Body on Baker Street: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  Might it be Kevin, not Linda, who wanted the real author to get the credit?

  “So, Violet,” I said to the dog, “we have no shortage of suspects here.”

  She sniffed at a bush and didn’t ask me to elaborate.

  I cut our walk short and hurried home. I settled myself in my favorite armchair in the den with my iPad and opened the ever-faithful Google. First, I searched for “Kevin Reynolds.” Unfortunately a fairly common name, and I got an overwhelming number of hits. Once I’d narrowed the search to “Renalta Van Markoff,” I had fewer results. Like a good publicist should, he kept himself out of the limelight, but I learned that he was from New York City and had graduated from Columbia with a degree in English literature. He’d had several positions in publishing companies over the last five years, none of which had lasted longer than a year. Which meant, I deduced, that his financial situation wasn’t comfortable and the Van Markoff job was important to him.

  Next: Paige Bookman. She had a website. Her photograph had been professionally done, and it showed her against a plain dark background, unsmiling, chin resting on the back of her hand, looking extremely serious and author-like. The page had two tabs: one headed “Books” and the other “Contact.” I clicked on “Books” and read that Paige was working on a novel that was sure to be a “huge international sensation.” The description of the book was vague. A quote by someone I’d never heard of (possibly Paige herself) said it was a “groundbreaking cross between Harry Potter and the novels of Anne Perry with a touch of Wilkie Collins.” Agents and publishers were invited to contact the author.

  I continued searching the Internet, hoping to find some record of arrests or charges of disturbances at Van Markoff functions, but nothing came up.

  “Linda Marke” had no hits at all. I found that significant in itself. Almost everyone has some mention somewhere in this age of information. She truly did lead a behind-the-scenes life.

  At the signing, I’d overheard Nancy telling a woman she was the head of the Renalta Van Markoff Fan Club, New England Chapter. The group had a Facebook page, but it was private. I asked to join, using my bookstore profile.

  I’d briefly looked up McNamara and Gibbons Press in preparation for Van Markoff’s visit to the Emporium, but I decided they warranted a closer look. The front page of the company’s website was draped in a thick black banner, reminiscent of the Victorian habit of framing portraits of the deceased in black crepe. The author photo of Renalta was at the top, with her obituary underneath, followed (tastelessly, I thought) by a list of her books with buy links. The biography of the supposed author was brief. It said little more than what appeared on the back of the book jacket, none of it interesting, and all of it, as I now knew, lies.

  Renalta Van Markoff was the only bestselling author McNamara and Gibbons had. They published thrillers mostly, standard stuff about rogue CIA agents and beautiful Russian spies out to save civilization as we know it, as well as a few works of historical fiction set in the South around the time of the Civil War. They also produced some nonfiction to do with North Carolina history and a line of cookbooks, with emphasis on traditional Southern cooking. Looking at the cover image of one of them, a plate piled high with glistening barbecued pork and creamy coleslaw, reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything but a handful of nuts since breakfast. Which seemed so long ago.

  Violet snuffled and rolled over. She was sound asleep, but her legs moved rapidly. Chasing squirrels through her dreams, most likely.

  I clicked on the link that took me to details about the people who worked at the publishing company. A publicist, the editor in chief, an assistant editor, an acquisitions editor, the publisher. Each had short bios and contact details but no photographs. Robert McNamara’s biography was extremely dull. He’d gone to the University of North Carolina, where he earned an undergraduate degree in psychology. He was married with three children. His father started McNamara and Gibbons Press in 1977 as a publisher of North Carolina history textbooks for high schools, and when Mr. McNamara Senior retired, Robert took over and expanded the line into fiction and other forms of nonfiction.

  Yawn.

  About the only interesting thing about Robert appeared to be his wife. He had been, the web page told me, married to the photographer Janet McNamara for twenty-seven years. I clicked on her link, and the screen exploded with light and color. She had done a lot of work for National Geographic, starting when she was barely out of college (gorgeous scenes of towering redwood forests, gloomy Scottish Highlands, panoramic African savannas) and lately for publications such as Martha Stewart Living and Architectural Digest. I spent some time looking through a lifetime of her work. McNamara and Gibbons, I read, had brought out a coffee table book as a retrospective last year. Before I left the page, I studied the tiny self-portrait of the photographer. It was black and white and very arty, but I was confident I’d never seen the woman before.

