by Vicki Delany
As I drove I thought about what might be happening at Donald’s house now. He was right to be panicking. If the detectives came around to his home with more questions, that would be one thing. But three cars? Uniformed officers? Carrying a piece of paper that was quite likely a search warrant? The autopsy must have found something that incriminated Donald.
Was it possible Donald had killed Renalta after all?
No value in speculating without facts.
Donald’s small 1950s-era house is tucked into a grove of oak, aspen, and pine on the outskirts of West London. The driveway was crowded with police cars, so I parked on the street. I jogged up the path to be greeted by Officer Richter standing at the open front door with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl firmly on his ruddy face.
“No entry,” he said. It wasn’t a particularly hot day and a light breeze blew, but sweat dripped down his chubby red cheeks.
“I have been summoned by Mr. Morris.” I peered down my nose and spoke in my snootiest British accent.
“Let her in,” Ryan called.
Richter stepped aside. I gave him a friendly smile as I slipped past him.
It was unlikely this house had been renovated since it was originally built. The entranceway was wrapped in gloom, the bulb in the single light mounted in the ceiling wasn’t up to the job, and brown curtains over the narrow windows on either side of the door were firmly shut.
“Why does she keep appearing?” Estrada said.
“Mr. Morris called her instead of his lawyer,” Ryan said. “Since we’re only here for a friendly, informal chat, she can stay.”
Estrada harrumphed. Donald gave me a sickly grin. It was early afternoon, and he was dressed in a moth-chewed brown bathrobe and tatty bedroom slippers. Strands of thin hair stood up on either side of his head as if in a failed attempt to sprout wings.
“Let’s sit down, shall we?” Ryan said. “Mr. Morris?”
Donald went into the study as I knew he would. It was by far the nicest room in his house, and the only one into which he invited guests. Birch logs were laid in the large open fireplace, and a stack waited in an iron basket for the first touch of winter. The mantle was covered with brass candlesticks, a magnifying glass, several glass vials (seemingly empty), and a pipe and matches in a box, although Donald didn’t smoke. A small side table held a bronze, life-sized bust of a hook-nosed man with a thin face and sharp cheekbones. A metal pipe was clenched between his lips and a bronze deerstalker hat perched on his head. The walls were covered in heavy red-and-gold paper into which had been shot a “patriotic” VR. I knew from my previous visit that a hammer and bolt had been used to make the initials, not guns and bullets as Sherlock Holmes had done in his rooms at 221B Baker Street. Estrada studied the pattern. She shook her head, clearly not getting the reference. I didn’t bother to enlighten her.
One wall consisted of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The books were either the canon, in one edition or another, scholarly works on Sherlock Holmes, or biographies of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Donald’s large desk was made of solid oak, circa 1960s, covered with papers and magazines and an out-of-place sleek white MacBook Pro. Also out of place was the hardcover copy of Hudson House resting on top of a pile of magazines in the center of the desk.
“You are not under arrest at this time, Mr. Morris,” Ryan said. “But we do have a search warrant. We’re authorized to search your house and property for anything to do with the production of chemicals.”
“You won’t . . .” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “You won’t find anything like that here.” I believed him. Donald was no actor. The relief on his face when Ryan mentioned they were searching for chemicals was palpable.
“And any other items that might be of interest in our investigation,” Estrada added.
“I would help you if I could.” Donald threw me a pained look. “But I don’t know what you want from me.”
I slipped quietly into a chair, thinking I’d try to keep myself inconspicuous.
“Now that we’re all here,” Estrada said, “why don’t you take a seat, Mr. Morris?”
“I don’t see . . .”
“Sit down, please.” Estrada shoved a stack of papers aside and perched on the edge of Donald’s desk. Donald balanced on the edge of a tattered chintz-covered armchair, the cheerful red pattern long ago faded to a dusty pink.
