by Vicki Delany
“Lost one?”
“Mrs. Kirk. Ellen Kirk had a death in her family. Very sudden, she said. It was the morning after our visit to West London. She was very upset, but frankly, I wasn’t entirely surprised she left us. She didn’t seem to be enjoying the tour much, and she wasn’t making friends. She wasn’t even a good bridge player, and I overheard some of the women complaining about not wanting to partner with her.”
“How did she seem when you left my bookshop?”
“Seem? Normal enough. I guess. Oh, now I remember. She was very late getting to the bus. I always tell the women, we leave on time whether they’re on board or not, but I don’t really mean it. This time I was about to tell the driver to go when Mrs. Kirk came running up. She was . . . ‘flustered’ is probably the best word. She plunked herself down in her seat without so much as an apology. She went straight to her room when we got to the hotel and didn’t even come down for dinner.”
I had little doubt this was the woman I was after. When people employed a pseudonym, they often used the same initials, thinking it would be easier to remember. Still, I needed confirmation. “Can I send you a picture of the woman I’m interested in? You can tell me if it’s this Mrs. Kirk.”
“I guess that would be all right. You haven’t told me why you want to talk to her.”
“Haven’t I? I’ll send the picture now. Just a text back to me saying yes or no will suffice. Thanks for your help.”
“Okay. Oh, one thing . . .”
“Yes.”
“You don’t play bridge, do you? The ladies are very unhappy, and I’m getting desperate.”
“Sorry. No.”
I pulled up Elaine Kent’s picture on the iPad, cropped it to take out her sister-in-law and the horse as well as all the wording, and texted it to Alicia.
She replied in less than a minute: Can’t say for sure. But might be.
Chapter 9
“Might be” wasn’t a yes. But it was close enough for me to investigate further. If Elaine Kent had been on the bridge tour, and if she’d left suddenly, she had almost certainly done so because of the death of Mary Ellen Longton. Meaning either Mrs. Kent had been responsible or she knew who was. It was also very likely she’d gone straight home.
In my perusals of the business and family affairs of the Kents, I’d discovered that Colin Kent, the eldest son and CEO of Kent Enterprises since his father’s illness, lived in “the historic, stately Boston mansion” purchased by Kurt Kent Sr. in 1957.
The Internet is a marvelous thing, and a few minutes of searching gave me the address of said stately historic mansion. In her day, Mr. Kent Sr.’s wife, Juliette, entertained extensively to raise money for various charities, and she was particularly fond of throwing champagne and afternoon tea garden parties at the mansion.
There hadn’t been a party at the house since Mrs. Kent’s death, but a historian had kindly put her memories of attending such a garden party up on the Internet for me to find, including the address of the house. I put the computer away, satisfied with my morning’s work. Moments later, my phone rang. I felt a small fission of pleasure at seeing the name Grant Thompson on the display screen.
“Good morning, Gemma. I hope I haven’t woken you.”
“Not at all. I’ve been up for hours.”
“I thought you might be an early riser.” A soft chuckle came down the line. “I’ve been wondering if there’s any news about the Beeton’s Annual. I called the police station, but the detectives won’t talk to me. I’m eager to do a proper examination of it.”
“Sorry. Nothing,” I said. “They don’t talk to me either.”
“I hate the thought of that precious magazine, that fragile one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old paper, tossed into the back of some police locker.”
I shuddered in sympathy. “Without climate control.”
“Handled by people not wearing white gloves.”
“The police station building is old. It’s close to the sea, meaning damp.”
“They might even have rats.”
We both groaned.
“Unfortunately, the police don’t seem to have set the protection of the magazine as their first priority,” Grant said. “The disbelief on their faces when I told them its possible value was obvious.”
“I don’t think Detective Estrada entirely trusts me either. But I do have an idea. I’m glad you reminded me. My uncle Arthur plays tennis with the chief of police’s father. I’ll ask him to place a call. We can try to get at the police that way.” If I could get hold of Arthur. He had a tendency to forget to charge his cell phone. That he never forgot to do anything else made me think he forgot on purpose.
