Body on Baker Street: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  “My mom’s number one hundred and twenty-seven on the waiting list at the library,” Jocelyn said. “She’s close to breaking down and buying herself a copy.”

  “They have a waiting list of one hundred and twenty-seven people?” I asked.

  “It’s fabulous,” Jayne breathed. “Even better than Doctor Watson’s Mistake.”

  “Tell your mom to come to the Emporium on Saturday,” I said to Jocelyn. “Around one.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you,” I said. “Renalta Van Markoff herself will be here to do a signing at one thirty.”

  Jayne actually screamed. “Oh, my gosh. Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. I’ve just had a call from her PA. Saturday it is.”

  “That’s not much notice,” Jocelyn said.

  “We can manage,” I said. “Her PA’s coming to the store this afternoon at one to check things out.”

  “Do you think she’ll want us to do a tea?” Jayne asked. “We can put on a tea party. That would be so exciting. I can use my special Sherlock Holmes tea set.”

  “We’ll have trouble accommodating the expected crowds as it is. No way can we fit everyone into the tea room.”

  Jayne pouted prettily. Jayne did everything prettily. She was tiny and blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a heart-shaped face.

  “We’ll talk more at our regular partners’ meeting later,” I said. “But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “She’s going to give a talk, I hope.”

  “I expect so.”

  “I’ll come in early on Saturday to get most of tea prep done ahead of time so I can come.”

  “I’ll tell my mom,” Jocelyn said. “And she’ll tell about a hundred of her closest friends.”

  Chapter 2

  I left Mrs. Hudson’s through the door to the street so I could check the window display. The tea room didn’t normally feature merchandise from the Emporium, but space had been made among the teacups, cake plates, and three-tiered trays for a couple of the Van Markoff books. After all, the name of her series was a good match to the name of our tea room.

  Next door, the windows of the Emporium were all about summer reads. We’d arranged a pile of sand, a child’s bucket and pail, a short-legged beach chair, and a stack of colorful fluffy towels. Books, Hudson House prominent among them, were arranged on the chair and towels. At the moment, Moriarty was basking in the sunny window. I decided to dismantle the beach-reads theme and make the window all about Renalta Van Markoff. There wasn’t time to get any advertising into the West London Star; my store windows would have to be our advertisement.

  I checked my watch. Quarter to twelve. Linda said she’d be here at one.

  I went into the shop and climbed into the window. Moriarty hissed at me and stalked off to find another place for his nap. I studied the display and decided not to completely clear the beach scene but to add more Van Markoff books to it.

  I was thinking about placement when I realized three small children were standing in the street, licking ice cream cones and watching me. I struck a pose and stood very still.

  They giggled. I held the pose.

  Their father came up to them and said something. I moved, and he jumped in surprise. The children roared with laughter, and he gave me a grin.

  “Hand me some of those books, will you?” I said to Ashleigh.

  She did, and I arranged them. “The author’s coming on Saturday for a signing. Short notice, but that’s what she wanted.”

  “Okay,” Ashleigh said.

  “You’re not a fan?”

  She shrugged.

  “Spread the word to people you think might be interested. Tell those who buy the book today or tomorrow that if they bring it back on Saturday, the author will sign it. Encourage them to get it today, though, and not wait. We might not have enough.”

  Window done to my satisfaction, I went upstairs to my office and put in a rush order for more copies of the entire series. My distributer told me they’d try to get it to me by Saturday morning. I then made up posters to put in the windows advertising the signing. The box nearest my desk was still half full. I leaned over, plucked a book out, and flipped it over. The author photo filled the back cover. It showed an olive-skinned woman in her early forties, makeup applied with a trowel (although a very expensive trowel) with deep-red lips, green eyes, and a mass of black hair of a color not found in nature piled on top of her head. She held her chin in one hand, and the giant ruby on her finger glowed as though a fire burned within. I checked the author’s web page and found the same picture. I downloaded it to print on the posters alongside the book cover image and giant black letters advertising the time and date of the author’s appearance.

