by Vicki Delany
While Fiona selected the fattest brownie and slipped it into a paper bag, I spoke to Lorraine. “Business has been good all over town this season. It must be the great weather we’re having. Everyone seems to be happy, particularly the store owners on Baker Street. I suppose the hotels and B and Bs are saying the same. Your sister owns a B and B doesn’t she?” As if I didn’t know.
“Yes, and she’s thrilled. She’s already booked solid for the whole season.”
“Brilliant. What’s her B and B called again?” Also, as if I didn’t know.
“Sailor’s Delight.”
“Is that so? I think I heard mention of that place only the other day.”
“Some of the actors from the festival are staying there. Judy’s absolutely thrilled. Imagine Renee Masters and Edward Barker staying in her house. She’d never heard of either of them before, but she looked them up, and now she’s bragging to all her friends. She was disappointed that Sir Nigel Bellingham was staying at the Harbor Inn—him, she had heard of—but with what happened to him, she’s glad he wasn’t with her. She wouldn’t want the police poking around her house, looking for clues. Nothing like police interest to put the guests off, or so Judy says.”
I took my brownie from Fiona and gave Lorraine a slight twitch of my head. I moved away from the counter, and Lorraine followed. I could scarcely come right out and ask what I wanted to know, but I could dangle the bait. Either it would be snatched up by ravenous jaws or left dangling. “I bet your sister has some fun things to say about her guests.”
She sniffed. “Guests are entitled to their privacy, you know.”
“Goes without saying.” I smiled at her.
“She occasionally talks to me about things in complete confidence. Nothing important, you understand.”
“I’m not interested in common gossip.”
Lorraine looked shocked at the very idea. “Of course not.”
“But, well, with the death of Nigel Bellingham, I can’t help but wonder if the guests have been acting at all strangely. Other than Renee and Eddie, who else is staying there?”
“Pat Allworth, the director, and one of the other actors, some older guy. I don’t know his name. That’s all the rooms Judy could give them. She has regular guests who come every year, and she didn’t want to have to put them off. She didn’t know what to do. She’s never been asked by the festival before, and she hated to turn them down, because they’re likely to be a reliable source of income. If we’d known then what we know now, Judy might have suggested they double up.” She giggled. If I had whiskers, they would have been twitching. Another gentle nudge, and Lorraine would snatch up the bait.
The door opened, and two women came in. Unfortunately, they took seats rather than going directly to the counter. I edged slightly sideways, putting Lorraine’s back to the room. “Double up? Has anything been said about the festival being short of money?” That might be an avenue worth exploring. Was Nigel’s contract so cast-iron, he couldn’t be fired even for being drunk and unable to perform? I couldn’t think of a way I’d be able to persuade anyone to let me have a peek. I am not, as the recent incident at the Harbor Inn showed, entirely above a touch of breaking and entering, but I didn’t need to be in possession of any more information I couldn’t tell the cops. If the festival was in severe financial difficulties, that would be something the police needed to know.
Lorraine giggled. “I don’t know about that. About the inner workings of the festival. All I mean is, some of those folks don’t spend every night in their own beds.” She gave me a wink.
“Huh?”
“Judy and I like to have a little chat every morning. Now that our kids have jobs and families and Dad and his new wife are spending all their time in Florida, we’re all we have. You’d think that as Nancy—that’s my oldest girl—is only living in Yarmouth, not more than half an hour down the highway, she’d have some time for her lonely mother, wouldn’t you? But no, not that girl, she’s too involved in her own career. Too important to have a good long chat with her mother in the mornings. Judy says it comes from—”
“Who’s not sleeping in their own bed?” I ignored Fiona, who was trying to direct Lorraine’s attention to the newcomers.
Lorraine gave me a wink. “I don’t like to gossip, dear, but if you think it’s important . . .”
“Definitely important.”
“That Edward Barker, so handsome, isn’t he? Just this morning, Judy told me that when she went to do up his room yesterday, his bed hadn’t been slept in.”