“Small towns,” Grant said with another of his warm chuckles. “Gotta love ’em.”
“And I do,” I said.
“Are you free for lunch today, Gemma? We can talk about the Sherlock papers and . . . other things.”
“Sorry,” I said, pleased at being asked. “I’m going to Boston later.”
“Will you be back in time for dinner?”
“I should be,” I said, very pleased at being asked.
“Let’s do that then. You’re the local, name the place.”
“My favorite is the Blue Water Café down by the harbor. It gets busy, so you should make a reservation.”
“Is eight o’clock too late?”
“The store closes at nine on Thursday, but my assistant’s working today, and she can close up.” I thought quickly. I could leave the store in Ruby’s hands before eight, rush home and change, and be at the café by half eight. “Eight thirty?”
“Perfect. See you then, Gemma.” His voice lingered over my name. I hung up with a smile and got ready for work.
I didn’t have to be a detective—reluctant one though I might be—to remember that Thursday is sticky bun day at the tea room. Jayne could charge people for walking past on the sidewalk, so intense is the scent of warm pastry, hot cinnamon and sugar, and melting butter drifting out the doors. I greeted several Thursday-morning regulars waiting patiently in line as I headed for the kitchen. I found Jayne and Jocelyn rolling dough, their cheeks and the tips of their noses dotted with white powder.
“Did you have an explosion in the flour bin?” I asked.
“Something like that,” Jocelyn muttered. The bell on the industrial oven sounded, and she slipped on heat-proof gloves before opening the door.
“This must be what heaven smells like,” I said. Jocelyn took the gorgeous, glistening, scented spiral rolls out of the oven and laid them in the cooling racks. I breathed deeply.
“What’s up?” Jayne asked. “We’re busy.”
“I’m going to Boston. Do you want to come?”
“You mean today?”
“I mean now.”
“Why would I want to go to Boston, and, perhaps more to the point, why do you?”
I glanced at Jocelyn, who’d turned away from us to get a bag of sugar off the shelf, and touched my lips.
Jayne rolled her eyes. “Give us a minute, will you please, Jocelyn? Those croissants are ready to go out front.”
“Sure.” She lifted the tray and left.
I quickly told my friend what I’d learned last night and this morning. “I need to talk to Mrs. Kent.”
“And accuse her of murder? That’s unlikely to end well, Gemma.”
“The least I can do is confirm that this woman is the one who was in the Emporium, and thus in West London, on the day her late father-in-law’s private nurse was murdered. All I have is a poor photo taken off the Internet, a maybe from the tour group leader, and my suspicions. Not enough to take to the police. I want to go to the Kent home and see the woman for myself. Only then will I be sure.”
“I’m in the middle of the day’s baking.”
“I can wait a couple of hours. Ruby comes in at noon today. She can look after the shop in my absence.”
“If I say no?”
“Then you’ll miss a nice outing to Boston and the
chance to see a stately historic mansion, once famous for its garden parties.”
“Meaning you’ll go without me.”
“Is that in doubt?”
“No. Okay, give me two hours. Jocelyn should be able to manage by herself after then.”
* * *
If I didn’t have to earn a living, I’d keep the bookstore as my own private library. I wouldn’t let anyone else come in. I could regularly order the newest books and reread old favorites. The shelves would be neatly organized, and I’d never have to search for anything misplaced by a careless employee or absent-minded customer. If I got rid of the life-sized cutouts, the puzzles, the coffee mugs, and all the other assorted junk (sorry, merchandise), then I could expand the bookshelves. I might even be able to purchase a few first editions. For my own reading pleasure, of course.
But as I am not independently wealthy and I do have to stock what customers want to buy, I enjoy being alone in the Emporium before opening. It’s quiet and peaceful, and everything is in its proper place. Just me and the books. And Moriarty, glaring at me over the arm of the chair in the reading nook.
