odd that someone would come all the way from California to check on his investment in a small, local repertoire company.

  “So far,” he said to Pat. “I like what I’m seeing. You’re lucky that young man was ready to step in to take the main role. I think he’ll do a good job. Nigel had the name, but we don’t want to re-create an old chestnut. But . . . early days yet. Catch you later. Nice meeting you, Gemma.” He walked away. The interior of the barn was well-lit, and plenty of light crept between slats in the walls, but as he opened the door, he was framed in a burst of brilliant sunlight. What do they call people who finance theatrical productions? Angels.

  “Is the loss of Nigel likely to mean a financial setback for the season?” I asked Pat.

  “I won’t say I’m not worried. The publicity from having his name attached to our production would have been immeasurable.” Her jaw tightened. “Despite that, I have to confess I wasn’t entirely comfortable having him in the main role. His, shall we say, best years seemed to have passed.”

  “Losing him is not a disaster, then, as Rebecca seems to think.”

  “I’ve always been a boundless optimist. You have to be, to be a director of live theater. I like to believe it’s all turned out for the best. Although,” she added hastily, “not for poor Sir Nigel.”

  We turned at a burst of laughter from the direction of the stage. Eddie had come out, wearing his Holmes frock coat and carrying his walking stick. He was performing for Jayne, using the stick as a sword. He lunged and parried and then dropped to his knees and held it out to her, head bowed. Jayne clapped her hands and laughed.

  From the wings, Renee threw daggers.

  “Time to get back at it,” Pat said. “People, stop that foolishness. I need Harry out here, and I need him now. Renee, get that pout off your face before it freezes into position. Eddie, that hem’s loose. If you tear it, Alice’ll tear a strip off you.”

  Chapter 12

  Jayne dropped me back at the store and went home to change once again for her date with Eddie. She glowed with such happiness, I hated to be the one who might end up sticking a pin in her balloon. I didn’t mention that Eddie was now firmly at the top of my suspect list. I don’t think Sherlock Holmes ever said “cui bono,” but if not, he should have. Who benefits? The first question that must always be asked in any murder inquiry. Who benefits from the death?

  Eddie Barker clearly did. The starring role in the festival’s centerpiece play now rested in his well-manicured, tanned hands. Not only did he land the role, but the death of Nigel would attract even more theatergoers. People like to be involved, no matter how peripherally, in a celebrity death. The more mysterious, the better.

  I did a quick inventory as I came into the shop. Business had been brisk.

  “Lots of people are talking about that play,” Ashleigh told me. “They saw the poster in the window and think we’re involved. Are we?”

  More than I would like. “No. Although I might see about selling tickets. If people come in here, there’s no point sending them down the stree
t to the box office.”

  “Maybe we could provide some of the props,” she said, “and sell copies of them at the theater.”

  “What kind of props? The play, from what I saw, is set in the nineteenth century. The characters won’t be sipping tea out of I Am SHERLocked mugs or reading Lyndsay Faye or Anthony Horowitz.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you could get some old stuff in. Like capes and hats or something.”

  “I think I have enough stock, thank you.”

  Her face fell, and I added quickly, “That’s a good suggestion but not entirely practical. Keep thinking, and don’t be afraid to bring your ideas to me.”

  “Businesses need to expand if they are to grow,” she said.

  “Right.” I didn’t add that I didn’t want to grow. I was happy with the Emporium exactly the way it was.

  “There’s an active chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars in Boston. They call themselves ‘The Speckled Band.’ I looked that up last night. I bet they’d love to shop at your store. If you aren’t keen on my idea of selling franchise rights to the name, why don’t you open a second location of the Emporium?”

  Perish the thought. The bell over the door tinkled, thankfully putting an end to that line of speculation.

  Donald Morris came in. I was pleased to see that he wasn’t carrying the folder with the playbill. I gave him a smile. “Twice in one day. To what do I owe this honor, Donald?”

  “About sixty,” he said.

  Not this again. “I told you earlier, my top offer is fifty bucks.”

  “Not sixty dollars, but the book About Sixty. Do you have it?”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” I walked with him to the nonfiction shelf. “I thought you had this already. I remember you buying it when it first came out.”

  “It will be gift,” he said, “for a fellow Sherlockian who’s in the hospital.”

  “Nice of you to think of him.” I took the book off the shelf. There are sixty stories in the original Holmes canon. In this collection, a Sherlockian makes the claim as to why each story is the best. A clever idea, I thought, although some of the arguments had to be stretched mighty far. I handed Donald the book. “Did you find a buyer for your playbill?”

  “Mrs. Stanton was delighted to have it. Naturally, I’ll never reveal the amount she paid for it, but she is a very generous woman. It will have a prominent place during the run of The Hound, in Sir Nigel’s honor.”

  After Donald had made his purchase, I debated calling Grant and saying I was free for dinner after all. Instead, once Ashleigh had left and I closed the shop for the day, I phoned Leslie Wilson.

  “I’m checking in,” I said when she answered. “Everything okay there?”

  Her sigh came down the phone. “Detective Estrada came by yesterday. She took the aprons my volunteers wore and asked me all the same questions. Why did Nigel and I go for a walk? Why did we think it necessary to leave the garden for the privacy of the woods? Did I—?”

