Body on Baker Street: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  A black ball streaked past me, heading for the stairs. I glanced around my office. It didn’t seem as though too much damage had been done. Yes, litter was scattered everywhere, a suspicious yellow puddle was soaking into the papers in the middle of my desk, books had been knocked off the shelf, and the computer mouse was dangling from its cord, but the damage could have been worse. I checked the boxes of books. No sign of the cat’s attention there. Even Moriarty knew not to endanger our livelihood.

  I cleaned up and then headed back downstairs, where I found my teacup upside down on the floor and the bag containing my muffin shredded and squashed flat. The cat perched on the top of the gaslight shelf, tail slowly moving, narrow amber eyes glaring at me.

  “Okay,” I said, “now we’re even.”

  Moriarty said nothing.

  I returned to the tea room.

  “Sorry, Gemma,” Fiona said. “You got the last of the blueberry muffins. You must have really enjoyed the one you had.”

  I grumbled and asked for my second favorite, lemon poppy seed, as well as a fresh cup of tea.

  As the hands on the clock above the sales counter touched the top of the big circle, I opened the doors, and the first customer of the day clambered over the flowers to get in.

  This time I wasn’t fooled.

  “Hello, my darling.” Nancy enveloped me in a huge hug and a tsunami of cheap perfume, followed by a peck on both cheeks.

  I pulled away. She was once again in full Renalta mode. Swirling red cape, black wig, huge red glass ring, heavy makeup, dramatic gestures, and deep breathy voice.

  “Such a tragedy. An unspeakable loss to the world.” She used a lace handkerchief with a dramatic red R embroidered into the corner to dab dry eyes. “I was so hoping to have a nice private chat with Renalta when all the fuss and bother was over.”

  “Did that happen often?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.

  “Not as much as we both would have liked. Her entourage can get overly enthusiastic about the performance of their duties sometimes.”

  Which I took to mean Kevin and Linda hustled Renalta away before she could be waylaid by excessively enthusiastic fans.

  “We shared a mental bond, and that was enough.” Nancy smiled at me.

  Creepy.

  “I own all of her books, you know. Every edition, hardcover, paperback, even some of the foreign translations. I once sent her a picture of my library. She wrote a lovely note thanking me.”

  “That was nice of her. A personal signed note?”

  Nancy glanced to one side. “Well, no, not exactly. It was an e-mail. But from her personal address.”

  “Are many of your books personalized?”

  “Oh, yes. Whenever she does an event in Massachusetts, I try to attend. I was planning to buy Hudson House on Saturday and have it signed. But that didn’t happen. It will make a huge hole in my collection.” Nancy pointed to the center table, which still contained the Van Markoff display. My first order of business today was to dismantle it. “Did she leave anything behind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nancy leaned in so close, I could smell the eggs she’d had for breakfast. Mixed with the perfume, it was not a pleasant scent. “An item she dropped, maybe? A pen, a piece of jewelry? I’ll pay you well for it.”

  I stepped back. “If anything was found—and I’m not saying it was—the police have it.”

  “Just asking.” She winked at me. “I’ll be around for a few days, if you do come across something I might be interested in.”

  “How can I contact you?” Not that I planned on selling her the dust Renalta had stirred up when she took her last walk through the shop, but my investigative instincts were stirring.

  “I’ll call you and check in.” She tossed her head and flung her cloak over her right shoulder in a gesture I’d last seen in a movie version of The Three Musketeers. “Dear Renalta had so many loyal fans. Just look at all those tributes at your door. None of them were so loyal as me, of course. I’m sure some of them would like to meet me now that she’s gone. Knowing that the spirit of Renalta still lives will give them such comfort. I’m thinking of going on the lecture circuit to mystery conferences and the like. I’ll talk about Renalta’s life and her work and display some of my valuable memorabilia.”

  “Now that I’m thinking of it, I might have something you’d be interested in.”

