by Vicki Delany
“Oh, look. It’s the museum committee having lunch on the museum budget. And you have the nerve to ask me to pay for it.”
“That is simply not true,” Leslie said. “We don’t use museum funds for anything but operating the museum.”
“Save your breath, Leslie.” Kathy poured herself another cup of tea. Her voice was calm, but her hands shook with anger. Maureen definitely got under her skin. I wondered if it was more than just the refusal to donate a plastic lighthouse or set of postcards to the museum auction.
“I would have thought,” I said, “a charity auction would be the perfect way to advertise the fine art you sell, Maureen.” Beach Fine Arts sold anything but. They stocked the same made-in-China tourist stuff you could find up and down the coast, mass-produced postcards with standard Cape images, a few good gift cards by local artists, and a selection of Maureen’s own art. Jayne thought the paintings were paint by number, and I had to agree. Half the people who went into Maureen’s store mistakenly thought it was the location of the Sherlock Holmes shop. Instead of thanking me for sending business her way when that happened, it simply loaded another chip onto the pile on Maureen’s shoulder.
“What does that mean?” she asked me.
I sipped my tea. “The proud owner will show her new possession off to her friends. Maybe she’ll pass the business card stuck to the back of the painting on to others. People who attend charity auctions tend to be quite well off, wouldn’t you agree, Kathy?”
“That’s true.”
“And they have well-heeled friends.” I selected a raspberry tart. “Up to you. The museum will be giving receipts, so the donors can get a tax deduction on their donations.”
Maureen harrumphed, but I caught the flicker of interest in her eyes at the magic words tax deduction. She spun on her heels and walked across the room to the counter.
I didn’t catch what she said, but Fiona replied. “I’m sorry, Maureen; it’s not our policy to offer discounts.”
“You did it the other—”
“That’ll be three fifty,” Fiona said quickly.
Maureen grumbled, carefully counted out three dollars and fifty cents in coins, accepted a paper bag containing a slice of strawberry cake, and left, still grumbling.
Kathy shook her head once the door had slammed shut behind Maureen. “What a miserable person she is.”
“Don’t take it personally,” I said. “She’s nasty to everyone.”
“I never did hear,” Jayne said. “Did they find out what caused the fire?”
I knew, because Ryan had told me over dinner the other night. “The paper’s playing it down,” I said, “because no one was hurt, and it was probably an accident. The volunteer who was last to leave simply forgot to blow out a candle on a table in the main room. The candle burned down, and the dying flame must have flickered and caught a piece of paper someone had left on the table too close to it.”
Kathy snorted. “Pure carelessness. Stupid woman.”
I looked at her, surprised at her tone.
“That’s not entirely fair,” Leslie said. “Accidents happen.”
“That’s no excuse,” Kathy said. “I haven’t been board chair for long, but long enough to know some changes need to be made, and soon. Robyn was sloppy and indulgent, and now that I’m in charge, I intend to sweep out all the cobwebs she left behind. I was in the process of doing so when the fire started. Once we get this auction out of the way, I have even more reason to get the necessary changes made and put the museum on a far more efficient footing.”
“Robyn did a good job when she was board chair,” Leslie said. “She had her own style, yes, but you can’t put any blame on her for the fire. She’s not even on the board anymore.”
“She kept that useless woman on far longer than she should have. That’s exactly what I mean about cobwebs.”
“What sort of changes are you talking about?” Leslie asked.
“You’ll see. Right now, I need you to concentrate on the auction.” Kathy gathered up her purse. “Thanks for this, Gemma. See you both next Saturday at four thirty.”
“What’s happening next Saturday at four thirty?” I asked.
“Gemma!” Jayne said. “You can’t have forgotten already. You’re serving tea.”
Chapter Four
The following Saturday at four thirty, I managed to avoid serving tea at the Scarlet House restoration fund auction.
I was pleased Jayne had told Kathy and Leslie she couldn’t do a full afternoon tea. I’d been roped into helping prepare for similar events in the past, and as I might have said, a kitchen is not my natural environment.
