Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  “That looks bad.” Ashleigh peered over the counter.

  “Looks worse than it feels.”

  “If you say so. I notice you’re limping a bit.”

  “It’s just stiff.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so!”

  A customer came through the tea room doors, and I rolled the leg of my jeans quickly down.

  By one o’clock, I could no longer pretend to have any energy or not to be in pain when I walked. Unasked, Ashleigh went next door and came back with a takeout cup of tea and a ham and cheese sandwich. She passed her purchases to me.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I said, “but I’m not hungry.”

  “You might not be hungry, but you need to eat. If you won’t go home, at least go upstairs. Take a break and put your leg up. I can handle the store.”

  I didn’t argue. I would have crawled up the stairs had my knee not hurt too much to put any weight on it.

  I sat down at my desk and took the top off the tea. It smelled wonderful. Moriarty jumped onto the back of my chair. He swatted at my head. He’s never playful, at least not with me.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  He whacked me again. I gathered loose tendrils of hair and tucked them under my hat. He hit the rim of the hat.

  I took the hat off and then reached around and plucked him off the chair. “Are you trying to annoy me?”

  He hissed.

  I put him on the floor.

  I was settling back, cradling the warmth of the mug in my hands and breathing in the scent of hot sweet tea, when Morality dug his claws into my jeans, right about the level of the deepest of the scratches.

  I screeched. Tea sloshed everywhere.

  A black ball of fur streaked across the room and out the door.

  * * *

  The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and my eyes flew open.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Jayne said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I . . . I wasn’t asleep.” I wiped sleep out of my eyes.

  “Ashleigh was worried when you didn’t come back down, and she asked me to check on you.”

  I put my hand on the cup. Stone cold. The little man with the mallet had once again started work behind my eyes. The clock, the one Uncle Arthur had given me when I took over management of the shop, said it was two forty.

  “I must have lost track of the time.” I pushed myself to my feet. I gripped the edge of the desk for support. “I have to go out. I’m meeting Linda Marke for a drink at three.”

  “You don’t look too well, Gemma.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I don’t think you should be drinking.”

  “I’ll have tea.”

  “You should eat something.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Eat something, Gemma. You’ve had a blow to the head and then a fall. You’re on pain killers. Eat that sandwich!”

  I stuffed it into my mouth and ripped a hunk off with my teeth. I chewed and swallowed. “There, satisfied?”

  “Partially. I doubt you’re going to see Linda for a friendly drink. You’re still investigating.”

  “She’ll be leaving tomorrow. Ryan’s released her mother’s body. I know who killed Renalta and why. This will be my last chance to end it.”

  “Why is it up to you to end it? Tell Ryan what you know. Let him handle it.”

  I shook my head. That was a mistake. “All I have is speculation. I’m meeting her in a public place in broad daylight. What can go wrong?”

  “You can faint for one thing.”

  “I’m hardly going to faint.”

  “No, you are not. Because I’ll be with you. Finish that sandwich, and then we can go.”

  “You don’t have to come.”

  “Of course I do. Someone has to look after you. Besides, Mom drove you to work, so you don’t have your car, and I don’t think you’re up to the walk. I’ll take you. We can borrow Fiona’s car.”

  I took another bite of the sandwich. I have to admit, it was delicious, and I felt some strength coming back into my weary body. My phone rang, and I checked the display. Irene Talbot.

  “Good afternoon, Irene.” I wiggled my eyebrows at Jayne. “How are you on this fine day?”

  “Better than you, I suspect. I’ve just heard the news. What the heck happened? Do you have a statement for the press?”

  “Is Sherlock Holmes a Russian spy? Of course I don’t have a statement for the press.” She hadn’t told me what she knew, and I wasn’t about to fall into the trap of telling her.

  “The police have said that a West London woman had been the victim of an assault last night. Passersby chased the perpetrator off. Is that about right?”

  “If it was in a police statement, then it must be correct.”