  Her eyes gleamed.

  The shop was empty, but I glanced behind me, as though someone might be eavesdropping. Moriarty leapt off the shelf and headed for his bed under the center table. “She bought a . . . a . . . coloring book. Sherlock Mind Palace coloring book. She told me it gave her a marvelous idea for a plot twist in her current manuscript. She left it with me while she gave her talk but wrote her name on the cover first.”

  Nancy gasped. “I have to have it.”

  “It’s not here. I took it home yesterday. I didn’t want it to be caught up in all the police activity. It might have gotten damaged. Or something.” I was laying it on mighty thick, but I took the chance that Nancy wouldn’t notice.

  “You’re not busy. Let’s go and get it right now.”

  I shook my head sadly. “Sorry. I can’t leave the shop unattended. Why don’t I bring it around to your hotel later?”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “That seems like a lot.”

  “It was signed only moments before her death. She . . . uh . . . put the date and time on it too.”

  “Okay,” Nancy said.

  If I was criminally inclined, I might be able to do a good business in forged Van Markoff memorabilia. Too bad Renalta hadn’t asked to use my restroom. I could auction off the roll of loo paper.

  “I don’t think I got your surname,” I said.

  “Brownmiller. Nancy Brownmiller.”

  The chimes over the door tinkled, and a woman came in.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” I said to the customer.

  “Thanks, but I see what I want.” She headed directly for the center table and snatched up Hudson House.

  “I can’t talk now,” I said to Nancy. “How about I come to your hotel after closing today? Where are you staying?”

  “The West London Hotel.”

  “I know it. I’ll be there around half five.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Instead of leaving, Nancy moved further into the shop, heading directly toward my customer. “Hello, my darling. Fan of Renalta, are you? She might no longer be with us, but . . .”

  I stepped between Nancy and the startled woman. “Off you go now. I’m sure you have things to do. All those conference engagements to arrange.”

  “You’re right. I’ll see you at five thirty. Uh, that is what half five means, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She left. The customer looked at me. “I heard the author died yesterday, so I have to assume that wasn’t her, was it?”

  “A pale imitation.”

  “Takes all kinds, I guess. I’d also like to get a gift for my niece’s birthday. She’s going to be fourteen. Do you have anything you recommend?”

  “If she hasn’t tried the Agency series for young adults by Y. S. Lee, she might like to start. It’s not Sherlock related, but it’s about an all-female detective agency in Victorian London.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I rang up her purchases. Moriarty came out from under the table. She bent over to pet him, effusive in her praise of his handsome bearing. He threw me a self-satisfied smirk.

  I had absolutely no intention of going to the West London Hotel at half five with a copy of the Mind Palace coloring book embossed with a fake signature. I’d pulled five hundred dollars out of thin air. If Nancy was prepared to pay such a ridiculous sum, either she had money to squander, she had such an overwhelming desire for the book that she was prepared to make sacrifices for it, or she had the expectation of shortly coming into funds.

  I wouldn’t go to
the hotel, but I’d send someone else.

  More customers began arriving, so I took my phone into the reading nook in search of a bit of privacy but still kept an eye on the shop. I called Ryan, but it went to voice mail. “Hi, it’s Gemma. I have a pretty solid lead into a suspect you might not have considered for the killing. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

  I hung up and went back to work.

  Jayne’s mother, Leslie, pulled into the loading zone in front of the shop, and I went out to help her pile all the flowers and other gifts into her car. I kept one particularly nice bunch of red roses to display in the shop.

  Ashleigh arrived at one. We were busy, but not extraordinarily so for a Sunday in summer. A few people asked about Renalta and expressed shock at her death, but I got the feeling that the more eager fans had been in the shop yesterday to meet her. I stuffed the excess copies of Hudson House into boxes and shoved them behind the counter. I had no doubt that I’d be able to sell them, but I didn’t want to have a special display anymore. Some people might leap at the chance of taking monetary advantage of Renalta’s death, but I wasn’t one of them. I hadn’t known the woman well, and I hadn’t liked what I did know, but her memory still deserved to be treated with respect.

