by Vicki Delany
“Just that unexpected people can legitimately come into possession of unusual things.”
“Do you think you might have a claim to it?” he asked.
“Me? Hardly. I found it. It wasn’t given to me, by the legal owner or otherwise.”
“Finders keepers?”
“Losers weepers. But not in this case. Thanks, Grant. You’ll let me know if you hear more?”
“That I will,” he said.
I opened the store and a few customers drifted in. I half-expected Ryan to call me, but my phone remained stubbornly silent.
Shortly after eleven, a man walked through the door. I’d never seen him before, and he didn’t look as though he were on vacation. He was dressed in a perfectly fitted, dark-gray business suit—Armani maybe?—and silk tie with gray-and-pink stripes. He was in his late sixties, lightly tanned and expensively groomed, with recently manicured hands and iron-gray hair cut short. He took a quick look around my shop, not able to stop his lip from turning up in disapproval. He saw me watching from behind the counter, forced a stiff smile onto his face, and crossed the room with quick, confident steps.
“Mr. Kent,” I said. “My condolences on the loss of your father.”
His smile died, and he studied me through wary, hooded brown eyes. “Do I know you?”
“No,” I said. Businessman, wealthy, would have left Boston about two hours ago, waiting until the worst of the rush-hour traffic was over, timed to arrive shortly after the shop opened, before we’d get busy. He could, of course, have been an employee or even a lawyer for the Kent family, but I didn’t think so, not with that degree of arrogance on his face. That, plus the same square jaw and too-close-together eyes I’d seen last night in a twenty-year-old photo of the Kent patriarch.
“But you know me? Or did you know my father?”
“Your family has been in the news.”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’m on my way to the police station. They called me last night to say that some . . . items stolen from my family had been located. I was driving by and saw your store. The Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium. Very unusual. It looks as though you specialize in Holmes and Conan Doyle collectables.”
“We’re primarily a bookstore, but we also stock all the paraphernalia that goes with it.” I didn’t bother to point out that the most direct route from Boston to the police station does not go down busy Baker Street.
“Are you the owner?”
I extended my right hand. “Gemma Doyle.”
“Doyle?”
“No relation.”
“Colin Kent.”
We shook hands. His, I thought, was clammy.
“Do you buy, Ms. Doyle, as well as sell?”
“I have to get my stock somewhere. The contemporary books are all new, not used, but we have some second editions of the original Holmes books, and I occasionally come across a first edition. I have collectable magazines . . .” Did I imagine the look of interest that crossed his face? Perhaps not, but Moriarty chose that unfortunate moment to jump onto the counter, and Colin’s attention was distracted.
“What a beautiful cat.” He stretched out a hand, and Moriarty allowed himself to be petted.
“My late father was a Holmes collector,” Colin said. “Over his lifetime he accumulated a substantial amount of stuff. He bought, but never sold. Not only books but memorabilia as well. We haven’t gotten around to having the collection fully appraised yet. Would you be interested in having a look when we’re ready to bring interested parties in, Ms. Doyle?”
“I might be.” I didn’t go on buying trips. Uncle Arthur handled that sort of thing for me, and not often. Sellers usually managed to find their own way to our doors. “As well as books, my customers like plates and teacups with pictures of Holmes and Watson, that sort of thing.” Jayne had mentioned that she’d like to have a full line of Sherlock tea sets. I doubted that Kurt Frederick Kent Jr. was the sort to accumulate teacups, although you never know what will strike a rabid collector’s fancy. Colin Kent was a businessman, and I decided to play my cards (not that I had any) very close to my chest. Let him think I was playing hard to get. “Did your father have things like that?”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure. He had eclectic tastes.”
Meaning the son had no interest in his father’s collection when Kurt was alive, and his interest now was in what he thought he could sell it for. I couldn’t condemn the man for that. It was common enough. Collecting is a highly individualistic hobby, as any perusal of garage and estate sales would show.