Jayne and Jocelyn had stayed late the night before, making hundreds of scones. I’d come into the tearoom at quarter to four, as ordered, to help them get the dishes washed and the tables reset for the auction. It was an advance-tickets-only function, and an excited Leslie had called Jayne this morning to let her know every seat had been sold.
Meaning we’d have a full house. More than a full house, as extra tables and chairs had been brought in by museum volunteers.
I wasn’t surprised at the news. The museum team had been out in force all week, plastering the town with posters and making phone calls. When I told Jayne I was impressed at their efficiency, she said, “Poor Kathy has to have something to do. She can be a bit over the top sometimes, with all her talk about changes and new brooms sweeping out cobwebs, but Mom’s glad she has this to throw her energy into. Bad enough that her husband left her after thirty-five years of marriage and two kids, but he did it after she’d sent out the invitations for their wedding anniversary party.”
“Tough,” I said. “I assume he ran off with some sweet-faced young thing?”
“On the contrary, he dumped her for a woman he met in church at a wedding, of all things. If anything, she’s older than Kathy.”
“Scandal in the vicarage. The stuff of classic mystery novels. Did this wedding guest leave a cheated-on husband?”
“She’s a widow. A widow who inherited a lot of money after her husband’s suspicious death.”
I wasn’t much interested in Kathy’s marital problems, but that got my attention. “Suspicious how?”
Jayne shrugged. “I don’t know the details. It happened when I was living in Boston. Mom said the police spent a lot of time looking into it, but no charges were ever laid.”
“Gemma,” one of the museum volunteers called, “can you give us a hand with these tables, please?” I hurried to obey. In order to squeeze as many patrons as possible into Mrs. Hudson’s, we were going to move our tables closer together and fill the space with card tables and plastic chairs. I helped rearrange furniture while Fiona and Jocelyn quickly and efficiently threw red tablecloths over them and laid out napkins, silverware, bone china teacups, and matching plates. The tablecloths had been supplied by the museum. In keeping with the name of the museum, Scarlet House, they were a dark red. Each table featured a thin plastic vase holding a single red carnation, which had been provided by one of the volunteers. Guests had been asked to dress in red to show their support of the museum, and I’d obliged by finding the one red item I had in my closet: a deep red—scarlet—blouse, worn with black capris. Jayne had bought red shoelaces specifically for today, which she handed to Jocelyn and Fiona to lace through their work sneakers.
My job was to stand at the door and collect tickets. I’d managed to get out of pouring tea when Jayne remembered past disasters. Shortly before the doors opened, I nipped into the Emporium, took The Valley of Fear out of a drawer beneath the sales counter, and picked a basket off the floor. The book was Uncle Arthur’s personal contribution, and I needed to donate something myself on behalf of the shop. I’d bought an attractive wicker basket and filled it with both volumes of The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Memoirs from Mrs. Hudson’s Kitchen by Wendy Heyman-Marsaw, a copy of the anthology In the Company of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Disappearing Diva by Gemma Halliday and Kelly Rey, a Sher
lock: The Mind Palace coloring book, an “I am SHERlocked” mug, a book of photo graphs from the Jeremy Brett TV show, and a DVD of Murder by Decree, starring Christopher Plummer as Holmes. I was pleased with the basket: something for every variation of Holmes lover.
“I have my phone on me if you need me,” I told Ashleigh, dressed today in a severe black skirt suit, with her hair pulled tightly back and plain glass spectacles perched on her nose. She once told me she dressed according to her mood. Presumably, today she was in the mood of an auctioneer at Sotheby’s.
“It’ll be great,” she said. “The auction’s the talk of the town.”
“I’ll be back as soon as it’s over. Hopefully some of the people attending will wander in here after.”
I took my donation into the small storage room at the back of Mrs. Hudson’s. A steady stream of visitors had been dropping off their auction contributions throughout the day. Leslie Wilson was stationed in here to accept the goods and check them off her list. The room wasn’t large, and today it was packed almost to the rafters. Leslie’s face peered out at me from behind a box as I put my basket and The Valley of Fear onto a table. She put a pair of scissors on top of the box and reached for her clipboard. “That’s the last of it, Gemma,” she said, making a tick with a dramatic flourish.