  I finished my prowl of the World Wide Web by reading up on Renalta Van Markoff. I learned little I hadn’t known before Linda called the Emporium on Thursday morning. Critics ridiculed her books, Sherlockians despised them, and legions of dedicated readers loved them. One item of interest caught my eye: an online bookstore was offering a signed copy of An Elementary Affair for five hundred dollars.

  I closed the iPad. One more task before bed. I called Donald.

  “Hello?” said a very hesitant voice.

  “Good evening, Donald. It’s Gemma here. I’m just checking in.”

  “Have you discovered who killed her?” The hope in his voice was so strong, I hated to let him down.

  “Sorry. No. Have you heard anything more from the police?”

  “No. I don’t know whether that’s good news or bad. I thought you might be them, calling to say they were coming over to arrest me. Do you think I should seek legal counsel, Gemma?”

  “I can’t give you that sort of advice, Donald. You’re the lawyer, not me.”

  “I was a family law attorney. Not criminal.”

  “I’m not even that. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Call me if you hear anything.”

  “Good night, Gemma.”

  Violet followed me into the kitchen, and I let her out for another sniff around the garden. I rummaged in the fridge, looking for something, anything, to eat. When Uncle Arthur’s home, he does all the cooking. Good, hearty English stuff like sausages and mash, toad in the hole, shepherd’s pie, a Sunday joint with three veg. When he’s away, I forage in the tradition of our hunter-gatherer ancestors. I was in luck tonight and found half a roast beef sandwich I’d picked up earlier in the week from the tea room. Made with one of Jayne’s fresh baguettes, locally made spicy mustard, garden-fresh arugula, and good brie, it was marvelous when new. Even now that the bread had hardened slightly around the edges, the arugula wasn’t crisp, and the brie was hard and cold, it was tasty, if not absolutely delicious. I ate it standing at the sink. My mother would not have approved.

  The moment I finished and was wiping my fingers on a paper towel, my phone rang. My heart might have lifted, ever so slightly, when I saw that the call was from Ryan Ashburton. Or perhaps that was just indigestion from gobbling down my dinner standing over the sink.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

  “I’m enjoying a quiet dinner with Violet.”

  “And how’s Violet doing tonight?”

  “The neighborhood squirrels live in terror.”

  Ryan laughed. “Glad to hear it. I’m calling to let you know that the forensic people say they’re finished at the Emporium. You can open for business at the regular time tomorrow.”

  “That’s good to hear. Thank you.”

  “Gemma, I saw you heading for the Harbor Inn earlier.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I hope you weren’t paying a call on Linda Marke and Kevin Reynolds.”

  “I offered them my condolences.”

  He sighed. “Gemma, please stay out of it.”

  “Wh
at did you think of the strange relationship between Linda Marke and Renalta Van Markoff?” I asked.

  Eventually, he said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What strange relationship? We didn’t get much of a chance to talk to her. Mr. Reynolds was being very protective of her. He insisted that she was in shock and needed to lie down. Understandable. I plan to talk to them both at greater length tomorrow. What do I need to know going in, Gemma?”

  “Renalta Van Markoff is a pen name. The dead woman’s real name is Ruth Smith.”

  “I know that. Reynolds told us that up front.”

  “Linda is Ruth’s daughter. Her only child, in fact.”

  More silence. Then, “Are you sure?”

  “Need you ask that, Ryan?”

  “No. She told you this?”

  “An elementary observation.” I didn’t think it worth mentioning that the news had taken me completely by surprise. Once I knew the truth, only then did I begin to observe traces of similarity between the two women, most notably in the shape of the chin. A serious oversight on my part. “And yes, she confirmed it.”

