by Vicki Delany
Which meant Sharon Musgrave had reason to want Kathy Lamb dead. But Elizabeth?
“Did you hear about the murder in town last night?” I put on my best gossipy voice.
Her eyes opened wide. “Oh my gosh, yes. It was on the radio this morning. I can’t imagine what West London’s coming to.”
“Did you know her? Elizabeth Dumont.”
Sharon shook her head. “She came to the auction, didn’t she? I saw her there, but I didn’t speak to her, and I’d never met her before. She never came here. She was married to Kathy’s ex-husband.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t suppose he did it, do you? Killed them both? They say the husband is always the first suspect.”
“I have no idea. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it in due course.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats, please,” called a voice from outside.
Sharon lifted her lamps. “I need to get these out there—the meeting’s about to begin.” She pushed her way past me. The goats watched her go. Her voice had been steady, and her hands didn’t shake. She hadn’t had much of the wine, perhaps no more than a quick mouthful. If she needed a small tipple to get her through the meeting, I wasn’t going to judge her.
I followed her and took my seat next to Jayne. The meeting got underway when Ben led a moment of silence in memory of Kathy Lamb, and a few people stood and paid tribute to her. While that was going on, I couldn’t stop myself from studying the people around me and speculating on their life stories. That man three seats over, the one in the handmade Italian loafers and Armani shirt, had spent some time in prison. The woman next to him, his third, or maybe fourth, wife didn’t know about that.
Robyn Kirkpatrick had taken a seat in the front row. Members of the board, plus Sharon who was taking the minutes, sat behind the head table, leaving the center chair vacant. A wooden gavel rested on the table in front of the empty space.
Ben announced that the slate of candidates for interim chair of the board would now be voted on. The “slate” consisted of one name: Robyn Kirkpatrick. Every hand was lifted, and blushing and smiling, Robyn got to her feet and took her place at the center of the head table.
“First order of business,” she said, after shaking Ben’s hand and thanking everyone for putting their trust in her, “is a plan for the rebuilding and refurnishing of the house we all love so much.” Another round of enthusiastic applause.
Discussion then began on the best way to raise the needed funds. Sharon passed around a sheet of paper containing budget numbers and another with the quote from the construction firm and prices of both original and reproduction Colonial-era furniture. I glanced at the numbers and my eyes watered.
Some people wanted to have another auction. Several thought that would be in extremely poor taste. Someone said Kathy would want them to do what was best for the museum. I was close to dozing off when the words Cape Cod Yacht Club caught my attention.
Robyn had let everyone speak, and then she casually mentioned that the Cape Cod Yacht Club had offered the museum free space in their banqueting room and catering at cost to host a fund-raising dinner. Perhaps dinner and dancing and a scaled-down silent auction?
A man stood up. “We can’t go there! Kathy was a member of the West London Club. Everyone knows the two clubs hate each other.”
“Sit down, Ralph, you old fool,” a woman said. “West London hasn’t offered us anything.”
“We can ask them,” Ralph said. “Ask them to do it in honor of Kathy.”
Another man rose. “The West London Yacht Club wouldn’t offer free mustard on their hotdogs to a group of Boy Scouts. Not as long as that Jock O’Callaghan’s commodore. The most miserly man who ever lived, Jock is.”
“Enough of his virtues,” someone called out. “Let’s talk about his faults.” Everyone laughed, pleased at the chance to do something to break the tension of the beginning of an argument.
Robyn hammered on the table with her gavel. “Noreen Westaway is right. West London hasn’t offered us anything, but Cape Cod has.”
“I wonder when this offer came in,” I whispered to the man beside me. A beefy, florid-faced chap, he’d been at the auction. “Seems rather premature, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Good question,” he replied. He stood up. “When did Cape Cod offer to host us anyway? We haven’t even discussed going back to Mrs. Hudson’s and continuing with the auction.”