“But those aren’t valuable,” I said. “Teacups I mean. I’d love to get my hands on copies of the original Strand magazines . . .”
His eyebrows twitched.
“Or even a Beeton’s Annual. Condition is always important, of course.”
“Once the inventory is complete, I’ll be in touch if I find something of interest.”
“I’d appreciate that. Do you know if he had any first-edition books?”
“I believe I’ve seen some old books on the shelves. It’s not something I’m knowledgeable about. It seems fascinating, but I never could find the time.”
“You’ll want a rare book dealer to have a look at them. Because Holmes was so popular in Doyle’s own time and the popularity never waned, most of the books aren’t rare and thus not particularly valuable. But there are exceptions.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your time. I’ll be in touch. Can you tell me the best way to get to the police station?”
I gave the directions, and he left. Interesting that his first priority was checking out my shop rather than talking to the police. I popped my head into the tea room and called to Fiona. “I’m closing for half an hour.” I locked the connecting door, dashed upstairs for my bag, and then headed out. Fortunately, the police station isn’t far from Baker Street. Colin Kent didn’t look to me like much of a walker. By the time he went for his car, drove through the busy streets, and found a place to park at the town offices, I could be there too.
I set off at a trot. It was a lovely day, warm and sunny with a sea breeze that ensured it didn’t get too hot. It was early in the season, but summer had arrived prematurely in Massachusetts this year, and the tourists were taking advantage of it. They were out in force, smiling and shopping. I didn’t like leaving my place closed during the day, but Ruby wasn’t scheduled to come into work until noon, and I decided proving I didn’t commit a murder was more important than the possible sale of a $7.99 paperback or a $15.00 jigsaw puzzle.
I hadn’t been inside the police station since Ryan left town, but nothing had changed. Unlike the rest of West London, the town’s police didn’t cater to tourists in search of the authentic coastal New England experience.
“Is Detective Ashburton in?” I asked the officer at the dispatch desk.
“Who’s calling?”
“Gemma Doyle. It’s about the incident at the West London Hotel last night.” I attempted to look helpful.
The officer reached for the phone, and at that moment Colin Kent came in. He started when he saw me. “Didn’t I just leave you?”
“I remembered an important matter.”
“You’re not following me, are you?”
“Why on earth would I do that?” I said innocently. “Your visit simply reminded me of a question I have for the police.”
He didn’t look as though he entirely believed me but said no more.
“Can I help you?” the officer asked him.
“I’m here to speak to Detective Ryan Ashburton. He’s expecting me. Name of Kent.”
“I’m here.” Ryan came through the inner doors. He shook hands with Colin and eyed me suspiciously. “What brings you here, Gemma?”
“Mr. Kent and I were talking about his father’s estate, and that reminded me of last night.”
“Do you have additional information for me?”
“Not information as such, but questions have arisen in my mind.” I turned to Colin. “Were full records of your father’s co
llection kept while he was alive? Would you, or people representing you, notice if anything has gone missing since his death?” I had no interest in the state of the late Mr. Kent’s collection, but I wanted to start making myself part of the conversation. When Ryan took Colin through those locked doors into his office, I intended to go with them.
“Not really,” he said. “My father was very ill in his later years, and his grip on reality was, sadly, slipping. Which is why that awful woman, Mary Ellen Longton, was able to—”
“We’ll get to that,” Ryan said. “If you have some fresh information for me, Gemma, take a seat. Otherwise, I’ll come by later. We still have things to discuss.”
“I uncovered some interesting information on the Internet last night,” I said.
“So did I,” he replied. “We’ll compare notes later.”
Detective Estrada had come out of the inner sanctum while we talked. She stood beside the dispatch desk, her arms crossed over her chest, watching us.
Ryan held the door open. “Come on through, Mr. Kent.”
I stepped forward.
“Gemma,” Ryan said, “I need to talk to Mr. Kent in private. I haven’t forgotten you.” He shut the door in my face.