  “Let’s not talk about this on the phone. Are you at home?” It was unlikely the police or anyone else was tapping Leslie’s phone, but nevertheless, I didn’t want this conversation to be on record.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Violet loves nothing more than a ride in the Miata. She could use a treat today, so I took her with me. I don’t like leaving her at home alone all day, but when Uncle Arthur’s traveling, I have little choice. In the off-season, I can close the shop for an hour in the afternoon and take her for a good walk, but in the busiest times, I can’t usually get away. At one time, I’d considered taking her to work with me some days. She was well behaved and would stay in the office without barking to be let out or trashing the place. Let’s just say that Moriarty and Violet’s initial meeting was not a success, and I was forced to abandon that plan. When he’s home, Arthur’s with her most of the day, and he walks her regularly, which does the both of them a lot of good: exercise for Uncle Arthur and a proper doggie social life for Violet. For some reason, all the elderly ladies and their equally elderly dogs have the same walking schedule as Arthur and Violet.

  Leslie opened the kitchen door when she heard me drive up, and Rufus ran out ahead of her.

  “I brought my dog,” I said. “She’s friendly. Is it okay to let her play?”

  “Rufus loves to make friends.”

  I opened the door, and the two dogs greeted each other in a flurry of wagging tails and inquisitive sniffs. Violet then went on to investigate all the marvelous new smells in Leslie’s yard, and Rufus followed her.

  “Have you told the detectives you walked with Nigel to the cliff edge?” I asked as Leslie and I watched the two animals get acquainted.

  She hung her head. “It’s too late, Gemma. How can I possibly say I forgot that little detail?”

  “You have to, Leslie. They’re concentrating on you because they think you’re hiding something. And they’re right. If you let them know what it is you’re hiding, they might move on.”

  “Might. Or they might decide to arrest me.”

  “If you want,” I said, “I’ll come with you when you talk to them.”

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t kill Nigel. I had no reason to. And no one can prove I did.”

  “I think that’s a mistake, but it’s your decision. But you have to talk to Jayne. She’s worried. She’s beginning to realize that you’re of far more interest to the police than anyone else who was at the party. She wants to know why.”

  Leslie threw up her hands. “How can I tell her about my past? About this secret I’ve kept all these years?”

  “Better than worrying her half to death and driving a wedge of distrust and suspicion between you.”

  Violet cornered a squirrel in an old oak and leapt frantically against the tree trunk trying to reach it. From sixty feet above the ground, the squirrel laughed.

  “I know you’re right, Gemma. But it’s hard. Detective Estrada asked me about money.”

  “What about it?”

  Leslie waved her arm around, indicating the house falling into gentle disrepair, the overgrown flower beds, the old car that was as much rust as metal. “When Rick died, he left a lot of medical bills and not much else. I have my pension from the bank, and that pays my expenses, if I live simply. It’s obvious to anyone that I don’t have a lot of extra cash. Jeff has been after me to sell the house. I have no mortgage on it, and he says I’d make a handsome profit. I know it’s the practical thing to do, but I simply can’t.” She looked around her, taking in the old house, the spacious gardens, the peace and quiet. “I love it here. Rick and I were so happy. This is where we raised our children. I have to live somewhere, and I’m not ready to move into a soulless condo. I’m happy with my life the way it is. Although I’d love to have a pack of grandchildren. Don’t tell Jayne I said that.”

  “Why does Estrada care about your finances?”

  “I think she suspects I was blackmailing Nigel.”

  “Why would you do that? She doesn’t know about your son. Does she?”

  Leslie shook her head.

  “Then she’s fishing. Was Detective Ashburton with her?”

  “No. She came here alone to get the aprons.”

  “Don’t talk to her again. Next time she comes, tell her you want your lawyer to be present.”

  “Won’t that make me look like I have something to hide?”

  “It will make you look like a citizen in danger of having her rights violated. I don’t know what game she’s playing at, but I don’t want you playing along.” I touched her arm. “I’m doing what I can to get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry.”

  Her brave smile looked so much like her daughter’s.

  I called Violet, and we got into the car and headed home.

  * * *

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Louise Estrada was clearly focused on Leslie Wilson as the killer. Ryan was always telling me Estrada was a good cop and a good detective. I ha
d yet to be convinced of that.

  Ryan also told me I got Estrada’s back up and I should attempt to make nice.

  Somehow, whenever I try to make nice, it goes awry.

  I had to ask myself if Estrada was focusing on Leslie because I was defending her. Might Estrada not even realize she was letting me, unwittingly, push her buttons?

  Surely we both had the same goal in mind? To find out what happened to Sir Nigel Bellingham at the edge of that cliff on Saturday afternoon.

  I had to remember that Ryan himself wasn’t completely convinced of Leslie’s innocence either.

  I pulled into my driveway but didn’t get out of the car. Instead, I called Gerald Greene. I tried to sound as though I was just making a friendly call. Checking up on a fellow countryman alone and far from our native shores. “How are you doing?”

  “Doing? How do you think I’m doing? I’m stuck in this miserable town. I want to go home.”

  “Are the police still saying you can’t leave?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, I have a hotel room. Sir Nigel’s and my rooms were paid in advance. Mrs. Stanton wants me to leave so she can get a full refund, but I don’t see why I should have to. As it is, I have to pay for my own meals and other expenses here. My salary ended with Sir Nigel.”

  “How about a drink at the bar in your hotel?”

  Long pause.

  “My shout,” I said.

  “Brilliant idea,” he replied.

  I agreed to meet Gerald in fifteen minutes and backed out of the driveway. I brought Violet with me, hoping I could find out what I needed to know from Gerald quickly and still have time to go for a walk along the water’s edge.

  A strong wind was blowing off the ocean, and the sun was low in the sky to the west, but I didn’t want to leave the dog in the car, so I tied Violet to a tree at the side of the parking lot of the Harbor Inn and told her I’d be back as soon as I could. She didn’t object and settled down on the cool grass for a short nap.

  Gerald was waiting in the lobby and got to his feet when he saw me. “Good evening, Gemma.”