Ryan wandered casually around the room. He scanned the bookshelves, studied the decorations on the mantle, eyed the bronze head, and flicked idly through the papers on the desk.
“You practiced as a lawyer,” Estrada said to Donald.
“That’s right.” He glanced at me again. I nodded in what I hoped was a supportive manner. Ryan appeared to be paying not the least bit of attention, but I knew he would be taking in every word that was spoken—and many that were not.
“I practiced family law for twenty years,” Donald said. He relaxed fractionally and settled back into his chair. He even crossed his legs at the ankles, displaying lower legs as frail as the fallen twigs in the woods around his property. I wanted to tell him not to get too comfortable; the police had to have had something to take to a judge to be granted a warrant to search Donald’s house. Estrada would get to the point, soon enough. “I was fortunate to inherit a small amount of money on the death of my father, and that combined with my savings was sufficient to allow me to retire to West London. I live simply but comfortably. I don’t see why you’re asking me this.”
“Tell us about your education,” Estrada said.
“Harvard Law.”
“Impressive,” she said.
Donald preened. That was a mistake. She wasn’t asking idle questions. This was leading to something.
Ryan picked the copy of Hudson House off the desk. He opened it and read the blurb on the inside cover flap. The casual observer would have thought Estrada’s questions were boring him.
“Before Harvard Law,” Estrada said, “what was your degree in?”
Comprehension dawned, and Donald’s eyes opened in something approaching panic. I had no idea what she was getting at, but he clearly did. “Science,” he mumbled.
“Science,” Estrada said. “Science covers a lot of ground, Mr. Morris. Physics, biology, astronomy. Can you be more specific?”
He said nothing.
“Let me remind you then—you have a PhD in chemistry from Yale.” Estrada couldn’t help throwing me a quick triumphant glance. I kept my face impassive. It wasn’t easy.
Donald let out a strangled laugh. “That was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten. Pure research wasn’t to my liking, so I switched to law. I found that not to be to my liking either, but a man has to work at something. Opportunities to make a living as an expert in the Sherlock Holmes canon or the life of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are unfortunately few and far between.”
I’d maintained all along that the average person wouldn’t know how to obtain or use cyanide. It would appear that when it came to chemistry, Donald Morris—Doctor Donald Morris, PhD—was not an average person.
“Knowledge is one thing,” I said. “Intent and production of a substance is entirely another. If that’s all you have to go on . . .”
“Interesting book you have here, Mr. Morris.” Ryan held up Hudson House.
“Plenty of copies of that book are in my shop,” I said. “I’ve sold a lot of them. It’s very popular.”
“True,” he said. “My niece has one. I bought it for her myself. But not everyone adds their own comments to the text.”
“I was upset,” Donald said. “I didn’t mean it.”
I got to my feet and approached the desk. I held out my hand. Ryan didn’t give the book to me, but he held it out for me to see. He had it open at about the halfway mark. Dark, angry lines were drawn through a paragraph. I read enough to understand that in this scene, Sherlock and Desdemona were sharing an intimate moment. Someone, and I could guess who, had scrawled “An outrage!” in the margin. Ryan flicked the pages. More sl
ashes, more handwritten notes. More exclamation marks. He stopped near the end. The entire page was covered in lines of black ink so deep, the page was torn in several places.
“A highly involved reader,” I said weakly.
Ryan turned to the back. No slashes marked the last page. Only neat handwriting:
It’s time someone put a stop to this outrage! Once and for all.
Estrada took the book from Ryan. She read the final page and then flipped forward.
The three of us looked at Donald.
“I didn’t mean,” he said in a low voice, “that someone should kill her. I only wanted to reason with her.”
“Oh, yeah,” Estrada said. “Looks perfectly reasonable to me.”
“Idle threats,” I said. “That means nothing.”
“Your fingerprints were found on Ms. Van Markoff’s bottle of water, Mr. Morris,” Estrada said. “Can you explain that?”
“I—” I said.
