by Vicki Delany
“You can’t stop getting yourself wrapped up in police cases.”
“It’s never what I want,” I said in a low voice. “Stuff just happens around me.”
“I know that. It’s who you are. If I love you, I have to love who you are.”
“If it helps,” I said, “I love you too.”
I turned and looked up at him. The streetlight overhead shone on his warm blue eyes and his wide smile. He bent to kiss me, and I lifted my chin to accept the kiss and return it.
I was almost jerked off my feet as Violet, at the other end of the leash, decided she’d had enough of this talking and kissing stuff, and headed off after a squirrel.
* * *
The following morning, brilliant sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, and Violet chased dust mites around the kitchen. I nibbled toast while, through the wonders of the World Wide Web, I searched for information on Bradley and Crystal Lamb.
Last night, when I’d arrived at Kathy Lamb’s visitation, I’d decided to abandon my inquiries into her murder. I’d soon changed my mind. That scene between Dan and Elizabeth had been both interesting and informative. As had the reactions of Kathy’s child and stepchild to their father and his new wife.
I hoped never to be invited to Christmas lunch at the Lamb house.
I had no reason to consider Brad or Crystal as suspects in the death of Kathy. Obviously, they—Crystal, in particular—were on their mother’s side in their parents’ divorce, but my interest was piqued. As it often is when I witness a display of such unguarded emotion.
I learned that Brad was the guitar player and backup vocalist for a band called Out to Lunch. Whether because of a poor choice of name, because they weren’t any good, or due to bad luck, Out to Lunch played nothing but third-rate clubs and seedy bars throughout New England. And not much of those lately. Their website showed no upcoming gigs, and I wondered if the band was still together. I found Crystal’s bio on the page for a tennis club in Boston, where she was a member. She’d graduated from West London High School, then gone on to the University of Massachusetts in Amherst, where she got a business degree. She was now a vice president at a New England bank. No husband or children were mentioned.
Sherlock Holmes had the Baker Street Irregulars to keep him informed. I have the internet.
* * *
“Do you know what they wanted?” Ashleigh said to me when I came downstairs. I’d spent some time in the office, reading through publishers’ catalogs and placing orders for books that would be suitable for stocking in the shop for Christmas. I’d found several I was excited about, including the fourth (and the last) in the Hudson and Holmes series by Renalta Van Markoff. That one had been pushed into publication mighty fast following the celebrated author’s death a short while ago.
“What who wanted?” I asked. The shop was busy with customers browsing, but no one needed our attention at the moment.
“The police, of course,” Ashleigh said. “Weren’t you looking out the window with a magnifying glass or something?”
“Unlikely I, or anyone else, would use a magnifying glass to look out the window,” I said. “I get your point; however, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
She tried to hide an “I know something you don’t know” look. She failed.
I hadn’t paid much attention to Ashleigh’s outfit today because for once it was quite normal, whatever that means. She looked nice in white capris, blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, blue trainers with white laces, and small gold hoop earnings. Now, I looked closer. She’d done something with her hair. Normally straight and either tied into a ponytail or falling to her shoulders, she’d styled and sprayed it into a halo of wild curls held back by a clip. Those earrings looked a lot like the ones I normally wore to work. Mine were real gold, a birthday gift from my parents. Ashleigh’s had been bought at Walmart.
She was, I realized with a shock, dressed in imitation of me!
I gaped. Moriarty smirked. I decided not to say anything; better to pretend I hadn’t noticed. “I like your hair that way.”
“Thanks. The police, you didn’t see them?” she said.
“No.”
“Your boyfriend and that tall woman cop. They went into Beach Fine Arts a couple of minutes ago. Parked right out front, in the loading zone, which means they were on police business, right?” She walked over to the window and peered out. “They’re still in there.”
I joined her at the window. Some of the customers had caught our conversation, and they followed us. We all stood there, staring onto the street. As we watched, the door of Beach Fine Arts opened, and Ryan and Louise Estrada came out. His face was unreadable, but the look on hers was one of satisfaction. She said something to him; he shook his head. They got into their car and drove away.
Maureen ran out of her store. She barely made it across the street without causing a four-car pileup. We all turned away from the window and bustled about, pretending not to have been watching.
“Gemma!” Maureen screeched as the front door of my shop bounced off the wall. “You’re not working fast enough.”
I pointed to the line of “I am SHERlocked” mugs I was arranging on the shelf. “I’m working as hard as I can, Maureen.”
“Never mind that rubbish. I mean on my case.”
“What happened?” Ashleigh asked.
I was about to suggest Maureen and I go upstairs, or at least to a quiet table in the tearoom, but she shouted so everyone could hear. “They’ve dug up some ridiculous triviality in my past and are using it to frame me for the killing of Kathy Lamb.”
My customers, along with Ashleigh and Moriarty, gave up all pretext of minding their own business.
“No one’s going to frame you, Maureen,” I said. “Why don’t you calm down and—”
“Calm down! I don’t need to calm down! I need you to do what I hired you for.”
“I wouldn’t say hired is the right word.”