Robyn’s face tightened. She might have pretended not to hear the question, but Ben nodded. He opened his mouth to reply, but Robyn was quick to speak first. “I see Leslie and Jayne Wilson are here. I don’t think we’ve properly thanked Jayne for providing the auction tea. The tea was a huge success, I think you’ll all agree, although tragically the auction had to be abandoned.”
“Huge success,” the man next to me muttered, “if you forget a woman died.”
Robyn applauded politely, and everyone followed her lead. Jayne blushed.
“We couldn’t possibly ask Mrs. Hudson’s Tearoom to host another function free of charge.” Robyn raised a hand, although neither Jayne nor I had started to protest. Not that we had any intention of doing so. The shops on Baker Street and citizens of West London had got their auction donations back and might thus be expected to contribute next time. Mrs. Hudson’s Tearoom had done its bit.
“Now,” Robyn continued, “if there are no more objections, I’ll let the Cape Cod Yacht Club know we’re interested in working with them. Next item of business?”
“I gave up a dinner date for that?” Jayne said to me as the meeting broke up. “It would have been more exciting to stay at home and watch paint dry.”
“You can watch paint dry anytime,” I said. “Give me a minute, will you?”
I approached the crowd around Robyn. People welcomed her back and offered her their congratulations. Some said they’d be happy to work with her on the event committee. Sharon stood behind her, slightly to one side, holding a lantern in either hand like a footman assisting gowned ladies into their carriages. Night had fallen, and the lights, even though they were electric, cast a warm glow over Robyn and her circle.
I waited patiently, and eventually people moved on, back to their cars and homes.
“A productive meeting,” I said to Robyn.
“Gemma. Nice to see you. Are you joining our Scarlet House family?”
“It would be interesting,” I said. “I was at the Cape Cod Yacht Club the other day.”
“Are you a member there? Someone told me your uncle’s an excellent sailor.”
“To put it mildly,” I replied. “I talked to Elizabeth Dumont.”
“Poor Elizabeth. Most unfortunate what happened to her. They say her husband did it because she threatened to leave him.” She shook her head sadly. “If you’ll excuse me …”
“She didn’t say anything to me about helping the museum,” I said.
“Elizabeth could be quite flirtatious.” Robyn’s smile was stiff. “She liked to dangle the offer of money in front of people and then whip it away. She married riches, and it went straight to her head.” Realizing what she was saying, Robyn forced herself to relax. “But she always did the right thing in the end. She was very generous with what she’d been given.”
“You knew her well.” It was a question, but I made it sound like a statement of fact.
“We were friends in our youth. But as often happens, we went our separate ways after school, even though we continued to live in the same area. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. She called me the other day, right out of the blue, to say she’d heard about the fire at the museum and wanted to help. She’d gone to the auction—wasn’t that nice of her? But when the auction proved to be … unsuccessful, she had an idea about hosting something at the yacht club. So thoughtful. Her death is such a tragedy. We only spoke on the phone that once, but she said she’d see that everything was put in motion for our gala evening.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m heartbrok
en that we never got the chance to meet up again.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Did you learn anything?” Jayne cradled her glass of wine in her hands.
“I learned that Robyn Kirkpatrick is keeping secrets.”
“Really? I thought she did a good job running that meeting.”
“She did an excellent job, kept everything on track and on focus. The museum’s lucky she agreed to come back.”
“But—”
I popped a piece of calamari into my mouth. After we left the museum, I suggested we go for a drink and something to eat, and Jayne eagerly agreed. We were at the Blue Water Café, our favorite restaurant. The café is not only our favorite place but that of a great many others, both residents and visitors. The deck jutting into the harbor was packed full when we arrived, and we had to take seats inside at a small table against the back wall.
“Robyn told me she hadn’t seen Elizabeth for years,” I said. “That was a lie. She was at the yacht club Tuesday. I saw her.”
“Maybe she didn’t run into Elizabeth?”
“Robyn wasn’t on a casual visit or head to the bar for a drink. She was there to see someone, and she was either late or angry. Maybe both. Elizabeth wasn’t in an office or a private room; she was running a meeting on the main veranda.”