“Yours were found too,” she said. “Fortunately for you, everyone in the room saw you carrying it, and you never denied it.”
“I might have touched it,” Donald said. “Now I remember. It was sitting on the counter next to where I was standing, and I bumped it with my elbow. I moved it aside so I wouldn’t knock it over.”
“Donald Morris,” Louise Estrada said, “I am arresting you for the murder of Ruth Smith, a.k.a. Renalta Van Markoff.” As she said the warning, Ryan avoided my eyes. His face was set into hard lines, and I could tell he didn’t approve of what Estrada was doing, but he wasn’t prepared to argue with her in front of us. I could do nothing but stand by and listen. When she finished, Ryan said, “Time to bring in the boys and girls in the white suits. Tell them we’re interested in traces of chemicals and evidence of threats made to the dead woman.”
“And as this is now an official arrest,” Estrada said, “your presence, Ms. Doyle, is no longer required nor permitted. Get out.”
* * *
Estrada ordered Richter to ensure that I left the property. Under his watchful eye, I marched down the driveway, head high, steps firm, and turned into the street. I then sneaked into a patch of overgrown shrubbery and crept back. I didn’t have long to wait until they came out of the house. Estrada and Ryan had Donald Morris between them. He’d been allowed to change and was wearing faded blue track pants and a loose T-shirt with “The Game’s Afoot” printed across the chest. I wished he’d taken the time to find something more appropriate to be arrested in. His head was down, his face was pale, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was loaded into the back of a cruiser for the drive into town. As I’d been rushed out the door of his study, I’d shouted over my shoulder to Donald to call a lawyer.
I hid behind a bush and watched the cruiser drive away. Estrada went with Donald, but Ryan stayed behind to give instructions to the forensics people.
I crept forward, keeping myself hidden in the thick overgrown bushes, giving thanks to Donald’s lack of gardening skills. The woman Ryan was talking to said, “You got it, Detective,” and walked away, leaving him momentarily alone. He sighed heavily and rubbed at his chin.
“Pssst.”
He whirled around. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I should have known. Can’t you ever do what you’re told?”
“No, I can’t.” I pulled a twig out of my hair. I made no move to leave my place of concealment. I didn’t want officers reporting to Estrada that I’d hung around. Although it wouldn’t do Ryan’s reputation any good if he was observed engaging in conversation with an untrimmed shrub. “This is meaningless. The man scribbled in a book. You should be calling the library police, not arresting him yourself.”
“He scribbled threats in a book, Gemma, and that gives us a pretty good window into his mind. Who knows what else we’ll find in that ridiculous Sherlock-imitation library of his when we give it a good going-over. The degree in chemistry isn’t incidental, not to mention that his fingerprints were found on the bottle.”
“No one has ever claimed that the bottle was kept secured,” I said. “It was on the counter, in plain sight of everyone in the store, for almost half an hour. His story of moving it out of his way is perfectly reasonable. You found other prints on the bottle, didn’t you? Mine and . . .”
He didn’t finish my sentence. I have to admit that it had been a clumsy attempt to get him to tell me what they’d found.
“I know Donald,” I said. “He’s passionate about Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll agree that he takes it a mite over the top on occasion, but he isn’t a killer.”
“I’ll continue to keep other avenues of inquiry open.”
“Did Estrada give you my tip about Nancy Brownmiller, who’s now thinking she’s going to be able to take Renalta’s place at her public appearances?”
“She did. I spoke to Ms. Brownmiller.”
“What did she have to say for herself?”
“That she didn’t kill Ruth Smith or anyone else. That she loved and admired the woman so much, she’s devastated at her death. I told her she could go home but that I might have further questions later. She said she’s waiting for you to bring her some comic book.”
“Coloring book.”
“Whatever.”
“And then there’s Paige Bookman, who accused Renalta of stealing her ideas. Not to mention . . .”
