by Vicki Delany
Maureen Macgregor shoved people out of her way. “Let me through. Let me through. I’ve left my store unsupervised long enough for this travesty. Get out of the way. You’ll have your turn soon enough.”
“Travesty!” A voice spoke loud enough to be heard over the din. People stopped and heads turned. Barb, the museum volunteer I’d nicknamed Helmet-hair, walked slowly through the crowd. “Why are you in such a rush, anyway? Hoping to get out of town before the cops figure out what happened here?”
Maureen sniffed. “That’s ridiculous. Everyone here knows me.”
“So they do. You made sure of it when you arrived with your finger-painting and argued with Kathy,” Barb said.
Maureen sucked in a breath. Her face turned red.
Barb turned toward the police. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as Louise Estrada. The two women locked eyes over the heads of the crowd.
“You’ll want to talk to this lady, Officers. The last thing any of us heard Kathy say was that she’d open the bidding at a dollar fifty for Maureen’s ugly painting.”
A low murmur spread through the room.
“Barb’s right.”
“I heard that too.”
“Maureen was furious.”
“Heck of an insult.”
“You’re crazy!” Maureen shouted. “Every last one of you.”
Barb swung around. She extended her right arm. A long red claw pointed at Maureen. The action was somewhat overly dramatic, I thought, as though she were reenacting the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come confronting Ebenezer Scrooge. “What did you do then, Maureen? Get your revenge? Make her suffer for your humiliation? Officers, I demand you arrest this woman for the murder of Kathy Lamb.”
Chapter Six
Maureen was not arrested, but she was hustled mighty fast, protesting vociferously, into the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson’s, where Ryan and Estrada could interview her in private. An officer was assigned to stand at the kitchen door to keep the curious out of earshot.
Unfortunately, I was lumped among the curious.
“Why don’t you run along, Gemma,” Estrada said. “We know where to find you.”
I gritted my teeth and said nothing.
“You can go home, Jayne,” Ryan said. “I’ll call you when we’re finished here.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be in the Emporium with Gemma. You won’t … uh … touch any of my food, will you?”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” he said. “We don’t have to do much in the dining room area or in the kitchen. By all accounts, everything happened in the storage room. I see no need to open any of your supplies if the containers are sealed.”
We left by the street door, nodding politely to Officer Johnson, busy taking down names and phone numbers.
Dan Lamb had insisted on staying until the body was taken away. He sat alone at a table for eight, body slumped, head in his hands. His angry wife had left as part of the first rush.
“What on earth is happening in there?” Ashleigh cried as Jayne and I came into the Emporium. “People are saying someone died.”
“Sadly, yes.” I spoke to the woman standing beside her. “Good afternoon, Irene. Need I ask what brings you here?”
“You needn’t,” Irene Talbot, crack (and only) reporter for the West London Star, said. “My sources tell me Kathy Lamb died in suspicious circumstances while officiating at the museum auction. Would you like to comment on that?”
“Is Sherlock Holmes a Russian spy? Of course, I’m not going to comment. Except to say that none of this has anything to do with me. With me or with Jayne. You’d be better off sticking your nose in—I mean doing your job elsewhere.”
“The alley’s crammed with police vehicles, and cruisers are parked all over the sidewalk out front. The cops, including forensics people, are walking in and out of Mrs. Hudson’s. Where else would I be?”
“On the sidewalk? Maybe you can lurk about in the alley and get a statement from Ryan Ashburton.” I opened the door for her.
“As if. He’s even more closemouthed than you are. Jayne, do you have a comment for the press?”
Jayne pressed her lips tightly together.
“If you learn anything, Gemma, you’ll give me an exclusive, right?” Irene said.
“I have no intention of learning anything that I don’t read in your paper, Irene. Good night.” Irene and I were friends, but when she was in snoopy-reporter mode and I was in not-wanting-to-be-involved mode, our friendship flew out the window.
“By the way,” she said. “I decided not to take that job in Missouri. These days West London seems to be the place for criminal activity.”
She left.
