by Vicki Delany
“Nor the jewels,” I said.
I knew that had been a mistake the minute the words were out of my mouth. If Irene had been a wolf, she would have thrown her head back and howled to the moon. Instead she said calmly, “Jewels?”
“Looks like your buddy Mr. Longton’s holding something back from you.” I took a sip of wine. Then I took another sip to give myself time to calm down. I gazed out to the harbor. Shadows were lengthening and the incoming boats were deep-purple smudges against the dark water.
“Do tell, Jayne,” Irene said.
Jayne clamped her lips shut and shook her head. I returned to the conversation. “Are the police saying anything about suspects? This all might have nothing to do with anything we’ve been talking about, you know. A random killing, maybe. Mistaken identity even.”
“I got the feeling,” Irene said, “that Detective Ashburton’s convinced it’s because of that inheritance.”
I changed the subject abruptly. “Do you know why Ryan Ashburton’s back in West London?”
She leaned in between Jayne and me. Instinctively, we slid closer. “That detective they brought in from Chicago when Rick Mertz retired didn’t work out too well.” She made gestures as though she were drinking. I’d not had much contact with the new detective, but when I had, the careful placement of his steps, the ever-so-slight slur to his words, and the scent of breath mints that trailed behind him like sharks following a fishing trawler were surefire clues that the guy had a serious drinking habit. “When he was . . . not exactly fired, but sent off to plague another police department, they lured Ryan back as head detective. He’d done well in Boston and was ready for the promotion. You know his dad’s not been well since last summer, when he had that bad fall off the ladder when painting the house?” I nodded. “Ryan wanted to be closer to his folks. Plus, I heard he missed the Cape.” She gave me an exaggerated wink. “He might have missed other things in West London too. You know anything about that, Gemma?”
“No,” I said.
“Not everyone was happy to see Ryan Ashburton back in town,” Irene said.
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Louise Estrada, so my department sources say, wanted the job. She wasn’t happy when they brought in an outsider and promoted him over her.”
“Ryan is hardly an outsider,” I said.
“He left West London for the bright lights of the big city. To her, that makes him an outsider.”
Meaning, I thought but didn’t say, she thinks she has something to prove.
“Was she qualified?” Jayne asked.
“I can’t really say. She’s always seemed competent enough to me, but who knows what goes on behind the scenes.” Irene turned around to check out her friends. They waved to her, drinks in hand. “I gotta go. There’s a beer there with my name on it. You will let me know if you hear anything, won’t you, Gemma?”
“I will,” I said. “If you stop spreading rumors about me.”
She gave me a wink and walked away.
“That was interesting,” Jayne said. “You don’t really think . . .”
“No, I do not. Even if I did have some extremely nebulous claim to the Beeton’s, I wouldn’t want to go up against the Kent family in court either. Let’s just drop it.”
Andy came up between us and laid a hand lightly on our shoulders. “Did you enjoy your appetizers?” he asked Jayne.
“They were absolutely delicious. So nice of you. Thank you.”
“It’s always my pleasure, Jayne.” He looked deeply into her sea-blue eyes. “Can I get you another drink?”
“Better not,” I said. “She’s had two already.”
“Gemma! You’re not my mother, and I’m not driving.”
“No, but I need you sharp and alert.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen. I’m meeting Robbie soon.”
Andy’s face fell.
“There he is now.” Jayne waved frantically. The object of her affections slouched across the crowded deck.
“I’ll get back to the kitchen then,” Andy said. “Going to be a busy night.”
“Never give up.” I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Hey, babe.” Robbie kissed Jayne loudly on the lips while Andy slunk away. “Yo, Gemma.”
Andy was a lovely man. He was attractive, gainfully employed, a marvelous chef, and a successful businessman. Robbie was a slovenly layabout who could barely summon up two brain cells to rub together and dabbled in what he called art but no one else did. Andy clearly adored Jayne. I watched Robbie leer down the front of her shirt, and I knew what Robbie saw in her.
