Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Jayne unlocked the store. It’s no problem, Gemma. I’ve got this.” Today she was dressed almost like a normal sales clerk in black capris and a loose white cotton blouse that fell to her hips. Her hair was brushed to a shine and folded lightly around her shoulders. The unexpected summons to work early must have meant she didn’t have time to put together today’s costume.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Jayne said you’d been in an accident.”

  “Of a sort.” So as not to have to answer questions all day as to what had happened to my head, I’d put on a big blue sun hat. “I’m going next door for a minute. Carry on!” I waved and went into the tea room.

  “Jayne in the kitchen?” I asked Jocelyn.

  “Yup.” She paid me no particular attention as she arranged a tray of fresh bran muffins in the display cabinet.

  Jayne’s domain was in its usual state of controlled chaos. The room was hot from the ovens and full of the delicious scent of rising bread, warm pastry, sugar, and cinnamon. Jayne stood over an industrial mixer whirling individual ingredients into batter. She switched the machine off, took it out of its stand, and dumped in a bowl of blueberries.

  “Those look good,” I said.

  She turned. “I was hoping you’d stay home in bed.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Of course you are. And if you weren’t, you’d never say so. The hat’s a nice touch. How’s the head?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have the pain killers the doctor gave you?”

  “Yes.” No, I’d left them at home so as to avoid temptation.

  “What are you going to do about your hair?”

  “Wear a hat until I can go for a cut. It’s due for a trim anyway.”

  She burst into tears. I crossed the room and wrapped her in my arms. “It’s okay. My hair grows really fast.”

  She choked out a laugh. “Oh, Gemma. I was so worried.” She dropped onto a stool.

  “I didn’t have time to be worried. It was all over before I realized what was going on.”

  “You didn’t see who attacked you?”

  “Not a glimpse.”

  “Couldn’t you . . . uh . . . deduce anything?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “I hate to think it’s not safe to go to the West London Beach in the evening.”

  “It’s perfectly safe, Jayne. This was no random attack.”

  “I figured that was why Ryan and Estrada were at the hospital. Ryan would come anyway, because it was you, but not her. You think someone was trying to warn you off the Van Markoff case?”

  “I’m sure of it. Unfortunately, it’s not helping me narrow down the suspect list at all. The young couple who scared my attacker away couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. It wasn’t random, meaning whoever it was didn’t happen to come across me out at night and decide to get rid of me. He or she had dressed for it in loose dark clothes, a hood, and gloves. They must have been lying in wait for me outside the house.”

  Jayne shuddered. More tears welled up in her eyes. “Hey! Why are you standing and I’m sitting?” She jumped to her feet and guided me to the stool.

  “I’m not an invalid,” I said.

  “No, but you did have a nasty crack on the noggin. Good thing your head’s so thick.”

  “We English have thick skulls. Comes from all those years of bashing each other with axes.”

  We smiled at each other. She touched my arm. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Ryan told me not to pursue the investigation.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I have no intention of following that advice. Clearly, I have someone worried. Now all I have to do is figure out who I have worried and how I managed to accomplish that. From this point on, I’ll take care to be more observant of my surroundings.” I almost smacked myself in the head, but fortunately I remembered in the nick of time that that would hurt. “Uncle Arthur!”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s on his way home. I spoke to him yesterday and told him he’s needed in the shop. I’m worried that I’m leaving Ashleigh alone too much.”

  “Is that a problem? Arthur, I mean, not Ashleigh.”

  “If someone’s out there intending to do me harm, I can’t have Uncle Arthur in the way. You know what he’s like. He thinks he’s hale and fit, and he is—for a man who’s almost ninety. The days when he could defend himself and his mates in a bar brawl in Manila or Southampton against another pack of sailors on shore leave are long over.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  I’d called him shortly before one yesterday to suggest he come home. If he was somewhere between the Outer Banks and Key West, he wouldn’t make it to West London until this afternoon at the earliest. More likely tomorrow. Perhaps even the day after. He’s not as young as he used to be, although he pretends he isn’t aging, and he can’t drive for long hours at a stretch. “Possibly this afternoon or tomorrow.”

  “Call him back. Tell him not to come.”

  “What am I going to say, Jayne? That he can’t come home because I’m in danger? That’ll have him breaking every speed limit in a rush to get here.”

  The timer over the oven dinged. Jayne opened it to take out a tray of pastries, and a wave of intense heat hit us. “A fire,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “A fire in the kitchen at your house. Nothing major. Just something in the wiring. You’re safe. Violet is safe. No serious damage. You’re staying with me until the insurance company confirms everything is okay.”

  “A brilliant idea. I’ll suggest he continue his vacation until we get the all clear.” When Great Uncle Arthur eventually arrived home, he’d want a full inspection of the damage and an interview with the insurance inspector and would probably demand we have the entire house rewired. By then it would be safe to confess my deception. “Thanks for sending your mother around this morning. She looked after me as though I were her own daughter. She brought me tea in bed. It was heavenly. I haven’t been spoiled like that since I was home sick from school.” And not often then either. My mother was a big one for letting her children get on with things. Somehow, we usually did.