“What’s your job during the auction?” I asked. “I hope you won’t be stuck in here guarding the things?”
She smiled at me. “Fortunately, no. One of the volunteers and I will run back and forth, bringing out the items in turn. Kathy’s acting as the auctioneer.”
“She’s done a lot for this.”
“She’s been an absolute marvel, Gemma. She’s thrown her heart and soul into organizing this thing. It’s amazing how quickly it all came together. It wouldn’t have happened without her enthusiasm and drive. There’s been a lot of dissent on the museum board, and it hasn’t been a nice place to be lately. Some people weren’t entirely happy when Kathy took over as chair, but she’s won everyone over with this. In that way, although not in any other, the fire did us a favor.”
“As often happens in the face of disaster,” I said.
Leslie glanced at her watch. “Almost four thirty.”
“Then I’d better get to work. Good luck.” I left her and assumed my post by the front door. The sliding door joining the tearoom to the Emporium had been closed so no one could come in that way. All I had to do was collect tickets and hand each arrival a copy of the auction program book, which listed all the items, the donors, and the suggested opening bid for each.
A large group of people were milling about outside, in a sea of red clothing, waiting for me to unlock the door. The moment I did so, Maureen Macgregor pushed her way through the crowd, a thin, flat rectangle wrapped in beige packing paper tucked under her arm. She had not received the memo and was not dressed in red.
“Ticket please,” I said.
She waved the package at me. “I don’t need a ticket. I’ve brought something for you to auction off.” Judging by the size and shape, it was a painting.
“That’s nice of you, Maureen, but you still need a ticket. This is a charity event. I bought a ticket. Even Jayne bought one, and she’s doing all the work.”
“More fool you,” she said. She attempted to push her way past me. I stood firm.
“I didn’t see your painting on the list,” I said.
“What list?”
“The list of items to be auctioned. People want to know ahead of time what’s on offer so they can mull over what they want to buy.”
“I don’t need to be on any list. Where’s the auctioneer going to stand? I’ll put this up there so everyone can see it.”
“What’s the hold up here?” a man’s voice called.
“Maureen, will you get the heck out of the way,” a woman said. “I’m not standing in the street all day.”
Maureen spun around. “Pardon me, Janet O’Leary, but I’m donating one of my own paintings to this auction, and I have business to discuss first. I intend to ensure it’s handled properly.”
“I also made a donation,” Janet replied. The light wind made the black feather on the scarlet fascinator attached to her head dance. “But I don’t discuss my business in front of half of West London.”
A riot on Baker Street would not be good for the museum’s image. “Fiona,” I said, beckoning the passing waitress, “take over here for a minute, will you?”
“But Jayne sent me to—”
“Won’t be long.” I grabbed Maureen’s arm. “Let’s find Kathy.”
I dragged Maureen through the tearoom, dodging tables and chairs and museum volunteers, to where Kathy stood at the podium we’d borrowed from the library, studying her list. She was dressed in red from top to toe. Red shirt, red jacket, red trousers, red shoes. The jacket was too large for her and the trousers too long. I wondered if she’d borrowed the clothes.
She heard Maureen order me to unhand her and looked up. Kathy’s eyes widened in surprise, and then her face settled into a serious frown.
Maureen waved the package at her. “I brought something for your auction. I hope that makes you happy.”
Kathy swallowed heavily and made no attempt to smile. “You should have told me before this. We’ve prepared an auction sheet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Maureen said. “We’ll put my painting right here where everyone can see it. You can auction it last, as a climax to the afternoon.”
“I’ve already determined the order of presentation,” Kathy said.
“Well then you’ll have to un-determine it, won’t you? Do you want my contribution or not?”
“Probably not,” Kathy muttered.
“What was that?” Maureen said.
“Nothing,” Kathy said.