What Jayne saw in him was the mystery.
I hopped off my stool. “I’m off home. See you tomorrow, Jayne.”
“Bye, Gemma. Try not to worry. Everything will turn out okay.” She leapt to her feet and gave me an impromptu hug. I hugged her back. When we separated, I feared Robbie would try to grab me as well, but he was too busy snatching my vacated stool out from under a woman in her seventies who was preparing to lower herself onto it.
I went home, but I did not try not to worry. I was already worried. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s the type to sit around and worry unproductively.
Not only was the idea that I might have some claim to ownership of the magazine ridiculous, it was dangerous. Not least because it would give Estrada a reason to believe I had motive to kill Mary Ellen Longton. Might she try to argue that, when I realized Mary Ellen had left the magazine behind, I turned around and killed her so I could keep it? She might try to claim that I promised to split the proceeds with Jayne and thus convinced her to lie for me, negating my alibi.
Rather than take Violet for a walk, I let her into the enclosed yard to do her business while I made myself tea in a mug I’d salvaged from the Emporium when it suffered a small chip. It proclaimed “I am SHERlocked.” Once Violet was back inside, I carried my tea into the den and took my iPad out of the secretary. The entire room was covered in a fine coating of fingerprint power, as were the living room, mudroom, and kitchen. I still hadn’t tidied up after our mysterious visitor had tossed my house. I’d better get that done before Uncle Arthur came home. He’d immediately know something was wrong: even I’m not that untidy.
I opened the iPad and immediately forgot about housework.
I’d started to draw up a mental list of suspects: Donald Morris; Grant Thompson; Roy Longton; Colin Kent; other heirs of the late Kurt Kent Jr. I knew what Donald, Grant, Roy, and Colin all looked like, but not the other potentially interested parties.
I started with what was once called the society pages and is now the gossip blogs. The Kent family was wealthy, although not extravagantly so, and the patriarch’s reclusiveness provided some fodder to the gossip mill. His eldest granddaughter, who went by the improbable name of Sapphire, chewed up a great deal of available media space. Twice married, twice divorced, childless, age thirty-nine, she’d been photographed many times getting out of limousines at the hottest night clubs (and showing a heck of a lot of leg and bony cleavage while going about it) or strolling on a Caribbean beach in a bikini made of dental floss while pretending not to notice the cameras following her. I studied her face carefully, but other than the same hooded eyes as Colin, her father, nothing looked familiar. I found pictures of Colin and his brother George arriving in court to contest their father’s will. Colin I’d met, and although the family resemblance between him and his brother was strong, I was positive I’d never seen George before. The brothers were accompanied by their lawyer and by George’s son Alexander, both of whom I also did not recognize. It would seem as though in the Kent family, business was left up to the men. Kurt had a daughter, I’d read, and it took a substantial amount of searching to locate a picture of her. She kept a low profile and was never mentioned in the gossip blogs, but it’s almost impossible to keep yourself completely off the Internet, and eventually I found her. Her name was Judy, and although she was married, with one daughter called Re
becca Charmaine, she appeared to have kept the Kent name, as that was the one by which she was always referred. Judy seemed to be somewhat of an equestrian and had won a ribbon in dressage at a show in Upstate New York last January. To my considerable disappointment, I didn’t recognize her either. I was about to close the computer and give up for the night, when something in a photo of Judy caught my attention, and I expanded the image on the screen.
And there she was. I let out a long breath, as I took a moment to wonder how detectives ever accomplished anything in the days before the Internet. In one of the pictures of Judy and her horse accepting their award, another woman was standing beside Judy. Her name was Elaine Kent, and she was, the article said, Judy’s sister-in-law.
Armed with a name, I quickly found further details about her. Elaine Kent was married to Colin and was the mother of Sapphire. She was Kurt Kent Jr.’s daughter-in-law.
She’d been in the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium on Monday, as part of the bridge group bus tour.