  “Did you . . . learn anything else?” The words came out as though they were being dragged across his tongue one by one.

  I didn’t tell him about the identity of the real author of the books. For now, I’d keep that little detail to myself. If Linda wanted to tell the police, she would. “A woman by the name of Paige Bookman was evicted from the Emporium shortly before Renalta collapsed. Have you spoken to her?”

  “She was brought down to the station earlier as a person of interest.” That must have been shortly after Jayne and I left Paige standing in the rain at the beach. I hoped she didn’t think I’d called the cops on her. Again. “We had a long chat. She insists on her innocence, and I have no reason to consider her a more viable suspect than anyone else who was there. I’ve told her she’s not to leave West London without my permission. She has a history of annoying Van Markoff, but charges have never been laid. We’re looking deeper into her background to see if there’ve been other incidents with other authors or celebrities.”

  “You must know that Donald Morris didn’t kill Renalta.”

  “I know no such thing. If you’re getting involved in this out of some sense of loyalty to Donald, don’t.”

  “What do you know about him? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying nothing, Gemma. Nothing except good night. Thanks for the tip about Linda.” He hung up.

  Violet scratched at the door to be let in, and we went to bed.

  * * *

  The irony about living in a place so marvelous that hordes of tourists flock to it is that I myself don’t get much of a chance to enjoy it. I’d love nothing more than to grab Jayne, hop into the Miata, and take a couple of days to drive up Highway 6. Explore the historic lighthouses and open beaches of the National Seashore, poke around Truro and Provincetown, spend a night in a charming old B and B or a modern luxury hotel. Maybe make a day of it to take a whale-watching excursion out of Brewster, explore the shops in Hyannis, and have a late lunch or early cocktails in Chatham. But summer in Massachusetts is short, and it’s the busiest time of the year, by far, at the bookshop, so I can rarely get away for more than a few hours. I cherished secret hopes that Ashleigh would turn out to be capable enough that I might be able to take a short getaway in the autumn. Dragging Jayne out of her kitchen might prove to be a problem though, no matter what the time of year.

  The Emporium opens at noon on Sundays, making it the one day of the week I can enjoy some time at the beach when the sun is up. I pulled shorts and a T-shirt over my swimming costume; slipped my feet into flip-flops; tossed my towel, my copy of These Honored Dead, and a bottle of sunscreen into a tote bag; and loaded the beach chair and umbrella into the Miata. In the off-season, I enjoy taking Violet for a walk along the shoreline, but when the beaches are crowded with tourists and locals enjoying a day off, that’s not doable.

  I hoped she didn’t notice the beach apparel and thought I was just heading out for another day at work. Hard to tell, as she gave me sad, mournful gazes every time I left, even if I was only going as far as the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

  This morning, I was one of the first to arrive at the West London Beach on Nantucket Sound. The sheltered waters of the Sound are considerably calmer and warmer than those of the Atlantic Ocean on the other side of the peninsula and thus where I go to swim. When I’m out for a walk, I like to wander along the ocean, wade in the surf while sandpipers scatter, and look east in the approximate direction of dear old England.

  I found the perfect spot to set up my chair and umbrella. I swam up and down the shoreline for half an hour, and when I climbed out of the water, families were beginning to arrive. I toweled myself off, reapplied a thick layer of sunscreen (my complexion is what is called in romance novels an “English rose”), and dropped into my chair with my book.

  I’d not slept well last night, disturbed by thoughts of the death of Renalta Van Markoff. I regretted telling Donald I’d investigate. About all I could do was talk to people, and if they didn’t want to talk to me, they wouldn’t. I didn’t have the resources of the police, nor the authority.

  I knew Ryan was a good detective, and he’d assured me that Louise Estrada was also.

  I’d let them handle it. I opened my book and began to read.

  Would Ryan and Louise realize that the value of Van Markoff books, signed ones, would increase substantially now that she was dead? Perhaps not. They were not booksellers; they had no involvement or interest in the world of book collecting. Last night, only hours after the woman’s death, a signed copy of the first book in her series was going for five hundred dollars. I remembered Andrea proudly showing me her book, which had been signed and personalized not more than a few hours before the author died—before the author was murdered.