“Why don’t you unwrap it,” I said, “and let us have a look at it?” The room was filling as people poured through the doors and found seats. I needed to get back to my post, but I was curious as to what Maureen had brought.
She peeled away the paper.
I swallowed a bark of laughter. Kathy gasped and said, “That’s absolutely hideous!”
“I’ll have you know I painted it myself,” Maureen said.
“Then it’s even more hideous.” Kathy threw up her hands.
Hideous might not be the word I would have chosen. More like childish, amateurish, tasteless. The painting showed Elvis Presley, identifiable only by his baby-blue leisure suit and a balloon over his head saying “The King,” swinging his hips on a Cape Cod beach. I peered closer and could see traces of the printed outline Maureen’s paintbrush hadn’t completely covered up.
“Get that horrible thing out of here,” Kathy said.
“What’s the matter with you?” Maureen yelled. “You asked me for a donation, and now you say you don’t want it. Not good enough for you and your fancy committee, is it?”
“Are you trying to make me look like a fool?”
Ears began flapping at the tables nearest us. A sudden hush settled over the tearoom.
“I wouldn’t have to try very hard to do that, now would I?” Maureen said.
An onlooker gasped. Someone else chuckled.
“I’ll buy it myself just to get it out of my auction.” Kathy’s eyes were narrow with anger, her face was threatening to match the color of her outfit, and a vein pulsed in her forehead. “One dollar and fifty cents.”
“Your auction? I thought this was for the museum.” Maureen made no attempt to use her indoor voice. “Who appointed you Queen of West London, anyway?”
Kathy sputtered. A man at the front table laughed. I glared at him, and the laugh turned into a cough.
“Why don’t we go into the back room and discuss this?” I said, attempting to be the voice of reason.
“There’s nothing to discuss. This doesn’t involve you, anyway. You and your Sherlock Holmes nonsense—you think you’re so important in this town.” Maureen might be yelling, but she showed none of the barely pent-up rage Kath
y did. If anything, she was enjoying herself.
“Calm down,” I said. “Both of you. You’re creating a scene.”
“I don’t want that piece of junk in my auction,” Kathy said. “You call yourself an artist? Ha! My sister’s granddaughter could do better.”
“How dare you!” Maureen shouted.
“You tell ’er, Kath,” someone called, to much laughter. Maureen was not a popular figure in West London.
I touched Kathy’s arm. “That’s enough. Accept Maureen’s gift in the spirit in which it’s intended.” What that spirit might be, I didn’t know, but this was not the time to speculate.
Kathy visibly struggled to gather herself together, and then she reached for the painting. Maureen held on, looking as though she were going to put up a fight, but eventually she released it.
“I’ll take this in the back with the other items,” Kathy said through gritted teeth. “It will go in the middle of the auction. Lot 34B.”
“Thank you,” I said.
But Kathy had to squeeze in the last word. “The opening bid will be one dollar and fifty cents.” She walked away with the ghastly thing.
“Happy now?” I said to Maureen.
She threw me a smirk. “I’d love a cup of tea. If there’s one thing you English people are good for, it’s making tea. Get me one, Gemma. Milk, two sugars. I see the mayor has arrived. I’ll join her at her table.” She walked away, back straight, head high, a slight swagger to her bony hips.
I took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. I’d been told that was relaxing. It didn’t seem to be working so I gave up and made my way to the front to relieve Fiona. I arrived in time to greet Grant Thompson.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Nice to see you here.”
“How could I resist? I hear a first edition Conan Doyle is on offer.” He smiled warmly at me, and the green flecks in his hazel eyes sparkled. He looked very handsome in a white dress shirt accented by a red bow tie and red pocket handkerchief.
I handed him a program book in exchange for his ticket. “So rumors say.”
“Catch you later, Gemma.”
Grant liked me. I liked him, and we had a lot in common, including a love of books and fond memories of England. He was American, but he’d studied at Oxford, where he’d learned to love a proper pub and a mug of hearty stout. For a while, something almost lit a spark between us, but I finally realized Ryan Ashburton was the man I loved. Grant had taken the change in our relationship well, and we remained friends.