Not slept in? Was that relevant? It was unlikely he was out all night hiding evidence in the murder of Nigel or scouting out locations in which to commit other dastardly deeds.
“Oh, look,” I said, “you have customers. Better get back to it.”
Seeing she was losing me, Lorraine quickly added. “That’s not all.”
“It’s not?”
“Judy says whereas his bed wasn’t slept in, Renee’s showed signs of double occupancy. And a lot of . . . tossing and turning . . . went on during the night.”
“Excuse me!” One of the customers had gotten to her feet and was waving her napkin in the air. “Can we have some service here?”
“Be right with you,” Lorraine called. She dropped her voice. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Gemma? That’s between you and me. Judy will have my hide if she finds out I’ve been gossiping about her guests.”
In that case, I thought, Judy would be well advised not to engage in gossip herself.
Lorraine bustled off without waiting for me to agree. Or not.
That was one tidbit of news I did not want to know. It was highly unlikely, to the point of improbably, that if Renee and Eddie were tiptoeing between rooms in the dead of night as though they were starring in a French farce, it had anything at all to do with the death of Nigel.
Unfortunately, it did have a heck of a lot to do with the romantic entanglements of Jayne Wilson.
I had learned something and, as much as I might want to, I could not unlearn it.
* * *
As planned, I went home at quarter to four. On the grounds that food and drink can be relied upon to smooth all social occasions, I popped into the market to pick up a few things. I prepared a pitcher of iced tea; arranged a selection of cheeses, bread and crackers, and plump green grapes onto a large wooden platter; and poured nuts into a bowl. I made the tea with powder from a packaged mix, although Jayne would disapprove, but we English have never learned to drink our tea cold.
I’d phoned Leslie from the store and invited her around to my house to talk over the day’s developments. She said she hadn’t heard from Estrada or Ryan again and was about to hang up on me. Leaving me with no choice but to lie and say I had something to tell her.
The only thing I’d learned today was that Eddie was dating Jayne and at the same time sleeping with Renee, but I didn’t think Jayne would thank me for telling her mum. I didn’t think Jayne would thank me for telling her either, so I decided to keep that tidbit of information to myself.
Jayne was the first to arrive. She eyed the snacks suspiciously. “Who else is coming?”
“I told you—your mum.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You’ve put enough food out here to feed an army. Or an entire theater company at the very least.”
“You think so? I wanted to be sure we had enough.”
“An entire wheel of brie, at least a pound of Stilton—and that stuff’s not cheap—and another pound and a half of cheddar. Never mind the slices of salami and ham, the hunk of pâté, a whole baguette, and two types of crackers.” Jayne helped herself to one grape. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cashews in a single place at any one time.”
“I’m not accustomed to entertaining.”
“No kidding, Gemma.” She gave me a grin. “But thanks.”
We both jumped at a knock on the mudroom door. Violet hurried to answer, and I followed. Le
slie gave the dog a pat and me a quick hug. I led the way into the kitchen. Leslie stopped so abruptly, Violet ran into the back of her legs. Her smile disappeared when she saw her daughter munching on a thin slice of cheddar. “Jayne, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Will you look at that?” I said. “Poor Violet is desperate to go outside.” At that moment, the dog had hurried to assume a polite seated position at Jayne’s feet, hoping for a piece of cheese. “Come on, Violet. Violet! Walk!” I grabbed the leash off the hook in the mudroom, snapped it onto her collar and dragged the dog out the door. “Can’t be helped, sorry. Enjoy some cheese and crackers. Don’t wait for me.”
At last, Violet got the hint, and we hurried down the driveway.
I stayed away for about an hour, and when we got back, Jayne and her mother were gone. The pitcher of iced tea was almost finished. It looked as though two, maybe three grapes had been eaten. Oh, well, I’d have a cheese and ham sandwich for dinner. And for lunch tomorrow. And probably for several days to come. Maybe the rest of the week.
