by Vicki Delany
She untied her apron and tossed it onto a chair. Jocelyn handed her our survival pack, and we went out the back way to the car. It was another gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, so I put the top down and we headed to Boston.
“The Blue Water Café seems to be doing well,” I said, apropos of nothing, once we’d left West London itself and were heading north on Route 136 toward Highway 6, which would take us west and off the Cape. It was midday on a Thursday in June, but traffic was already building, as city dwellers headed toward the hotels and summer homes and beaches for what was predicted to be a fabulous weekend. I had to shout to be heard.
“It’s a great place, good location,” Jayne replied.
I gave her a sideways glance. “Andy is a great cook.”
“Yup.”
“I’ve always wanted a man who could cook. Haven’t found one yet.”
“Um-hum.”
“Even the best cook can’t run a successful restaurant if they can’t manage a business. He’s good at that too, don’t you think?”
“Um-hum.”
“Jayne, you know that Andy . . .”
“Duck!” Jayne shouted.
We were coming into a bend; fortunately for the other cars on the road, I did not duck.
I did, however, see what had alarmed Jayne. We were outside of West London now, but a WLPD car was heading our way.
I kept both hands firmly on the wheel and my face pointing straight ahead. My eyes, however, slid to one side. Two people were in the car and their heads turned as I sped past.
“It’s them,” Jayne said. “Maybe they didn’t notice us.”
“In this car? Oh, dear, they’re turning around.” I watched my rearview mirror. Yep, the cruiser had made a turn onto the verge of the road and was now speeding up. I pretended not to notice and kept driving, sticking precisely to the speed limit. It was hard, however, to keep not noticing when lights and sirens came on. For the briefest of moments, I reminded myself that the Miata could easily leave their clunky old Ford Vic in the dust. But as I had no desire to reenact the climactic scene of Thelma and Louise, I slowed, flicked on my turn indicator, and pulled over. The patrol car came to a halt behind me. Both doors opened and Louise Estrada and Ryan Ashburton got out. They were dressed in plain clothes, but Estrada pushed her jacket slightly aside so I could see the gun at her hip. As if I was going to take off in a blaze of dust, exhaust fumes, and glory.
“Good morning, Ryan,” I said when he appeared at my side. “Lovely day for a drive.” Estrada stood by the passenger door, feet apart, hands on hips, sunglasses shielding her eyes, scowl firmly in place.
Ryan pushed his own sunglasses onto the top of his head. “Where are you going, Gemma?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re involved in a murder inquiry, and you were ordered not to leave West London.”
“I was?”
“Yes, you were.”
“Sorry.” I wasn’t pretending to be innocent. I’d totally forgotten that minor detail.
“We’re not exactly fleeing,” Jayne said. “You can search the car if you want. We don’t have suitcases, never mind our passports and two one-way airline tickets to Brazil.”
Ryan ignored her. “Gemma?”
“I can’t go for a drive with my best friend on a pleasant day? If you stop everyone on this road, you’re going to be very busy.”
“Look—” Estrada snapped. Ryan held up one hand, and she bit off the rest of her sentence.
“It’s midday in the middle of the week,” he said, “and you’re both responsible businesswomen. Something took you away from the store.”
“I notice,” I said, “you’re returning to West London. I might ask the same of you.”
“Gemma! You don’t ask the questions here. I do.”
“The estate of the late Mr. Kurt Kent is said to have a substantial collection of Sherlock Holmes–related items. I spent some time this morning on the Internet reading discussion boards. People are showing a lot of interest in his collection. I want to try to get some things for the store.”
His blue eyes were usually the color of the ocean on a sunny day. Right now a hurricane was moving in. His jaw clenched. He didn’t believe a word I was saying, but he wasn’t ready to accuse me of anything nefarious yet. Not in the presence of Estrada at any rate.
“You were told to stay in West London,” she said. “We can bring you in for disobeying an order, you know.”
“When do you plan to be back?” Ryan asked.
“Before the shop closes today. As you said, I am a responsible businesswoman.” I indicated Jayne. “We both are.”
Jayne nodded. “Highly responsible.”
“Be sure you are,” Ryan said.
“I—” Estrada began to protest, but Ryan silenced her with a look. “You’re wasting your time,” Estrada said, determined to get in the last word. “You know what those rich old families are like. That estate’s locked up tight in a legal dispute, and it’ll be some time before it’s all unraveled. Tough enough when the nurse was the heir, but now that she’s dead, her relatives are coming out of the woodwork.”
“Did she have much of an estate of her own?” I tried to sound as though I had a casual interest. Just curious.