  When I got back downstairs, I was surprised to see that more than a handful of excited women had gathered on the sidewalk, armed with cameras, notebooks, and copies of Renalta Van Markoff’s novels, some well-thumbed and others new and pristine.

  “Where did all those people come from?” I asked Ashleigh.

  “You told me to spread the word about Saturday. I did that, and I also mentioned that she’s coming here today to check out the store.”

  “The author herself isn’t coming,” I said. “Just her PA.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’ll be looking forward to Saturday even more if she doesn’t show up today.”

  I spotted Jocelyn’s mum in the crowd. Jocelyn had also helped spread the word apparently.

  The fans were not to be disappointed. I’d just finished taping the posters to the doors of the Emporium and Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room when a glistening black Cadillac Escalade pulled up out front and parked in the loading zone. As one, the crowd surged forward.

  A woman, short and thin, jumped out of the front passenger seat the moment the car came to a stop. She wore a knee-length brown skirt, a white shirt buttoned to her throat, and sensible shoes and carried a large brown leather bag slung over her shoulder and across her chest.

  The driver, a good-looking young man, ran around the car and opened the back door to allow an older woman to step out. The onlookers let out a collective gasp. People darted across the street or hurried down the sidewalk to see what was going on, and shopkeepers poked their heads out of their stores. Passing traffic screeched to a halt.

  The older woman paused for a moment, one perfectly manicured hand resting on the car door. She stood there smiling while cameras and smartphones clicked. It was a hot summer afternoon, but she was draped in a black ankle-length cape with a scarlet satin lining that shimmered as she moved. Her ruby-red shoes had four-inch heels. Her black hair was gathered behind her head in a tumbled mass, and ruby earrings gathered the light of the sun and threw it at us. The driver took her arm, and they walked slowly through the gaping crowd into the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium. The younger woman scurried along in their footsteps.

  “Bit over the top,” Ashleigh said in my ear.

  I ignored her and plastered on a smile. “Welcome. You must be Renalta Van Markoff. You look exactly like your author photo.” Although the photo had been taken at least twenty years ago.

  She extended her hand toward me, and I was enveloped in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Expensive and classic. For a moment, I wondered if I was expected to kiss the ruby ring. Instead I took the offered hand in mine. “I’m Gemma Doyle. Owner and manager.”

  “An Englishwoman. How perfectly delightful. And so suitable.” Her eyes were an unusual shade of emerald green. Colored contact lenses, I suspected.

  The younger woman stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Linda. We talked on the phone.”

  “Pleased to meet you in person,” I said. Linda was in her late twenties, I guessed, with brown eyes, short dark hair, and heavy black eyebrows. She wore no makeup, had done nothing with her hair, and dressed so plainly as to be almost dowdy, but her bone structure was excellent, her skin almost luminescent, and although she kept her head dipped down most of the time, her eyes brimmed with intelli
gence.

  “Kevin Reynolds,” the driver said. “I’m Miss Van Markoff’s publicist.” He was older than Linda but a good deal younger than Renalta. He was tall and lean and strikingly handsome, and the spark in his eyes when he studied my face told me he knew it. He handed me a small rectangle of stiff white paper. “My card.” I stuffed it into my pocket.

  “Your store is much smaller than I expected,” Renalta said.

  The Emporium isn’t very big, that’s true. The office, storage room, and staff washroom are accessed by a steep staircase at the back, and the main floor is just one large room. The sections—Conan Doyle, pastiche, gaslight, nonfiction, children and young adult, merchandise—are separated into individual areas by a careful arrangement of shelving and tables. A cozy reading nook with a comfortable, well-worn leather chair, side table, and lamp is set into a corner of the large bay window overlooking the street. I myself like nothing better than to curl up in that chair with a good book, a cup of tea, and a scone slathered in strawberry jam and topped with clotted cream on winter days when traffic in the shop is slow.