  “Isn’t that what friends are for?” Jayne said. “So we can share mothers. My mom and I used to go at it something crazy when I was a teenager. Our fights would get so bad, Jeff and Dad would flee the house. Rascal—that was our dog—hid under the bed with his paws over his ears.” She laughed. “Funny how as soon as I finished high school, Mom matured. Now we’re really close, friends even.”

  Friends. Mothers. My mother and I never actually fought, as in yelling and throwing things (my mother was far too well bred for that), but we certainly had our arguments. Mother and daughter. It’s a complex, difficult, marvelous bond. What had Linda said to me? You might have had that sort of relationship with your mother, but I didn’t.

  When I first met Linda, I’d not paid her much attention. She was the flunky, the small planet orbiting around the star of the famous, flamboyant author. When they arrived at the bookstore for the fateful event, Linda had been angry. I’d noticed it at the time, dismissed it as nothing to do with me or the shop, and then forgot about it with all the drama that followed.

  Had Linda and her mother been fighting? Had the argument been abandoned, unfinished, when it was time to go to the bookshop? Had Linda decided to finish it herself? Once and for all?

  Had Linda Marke killed her mother? Either alone or with Kevin Reynolds? Had one of them been at the West London beach last night?

  I needed to find out if they had alibis for the time of the attack on me, but I couldn’t exactly phone them and ask. I couldn’t call Ryan either. He’d made that perfectly clear.

  “I recognize that look,” Jayne said. “And I don’t like it. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking it’s time to eliminate the impossible and thu
s discover the improbable.”

  “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “It will in due course.” I hopped off the stool. “Thanks for calling Ashleigh in. She’s working out okay. It’s time to give her a set of keys to the shop.”

  “Gemma,” Jayne called after me, “remember, Ryan said you’re not to go out alone.”

  I waved to her over my shoulder.

  “I’ll be in my office,” I called to Ashleigh.

  Moriarty followed me upstairs. He settled himself in the center of my desk. My first call was to the West London Hotel. “Nancy Brownmiller’s room, please.”

  “One moment, please.” Computer keys clicked. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Brownmiller has checked out,” said the receptionist.

  “Oh, dear. We have an appointment, and I’m going to be very late. I wonder if she’s on her way. Do you know what time she left?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up. Check-out time at the hotel is noon. It was possible Nancy’d hung around town until the evening, planning to ambush me, but it was unlikely. If she checked out, it was probably because she’d finally decided to go home.

  I looked up her phone number on 411.com. She’d mentioned in passing that she lived near New Bedford. I found one “N. Brownmiller.” Fortunately for me, some people still had landlines at their homes. I dialed.

  It was picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Nancy. It’s Gemma Doyle here.”

  “Hello.” Notably she didn’t gasp. “You’re still alive!” Instead she said, “You’ve found the book! Fabulous. Look, I’m a bit short of funds right now, but if you send it to me, I’ll pay you as soon as I can. Better use a courier service; that’s safer than in the mail.”

  “Book?”

  “The coloring book Renalta signed. The one you promised to me but then foolishly let be sold. You have found it, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, that book. Sorry, no, still not located.”

  “Then why are you calling me? Do you have something else of Renalta’s?”

  I didn’t want Nancy rushing back to West London in pursuit of some piece of junk dropped by her idol. “Nothing to do with Renalta, sorry. I’m calling to let you know the book you ordered has arrived. One copy of The Sherlock Holmes Handbook by Ransom Riggs.”

  “I didn’t order anything like that.”

  “You didn’t? But I have a note right here.”

  “Wasn’t me. Sorry. You know what I’m interested in. Call me if you find it.” She hung up.

  Nancy Brownmiller had not attacked me last night. Assuming—and how could I assume otherwise?—the person who followed me to the beach was also Renalta’s killer, that person was not Nancy Brownmiller.

  I tried the same trick with the Ocean Side, and the receptionist immediately put me through to Paige’s room. No one answered. I studied the phone in my hand. Moriarty washed his whiskers. “What do you suggest I do now?” I said to the cat. “Smoker or not, Paige is still in the frame, but I don’t have her mobile phone number.” He yawned.

  My phone rang as I was heading downstairs to help in the shop. Ryan. “’Morning, Gemma,” he said. “I hope I’ve caught you at home resting in bed.”

  “Are you thinking of coming over if I am?” I teased.

  “Don’t tempt me. How are you feeling?”

  “Better than I deserve to be. Jayne sent her mom around, and I woke up to tea and toast. It was quite delightful.” I sidestepped an answer as to my present location.

  “Glad to hear it. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to report. We brought out a K-9 unit last night, and the dog followed a trail to the parking lot. He lost the scent there, meaning the perp almost certainly got into a vehicle and drove away. The lot’s paved, and it hasn’t rained for several days, so no tire tracks.”

  “Did you think to ask any of the people involved in the Van Markoff case for an alibi?” I asked.

  “I did. I’ve just been around to the Harbor Inn. Kevin Reynolds and Linda Marke had dinner last night in the hotel’s restaurant. They finished shortly after nine. They say they then went to their separate rooms. Meaning neither of them can account for their whereabouts after that time. They both claim they didn’t go out again.”