“Why would Robyn lie about something so easy to check? Other people would have seen her with Elizabeth.”
“Probably because she didn’t think she’d ever need to mention it, and when I brought it up, she denied it without thinking. No one else has connected her with Elizabeth.”
I sipped my own glass of wine. A family had the table next to us. The baby was getting fractious, trying to climb out of his highchair, and the toddler was building to a full-scale temper tantrum because the ketchup on his fries had touched his burger. The father had one hand on the baby’s diaper, holding him in place. The parents drank their beer and ate their meals and talked about her brother, who was, for some reason I didn’t catch, not seeing reason, while trying to ignore the children. The wife was younger than her husband by about twenty years, and the look on his face clearly said this late-in-life new family had turned out not to be such a good idea.
“Jayne and Gemma, nice to see you.” Andy Whitehall, owner and head chef, stood next to our table. He gave me a quick smile and Jayne, a full-faced grin.
“Hi,” I said. “Care to join us?”
Andy glanced quickly around. We were wedged up against the wall at a table for two. The baby was turning beet red, and the toddler yelled, “Nooooooo!”
“Sorry about the table,” Andy said. “Let me find you something better.”
“We’re okay,” I said. “If we get a better table, then you have to put someone else here.”
“We don’t mind,” Jayne said. “We come for the food.” She toasted him with a calamari dripping with seafood sauce. “The food, and in hopes of seeing you.”
The tips of Andy’s ears turned bright pink.
I considered making sudden excuses and fleeing into the night. Andy adored Jayne, although to her they were just good friends. I thought they’d make the perfect couple, but for some reason, my hints to that effect were not having an impact on her.
“I wanted to say hi,” he said. “I can’t stay and visit. We’re backed up in the kitchen. I don’t know why we’re so busy this late on a Thursday night.”
“Because you’re the best restaurant in town,” Jayne said. “Maybe in the entire Cape.”
“If not the Eastern Seaboard,” I said.
“Thanks,” Andy said.
“I hear Scarlet House’s putting on a gala at the Cape Cod Yacht Club,” I said. “Going to be very swanky, I bet. You should go, Andy. Take Jayne with you.”
Jayne threw me a look. Andy said, “That would be—”
I never did find out what it would be because, at that moment, a waiter dropped a tray piled high with glasses and plates. Cutlery crashed to the floor, crockery smashed, glassware shattered. Two patrons leapt out of the way, and the waiter swore. Andy disappeared in a flash.
“Gemma,” Jayne said, “that’s going to be an expensive evening. You can’t tell Andy to take me. Suppose he can’t afford it.”
“Your birthday’s coming up. It’ll be my gift to you.”
“My birthday’s not for months yet.”
“January sixth.”
“You only remember that because it’s the same day as Sherlock Holmes’s.”
She was right about that, but I didn’t want to admit it. I wasn’t entirely sure why January sixth had been settled on as the date of the birth of the Great Detective because he wasn’t a real person and thus had not been born, but Sherlockians accepted it as such. The shop often featured special events that week, and I was sometimes invited to parties by Uncle Arthur and Donald Morris.
“Okay, so let’s say your guess is right,” Jayne said.
I gave Jayne a look.
“Yes, I know. You never guess. So what if Robyn went to the yacht club and met with Elizabeth? Robyn and Elizabeth know a lot of people. It’s not much of a stretch that they might know each other.”
“Agreed. But what’s of interest to me is that they had a common enemy.”
“Kathy?”
“Kathy was the new chair of the board, having pushed Robyn out. Judging by the reaction at the meeting tonight, Robyn’s still popular. I wouldn’t be surprised if Robyn had been plotting her return, but when disaster struck and the house burned, Robyn’s plans were dealt a severe setback. Kathy leapt into action and organized the auction. If the auction had been a success, Kathy’s role at the head of the board would have been secure. If—and I’m only speculating here—Robyn killed Kathy in an attempt to sabotage the auction, she might have then approached her old pal Elizabeth and asked for money for the restoration. Robyn could then return to the board, triumphant.”