“Gemma,” Ryan said firmly, “stay out of this.” He walked away.
I dragged myself back to the Emporium. I tried calling Ashleigh to ask if she could come in for the rest of the day, but it went straight to voice mail. No doubt she was enjoying a pleasant day at the beach.
I called Linda again, and this time she answered her phone herself. “Did you hear the news, Gemma? Detective Estrada phoned me to say they’ve arrested someone for my mother’s murder. It’s that crazy man. The one in the Sherlock Holmes getup who yelled at her at the signing.”
“I heard. They have to build a case though, and I don’t think that will be easy. Do you have time to meet for a drink later? My shop closes at six tonight, so I could come to your hotel. Say six thirty?”
“That would be lovely, thanks. I just want to go home, but the police still won’t tell me when I can have my mother’s . . . body.” She swallowed. “I have things to arrange. So many legal details to sort out.”
“Is Kevin staying here with you?”
“Of course. He’s being so supportive.”
Between now and half six, I’d try to think of a way of oh-so-casually asking whose name is on the royalty checks for the Hudson and Holmes books. Linda, the author, or Ruth Smith, the pretend author. Those checks would be substantial. And where there is money, there is motive for murder.
Ryan had assured me he’d continue investigating other possible suspects, but I feared that, even if he wanted to follow my advice, he’d be told to concentrate on building a case against Donald. Ryan had been reluctant to place Donald under arrest. I don’t know if that was because he didn’t like charging someone he knew or if he had his doubts, although Estrada had seemed convinced they had the right person. Renalta Van Markoff was a celebrity of sorts, and her murder had made the national papers. No doubt some political pressure had been put on the detectives to get the case solved, and fast. Ryan didn’t care about political pressure, but Estrada might.
“I’ll meet you in the bar,” Linda said. “Six thirty.”
A few minutes later, Jayne’s head popped into the Emporium. “The police arrested Donald. I can’t believe it.”
“How do you know?”
“Jocelyn heard it from her sister, whose best friend is dating one of the cops.”
“Not exactly a reliable source, but in this instance, the gossip is correct. It only happened half an hour ago.”
“It’s all over town already. Do you think he did it, Gemma?”
“No, I don’t. The evidence, from what I’ve seen, is flimsy. So flimsy, I suspect he’ll be granted bail. I’m meeting Linda for a drink tonight after the Emporium closes.”
/> “Are those details related?”
“Donald and Linda? Yes. If Donald didn’t kill Renalta, someone else did. I don’t know enough about Renalta and her relationships to form any conclusions about other suspects. I’m hoping to learn more.”
“I’d love to come with you, but I’m seeing Robbie later.” Jayne wiggled her fingers at me and drifted back into the tea room.
* * *
My plan to subtly interrogate Linda as to the financial relationships she had with her mother came to naught.
She was seated in the bar when I arrived. Kevin, I was not happy to see, was with her. He gave me a smug grin as he stood up to greet me. I smiled, took a seat, and ordered a glass of wine.
Every time I tried to approach the topic of the owner of the copyright of the books, Kevin steered me away. Finally, tired of beating about the bush, I said, “Do you think you’ll continue working for Linda now, Kevin? If she doesn’t keep up the busy speaking schedule Renalta did, she might not need a personal publicist.”
They smiled at each other. Kevin picked up one of Linda’s hands and kissed it. She said, “We’re going to take things slowly.” She’d changed ever so subtly since I’d first seen her. A bit of blush on her cheeks, a touch of light-pink lipstick on her lips, her hair loosened and brushed to a shine. Her clothes were of the same type as previous, brown pumps, pantyhose, knee-length brown skirt, white blouse, but the top button was unfastened, and a small gold-and-diamond necklace shone at her throat. Even her voice was different. It had deepened slightly, and her speech wasn’t broken by so many ums and ahs.
“Linda has a lot of decisions to make,” Kevin said. “I intend to be by her side to help her make them.”