  The value of such a book might go through the roof.

  Donald, of all people, had bought a copy of Hudson House when he came into the Emporium on Thursday afternoon bursting with righteous indignation. He told me it was for “research” so he could see how bad it was. He hadn’t brought the book with him on Saturday for Renalta to sign. The initial print run had been more than a hundred thousand. An unsigned book had no rarity value.

  But signed books did. Would the worth of the book increase the closer to the time of her death that it had been signed? She’d autographed preordered books only minutes before collapsing. Including some for Grant Thompson. Grant had specifically told me he wanted Renalta to write the date in the books.

  Was I now suspecting Grant Thompson of killing Renalta? I pushed that thought away. Any number of people had the opportunity. Andrea told me fans had surrounded Renalta before she left for the Emporium, and she signed books while Kevin waited impatiently. I had no way of knowing which of those people had then come to the Emporium, where they would have had access to the bottle of water. Ashleigh had taken pictures of the crowd, but she didn’t get anywhere near everyone in attendance, and the pictures mostly showed backs of heads anyway. The backs of heads had a lot in common—gray hair either cut short or piled into a bun—as was the case at all our author events unless it was a children’s or YA author visiting. When I got my camera back from Ryan, I could show the pictures to Andrea and ask if she recognized any of her guests, but what purpose would that serve? Presumably when the police took details from the attendees, they mentioned what hotel they were staying at if they didn’t live on the Cape.

  I closed my book. I looked out over the Sound. Sailboats drifted across the horizon, people swam in the warm water, and children filled colorful plastic pails with saltwater and sand. One laughing preteen girl was being buried in the sand by her brothers while her anxious mother fussed about.

  Such a beautiful day. Such a beautiful place.

  But I couldn’t get murder off my mind. I packed up my things and headed home to get ready for work.

  * * *

  I planned to go into the tea room first
, but my attention was caught by the mound of flowers, some wrapped in grocery-store cellophane, piled at the door of the Emporium. I bent over and plucked a card off one: Renalta, forever in our hearts. I groaned. What on earth was I supposed to do with all these? I couldn’t leave them there; they were blocking the door. Maureen would report me to the bylaw officers for cluttering the sidewalk.

  As I stood there, a weeping woman approached. She stopped at the shop and gently placed a teddy bear with a red ribbon around its neck next to the flowers. “So sad, Gemma,” she said.

  “Sad,” I repeated.

  She continued on her way. I went into the tea room.

  “There’s a pile of flowers and teddy bears outside the shop doors,” I said to Jayne.

  “Yeah, I saw them. We had some too. I didn’t know if you wanted me to move yours.” She was rolling pastry. Jocelyn dished up a bowl of tomato and red pepper soup from the cauldron on the stove, put it on a plate beside a fresh green salad, and carried the tray into the dining room.

  I looked around the kitchen. No flowers. “What did you do with them?”

  “I called Mom, and she took them to the hospital. The adult patients will love the flowers, and the kids can have the teddy bears. She’ll take yours too, if you want.”

  “Thanks. I don’t want to just throw them away. People have been thoughtful, but I can’t leave them blocking the door.”

  I left Jayne with her baking. During the week, I like to enjoy a leisurely breakfast over a cup of tea, toast and marmalade, and the online newspapers, but on Sunday I treat myself to takeout from the tea room after my swim or walk with Violet. Today I bought a blueberry muffin to accompany a large cup of tea.

  With great trepidation, I unlocked the door that joins the tea room to the Emporium. Moriarty had been confined in the office for the entire night. His physical welfare had been provided for in terms of adequate food and water and the presence of a litter box, but his dignity was likely to have been greatly offended. I stood in the doorway, clutching my late breakfast. All was quiet. I put my purchases on the counter and headed upstairs, making a great deal of noise as I went. Moriarty had the hearing of . . . well, of a cat, but I didn’t want to surprise him. “Good morning!” I threw open the door.