I unpacked a box of new books, pleased to see that the reprint of The Moonstone by Wilkes Collins I’d ordered some time ago had finally arrived. As I organized the gaslight shelves to make room for the new arrival, I breathed in the scent of paper and ink and the bindings of a good book. The door to the tea room was closed, but a trace of cinnamon drifted in to mix with the new book smell.
Heaven on earth. I chose a copy of The Moonstone for myself, took it upstairs to the office, and put it in my tote bag to take home.
A new line of coffee mugs from the contemporary BBC TV show, featuring quotes from the programs and pictures of the main characters, was proving very popular with my customers. So popular were they that this morning, they were out of order on the shelf. That would never do. I spent a few minutes organizing them into a straight line with their handles all facing in the correct direction, and I’d stepped back to admire my handiwork when the phone beneath the sales counter rang. I hurried to answer it. “Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium.”
“Gemma Doyle?”
“This is she.”
Moriarty jumped onto the counter.
“My name is Edward Manning, from Manning’s Rare and Antiquarian Books in New York City.” The voice was deep and rumbling. An older man, his vocal cords seasoned by decades of cigars and whisky.
“Yes?”
“You’ve come into possession of a rare copy of a magazine. I’d like to make an appointment to view the magazine with the intention of making you an offer, depending on the condition. You’re in Cape Cod, I understand. I can be there tomorrow. Say ten AM?”
“Huh? I mean, you’re mistaken, Mr. Manning. I don’t own such a thing.”
“My sources tell me you’re about to inherit it.”
“Your sources?” For a brief moment I wondered if Great Uncle Arthur had a possession he’d not told me about. For an even briefer moment, I wondered if something had happened to Great Uncle Arthur and this was how I was being informed. Then I remembered what Irene had told me last night. “Your sources are mistaken. I’m not in line to inherit anything.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand the value, Ms. Doyle. I looked up details on your . . . store . . . and see that you are strictly retail.” Judging by the tone in his voice at the last word, he might have suggested that I dealt in trafficked human body parts. “Which is why I’m prepared to do you a favor and give you a fair and just estimate and offer.”
“Good-bye.” I hung up. Oh dear. Word was spreading. Not only was it spreading, but it was wrong. Mr. Manning hadn’t named the magazine. I wondered if he even knew. What had Irene told me? Someone in the police station had tipped her off about the Beeton’s. I could imagine the scene. Grant had said the room was full of cops when he did his initial estimation. It was unlikely, although not impossible, that a sworn officer was Irene’s informant. It was more likely a case of two cops going for coffee after Grant left—one saying to the other, “Imagine a magazine worth thousands of bucks!”—and having been overheard by an eager clerk or a passing citizen.
However it had happened, this situation did me no good. Now I had more than Louise Estrada’s suspicions to worry about. Someone had killed Mary Ellen Longton, very possibly in pursuit of the magazine. If that someone thought I was next in line to take possession of it . . .
All the more reason to go to Boston. I would talk to Elaine Kent and tell her I had no legal rights to her father-in-law’s property, and I didn’t want it in any event.
Moriarty’s narrowed amber eyes watched me think. “You want me to keep it, don’t you?” I said to him. “Aside from the fact that I don’t have it, and thus can’t keep anything.”
He did not reply.
* * *
Ruby arrived for work precisely on time. That was not a common occurrence. She looked somewhat the worse for wear, which was a common occurrence.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she snapped.
“Just asking.”
She sighed. “Sorry Gemma. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I think I might be coming down with a cold.” Her face was pale and her eyes rimmed red, but her breathing was fine and she wasn’t sniffling. I suspected her condition had more to do with the sleepless night, probably caused by the consumption of excessive quantities of alcohol, than any potential illness. She gave Moriarty a scratch behind the ears, and he rewarded her by rubbing against her arm.