Estrada threw me a look that would frighten small children. It certainly frightened me.
* * *
Jayne pounced the moment I was back in the shop.
“What’s happening? Are you okay?” She wiped her hands on her floury apron.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I got a call from Robbie. He said you were down at the police station and you’d been arrested.”
“I was not arrested, and why does Robbie know my whereabouts anyway?”
“Someone called to tell him you were seen going into the police station.”
“If everyone who walked into the police station on a sunny summer’s day was under arrest, the streets would soon be empty, Jayne.”
“I know that. But you closed the shop in the middle of the morning. You never do that.”
“Kurt Kent’s son—”
“I hope his name’s Clark.”
“It is not. It’s Colin. He popped in this morning on his way to a meeting with Ryan. I was hoping to be party to their conversation, but no such luck.”
“Why would he come here?”
“I . . .”
The chimes over the door sounded and a tall, thin, frumpy woman walked in. I suppressed a groan.
“What on earth is going on here, Gemma?” She wagged a long bony finger at me. “My brother’s sister-in-law works at the West London Hotel, and he called me this morning, to say the both of you had been arrested for murder! Of course, I told him I didn’t believe a word of it. But, well, when I looked across the street a few minutes ago and saw that the store was closed, naturally I felt it was my duty to investigate. Nothing worse for business than a closed and boarded-up shop front on the street.”
“As you can see, Maureen,” I said. “We’re standing here in front of you. Unjailed.”
She tried not to look too disappointed. “The busy season has arrived early. Gossip is not good for business either.”
Business at the tea room had only this morning proved just how good for business gossip could be. I simply smiled at her and said nothing.
“Speaking of business,” Jayne said. “Time to get back at it.”
“I’ve a line on some Sherlock loo paper,” I said to Jayne. “All in good taste, of course.”
Maureen looked around the tea room. “Nothing you two sell is in good taste.” With what she no doubt thought a witty parting shot, she left the building.
Jayne and I grinned at each other. “What would a day be without a rain shower?” Jayne said.
“She’s more like a thunderstorm.” Maureen owned Beach Fine Arts, located across from us at 221 Baker Street. (Yes, Great Uncle Arthur had tried to buy that building first, but it hadn’t been for sale.) It was a souvenir shop that, despite its name, sold nothing at all fine. Just the usual tourist kitsch along with some of Maureen’s own paintings. Her art, I suspected, came from paint-by-numbers boxes.
Maureen thought the Emporium tasteless and tacky and was always trying to get it shut down on the grounds that it lowered the status of the street. The good people of the business owners’ association pointed out that I paid my taxes and ran a profitable business, but Maureen had decided that getting rid of me and the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium was her goal in life. The occasional visitor would get confused and wander into number 221 in search of “Sherlock Holmes’s store.” When that happened, I could hear Maureen’s screech if I happened to be standing near the front window.
She didn’t mind Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room though. Shoppers needed somewhere to go for refreshments, and the tea room kept them from leaving the shopping district in search of lunch.
“Let’s hope that’s the only thunderstorm today,” I said.
“You’re not seriously going to stock toilet paper are you?”
“No. Just trying to get a rise out of Maureen.”
“It worked.”
“That’s not exactly challenging.”
The chimes tinkled again and three women, beach-hatted, sun-tanned, laughing, and laden with shopping bags, came in.
“We need to talk things over,” I said to Jayne. “Now is obviously not the time, and we have too much to discuss in the afternoon business meeting. Let’s meet for a drink at the Blue Water Café after the store closes.”
“Okay.” She returned to the tea room and her cucumber sandwiches and scones.
Chapter 7
Ryan Ashburton came to the Emporium shortly after one. Ruby had arrived, and the shop was busy. Next door, the lunch crowd spilled out the doors of the tea room.