  “Are you sure of the time?”

  He laughed. “Absolutely positive. The restaurant called nine-one-one at eight fifty. A certain Ms. Paige Bookman was arrested for causing a disturbance.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  “Paige arrived at the restaurant and sat herself down, uninvited, at Linda’s table. When Paige was asked to leave, she refused. She started yelling about some book she’d written and demanding that it be published. The whole place heard her. Kevin Reynolds told the responding officer he’d finally had enough of Bookman and he wanted her charged. Ms. Bookman spent the rest of the night in the cells. She was released this morning, under a restraining order to keep away from Linda Marke.”

  “That definitely eliminates Paige from the attack on me. You can’t get a more cast-iron alibi than that.”

  “No, you can’t. I told Linda that I’ve ordered Ms. Smith’s body to be released later today. Her daughter will be allowed to take her home.”

  Once everyone had scattered, I’d have precious little chance to bring all this to a conclusion.

  “What are your plans for today, Gemma?” Ryan asked.

  “I might spend some time in the shop. I won’t overdo it. If I tire, I’ll go home for a nap.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Oh, before you go, one thing. Can you ask Jason or Jolene to contact me? I’d like to thank them for helping me last night. They quite literally might have saved my life.”

  “I can do that, but be warned, they’re in mighty hot water.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re here for a few days with their church’s youth club. A bunch of the teens went for a walk along the beach while the fire was getting started, and Jolene and Jason snuck away for some private time in the bushes. The group leaders are not happy about that.”

  “I was going to invite them for tea at Mrs. Hudson’s. I might extend the invitation to the group leaders. Can you ask one of them to call me?”

  “Sure.”

  I folded my hands over my chest, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. I went over the entire conversation, parsing every detail of what Ryan had said.

  My eyes flew open.

  I turned to the computer. A minor detail had been sticking in the back of my mind, and it was time to shake it loose. I went back to the web pages I’d reviewed recently, gathering information on the people in Ruth Smith’s life. And there it was. The telling detail.

  I called Linda.

  “Not you again” was her greeting.

  “Me again. I don’t know if you heard, but I was attacked last night.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. No, I take that back. I’m not sorry. You’re obviously well enough to continue annoying me. So that’s why Detective Ashburton called on me this morning and asked what I was doing last night. I don’t have to tell you, but I will anyway—I was alone in my room from nine o’clock onward, writing. I always write at night, sometimes straight through until early morning. I was not creeping down darkened alleys after you with what Desdemona Hudson would call a ‘cosh.’”

  “As would Dr. Watson,” I said. “And modern-day detectives like Inspector Rebus too.” Interesting that Linda mentioned darkened alleys. Not a path leading up from the beach. Meaning Ryan had not told her where and what had happened, fair enough, but also meaning she probably didn’t know the location. Unless she was craftier than she appeared to be.

  Which, if she had the nerves and the wherewithal to kill her own mother and try to get away with it, she would be.

  “That’s not why I’m ringing,” I said. “I need to talk to you, Linda. I’m sorry I offended you the other day. I was honestly trying to help. My friend has been accused of this dreadful crime, and he’s a
sked for my help in clearing his good name. Doing so is my sole intention.”

  She sighed. “Kevin loves me. And I love him.”

  “I’m happy for you. Really I am.”

  “Thank you. In that case, I accept your apology. Detective Ashburton told me I can take my mother home. I’ve booked us a flight tomorrow afternoon. When the funeral’s over and the legal necessities settled, Kevin and I will be announcing our engagement.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “When the new book comes out, I’d like to do a signing at your store.”

  “You’d be very welcome.”

  “’Bye, then,” she said.

  “Wait. I need to talk to you, Linda, and it would be best in person. Are you free now?”

  “No. Kevin and I are going to the police station shortly. We have paperwork to do so they can give me my mother.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Gemma, I—”

  “Please. Let’s have lunch.”

  “I have an appointment with a realtor at one thirty.” Her voice softened. “I saw a lovely place for sale yesterday, and I want to have a proper look at it. I’m serious about moving to West London. Seriously considering, anyway. I should be finished by three. How’s that? A drink on the patio?”

  “See you then. Invite Kevin and Robert too. They’ll be interested in what I have to say as well.”

  I put down the phone, full of thought.

  Dare I say it? The game was most definitely afoot.

  Chapter 16

  By twelve o’clock, I had to admit to myself, although I never would to anyone else, that I was flagging.

  My headache wasn’t too bad—a low, steady throb that I treated with a couple of aspirin I found in the back corner of the cabinet in the staff restroom, but my knee was acting up. I’d taken advantage of a momentary lull in customers to dash behind the counter and pull up the leg of my trousers. I’d worn jeans today, although I rarely do to work. I wanted something long to cover the injuries and something dark colored in case one of the cuts reopened. The scratches were clean and turning a healthy pink, but my knee was a variety of shades of yellow and purple and about twice its size. Good thing I don’t like skinny jeans; if my knee swelled any more, I’d have to cut them off.