  “The shelves are on wheels,” I told Renalta. “They can be moved against the wall to clear the center space. We’ll set out rows of chairs and can extend next door if necessary.” I pointed toward the tea room where people were gathered at the entrance, watching us. Jayne stood at the front, her eyes aglow.

  Renalta sniffed. “I certainly hope you’ll be able to manage an event of the numbers I attract. This is not a visit by some self-published author with a memoir about teaching in a one-room schoolhouse, who can be counted on to have her daughter’s bridge club turn up and no one else.”

  “I can manage,” I said.

  “I suppose it will do,” Renalta said.

  “I think it’s charming,” Linda said.

  “You would,” Renalta said without looking at her. “On Saturday, I’ll require two bottles of water, Riviera brand preferably, on the podium and another two bottles at the signing table. All of them with the seal broken ahead of time but the cap left on. It can be difficult sometimes to get those seals off.”

  “Miss Van Markoff will speak for precisely twenty minutes,” Kevin said. “And then she’ll move to the signing table. I’ll escort her over, and Linda will be waiting there to open the books to the proper page.”

  “I was hoping for twenty-one minutes,” Ashleigh mumbled. I refrained from laughing.

  “I assume a sufficient quantity of my backlist will be on hand?” Renalta asked.

  “I’m doing my best,” I said. “You didn’t give me a lot of notice, you know.”

  She waved that triviality away.

  Moriarty had climbed to the top of the gaslight shelf. He sat there, his tail twitching, amber eyes glowing, watching everything. The muscles in his back legs tensed. I read the signals and leapt to intercept him, but I was a fraction of a second too late. He launched himself directly at Renalta Van Markoff and landed squarely in the center of her chest. Only her heavy black cloak protected her from being badly scratched. She screeched. Her arms flew up, and she batted at the cat. Moriarty clung on.

  Some women screamed. A handful laughed.

  Linda calmly stepped forward and plucked him off. “Aren’t you a naughty cat?” she cooed, giving his black nose a light tap.

  “Are you all right, Renalta?” Kevin brushed invisible hairs off the front of her cloak.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I am so sorry,” I said, totally mortified. “He’s usually extremely well behaved. I have no idea what got into him.”

  “Perhaps Miss Van Markoff should sit down for a moment,” Ashleigh said.

  Kevin guided his boss to the chair in the reading nook.

  Jayne hurried over with a glass of water. She handed it to Kevin, and he gave it to the shaking author who gulped it down. “Goodness,” she said. “That was unexpected.”

  “He was only being friendly,” Linda said. “Weren’t you, you lovely thing?”

  Moriarty rubbed the side of his head into Linda’s chest, and she stroked his back. One malicious amber eye looked at me. I glared in return. He’d never before attacked a customer. What a choice for his first victim.

  “Perhaps the cat can be kept out of the main room on Saturday,” Kevin said to me.

  An excellent idea.

  A woman’s voice rang throughout the shop. “I’ve told you and told you, Gemma Doyle, that animal is a menace. Someday he’ll go too far. And then you’ll be sorry.” If ever I was inclined to get rid of Moriarty, the one thing that would stop me would be the “told you so” I’d get from Maureen of Beach Fine Arts, located across the street at 221 Baker Street.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Maureen,” I said. “I didn’t know you could read.”

  “Of course I can read,” she snapped. “I just don’t care for the sort of silly rubbish you sell. And your prices are far too high. But now that I’m here . . . and the author’s here . . . I might, just this once, make a purchase.” Maureen snapped up a copy of Hudson House and hurried over to the reading nook.

  Renalta was still sipping her water while being fussed over by Kevin. Maureen held out her book.

  “I’m sorry,” Kevin said. “Miss Van Markoff isn’t signing today. I hope you can come back on Saturday.”

  “Don’t be silly, Kevin. I’d be delighted to sign her book.” Renalta gave a light, tinkling laugh. “Who shall I make it out to?”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. That scene had been a total setup. The stern publicist; the author willing to do anything for her fans.