“Okay, so Kathy and I had an argument that time in Hyannis. She should have been watching where she was walking, that’s all. She wasn’t hurt. Not badly anyway. No charges were laid. I said sorry, although I didn’t mean it. It was her fault. I had nothing to be sorry about. Okay, I didn’t mention it after Kathy died—why should I? I didn’t want to waste police time on such a minor triviality. This is what happens when I try to do the right thing. No wonder I never bother.” She turned on her heel and stormed out.
A customer looked at the DVD in her hand: Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Stocking. She put it back on the shelf. “No need to get this,” she said. It’s going to seem mighty tame after all that.”
* * *
“Feel like an outing?” I asked Jayne.
She eyed me suspiciously. “An outing where?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I don’t trust your outings. Are we going to climb trees, crash through fences, or wear disguises? I’m not dressing all in black.”
“That will not be necessary. We’re going to pay a call on Elizabeth Dumont.”
“You mean a call as in walking up to the door and ringing the bell?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Like normal people do?”
“Jayne! Do you want to come or not?”
She sighed. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
“Good. We’ll leave after the store closes at nine. I’ll pick you up at your place.”
“Isn’t that late for a social call?”
“Better chance of finding her at home.”
“Meaning you’re not going to call ahead.”
“Of course not. If she’s not in, we’ll try again another time.”
“Are you going to accuse her of killing Kathy?”
“Pretty much. Although I will attempt to be slightly more subtle than you’re suggesting.”
Jocelyn had taken a pot of tea and four place settings into the dining room. Two three-tiered trays
were set out on the kitchen counter, waiting to be ferried to tearoom guests. I helped myself to a cucumber-and-cream cheese tea sandwich, my favorite.
“Gemma! Those are for our customers.”
“I didn’t get any lunch.” I took a bite. “Can’t you make another?”
“Yes, I can make another, but I don’t want to.”
“Sorry,” I said, not meaning it.
Jocelyn came in. She reached for the trays and stopped. “One looks short.”
“So it is,” Jayne said, taking a loaf of bread out of the bin. “We’ve had a raid.”
“I’ll be at your house around ten after nine.” I tossed the last of the sandwich into my mouth, hopped off my stool, and hurried out of Jayne’s domain before she could order me to make the replacement sandwich.
* * *
It might not be significant that the police had dug up a previous altercation between Maureen and Kathy. After all, West London is a small town, and Maureen isn’t known for her friendliness. Still, the visit by Ryan and Estrada to Beach Fine Arts reminded me that I was getting nowhere in this investigation. Apparently, Ryan and Estrada were also getting nowhere.
Time, I thought, to beard the lioness in her den.
I had no expectations that Elizabeth would break down and tearfully confess in front of me. Even if she did, I had been reminded recently, in a case that ended on the stage of a theater, that a confession isn’t worth much in a court of law, not in absence of physical evidence.
No, about all I wanted was to assess the woman face-to-face in her own home. I believed Elizabeth had killed Kathy because of jealousy. I might not think Dan Lamb, short, flabby, aging badly, to be worth killing over, but there’s no accounting for taste.
Ryan dismissed Elizabeth as the potential killer because she acted out her anger in public. At first, I’d agreed, but now I wondered if that was a mistake. Different circumstances require different methods. Ryan was letting me be more involved in this case than he had in the past, but I was still reluctant to tell him I thought he was wrong.
Not without more to go on than my gut instinct.
Thinking of Ryan made me remember last night. Our walk for ice cream. That he told me he loved me, and I replied in return. Love—isn’t that what’s supposed to make the world go ’round?
Too bad life has to get in the way. I didn’t tell Ryan I was planning on paying Elizabeth a visit. That would put him in the position of having to tell me not to, and put me in the position of either arguing with him or lying to him.
And then I’d go anyway.
I picked up Jayne shortly after nine. I felt a twinge of guilt because I know how early she needs to get to bed, but when bearding lionesses, I like to have some backup.
“I just got off the phone with Jack,” she said as she fastened her seatbelt.
“Leaving town, is he? Dinner date’s off, is it? Too bad.”
“He called to set up something for tomorrow night and to tell me he’s looking forward to catching up. Wasn’t that nice?”
“I suppose so,” I grudgingly admitted.
“I’ve been meaning to say, Gemma, that you’ve been happy lately.”
“I have?”
“Yes, you have. It’s very noticeable. When you’re not worrying about who killed Kathy Lamb, you have a genuine glow about you. Things are going well with Ryan, I can tell.”
“Well enough,” I said.
“I don’t like to say, ‘I told you so,’ but I told you so.”
“You did not.”
“Yes, I did. I told you he was the man for you. You wouldn’t listen to me at first, but then you did, and now you’re both blissfully happy.” She sighed. “The only thing better than being in love is having your best friend taking your advice and falling in love with the right man.”
“I hope this conversation has nothing to do with Jack Templeton.”
“Why should it?” she said sweetly.
I grumbled. Fortunately, at that moment we arrived at our destination.
