A Scandal in Scarlet

by Vicki Delany

  Light filled the room. “Gemma! Gemma! Where are you?” Ryan called.

  “Here,” I croaked, struggling to my feet.

  Ryan had his flashlight in one hand and his gun in the other. He shone the light into my face. “Are you all right, Gemma?”

  “Sore bum,” I said, rubbing the offending part.

  “Call nine-one-one.” And he and his light were gone.

  I made the call, switching on lights as I talked. I told the operator an officer needed assistance at 222 Baker Street. Moriarty sat on the sales counter, rubbing his paws together.

  “I suppose you think you saved my life or something,” I said. “Not so. I was totally in control of the situation. I wanted to identify him. Or her.”

  “Who are you talking to, madam?” the 911 operator asked.

  “My cat,” I said. “I’m hanging up now; a cruiser’s arrived.”

  I put my phone away and went to greet the responding officers. The back door, I wasn’t surprised to see, had been smashed in. I had a quick look at the floor, but could see no identifiable prints. It hadn’t rained for several days, and the streets were dry.

  “Are you okay, Gemma?” Officer Johnson asked me.

  “I’m fine.” I stepped back to let her in. I tried not to limp. I’d suffered a most humiliating injury.

  Ryan arrived at a trot, putting his gun back into its holster. “Streets are too busy. He got away. Gemma, did you recognize him? Anything at all familiar?”

  “I didn’t see him.” I said. “Nothing but a black shape and legs in loose dark trousers. It might have been a woman.”

  “Could it have been the person you chased from Elizabeth Dumont’s house?”

  “That’s possible. Likely even. Hard to tell, but I think they were much the same shape and size.”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “I need to look around first. They might have left identifiable traces behind. Tell your officers to keep away until I’ve checked everything out.”

  Stella Johnson’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Ryan said. “I want you out of here. Now. I’ve called forensics, and the K-9 unit is on its way. I don’t want the dog recognizing you as a person of interest. Let’s go.” He turned to Johnson. “Get Detective Estrada down here. I want this treated as more than a break-in. It’s to do with our homicide investigation.”

  “You got it, Detective,” she said.

  “Let’s go, Gemma,” Ryan said.

  “But—” I said.

  He grabbed my arm. “No buts.”

  Ryan almost dragged me out of the shop and stuffed me into his car. We drove the few blocks to my house in silence, both of us needing to process what had happened.

  I unlocked the back door, aware of Ryan with his hand on the butt of his gun and his eyes checking out every dark corner or patch of bushes. Violet greeted us in her usual manner, and Ryan said, “No walk for her tonight. Let her do her business in the yard. Once she’s back inside and you’ve locked up, I need to get back to town.”

  I didn’t argue. Instead, in true English fashion, I immediately filled the kettle. “Your arrival was timely.”

  “Pure dumb luck. I finished up for the day and thought I’d drop in and give you a lift home. Maybe invite you out for a drink.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “You can imagine what I thought when I saw the back door smashed in and a dark figure running away.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You couldn’t identify anything about the intruder?”

  “No. They were gone before I got more than a fleeting glimpse.”

  “All I saw was a blur. I must have scared him off.”

  I touched Ryan’s face. I wouldn’t mention that Moriarty had done the scaring. Moriarty had, uncharacteristically, saved me from a potentially violent encounter. But he’d gotten rid of the intruder before I could identify him. I began to ask myself if that had been his intention, but then I remembered Moriarty was a cat.

  Ryan reached up and took my hand. “Are you okay, Gemma? It’s okay to be in shock, you know.”

  And then, suddenly, I was. My legs gave way, and I dropped into a chair. My stiff upper lip collapsed, and I cried in great heaving gulps. Ryan held me for a long time.

  At last, I pulled away and dug in my pocket for a tissue. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and gathered my composure. “It might have been a thief, chancing his luck for tomorrow’s float of ninety-seven dollars and sixty-five cents.”

  “Mustn’t forget the sixty-five cents,” Ryan said. “But far more likely to be someone wanting you out of the Lamb case.”

  “Someone who thinks I’m a lot closer to solving it than I am,” I said.

  “They’re going to get their way. No more, Gemma. Stay out of it. Completely out. I mean it.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He gave me a doubtful look.

  “I’m getting nowhere, Ryan. Absolutely nowhere. There are too many people and too many threads to sort out. The museum, two yacht clubs, the family—never mind the ubiquitous person or persons unknown—and lingering suspicions about the death of Elizabeth’s first husband.” I had something to tell him about that, but decided it could wait. He had enough on his plate to deal with tonight. “Two dead women, both of whom were known by a great many people and weren’t much liked by many of them.

  “I’m good at reading people and observing details others don’t see, but I don’t have any of your resources. Solid, determined police work is the way to get to the bottom of this.”

  “And solid, determined police work is what I’m going back to do. If we’re lucky, we’ll find some forensic evidence, or the dog will pick up the trail. I want you to lock up, leave the outside lights on, and stay inside. Can you do that?”

  I gave him a mock salute and was pleased to get a wry grin in return.

  “You’re on guard, Violet,” he said. “Don’t let me down.”