  “Yeah, right. No mention was made of the victim’s name, but Louise Estrada told me on the down low that it was you.”

  “She would.” The office clock said five minutes before three. I was going to be late. “Sorry, I have to run. I’m going to the inn for drinks. Why don’t you join us? You might learn something.”

  “I’d love to. See you soon.” We both hung up.

  “Why did you invite her?” Jayne said.

  “The more the merrier.”

  Jayne plucked my hat off my desk and handed it to me. I put it on and we left.

  “Won’t be long,” I called to Ashleigh. She rolled her eyes in response. Moriarty perched on top of the gaslight shelf. His eyes were narrow, and his tail flicked slowly back and forth.

  “Sometimes,” I said to Jayne, “I don’t think that cat likes me very much.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He loves everyone. Mrs. Morrison brings her kids into the shop just to play with him. They can’t have a cat in the house because her husband’s so allergic.”

  We drove the short distance to the Harbor Inn. As we pulled up, a familiar figure got out of a Ford Explorer: Grant.

  “The gang’s all here,” I said.

  Jayne dropped me at the front door, and I waited on the steps for her to park the car.

  “Gemma,” Grant said, “what brings you here?”

  “A drink with Linda before she leaves. You?”

  He peered closely at me. “You don’t look too well. Are you okay?”

  “Perfectly well, thank you.”

  “Don’t believe a word she says.” Jayne took my arm.

  I shook her off. “You still haven’t told me what brings you here, Grant.”

  We walked up the steps.

  “I called Linda a short while ago,” he said. “I asked her if she had some books signed by her mother she’s willing to sell. A bit crass of me, I suppose, but business is business.”

  “What did she say to that?” I asked.

  “She told me she was meeting some people for drinks at three and she suggested I join them.”

  As we crossed the lobby, Andrea called out, “Gemma, I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

  “What happened?” Grant asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine, Andrea. Thanks for asking.”

  The veranda of the Harbor Inn is one of the delights of West London. The footprint of the original garden remains visible: flagstone flooring and low stone walls, their cracks filled with moss and tiny flowers. Terracotta and ceramic pots full of blooms and greenery lined the walls, and the scent of lemons drifted from potted trees on either side of the door. On a sunny summer day, the views down the hill, over the harbor, and out to sea can’t be beat. And today was a perfect sunny summer day.

  I took a moment to admire the view. Irene ran into the lobby and caught up with us, and we went onto the veranda. Lunch service had finished and dinner had yet to begin, and only one table was occupied. A bottle of Prosecco resting in an ice bucket indicated that Linda and Kevin had been served already. Kevin gave us a smile and a wave, and Linda watched me through wary eyes. She took a sip of her drink.

  “Th
anks for agreeing to see me,” I said. “Everything settled for tomorrow?”

  “Paperwork all done,” she said.

  They’d taken a large table with eight chairs. Linda sat at the head of the table, Kevin to her right. I dropped into a chair two over from Linda. I gestured to Jayne to take the seat between us. Grant pulled out the chair opposite me, and I said, “Why don’t you come and sit beside me, Grant. I have some business to discuss with you, and we don’t want to bore everyone else.” I smiled at him. Irene took the chair opposite me, and Grant grinned as he sat down next to me.

  “Sorry to be rude,” I said. “I just remembered something very important.” I pulled my phone out and sent a quick text.

  Across the table, Irene’s bag chirped, as I knew it would. A reporter can’t chance missing an update. “Sorry,” she said. She checked it, gave me a very startled look, and moved to the chair on her right, so she sat opposite Grant. She always carried a huge leather tote bag, full of the tools of her trade. She tossed the bag onto the chair at the foot of the table.

  I made the introductions. “Now that we’re all comfortably settled,” I said, “how was the house viewing?” I wasn’t trying to fill the time with idle conversation. I was hoping one more person would join us.

  Linda shook her head. “It was far less impressive inside than the outside promised, and it’s in need of an enormous amount of work. Hugely disappointing.”