“But Robyn wasn’t in the tearoom for the auction.”
“And that presents a problem, I’ll agree. She was, however, lurking outside. Sharon, her own position threatened by Kathy, was inside. Maybe they were in it together.”
“Why kill Elizabeth, the benefactor?”
“Robyn said Elizabeth liked to tease people by offering money and then pulling it back. She tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was real anger in her voice. It’s possible that’s what happened in this case. Elizabeth offered money, or the free use of the club, which is much the same thing, to Robyn and then rescinded the offer. Robyn tried to argue with her on Tuesday, but Elizabeth stood firm. Don’t forget that Elizabeth was furious with her husband at the time Robyn arrived at the yacht club. She wouldn’t have wanted to be bothered by Robyn and her concerns. It’s possible Robyn went to Elizabeth before Kathy died, and Elizabeth said she’d never give any money to any organization with Kathy at its head. Thus, Kathy had to be gotten rid of.”
“Gemma, you’ve overthought this. People don’t kill over a place on a volunteer board of a small history museum.”
“People kill for a lot of reasons. Some of which make no sense to the rest of us.”
“What was it you said about the death of Sir Nigel Bellingham? Someone’s razor?”
“Occam’s razor.”
“Right. The theory that the simplest solution is usually the best one. Ryan agreed with you then. This time, you’re twisting everything into knots.”
“But there’s no simple solution here, Jayne. Someone killed Elizabeth and Kathy, and the only person I can see who had reason to want them both gone is Robyn Kirkpatrick.”
“There you are,” a voice boomed down at us.
Jayne and I looked up. She smiled. I did not. Jack Templeton, grinning broadly, stood next to our table. He wore slim jeans and a close-fitting black T-shirt under a distressed denim jacket. His bare feet were stuffed into Italian loafers. He was freshly shaven, and he smelled of expensive soap and shampoo. “Great idea, Jayne. Thanks for calling. Let me grab a chair.”
I look
ed at Jayne. She ducked her head and mumbled, “I called Jack when you went to the restroom and suggested he join us for a drink. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Jack found a chair and pulled it up to our table. Before sitting, he held his hand out to me. “I don’t think we’ve met. Jack Templeton. Jayne and I went to school together. I’ve been away for a while, but now I’m back. You must be Gemma.”
“I am.” I took his hand in mine. He gripped it firmly. I gripped his more firmly.
He winced. “I love your store. It’s such a great concept.”
“Not at all pretentious?”
His smile cracked. “Uh … no. Why would you think that?” He turned to the waiter. “Yeah, a beer, thanks. Whatever you have on tap. Jayne, would you like another?”
“Thanks,” she said.
Jack nodded to the waiter. The waiter glanced at me. I considered staying for another drink, just to be difficult, but I shook my head and stood up. “I have to run. See you tomorrow, Jayne.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Nice meeting you,” Jack said.
“Your friend looks vaguely familiar,” Jack said as I walked away.
“She has one of those faces,” Jayne replied.
* * *
I heard via the branch of the West London grapevine that flows through Mrs. Hudson’s Tearoom into the Emporium that Dan Lamb had left his hotel, and he and his son had returned to Elizabeth’s house. Which presumably was now Dan’s house. More than a few people around town were saying it was mighty suspicious that Dan had lost an ex-wife and a current wife in the space of less than a week. He’d been ordered by the police not to leave town, but it was unlikely he’d venture out onto the streets until the rumors died down.
I wanted to pay a call on Dan and considered doing it under the pretext of dropping off a book for him. But I decided to hold off on that for a while.
When I’d gotten home last night, I’d called Ryan to report on the happenings at the museum meeting. I outlined my thoughts about Robyn, Kathy, and Elizabeth, and threw Sharon’s name into the mix for good measure.