  She wagged her tail happily.

  Chapter Twenty

  I meant what I said when I said it, but try as I might, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. Clearly, I’d put a fright into someone, and they’d come to the shop intending to put a stop to my investigation. One way or another.

  But who?

  I took my cup of tea and book into the den and curled up in the wingback chair while Violet snoozed at my feet. I didn’t get much reading done.

  The line of suspects marched in front of my eyes. I tried to imagine each of them stealing across the wooden floors of the Emporium, wrapped in darkness, crossing in front of the faint lights, but nothing, and no one, became clear.

  Breaking into my shop, presumably to do me harm, was a drastic step. Drastic steps were taken by desperate people.

  That the guilty party thought I was getting close didn’t mean I was. As the saying goes, the guilty run when no one pursues. But something, I thought, had to have happened to cause the killer to commit that desperate act tonight.

  Two things of significance had happened today: my chat with Jock O’Callaghan at the West London Yacht Club and Crystal Lamb’s visit to the Emporium.

  Jock had not been the person in the shop tonight. Not with his broken ankle.

  Was it broken? I made a mental note to ask Ryan to check on that tomorrow. It was possible Jock had pretended to break it at the tennis game and was carted off in full view of the members of the club, only to have a miraculous recovery. He’d been wearing a boot cast, but he might have access to one unofficially. He’d supposedly had the break Tuesday afternoon, the day before Elizabeth died.

  Seemed like a lot of trouble to go to. He couldn’t have known Jayne and I would show up only minutes after the murder and he’d have to run.

  Crystal had pointed out that I’d been thinking about the case, but that wasn’t any secret. I’d been asking a lot of questions of a lot of people, and it didn’t have to be something that happened today that sparked the attempted attack on me.

  I remin
ded myself that I was out of it. I’d mention the conversation with Crystal to Ryan in the morning, perhaps suggest he take a closer look into her background.

  I closed my book, having not read a word, and called Violet to bed.

  Before settling for the night, I checked the locks on all the doors and windows and made sure every outside light was switched on.

  * * *

  I arrived at the shop the following morning with some trepidation, fearing to see the place strung with yellow police tape, cruisers parked willy-nilly on the sidewalk, and crowds of gawkers standing outside.

  Instead, everything looked normal. I let myself in by the sliding door that adjoined the tearoom, giving Fiona a wave, and walked through the clean, quiet shop to the back, wondering why Moriarty hadn’t come out to give me my morning hiss of greeting. My phone rang as I was admiring the solid wood panels of my new back door.

  “Morning, Gemma,” Ryan said. “I’m guessing you aren’t letting last night’s business upset you enough to miss work.”

  “I’m at the shop now. I assume I have you to thank for the new door?”

  “I’ll drop off the keys later. I’m sorry to report we didn’t find anything of significance. Your intruder didn’t have time to get far into the shop or do much of anything. Oh, your cat’s upstairs, locked in a closet. Officer Johnson’s nursing some bad scratches, and the K-9 handler has a highly traumatized dog on his hands. Moriarty didn’t like having the dog in his shop.”

  “Oops,” I said, as a howl of indignation came from overhead. “Two things occurred to me last night while I was not thinking about the case. Jock O’Callaghan appears to have broken his ankle. That would exclude him from running from me at Elizabeth’s and from breaking into the shop last night. Can you check with the hospital that it was a real break and not just a minor sprain? It happened Tuesday afternoon at the yacht club, and he was taken to hospital in an ambulance.”

  “Jock O’Callaghan? Yeah, I can check with the hospital. You said two things?”

  “Crystal Lamb came into the shop yesterday evening. She talked to me about her father, said she doesn’t believe he killed anyone.”

  “I paid a call on Dan Lamb first thing this morning. He didn’t have an alibi for last night at nine, says he was home alone. But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s not exactly a popular guy around town these days.”

  “He was alone? By home, do you mean Elizabeth’s house? I heard he’d moved back.”

  “Yes,” Ryan said.

  “Where was his son?”

  “Out with friends, Dan said. He wasn’t there this morning either.”

  “Crystal told me she’s going to try to rebuild their relationship.”

  “Good for her. Families are important. Dan mentioned to me that he’s planning to venture out in public later today and go sailing with Brad. I said that’s a good idea; some of the best times my dad and I ever had were on his boat. You be careful, Gemma. We can’t assume this person has been scared off.”

  “I will,” I said.

  It was Saturday, and Ashleigh and I were kept on the hop all day. At twenty-two minutes to four, I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a plate of leftover sandwiches.

  “Got it,” Ashleigh said, without so much as looking up from the shelf she was straightening.

  “Got what?”

  “You’re going next door for your daily partners’ meeting, aka gossip session, with Jayne.”

  “It is a partners’ meeting. We’re partners, and good business partners need to communicate regularly if they want to keep the business on sound footing.”

  “Whatever. Why’d you replace the back door?”

  “The old one had a crack in it. As you surmised, I’m going next door.”

  “I hear the clock sounding the time.”

  “Most amusing.” I considered asking Jayne if we could move our meeting time back by ten minutes. I didn’t like to think I was getting too predictable.