Chapter 8
I called up memories of the tour group. The women had all been of an age—midsixties to early seventies—and a type—moderately affluent. Their hair varied from dyed-blonde-covering-gray to gray. They were all white, all of middle height, and their weight ranged between slim and softly plump. Their clothes and jewelry were indicative of practical but well-heeled women on vacation. I flashed through mental images of them in the Emporium and searched through the crowd for Elaine Kent. She hadn’t stood out from the rest, hadn’t been paying any particular attention to any one thing, and hadn’t been sneaking about. At least not when I was watching, which was, admittedly, not all the time. I remembered seeing her flicking through a copy of How to Think like Sherlock by Daniel Smith. She bought the book. I’d been behind the cash register, accepted payment, put the book in a store bag, wished her a good day, and went on to serve the next person. I hadn’t seen her again.
Her payment. She’d paid by credit card. The record of her transaction would be on the store computer. I considered returning to the Emporium tonight to check the receipts, and thus confirm my suspicions, but decided it could wait. I was positive Elaine Kent had been in my shop at the same time as Mary Ellen Longton.
And that could be no coincidence.
I considered what to do next. I pulled out my phone and studied it. I hadn’t called Ryan Ashburton in a long time, but I still had his number. I played with the buttons. I’d been told, more than once, that the police didn’t need or want my help.
So be it.
I needed to find out if Elaine was still on the tour and talk to her if she was. But I hadn’t arranged the visit, Jayne had. The women had been wearing “Hello, my name is . . .” stickers on their chests, but they didn’t have the name of the tour company on it. Their young guide had been dressed in generic navy-blue Bermuda shorts, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a plain blue ball cap. I hadn’t seen any identifying company name or logo on her. She’d carried a clipboard, but it had been a plain brown one, and I hadn’t been close enough, or interested enough, to read the papers on it. I called Jayne. It went immediately to voice mail. Drat! She must still be with Robbie. I left a message. “Jayne, it’s Gemma. Ring me as soon as you get this.”
* * *
Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room opens at seven in the tourist season for the benefit of those heading out on a fishing trip or wanting to get an early start to their holiday. Jayne makes most of her baked goods herself, so that means she’s up bright and early.
So bright and early, the sun hadn’t yet made an appearance when my phone rang.
“What’s so urgent?” Jayne said.
I blinked sleep out of my eyes. “Huh?”
“I’ve only just turned on my phone. You called me last night. You said it’s urgent, so I knew you wouldn’t mind me calling you this early.”
“Right.” I lay back against the pillows. The room was pitch-dark, lit only by the glow of the phone and the numbers of the bedside clock. “The tour company that brought the bridge players to the tea room, what was its name?”
“You called me last night, while I was enjoying a lovely evening with Robbie I might add, to ask that?”
“Do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. New England Holiday Tours.”
“What’s their number?”
“I don’t have it at home, Gemma. I can call you when I get to work.”
“No need. I’ll look them up. Do they operate out of Boston?”
“I think so.”
I hung up. The time was 4:24. Too early to call the offices of New England Holiday Tours. Outside, a car drove slowly down Blue Water Place, throwing its lights across my bedroom walls. Someone else heading to work extremely early or sneaking home after a late night. Now that I was awake, I might as well get up.
From her bed on the floor, Violet opened one eye. Clearly she was not impressed with the time. Nevertheless, she stretched and yawned and followed me down the hall.
While Violet checked to see if any squirrels had invaded our property in the night and the kettle boiled for my tea, I looked up the bus company. I found nothing out of the ordinary on first glance. A long-standing tour company that ferried visitors around Boston and to Cape Cod in spring and summer and took them on foliage-viewing expeditions in the autumn. I didn’t see mention of bridge groups, but as well as their packaged tours, they offered “private, customized small-group trips to suit your individual needs.”