  I left a few of the books in place but took away the posters advertising Hudson House and filled the rest of the center table with a selection of other new releases.

  At three forty, I told Ashleigh I was nipping next door for my daily meeting with Jayne. And, not incidentally, to get something for a late lunch. Ryan hadn’t phoned me back, so I called again to tell him about Nancy, but again it went straight to voice mail. If I didn’t hear from him, should I keep my appointment at her hotel? If I didn’t show, she might decide to leave town.

  Most of the tables in the tea room were occupied as groups of women enjoyed their afternoon tea or cream teas. Looking totally out of place, three husky workmen in overalls and steel-toed boots sat in the window alcove, sipping fragrant tea out of rose-patterned china cups and nibbling on crustless sandwiches and dainty fruit tarts.

  Fiona passed me carrying a three-tiered silver tray. “Jayne said you’re to go into the kitchen. We’re still busy out here.”

  I pushed open the swinging doors and entered Jayne’s realm. She was scraping the leftovers into the garbage. Not that there were many leftovers. “Good day?”

  “Typical summer Sunday. Delightfully overwhelmed. We’re still serving the last of the customers, so I thought we’d be better talking in here. You?”

  “Busy. A few crime scene tourists peering into the corners in search of blood spatter, but not many.” I perched on a stool and pulled out my phone. “Give me a minute, will you. I have something I want to check.”

  Jayne gestured to a plate of pretty sandwiches. “I saved you some. Help yourself.”

  I opened Facebook. Along with a few inquiries as to our hours of business (which were clearly posted at the top of the page), several queries as to if I had Hudson House in stock, and one book collector looking for a first or good-quality second edition of The Valley of Fear, I had received a message from the Renalta Van Markoff Fan Club (New England Chapter) saying I’d been approved to join. I accessed the page and scanned it quickly. The banner had been updated since yesterday, expressing the group’s shock and grief at the death of their idol. Many fans commented, clearly upset at the news. Scrolling down and thus moving backward through time, I found an announcement about the signing at the Emporium. A few people expressed their extreme disappointment at the last-minute cancellation of the Boston appearances, and before that the chatter was all about the imminent release of the new book. But nothing, old or recent, stood out immediately as worth my attention. Even the people upset about her canceling her appearances were at worst annoyed, not threatening.

  I put the phone away and took a salmon sandwich. Cucumber is my favorite, and there were two of them, so I decided to save them for last.

  “You’re a big fan of Van Markoff’s books,” I said to Jayne. “As a reader, did it make any difference to you to find out who wrote them?”

  “Not really. Then again, I love the books, yes, but I’m not what you’d probably call a fan of the author. I was excited about meeting her when she was here in town, but I wouldn’t travel any distance to her book signings, nor did I care about her personal life. Some more ardent fans might think they’ve been cheated. Do you think it will matter if word gets out?”

  “It might. Then again, they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” I popped the last bite of sandwich into my mouth.

  “Do you have any more insights into who might have killed Renalta?” Jayne asked.

  I finished chewing, but before I could answer, a voice from the doorway said, “Exactly the question I have.” Detective Louise Estrada had not come in for tea and scones. She was not suitably dressed either for afternoon tea or for the weather in jeans, high black boots, and a black leather jacket over a black shirt with a white collar. She did not smile in greeting. “You have something to tell us, Gemma?”

  “I called Ryan earlier.”

  “He’s otherwise engaged.”

  “With what?”

  “I ask the questions here,” she snapped.

  “Would you like a sandwich, Detective?” Jayne pointed to the plate on the counter in front of me.

  “As long as it’s not intended to be a bribe.”

  “We always have leftovers, even after the busiest of days.”