  “You’re moving to West London?” Jayne said. “That’s great.”

  The waiter arrived and took our orders. Grant and Irene asked for pints of Nantucket Grey Lady, Jayne accepted the offer to share the Prosecco, and I ordered tea. Hot tea. They made a suitable cuppa here. They should: I’d taught them how.

  “Prices can be jaw dropping around here,” Kevin said. “Certainly for anything on the water.”

  “We’re in no hurry,” Linda said. “We have plenty of time. We’re looking for the absolute perfect place.” She smiled at Kevin. He smiled back. Jayne caught my eye and made a little circle with her lips.

  The waiter arrived with the drinks. The beer glasses were thick with frost, and my tea was served in a white china pot emitting fragrant steam. “Kitchen’s closed ’til five, but we can do a cheese plate or charcuterie.”

  Kevin politely asked if we wanted anything to eat, and we equally politely declined. I poured my tea and added a splash of milk. Jayne leaned across me and dumped in a spoonful of sugar. “You need the energy.”

  “Why is that?” Kevin asked.

  “Coming down with a bit of a summer cold,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Isn’t it a lovely day?” I hoped I wouldn’t have to drag this out all afternoon. I am not an expert at small talk.

  “Oh, good,” Linda said, to my infinite relief. “Here he is now.”

  Robert McNamara was crossing the flagstone floor. He brushed Linda’s cheek with his lips and dropped into the only empty chair: the one across from me. “Sorry I’m late. A beer, thanks. Whatever they’re having will do,” he said to the waiter.

  Another round of introductions was made. Linda told us she would be in touch soon with details about her mother’s funeral if we wanted to attend.

  I took my phone out of my bag and sent a text, this time without making any apologizes. Jayne threw me a question; she knows how rude I consider using a phone in a restaurant to be.

  “Isn’t this pleasant.” I put the phone away. “Nothing like a day in the sun with good friends.”

  Jayne clearly thought my brain really was addled. I adjusted my hat.

  “Seems to me,” I said, “that good friends shouldn’t have secrets. Isn’t that right, Linda?”

  She looked at me for a long time. Only Kevin appeared to know what we were talking about. “I don’t think this is a good time,” he said.

  “Gemma might be right. It’s the perfect time,” Linda said.

  “Time for what?” Robert asked.

  “The perfect time to tell you that my mother didn’t write the books. I did.”

  Knowing what was coming, I watched his face. He showed no sign of shock or disbelief, only amusement. He chuckled. “I understand, Linda, I do. You want to continue her legacy. That’s so admirable, but you have to understand it’s not at all realistic. Ruth—Renalta—had such a distinctive writing style. We need to hire the absolute right person to finish the book so it’s completely seamless. Isn’t that so, Kev?”

  “You’re right about one thing,” Kevin said, “no one can imitate that unique voice.”

  Robert coughed. “Let’s leave this for another time. Y’all don’t want to discuss our business in front of these nice people. That cheese plate does sound awful good. Anyone want to join me?”

  “Don’t patronize me, Robert,” Linda said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing that, honey,” he replied. “If you want to be a writer, why don’t you start with a nice little short story? Maybe something from . . . what’s the name of the character in Renalta’s books?” He snapped his fingers rapidly as though the answer could be summoned out of thin air.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” Grant said.

  “I mean the woman,” Robert said. “An origin story, like they do in science fiction and fantasy. Something about her as a child that shows the woman she will grow up to be.”

  “Desdemona’s past has been thoroughly discussed in the books,” Linda said. “You’d know that if you’d read them.”

  “Not my job,” Robert said. “That’s why I have editors. Editors who’ve worked closely with Renalta and therefore are totally in tune with her voice and style. I’m thinking a short story by her daughter might be just the thing to keep fans interested until the new book comes out. Do you think you can do that? Almost anything will do. I can have it fixed up and made publishable.”