The shop was full of customers, every one of whom had stopped whatever they were doing to watch us. Moriarty crouched in his favorite place on top of the Gaslight shelf, ears up, whiskers twitching, tail moving slowly. Moriarty loved local gossip.
Ashleigh leaned close to me and whispered, “Nothing like being next door to a crime scene to get people dropping in.”
“So I have discovered,” I said. “Jayne, why don’t you go upstairs if you need to rest?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll give you a hand here. I’m sorry Kathy Lamb died, but I didn’t know her, and it didn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Except for happening in your place,” I said.
She gave me a tight smile. “Except for that.”
“Fortunately, we don’t know many of those people, so we can keep ourselves well out of it for once.” I raised my voice. “Anyone need any help here?”
Some people quickly bent their heads to examine the goods while others went back to browsing. A mother and daughter sorted through books on the Young Adult shelf, and an elderly lady curled up in the chair in the reading nook, flipping through About Being a Sherlockian, edited by Christopher Redmond. Moriarty jumped off the shelf and went to join her. He leapt into her lap, and she laughed and stroked his thick fur.
“You have been busy,” I said to Ashleigh. “Quite a few books appear to have been sold. Also a rush on the mugs, I see. I’ll have to order more. Where did Benedict Cumberbatch go?”
“Someone bought him. She didn’t want him in his packaging, just carried him out, all six feet of him. I hope he fit into her car.”
“That might be a problem,” I said, “being made of cardboard, he doesn’t bend at the knees.”
“Has he ever been to Cape Cod?” an eavesdropping customer asked.
“Benedict Cumberbatch? Not that I’m aware of,” I said.
“It would be fabulous if you could get him into the store,” she said dreamily. “He could sign all the things with his picture on them.” She added a calendar of the BBC series Sherlock to her stack of Cumberbatch-related items. Not a Holmes fan, I guessed, but a Benedict one.
At the Emporium, we cater to many tastes.
“The spot on the shelf that was occupied by A Perilous Undertaking is empty,” I said.
“Sold out,” Ashleigh said.
“Excellent. More came in this morning’s delivery from the distributor, but I haven’t unpacked them yet.”
“I’ll get them,” Jayne said. “Are they upstairs?”
“Thanks. Back wall. Third box from the right. Bring some of A Curious Beginning too, please.”
“Excuse me,” the young mother said. “I’m looking for something with a strong female protagonist for my daughter. She’s thirteen. Is there anything you can recommend?”
“I’m sure I can find something.” I walked over to the Young Adult and Children’s rack. “One of my favorites is …”
The shop continued to be busy. Even with Jayne’s help, Ashleigh and I were on the hop for the next hour. I kept glancing through the still-closed sliding door into the tearoom but could see nothing of interest happening. The auction guests said what they had to say and left. Patrol cars moved off the street. The forensic vans had parked in the alley behind the tearoom. I peeked out the back door occasionally
and saw men and women walking in and out of Mrs. Hudson’s, carrying bags of equipment. I hoped Great-Uncle Arthur’s copy of The Valley of Fear wasn’t in one of them. The book was in excellent condition. Even the slightest damage would reduce the value considerably. And, more important, would break Uncle Arthur’s Holmes-loving heart.
At one point, I glanced out the front window to see Ryan and Estrada waiting for a break in the traffic to cross Baker Street. They went into Beach Fine Arts, and a minute later the sign on the door was flipped to “Closed.” We had a sudden rush of customers, and I didn’t see the detectives come out again. When I next looked, the “Open” sign was back.
The shop’s open until nine on Saturdays in summer. Ashleigh said good night at seven and left. “Big date tonight,” she told me with a hearty laugh.
“Do you think she dresses according to her mood when she’s on a date?” I asked Jayne after the old floorboards at the back door creaked and the door shut behind Ashleigh.
Jayne shook her head. “I hate to think what that might consist of. If she decides things are starting to get serious, and she shows up in a wedding dress, she’ll scare the poor guy right out of Massachusetts.”
“Maybe widow’s weeds if she’s had a bad day.”
“Even worse,” Jayne said.