  Estrada selected a cucumber and cream cheese on white bread. I threw Jayne a glare I’d learned from Moriarty. Those sandwiches were supposed to be for me. The cucumber most of all.

  “This is good,” Estrada begrudgingly admitted. She then helped herself to the other cucumber one. I pushed the plate toward her.

  “Detective Ashburton is talking to Ruth Smith’s business associates and her . . . uh . . . daughter,” Estrada said.

  “Daughter?” I said innocently.

  “Turns out the PA is actually her daughter.”

  “Imagine that,” Jayne said.

  “He’s also investigating the background of other interested parties. I—that is, we—felt that in light of your previous relationship with Detective Ashburton, I’d be the best one to talk to you. What did you want to tell him?”

  “A woman came into the shop this morning as soon as I opened. Her name’s Nancy Brownmiller, and she is, to put it mildly, a huge Van Markoff fan.”

  “If you think that’s a motive for murder, Gemma, I have a hundred suspects out there.”

  “Hear me out. This Nancy person dresses like Renalta, wears a wig that looks like Renalta’s hair, puts on her habits and mannerisms. She wanted to speak to Renalta when she arrived for the signing. Kevin Reynolds recognized her and tried to chase her off.”

  Estrada did not look overly impressed by my revelations. She next selected an egg salad pinwheel.

  “After that, Nancy came into the shop, where she stood, as I told you yesterday, against the counter near the water bottles. But more to the point, she’s got some crazy idea of attending historical mystery conferences and literary events as a sort of Renalta Van Markoff replacement.”

  That got Estrada’s attention. Her dark eyes flickered.

  “I remember my mother talking about the killing of John Lennon,” I said. “He was murdered by a fan so extreme, he’d come to believe he was the famous person. And as there can’t be two of them, he had to get rid of the real one.”

  “I’ve seen stranger things,” Estrada admitted. “I worked in New York City before coming here. Some of those celebrities really do need all the security they surround themselves with. I wouldn’t have that life for anything.”

  “Nancy’s staying at the West London Hotel. I happen to know she will be there at five o’clock. Just in case you want to drop by.”

  “Thanks for the sandwiches, Ms. Wilson,” Estrada said.

  Estrada left without thanking me for my assistance in this matter
.

  * * *

  “Do you have plans for tonight?” I asked Jayne.

  “Nope. Robbie’s having dinner with his folks.”

  “Robbie has parents?”

  “Yes, Gemma, he has parents. I haven’t met them yet, though.”

  That, in my mind, was a good thing. If she hadn’t met the family, then the relationship wasn’t getting serious.

  “Feel like an early dinner? Considering as to how I didn’t get any lunch.” I looked up hopefully as the kitchen doors swung open. Jocelyn came in with a stack of dirty dishes. Barely a crumb remained.

  “Not tonight, thanks,” Jayne said. “It’s been a hard week, and all I want is to get into my jammies, open a bag of potato chips, and watch reality TV.”

  I shuddered at the thought. “I can lend you a good book.”

  “I have lots of good books. There’s a time for books and there’s a time for mindless entertainment.”

  “Not in my opinion. Nevertheless, I understand. I’m pretty bushed too.” Like all the other shops along Baker Street, the Emporium closes at five on Sundays. Making it, like a morning trip to the beach, the only time I can enjoy an early night during the summer season.

  “Why don’t you see if Ryan’s free?” Jayne suggested helpfully.

  “And have Estrada complain I’m exerting influence over his investigation? He doesn’t need that.”

  “Why not let him decide what he needs?”

  Had Ryan sent Estrada in answer to my phone call? Or had Estrada complained to the chief, once again, about me and my supposed influence over Detective Ashburton? Heck, if I had any influence over that man, we’d be happily married with two point three children.

  Just as well, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time, things hadn’t gone that way. It wouldn’t have worked out.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said to Jayne.

  She gave me an impromptu hug. I hugged her back. Jocelyn joined in.