I filled in the time until the company’s office would open by delving into the world of Sherlock Holmes collecting. Despite the fact that I own a shop called the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, it’s not something I know a great deal about. Uncle Arthur knows more about the high-priced world of first editions and rare magazines than I do.
I hadn’t spoken to Uncle Arthur since Tuesday when he called to tell me he was leaving town. I didn’t want to contact him now. I wouldn’t be able to tell him why I was interested without him worming the full story of Mary Ellen Longton and Beeton’s Christmas Annual out of me. And then he’d turn the Triumph around on a dime and come home. As long as a murderer was running free, I’d just as soon Uncle Arthur stayed away. He might see mention of a killing in West London in the papers, depending on how far he’d gotten in the past two days, but my name hadn’t appeared in the stories. Arthur was an intelligent man, interested in almost everything he came across, particularly people. But he’d declared long ago that this “Interweb-thing” held no appeal for him. He carried a flip-phone only because I put my foot down and insisted that when he was away I needed to be able to contact him in case of an emergency.
The Sherlock discussion boards were aglow with the news that Kurt Kent Jr. had died and speculation that his vast collection would soon be up for auction. The excitement dimmed when it was revealed that the will was in dispute and nothing would happen until the situation was resolved. Some members posted that they’d attempted to speak to one or another of Kent’s children and had been rudely rebuffed.
No surprise there. Sorry your dad’s dead, can I get my hands on his stuff?
I clicked backward through time, looking for any mention of Kurt Kent prior to his death. I found a great deal. The Kent collection hadn’t been seen by anyone outside the immediate family and household staff for almost twenty years. Every time a piece of valuable Sherlockania came up for auction and the winning bidder had been anonymous, it was speculated that Kent had bought it. Some collectors were not happy. It was an outrage, they said, that one wealthy man should be able to keep artifacts such as these from the enjoyment of others.
Was it possible an enraged Sherlockian had killed Mary Ellen in an attempt to get the magazine?
I let out an exasperated breath. More suspects.
But surely if a mad collector had come to West London in pursuit of Mary Ellen and her magazine, they would pop into the Emporium? I couldn’t see anyone who was that much of a fanatic leaving town without paying the shop a visit
.
Unless, of course, they were a regular visitor and knew I didn’t stock the sort of items that would drive a collector into a murderous frenzy.
By eight o’clock, Violet had fallen asleep in front of the cold fireplace, and I’d consumed gallons of tea and more than a respectable amount of toast and marmalade. I placed a call.
“Good morning. New England Holiday Tours, bringing you the best of beautiful, historic New England. This is Janice. May I help you with your vacation plans today?”
“Uh. Not exactly. I’m calling from Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room in West London. One of your tour groups visited us on Monday. One of the ladies left something behind. I’d like to talk to the tour guide, if I may.”
“Let me check.” I heard computer keys clicking.
“Yes, West London. We had a private tour make a stop in your lovely town.”
“A bridge group.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can I have the number of the tour leader?” I knew she wouldn’t give it to me. Always worth a try, though.
“Why don’t I get in touch with her and have her contact you?”
“I’m not at work this morning, but she can ring me at home.” I rattled off my number. “Thanks.”
They were efficient at New England Holiday Tours, I’ll give them that. I was rinsing out the teapot when my phone rang, and a woman’s voice asked, “Is this Jayne?”
“No, it’s Gemma Doyle, her business partner. You brought a group of bridge players into the tea room and then the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop on Monday.”
“So I did. I’m Alicia. The office said there was a problem.”
“Sorry, Alicia, there’s no problem. I needed to talk to you. I’m trying to contact one of the ladies on your tour. Elaine Kent?”
“No one by that name’s with me. Sorry. Maybe you’re thinking of another group?”
“Is the tour still together?”
“Yes, we’re in Truro tonight and tomorrow, and then returning to Boston.”
“Are all the original members still with you?”
“We lost one. As you can imagine, for a bridge group, that’s not good. The numbers have to be divisible by four. I’ve tried to take her place, but I don’t really know how to play.”