At eight thirty, Ryan knocked on the sliding door. I was behind the sales counter, ringing up purchases, and Jayne hurried to let him in.
I handed the paper bag containing three books and two DVDs to the customer. She took it but made no move to leave. She pretended to leaf through the bookmarks and local tourist postcards stacked on the counter. She couldn’t fool me. She was watching Ryan. Whether because she was hoping for some police activity or because he looked so darn good in his jeans, blue checked shirt, and black leather jacket, I didn’t know. The stubble on his jaw was coming in thick, and his sharp cheekbones were highlighted in the shadows cast by the lights behind him. His blue eyes swept the shop, settled on me for a fraction of a second, and moved on.
“You should be able to open the tearoom at the regular time tomorrow,” he said. “Mrs. Lamb is being moved now, and our people have most of what they need.”
“Thank you,” Jayne said.
“I hate to sound mercenary,” I said, “but Uncle Arthur donated a rare and valuable book to the auction. Can I have it back?”
“All the items have been taken away for the time being,” Ryan said. “Sorry, Gemma. I promise you, we’ll look after it and get it back to you as soon as we can. Everyone else’s property too.”
Moriarty left the reading nook and ran over to join us. He arched his back and spat at Ryan. “Nice to see you too, Buddy,” Ryan said. His opinion of the forces of law and order expressed, Moriarty flicked his tail, lifted his little chin, and sauntered away with a swing to his hips that reminded me of Maureen dismissing Kathy Lamb.
I wanted to ask Ryan if they’d learned anything of interest, but the hovering shoppers put a stop to that.
“Can you give me a moment in private, Jayne?” he said.
“Sure.” She went into the tearoom, and he shut the door behind her. But not before I slipped through after her. He rolled his eyes but didn’t ask me to leave.
“What can you tell me about that decoration? The teacups on the string? One’s hanging on the wall and one is … uh, in the storage room. Do you have any others?”
“No,” Jayne said. “They’re handmade by a craftsperson in Brewster. I bought two as a trial to see how they did. If they proved to be popular, I was planning to place a larger order.” She swallowed. “I don’t think I want to stock them anymore.”
“Understandable. We’re keeping the detail of the murder weapon from the public for now. Please don’t tell anyone that rope was used to kill Kathy.”
“We won’t,” I said.
“If you want to go home, Jayne,” he said, “I’ll lock up when we’re finished here and drop the keys off at your place.”
“Thanks, but I’ll stay awhile longer. I’ll help Gemma.”
“Okay.” He slid the door open, and Jayne and I returned to the shop. Ryan closed it behind us and flicked the latch, and then he walked through the empty tearoom.
“I need to get all those borrowed tables and chairs out of there before opening tomorrow,” Jayne said. “They clutter up the space.”
“Why don’t you stay closed,” I said. “You need a rest.”
“Closed! On a Sunday in July?”
“Sure,” I said, warming to the idea. “Sleep in, then come around to my place. We can go to the beach, have a swim, and lie in the sun. It’s supposed to be a hot day. You haven’t been to the beach yet this year. I’ll take the day off too. Ashleigh’s working out okay.” On Sundays, the shops on Baker Street were only open from noon until five. Ashleigh could manage.
“You mean play hooky?”
“I don’t know what that is, but I like the sound of it.” I grinned at her. She grinned back. I’d been thinking Jayne was looking tired. She worked hard in the summer. I worked hard too, but I didn’t keep the killer hours she did. She got up at four, seven days a week, to get the bread and pastries started, opened the tearoom at seven for breakfast and takeout coffee, and worked until it closed at four in the afternoon. Then she usually helped with the cleanup and did accounts or worked on staff records. If they had a special function planned, such as today’s auction tea, she stayed late to do prep for that.
It was now almost nine o’clock, and she was here, in the Emporium, helping me and worrying about opening tomorrow.
“Okay, I’m in. Let’s do it!” she said. “I’ll call Jocelyn and Fiona and tell them not to come to work.” Her pretty face fell at the thought of her staff. “No, that’s no good. What about Jocelyn and Fiona? I can’t do them out of a day’s pay.”