Perhaps the theater crew would like some.
A piece of paper lay on the counter, tucked under the bowl of nuts.
Thanks, it said in Jayne’s neat handwriting. That was all it needed to say.
* * *
It was now coming up to six o’clock. I put the leftover food into the fridge and headed back to the shop. I wouldn’t call Jayne to ask how things had gone. I’d leave it up to her to tell me when she wanted to. If she ever did.
“I brought you a sandwich,” I said to Ashleigh.
“Gee, thanks.” She took the parcel and peered through the plastic wrap. “Hey, this doesn’t look too bad.”
“I might not be much of a cook, but I can make a sandwich, thank you very much. Why don’t you take your meal break now?”
“It’s not six yet.”
“If you go early, you can have an extra fifteen minutes. I have to go out again at seven.”
“Do you actually work here, Gemma, or just pop in now and again?”
“I have important matters to attend to. Is that a problem?”
“Nope. I’m not complaining. Although I was rushed off my feet about an hour ago. I hope we didn’t lose any customers when I couldn’t help them quickly enough.” Moriarty leapt onto the counter. He rubbed his entire body against Ashleigh’s arm, and she gave him a hearty pat. “Such a pretty boy! You might need an extra assistant for the rest of the summer. I can do the interviewing if you’re too busy with important matters. Who’s a good cat? I have an eye for serious employees.” Her tone of voice didn’t alter between praising the cat and addressing her boss.
I decided to ignore her attempt to imply that I was not a serious employee. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll manage.”
“If you say so. I hear the women’s wear shop up the street is still hiring.”
“Take an extra half hour. Be back by seven fifteen.”
Gripping her sandwich, Ashleigh scarpered before I could change my mind. Moriarty jumped off the counter.
She was right, and I knew it. I was neglecting my store, getting involved in a murder investigation that the police would say was none of my business. The bookshop had been busy this afternoon, and it wasn’t fair to Ashleigh to expect her to manage on her own. As I waited on customers and rang up purchases, I vowed to keep my nose out of the investigation into the murder of Sir Nigel Bellingham.
By the time Ashleigh returned, five minutes early, I’d changed my mind.
The police might think this inquiry was none of my business, but in suspecting Leslie Wilson, they’d made it my business.
I let Ashleigh take over the cash register and escaped into my office to make a quick phone call.
“I’m calling to apologize for turning down your invitation to dinner last night,” I said to Grant Thompson.
“I know you’ve been busy,” he said politely.
“Are you free tonight?”
“Let me check my busy schedule.” He was silent for about two seconds and then said, in a voice pitched so I’d know he was teasing, “Will you look at that? I happen to have a slot available this very evening.”
“Blue Water Café? Eight thirty?”
“That’ll work.”
“My treat, but first, I’d like your help with something.”
“Name it.” He didn’t even sound suspicious as to my motives. I like that in a man. Ryan would have immediately had his guard up. Why was I thinking about Ryan when I was setting up a dinner date with Grant, anyway?
“I’ll explain in the car,” I said. “Pick me up in ten minutes. I’m at the shop.”
“Ten minutes? You don’t give me much time to put my makeup on.”
“You don’t need it,” I said. Only after I’d hung up did I wonder if he’d think I’d been flirting.
* * *
I waved good-bye to Ashleigh as I walked through the store. Ashleigh was chatting to a customer while other people browsed the bookshelves. One woman had a heavy stack of gaslight mysteries, including books by Rhys Bowen and Victoria Thompson, tucked under her arm.
“Oh, Gemma,” Ashleigh called, “if you have a moment, this lady has a question about that second edition of The Sign of the Four.”
Grant pulled up out front. He’d taken eight minutes to get here. I like punctuality in a man also.
All the street parking in our block was taken, and I spotted Linda Novak, the town’s parking enforcement officer, heading this way, ticket pad at the ready. “No time,” I called over my shoulder.