Elizabeth Dumont’s house occupied a prime piece of oceanfront land on Harbor Road past Scarlet House and the Cape Cod Yacht Club. The property was fenced, but the gates stood open. I glanced at them as we drove past. Judging by the pattern of weeds in the cracks in the pavement and the lack of tracks made by the wheels of the gates, they were not normally kept closed. Lush green lawns spread out on either side of the driveway, but there were no trees and no flower beds. The house was ultra-modern, all gray concrete and dark glass, straight lines and sharp angles.
“Cold,” Jayne said with a shiver.
“Maybe it’s nicer at the front overlooking the water,” I said.
The driveway ended at a set of dark gray double doors that weren’t brightened by so much as a pot of annuals. The garage doors were closed, and no vehicles were outside. I parked and we got out of the Miata.
All was quiet except for the soft pounding of the surf against the shoreline. The sun had set, but it wasn’t yet fully dark, and deepening dusk hung over the house and grounds. The motion light above the door had come on as we drove up.
I pressed the bell, and we waited.
Nothing. I rang again.
When the sound of the chimes had died down, I held my hands to my face and peered through the small window set into the door. Inside, all was dark.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Jayne said.
“It’s a big house. If lamps are on at the front, it’s unlikely we can see them from here.”
I rang the bell again, but again got no response.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll have to call and arrange a time to visit, although I’d rather not do that.” I turned to leave, and my elbow hit the door. It swung open a few inches.
I looked at Jayne. “What have we here?”
“We can’t just walk in,” she said.
“No.” I pushed the door open at the same time as I knocked loudly and called out, “Ms. Dumont, are you at home?”
The sound of glass breaking.
“Elizabeth? Are you all right?”
Sea air ruffled my curls; the sound of the waves was louder. “Call nine-one-one,” I shouted to Jayne. I pushed the door aside and ran into the house, followed by Jayne’s “What’s going on?”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and switched on the flashlight app. I was in the entrance hall. Black and white ceramic tiles, closed door leading to a coat closet, a bench for removing shoes, a container holding two umbrellas. An ashtray on the side table held the crushed end of a single cigarette. The lights at the back of the house were off, but a soft glow came down the hallway. I ran toward it, yelling, “The police have been called.” Past the darkened kitchen and dining room, through the TV room, and into the living room. The far wall was almost all glass, and I got a glimpse of moonlight shining on the ocean. French doors led to a swimming pool and patio. Two table lamps were on, casting a warm yellow light around the large space. The furniture was wicker; the cushions, blue and white; the paintings on the walls, of sailboats at sea. The side tables held photographs of smiling people crewing boats, as well as a plethora of ashtrays, some containing ash and cigarette ends. The floor was gleaming hardwood, wide planks quite possibly salvaged from an old barn. A thick white carpet trimmed in blue filled the center of the room. A woman lay face down on it. It was Elizabeth Dumont, and she was very still.
Chapter Fifteen
Jayne stood behind me, talking rapidly into her phone.
“Stay here,” I yelled. A breeze blew in through the broken glass of the French doors and ruffled the edges of the white-and-blue-striped drapes. I grabbed a heavy ashtray off a side table and used it to sweep aside shards of broken glass, and then I stepped through. Pieces of shattered glass glimmered in the moonlight. Lounge chairs were laid out around the pool, and teak furniture formed an outdoor dining area.
“What are you doing?” Jayne called.
I lifted one hand. “Shush.”
I listened.
Surf pounded the shore; cars drove by on Harbor Road. The thud of feet hitting turf came from my right.
I ran after them, using the beam from my phone to light the way. A small cabin, probably used to store pool equipment, was at the edge of the patio. I ran past it and shone my flashlight onto the ground around me. The light caught traces of fresh indentations in the recently mowed grass. I followed the footprints to the corner of the house. As I rounded the building, I saw a figure crossing the front lawn, heading toward the open gates and the road beyond, moving fast. I took off in pursuit. The figure was wrapped in dark, bulky clothes; of average height and weight, from what I could tell from afar; and able to run at a good clip, at least over a short distance. He or she didn’t look back, but had to have been aware of me following. I didn’t bother to yell at the person to stop.
The dark figure reached the end of the driveway. Through the gates and onto the sidewalk. Cars drove past. It was not yet ten o’clock, and traffic was heavy in both directions. I was far behind my quarry, and by the time I burst through the gates, the running figure had disappeared. No pedestrians were on the sidewalks to my left, but the street took a sharp bend to the right at this spot, so I headed that way. This was a wealthy residential area, the trees large and old, hedges thick and lush, many of the houses fenced and gated, and all set well back from the road. A few yards ahead, a side street headed inland. I slowed to a halt and looked around me.
My quarry could have gone anywhere: up the side street, into one of the yards, behind a hedge, crouched in the shadow of a car. If the person had a vehicle parked nearby, he or she might have simply driven away, blending anonymously into the steady stream of evening traffic. I hadn’t noticed any cars parked at the side of the street when we arrived, but Jayne and I had come from town, to the left.
I heard sirens fast approaching and gave up the chase. I trotted back to the entrance to Elizabeth’s property as a police car, blue and red lights flashing, tore up the driveway. I retraced my own steps, across the lawn, around the house, past the pool, through the broken glass of the French doors.
Jayne was talking to an officer, waving her hands in the air. Another knelt by Elizabeth Dumont’s unmoving body.