  Linda’s eyes widened as he spoke, and her color was rising. I decided it was time for me to take control of the conversation before one of them stormed out of the room and my chance to confront Ruth’s killer was lost, probably forever.

  “You and your mother argued on your way to my shop on Saturday,” I said. “Was that because you told her you didn’t want to continue with the charade?”

  “Yes,” Linda said. “I’ve enjoyed writing those books, but I think they’ve come to a logical conclusion, and I want to try something new. She disagreed.”

  “To put it mildly,” Kevin said.

  “Ridiculous,” Robert said. “The fans are eager for more. I can find a new writer. It’ll be like Robert Ludlum. Renalta can keep writing even though she’s . . . no longer with us. I’ll let you have approval of the new ghostwriter. How’s that sound?”

  “What Linda is telling you,” I said, “isn’t that she wants to continue her mother’s work herself. She’s telling you she’s the author and always has been.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Robert’s laugh was strained. “Her?”

  Linda leapt to her feet, and Jayne grabbed her wine flute to keep it from tumbling over. “I am Renalta Van Markoff. I have always been Renalta Van Markoff. I wrote the books, every single word, and my mother acted the role of author in public.”

  “Wow!” Grant said.

  “I’d love to interview you about that,” Irene said.

  I watched Robert. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he said.

  “I’m serious, all right,” Linda said. “Alert the press. Oh, look, the press is already here. Irene, I’ll grant you an exclusive interview on the entire story.”

  “Cool,” Irene said.

  “Not only did I write all the books, I own the copyright to the published ones.”

  “Is this true?” Robert shouted at Kevin. “Did you know about this?”

  “It’s true,” Kevin said. “I didn’t know Linda intended to tell you now, here, but I respect her decision to do so.”

  “Furthermore,” Linda said, “I’m leaving McNamara and Gibbons and taking the next book to a larger publishing house.”

  “What?” Kevin said.
>
  “You can’t do that!” Robert yelled. “We have a contract.”

  “No, we do not. That contract, as you are well aware, expired after the third book, and the new one hasn’t been signed yet. I can take my books wherever I want. I’ve had an offer from one of the big five. It came in last week. They’re offering a substantial amount more money than you ever have, Robert. I’m done with you and your cheap little publishing house. I’m only sorry my mother didn’t live long enough to tell you herself. She always thought you were a nasty little weasel.”

  Robert perched on the edge of his chair, every muscle in his body tight with anger. Kevin, Jayne, Grant, and Irene stared at Linda. I sipped my tea and kept my eyes on the publisher. His color was not looking good. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  “Except that Ruth did tell you, didn’t she?” I said. “Ruth Smith told you she was accepting a better offer for the next book in the Hudson and Holmes series. She also told you it was almost finished, although she didn’t inform you as to the true author. You killed her for nothing.”

  Everyone fell silent. Linda dropped into her chair, and Kevin rose out of his. Irene grabbed her big bag and surreptitiously slipped her notebook out of it. She placed her iPhone on the table and switched on the recorder.

  “Now you’re the one being ridiculous,” Robert said with a forced laugh.

  “When you and Linda argued over getting the unfinished manuscript, you mentioned that you had not yet paid an advance for it. I’m only a simple bookseller, but even I know that in traditional publishing, particularly at the Van Markoff level of sales, an advance on royalties is always part of the contact. No advance, therefore no signed contract. Meaning Renalta—either Ruth or Linda—is under no obligation to give you the next book.”

  “You’re wrong, Gemma,” Kevin said. “Paige Bookman killed Renalta . . . I mean, Ruth. She came here last night. While we were having dinner. She made another scene, demanding that McNamara and Gibbons hire her to continue writing the Hudson and Holmes series as well as some unfinished book she has.”

  “More like unstarted,” Linda muttered.

  “She also demanded that I act as her publicist,” Kevin continued. “She’s still claiming that Renalta ruined her writing career. She really has gone around the bend, and big time. The police were called, and Paige was arrested. The police are putting the case together to tie her to the murder.”