  I turned quickly and caught Linda’s secret smile. She flushed and put Moriarty onto the floor.

  Jayne snatched a book off the top of the stack and fell into place behind Maureen. Jocelyn’s mother and the other onlookers rushed to follow, and the buying frenzy was on. Ashleigh staffed the cash register while I tried to direct satisfied customers to more of our stock. People were standing at the windows, peering in, wondering what all the excitement was. When they shifted, I caught a glimpse of the parking enforcement officer stopping at the Escalade and pulling out her ticket book.

  I snatched a stack of books out of a carton behind the counter and brought them into the reading nook. “Just a signature and date for store stock, please.” I shoved the books at Kevin. Might as well take advantage of her while she was here.

  He gave me a poisonous look but took the books and placed them on the table.

  Kevin didn’t let the signing go on for too long. After about twenty people had had a chance to meet the Great Author, he lifted a hand. “I’m sorry, everyone, but we have to be on our way. Miss Van Markoff has a prior engagement. Let her take a few minutes to sign books for Ms. . . . uh . . . for the store.” Some publicist. He’d forgotten my name already. Linda opened my books to the title page and handed them, one by one, to Renalta, who signed them in red ink with an enormous, elaborate flourish.

  “Don’t forget, everyone,” I said, “Renalta will be here on Saturday at one thirty for a longer visit.”

  The crowd murmured in appreciation.

  “Excuse me, excuse me. Make way for the press.” Irene Talbot, crack reporter (also the only full-time reporter) of the West London Star pushed her way through. “Can I have a picture for the paper?”

  “I’m dreadfully tired,” Renalta said as she leaned back in the chair and struck a pose. Head to the side, cape tossed over her shoulder, hand to her throat. Kevin quickly rearranged some books so the spines were facing Irene and then stepped out of the way. Irene snapped a few pictures while cameras and smartphones clicked behind her, and then she asked, “What brings you to our town, Miss Van Markoff? Hudson House came out two days ago. I would have expected you to be busy touring with the new book.”

  “I should be, my darling, I should be. A book tour can be so dreadfully exhausting. Before I plunge back into the fray, I need a few restorative days on the Cape. My absolute favorite place on earth.” The onlookers murmured their appr
oval. Renalta did a good imitation of offspring of an old-money East Coast family, but she didn’t quite have the rougher edges smoothed out. The Bronx, I thought. Maybe Queens. I haven’t been in America long enough to get the finer details of regional accents sorted out.

  “No matter how exhausted she is,” Kevin said, “I can never convince Miss Van Markoff to miss an opportunity to meet her fans.”

  She threw him a smile, and then she wiggled her fingers at the crowd. Kevin took her arm and helped her stand. The throng opened before them, and they walked slowly to the door.

  I followed. “Thanks for coming,” I said when we were all standing at the entrance.

  “Get that horrid animal out of here before I come back.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and every trace of charm and old-money manners disappeared in a flash. “You don’t have nearly enough books.”

  “More are upstairs.”

  “Upstairs doesn’t do me any good, does it? Linda, this bookstore wasn’t a good idea. It’s simply too small.”

  “It will be fine, Miss Van Markoff. I’m sure Gemma’s hosted many author events before.”

  “Unlikely of my caliber,” the Great Author sniffed. “Very well. If it’s a disaster, let it be on your head.” She sailed out of the shop. Kevin opened the door of the car for her. She turned and threw a huge smile to the onlookers and then, with a whirl of her cape, clambered inside. Kevin went around to the driver’s door.

  A piece of paper had been slipped under the windshield wiper. Linda pulled the parking ticket free and stuffed it into her bag. She got into the car, and they drove away.

  I went back into the shop.

  “Isn’t she marvelous?” Jayne said. “So sophisticated. So gracious and charming.” Clutching her new book to her chest, she drifted back to the mysterious depths of her kitchen.