“Don’t be sneezing on our customers,” I said. “Jayne and I will be out for the rest of the afternoon. If you have to go home, call Lorraine and see she if she’s free.” Lorraine Dobbs was a friend of Jayne’s mother. She’d once owned her own clothing shop but had retired a couple of years ago. She worked in the tea room on busy weekends and in the Emporium if I was in a pinch.
I began to leave when I had a thought. “Ruby, you were here when I found the magazine hidden in the bookshelves on Tuesday. I’m sure you realize the woman who left it here is the one who was murdered that night.”
She nodded. “Everyone in town’s talking about it.”
“Is your father likely to be interested in something like that?”
“Gosh, no. Why would he?”
“You told me he’s a Sherlock fanatic.”
“Oh, right.” She shrugged. “He reads the books, but he doesn’t have any interest in collecting stuff.”
“What did you do on Tuesday, after you left here?”
“I didn’t go around to a hotel to kill a woman, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m only trying to place everyone.”
“If you must place me, and I don’t see that it’s any of your business, I went home, and then met up in Hyannis for a drink with a friend. I stayed at his place until the next morning. That really is none of your business.” She glared at me. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “If you need me, I have my phone with me.”
I headed home to get my car. A strong wind was blowing off the ocean, and as I hurried along the boardwalk, I felt the touch of warm salty air on my face and ruffling my hair. I remembered my conversation with Grant this morning and tried calling Uncle Arthur. It went immediately to voice mail.
“Hi, it’s me, Gemma. Something interesting has happened here. A book collector came into the shop and told me about an original and rare Holmes magazine that’s turned up in West London. Imagine that. Anyway, the magazine is at the police station as there’s some dispute, so I understand, about provenance.” I tried to keep my voice light, uninvolved, just being nice and doing a small favor for a new friend. Whether I could fool Uncle Arthur or not was another matter. He knew me so well. I didn’t want him turning around and coming home. He was a strong man, mentally and physically, but he was approaching ninety and no match for a determined killer. Those tennis games he told me he played with the police chief’s father every Sunday? I long ago
began to suspect the two old men had abandoned the courts in favor of McGillivray’s Irish Pub, where rather than exchanging volleys, they exchanged stories of chasing down pirates in the Gulf and chasing up mob-connected hit men in Boston. “He—my collector friend, I mean—is concerned that the police don’t know how to take proper care of the magazine. I thought maybe you could have a word with Jack and ask him to have a word with the chief. Thanks. Hope you’re having fun.” I hung up. Just as well he didn’t pick up; he’d ask questions I didn’t want to answer.
I had to go into the house to get my car keys, which means I had to deal with the crushing weight of guilt when Violet realized I wasn’t taking her with me. She loves nothing more than a ride in the car, but there’s no room in the Miata for her if I have a passenger. “Sorry,” I mumbled, grabbing the keys and fleeing the house.
A few minutes later, I parked the car in the loading bay behind the tea room and went in to get Jayne.
She was, as I should have guessed, not ready.
“Sorry, Gemma. Last-minute rush on the cinnamon buns, so I decided to make another batch, and then I realized that the egg delivery hadn’t come yet, so Jocelyn had to make a dash to the supermarket.”
“You can call me The Mad Dasher,” Jocelyn said with a grin.
“I asked Fiona to wrap up a couple of yesterday’s muffins and pastries for us to eat on the way,” Jayne said.
You would think, seeing as to how Jayne worked in a bakery and thought about food all the time even when she wasn’t working, that she’d be enormous. I eyed her tiny, petite frame and decided that life was not fair. “Let’s go.”
“Give me a couple of minutes,” she said. “I have to get these tarts decorated.” She pointed to a tray of glistening fruit pastries, piping hot from the oven. A bowl of perfect, tiny bright-red raspberries sat on the counter beside them.
“I can drop a raspberry on top of a tart, Jayne,” Jocelyn said.
“But . . .”
I took my friend’s arm. “No ‘buts.’ I’m leaving. Now. If you want to come, that means you are too.”