Ryan stood in the doorway, just looking around, while I hid behind a life-sized cutout of Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson. A customer tried to get past him, and he quickly stepped aside with a muttered “sorry.”
“If you need any help, be sure and let me know,” Ruby said.
“I’m looking for Gemma.”
“She’s around somewhere. Gemma! Someone to see you!”
I stepped out from behind Martin. “Ryan, what brings you here?”
“Do you have someplace private we can talk?”
“Follow me.” I led the way upstairs to the office. A wide-eyed Ruby watched us go. Moriarty followed.
My office is more of an overflow storage room, coat closet, and place where paper goes to die. I swept a pile of Strand magazines (current issue) off the visitor’s chair for Ryan, and I took the seat behind the desk. Moriarty leapt onto a carton of books waiting to be unpacked, the better to follow the conversation. Uncle Arthur bought the building for the address and for its Cape Cod charm. If I’m ever looking to move, I will not get premises in which we have to be constantly carrying boxes of books up a narrow set of stairs and back down again.
“No doubt,” I began, “by now, you’ve determined that the deceased woman found at the West London Hotel is Mary Ellen Longton, previously the private nurse to reclusive millionaire Kurt Kent Jr. Mr. Kent mentioned Mrs. Longton in his will, and his family is contesting the will on the grounds that he wasn’t mentally competent at the time. A sad but not uncommon tale. Mr. Kent was a Sherlock collector and, as much as I hate to make assumptions, we can assume the magazine in question is part of this disputed estate. We can also assume that Mary Ellen hid it in my shop fearing someone was after her, intending to either steal it or repossess it pending the result of the legal action regarding the will. Her fears were obviously well grounded, and whomever she was hiding from found her and killed her. That person then went to my house and began searching for the magazine. The search was interrupted either when we arrived or when a confederate told them we were on the way.”
Ryan stared at me. “We can assume all that, can we?”
“You look surprised. Don’t tell me you didn’t also uncover that information?”
&n
bsp; “About Mr. Kent, and the will, and the nurse, yes. It’s public knowledge, and it was confirmed by Colin Kent. I’m not entirely convinced, however, that Mary Ellen Longton hid this magazine in your shop.”
“But I told you that’s what happened.”
“Detective Estrada wants to arrest you,” he said.
I smothered a cry of indignation. “She’s mistaken.”
“Don’t you want to know why?”
“Why? I know why. Because she’s a small-minded small-town cop with lots of ambition and little imagination, that’s why.”
“Don’t make an enemy of her, Gemma.”
“Enemy! I’m not in the business of making enemies of anyone. I’ve told you what happened. What we now have to determine is—”
“We have to do nothing. This is a police investigation. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it’s to do with me. I found the body. I was given possession of a half-a-million-dollar magazine, although I wasn’t supposed to know that. My house was broken into and searched. I hate to think what might have happened if Uncle Arthur had been home and surprised the intruder.”
“I’m ordering you to stay out of it.”
“You’re ordering me? That’s preposterous. I’ll do what I have to do to clear my good name.”
“Gemma, Louise finds the story of you happening to find the magazine hidden in the shop and then tracing the woman to the hotel difficult to swallow, and I have to say I see her point.”
I was gobsmacked. He held up his hand. “You’re smart and you’re exceptionally observant. Not everyone understands that, Gemma.”
“So that’s what this is about, is it!” I leapt to my feet. “One more time, we’ll list all my faults. Of which, apparently, being smart is top of the list. If I am so smart, Mr. Big-Shot Detective, then you tell me why, if I had stolen the magazine and killed the woman, I’d make a public display of trying to find her at the hotel, and then call the police!”
Moriarty hissed at Ryan. For once, even the cat agreed with me.
“You’re too smart for your own good sometimes.” Ryan got to his feet. We glared at each other over the top of my cluttered desk, watched by the keen-eyed Moriarty. “Maybe this one time, you’ve tried a double play, a triple cross, and tripped yourself up.”