  The tearoom was busy, and the seats in the window alcove taken, so I went into the kitchen. Jocelyn was taking dishes out of the dishwasher, and Jayne was putting them away.

  “Good day?” I asked.

  “Run off our feet,” Jayne said. “Did something happen last night at the bookstore? When I got here this morning, a police car was parked outside.”

  “Someone tried to break in,” I said. “They were scared off.”

  “Can’t imagine what they were after in your store,” Jocelyn said. “I don’t think books do all that well on the black market, do they?”

  “The sort of books I sell don’t, but that’s something I hadn’t considered. Someone might have heard about The Valley of Fear being offered at the auction and thought the shop stocks items of that value.”

  “Yeah,” Jocelyn said. “I saw it listed on the auction sheet. Hard to imagine someone paying twelve thousand bucks for an old book.”

  “As usual, you’re overthinking it,” Jayne said to me. “It’s more likely someone broke in looking for cash. Some druggie needing a fix.”

  “Sad,” Jocelyn said. “They’d be better off breaking in here, getting themselves something to eat.”

  “Please don’t make that suggestion publicly,” Jayne said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m starving,” I said. “I don’t see so much as the makings of a cup of tea in here.”

  “Busy day,” Jayne said. “But I’m sure we can find you something.”

  “Speaking of selling things,” Jocelyn said, “that reminds me. I totally forgot. A woman came in this morning and asked if we had any more of those hanging teacup chains. She saw them when she was here for the auction, didn’t buy it because of what happened and then the place being locked down, and now she’d like to get one.”

  Jayne suppressed a shudder. “We had only the one left, and I threw it away. I won’t be ordering any more, but I can give you the name of the woman who makes them if she’d like to order directly.”

  “Why’d you throw it away?” Jocelyn said. “I thought they were nice.”

  “Bad vibes,” Jayne said.

  “Okay, I guess,” Jocelyn said. “What about the one Kathy Lamb was going to buy? It might still be around somewhere.”

  That was news to me. “What was Kathy going to buy?”

  “One of those teacup chains.” Dishwasher empty, Jocelyn began wiping down the counters. “When the auction was over. Obviously that didn’t happen, so I thought if you still had it, we could sell it to someone else.”

  “How do you know Kathy wanted one?” I asked.

  “She took it down off the wall and told me she’d settle up at the end of the event.”

  “When was this?” My heart began to speed up.

  “It must have been only minutes before she died.” Jocelyn shook her head. “So I guess I can see what you mean about bad vibes. When I passed her in the hall, she was taking that ugly painting of Maureen’s into the back. She put the painting down for a second and took the chain off the hook. She said she loved its whimsy.”

  “What did she do with it?”

  “She took it into the back with her, I think. We were busy—it was time to start serving. I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “Jocelyn,” I said, “did you tell the police this?”

  “I told them I’d passed Kathy in the hall. I told you that too.”

  “Did you tell them specifically about the chain?”

  Her face crinkled in thought. “I don’t know. I might have. Maybe not.”

  “You didn’t tell us,” Jayne said.

  “Does it matter?” Jocelyn asked. “It wasn’t important. Just a brief word when I was so busy. I didn’t even stop walking to talk to her.”

  “When the police ask you to tell them everything you remember, no matter how unimportant it might seem, they really do mean everything,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Should I call them now?”

  “I’ll do it. Forget about my tea.” I left the
kitchen and broke into a run as I passed through the dining room.

  Jayne caught up with me on the sidewalk, still wearing her apron. “It matters, doesn’t it, that Kathy took a teacup chain into the back with her?”

  “It matters a heck of a lot.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ve been working on the assumption that the killer accessed the storage room from the hallway. That they grabbed the decoration off the wall as they passed. Meaning, they were a guest at the tea. If, as it now appears, Kathy had the thing with her, everything’s up in the air again. The back door was left unlocked. Someone, anyone, could have come in with the intention of stealing something, surprised Kathy, and used the first thing that came to hand.”

  “The teacup chain.”

  “Yes. Ryan, it’s Gemma,” I spoke to voicemail. “I’ve learned something that might be significant in the death of Kathy Lamb. Call me.”

  Jayne and I stood on the sidewalk. Pedestrians walked around us. A couple checked the menu on the tearoom window, and the woman said, “They’re closing soon. Let’s come back tomorrow.” A middle-aged couple trailed by a couple of scowling, slouching teenage boys passed us. One of the teens moaned, “You don’t need to be so mean, Dad.”

  “I told you, we can’t afford it.”

  “But all the kids …” The boy’s grating voiced died away as the family continued on their way.

  Another family group—mum, dad, grandparents, three cute little kids—went into the Emporium. The father reached down and tussled the dark curly hair on one child’s head. The boy looked up at him and grinned.

  Happy families. Cute kids. Surly, whining teenagers. How children change as they grow.

  I headed down Baker Street, walking fast.

  Jayne followed. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve an idea.”

  “Are you going to tell me what that idea is?”

  “Occam’s razor.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Jayne, you’re right. I’ve been complicating this case far too much. The death of Kathy Lamb was nothing more than a robbery interrupted and a panicked thief.”