“Sorry about that,” I heard Ashleigh say to the customer as I sprinted out the door. “Gemma’s sister must have gone into labor. She’s way overdue.”
I jumped into Grant’s Ford Explorer, and he pulled into the slow-moving traffic.
“Where to, madam?” he asked as I fastened my seat belt.
“Sailor’s Delight B and B. Do you know it?”
“I know where it is. Want to tell me why we’re going there?”
“You’re considering making a hefty donation to the West London Theater Festival for next year’s season, but first you want to talk to the people involved about the state of the festival’s finances.”
“Why am I doing that?”
My initial assumption on talking to Lorraine, that the festival was in financial difficulties, had turned out not to be true, at least not to Lorraine’s knowledge. But it was an avenue worth exploring. “You’ll think of something,” I said. Yesterday, rehearsal had ended at seven. I was hoping the same would be the case today. Pat Allworth would be likely to head back to her B and B to change before going out for dinner. Pat, I assumed, was an employee of the festival, the same as the actors, costume designers, and stage hands. Anyone who put up the money to produce the season or stood to make a profit, such as Rebecca Stanton, wouldn’t simply tell Grant all, not with five minutes’ notice that he wanted to donate. But Pat might give us her impressions. She should know if the festival was on sound financial footing or facing potential disaster.
In addition, I wanted to find out what I could about the state of Nigel Bellingham’s contract. Had he fiercely negotiated a generous compensation package, or had he taken whatever was offered out of desperation?
That might give me an indication as to his state of mind lately, which would be relevant if I were to conclude he’d killed himself.
“I suppose,” Grant said, “I could say I’m hoping the play will renew interest in first edition British novels of the late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Thus bringing me business.”
“I knew you’d think of something,” I said. He took his eyes off the road long enough to give me a warm smile. The smile soon faded.
“But that’s not true, Gemma. I don’t have extra money to invest in theater of all things. If I did, I’d rather buy books. I hate to get their hopes up and then let them down.”
“I’m sure you’ll do it gently. Oh, good! It looks as though our quarry is here.”
>
The Sailor’s Delight is a huge Georgian-style house surrounded by a large and beautifully maintained garden. Portico supported by white pillars, symmetrical facade, two brick chimneys, black shutters, red door. Nooks and crannies, bay windows, attic gables, and a wide side porch.
The Smart car, the convertible, and the minivan were parked outside. The trees lining the parking area threw long shadows. I touched the bonnet of each of the cars as I passed. The BMW was stone cold, but the Smart car and the van felt warm beneath my hand.
Grant rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. If she’d been thirty pounds heavier, Judy would have been the spitting image of her sister Lorraine. They were almost certainly identical twins, but the lines on Judy’s face were fewer and not as deep, indicating she didn’t frown quite so much, and her eyes sparked with genuine welcome. “Good evening. I’m sorry if you’re in need of a room, but I’m full up.”
Grant gave me a sideways glance. I said nothing, so he cleared his throat. “I’m hoping to catch one of your guests. Pat . . . uh . . . Pat.”
The woman in question came into the front hall. She wore a loose tunic splashed with a colorful flower pattern over black leggings and flat leather sandals, much the same outfit as she’d had on at rehearsal the other day. “That would probably be me. Oh, Gemma, hi. I just got in, haven’t even been upstairs yet. What brings you here?”
Eddie had followed Pat. He gave me a nod.
“I’ve brought someone to meet you,” I said. “This is Grant Thompson, rare book dealer and collector.”
“We met at the tea party,” Pat said. “Nice to see you again.”
“I’d like to talk to you about—” Grant began.
Pat cut him off. “Give me a minute, will you? I’ve something I have to deal with here.” She turned to Judy. “I can’t stand a prima donna, but that’s what I seem to be stuck with. I’ll see what I can do. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you, Eddie?”
“Me?” Eddie blinked innocently.