“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the day off too.” Neither of them, I knew, had much in the way of extra income. “Tell them the cops said we can’t open, but we’ll pay them for the day anyway. You can tell the Business Improvement Association that too, if they complain about you being closed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Haven’t you exceeded last year’s profits by seventeen percent? The shop’s up by fifteen.”
“Yes, but last year I was just getting started and—”
“It’s settled then.” I was already looking forward to an entire day off. In the summer too. I normally went to the beach on Sunday morning for a swim, but I never had time to linger. We’d do that tomorrow. Then we’d have lunch someplace charming and quiet and expensive. I’d heard good things about a new restaurant in Chatham. Maybe a drive up the coast in the afternoon. The roof of the Miata down, the salty wind in our hair. I’d like to get a new summer dress, and then we could stop at the Harbor Inn on the way back for drinks on the veranda. Unlikely that Ryan would be free to join Jayne and me at the Blue Water Café for dinner, but it was possible this case would be cleared up quickly and easily.
“I feel giddy at the very idea,” Jayne said.
“Good. Why don’t you go home? I can finish up here by myself. It’s almost nine.”
She glanced toward the sliding door. “I’ll stay a bit longer. I hate leaving the place when people are in it.”
The store began to empty out. “Do you have any ideas, Gemma?” Jayne asked when the last customer had left. Who, I am pleased to report, staggered under the weight of her purchases.
“Ideas about what?”
“About who killed Kathy?”
I shook my head. “I can’t say I haven’t been thinking about it, but nothing stands out in my mind. Although the relationship between her and her ex-husband is interesting.”
“In what way?”
“I think he regrets leaving her. I think his new wife knows it, and she’s angry about it. But I didn’t observe either of them doing anything untoward.”
I counted the day’s receipts and began to tidy up. Jayne was sweeping the floor, with Moriarty s
cattering every patch of dust she gathered together, when the bell over the door chimed and Maureen came into the shop. She did not smile in greeting. She said nothing. She stood in the doorway and stared at, of all things, her own feet.
It was one minute before nine.
Jayne stopped sweeping. Moriarty leapt onto a shelf.
“Good evening,” I said. “We’re about to close, Maureen. Can I help you with anything?” I glanced past her out the window. The streetlights had come on, and cars moved through the deepening dusk. Beach Fine Arts was wrapped in darkness.
She took a deep breath. She lifted her head and looked at Jayne. She looked at Moriarty, watching her with his penetrating amber eyes. She looked around my shop, at the books, the toys, the games, the DVDs, the knickknacks. She looked at everything except me.
I did not have a good feeling about this.
“No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”
“I haven’t asked you anything.” She studied the reproduction of the cover of Beeton’s Christmas Annual hanging on the wall behind me.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “The answer is still no.”
“Ask what?” Jayne asked.
Maureen cleared her throat. She shifted her feet. She paid enough attention to everything in my shop to be able to pass a test later. She still didn’t look at me.
Apparently, it would be up to me to start this conversation. “I couldn’t help you if I wanted to, Maureen. I didn’t know Kathy Lamb, any of the people who work at the museum, or other people in her life. I know no more about what went on today than anyone else who was there.”
“Oh,” Jayne said. “You want Gemma to find out who killed Kathy.”
“The police think it was me,” Maureen said. “I didn’t do it, Gemma. I promise.”
“I know you didn’t,” I said.
“Why would I—you do?” She looked directly at me for the first time.
“Kathy was much angrier at you than you were at her,” I said. “If you’d been murdered, Kathy would have been the police’s best suspect. I’ll admit, if I must, that you were insulted by what she had to say about your painting, but that’s not enough to kill someone over.” I decided to be circumspect here and hold some of my observations—and opinions—back. No one on Baker Street liked Maureen, and Maureen seemed to, if anything, take pleasure out of that. Sometimes I thought she deliberately goaded her fellow shop owners, including me. Before I arrived in West London, Maureen had been the president of the Business Improvement Association. She’d held the post for one week. The way I heard it, the members of that organization threatened to burn her shop to the ground if she didn’t step down.