“She didn’t have a spare penny, or so it seems, except for what she got from old man Kent. Her son’s claiming that what was left to her in the old man’s will should now go to him.”
I glanced at Ryan. He was standing by the car, watching me, letting Estrada talk. Neither of them seemed to have heard the rumor that I was interested in making a claim. Give them time.
“You mean the magazine?” I asked.
“He also left her some of his late wife’s jewelry,” Estrada said. “As you can imagine, that didn’t go down well with the sons and the daughter.”
“Expensive jewelry?” Jayne asked.
She whistled. “Oh, yeah. Stones as big as a rock.”
“I can understand the family being upset about losing their mother’s jewels,” I said. “They probably don’t care too much what happens to the magazine, though.”
Estrada snorted. “Nothing’s too small to get the lawyers fighting over it.”
“Speaking of the magazine, what’s happening to it?”
“The son’s demanding we hand it over, but as it’s evidence in a murder investigation, that’s not likely to happen for a good long time. Same with the family jewels.”
“Has anyone had another look at it? Other than the initial examination by Grant Thompson?”
“Not yet,” Estrada said.
“If it is an original, it’s very delicate. Paper is highly fragile. It doesn’t keep well unless it’s properly cared for. Any amount of rough handling or improper storage could reduce the value considerably.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little English head,” Estrada said with a barely controlled sneer. “It’s safe and sound. We won’t touch it with our dirty fingers.”
Ryan took a step backward. “We’ll let you be on your way, Gemma. Be in West London by dark tonight. Don’t get your hopes up about being able to buy the magazine or anything else from that estate any time soon.”
I put the car into gear and we sped away (keeping strictly to the speed limit, of course). In my mirror, I watched Ryan and Estrada return to their car.
“Wow,” Jayne said. “She sure doesn’t like you, does she, Gemma?”
“No, she doesn’t. And that worries me.”
“Although she can be the chatty one when she wants to be.”
“Ryan didn’t stop her, which I find interesting. I wonder if he realized she was telling me they’d found jewelry among Mary Ellen’s things—information that hasn’t been publicly released. Fortunately, I don’t have to pretend that I don’t know about it anymore.”
I had revealed nothing and learned a lot. The police had been to Boston to talk to the Kent family lawyers about the will. The only reason they would do that would be if
they believed Mary Ellen was killed because of the items she’d inherited from her late employer. Meaning, it had not been a random killing. Not that I thought it had been, but it was nice to have my suspicions confirmed. The main issue, however, might not be the magazine, but the jewelry.
Elaine Kent wasn’t Kurt’s daughter, but she was his daughter-in-law. She might well have expected to inherit some of the nicer pieces of jewelry upon his death. Had she been promised something particular? Say, a nice brooch of big diamonds with an enormous sapphire in the center?
What was the name of the party-girl granddaughter? Sapphire.
Easy to assume the girl, or her mother, would inherit the stone after which she was named.
Ryan had done me a favor, letting Estrada tell me what they knew and not pressing me as to where Jayne and I were going. Time to return the favor. When I got home, I’d fill Ryan in on what I’d learned about Elaine Kent and her visit to the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium.
* * *
The Kents’ stately historic mansion was situated on a street of similar stately historic mansions. Very few of the homes were visible from the road, hidden as they were by huge old trees, thick shrubbery, tall fences and locked gates, or expansive, carefully maintained lawns and long curling driveways.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as a hundred security cameras followed us down the winding streets.
“That’s the one,” I said to Jayne as I slowed and made the turn.
The property was surrounded by a high, thick hedge inside of which I could see a wire fence. The gate at the entrance was firmly shut. A small guardhouse squatted inside the gate, and after a moment a man came out of it. He was young, tall, and well built and wore the uniform of a private security firm.
“No admittance,” he said. His eyes ran appreciatively over both Jayne and the Miata.
I gave him a smile. “Good afternoon. Is this the Kent residence?”
“Yeah.”
“I am here to see Mrs. Elaine Kent.” I pronounced each word carefully, emphasizing my English accent. Some Americans, I have found, react better to that. As though I have returned to the colonies in order to claim my rightful place as Lady of the Manor. My mother’s family is minor (extremely minor) aristocracy (penniless aristocracy), but I can do Maggie Smith as the Dowager Countess of Grantham when needed.
“She ain’t home.”
“That is unfortunate. I’ve come some distance to speak with her. When do you expect her to return?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. They were, I thought, disproportionate to his small bullet-shaped head with its big floppy ears.
“Is she not home or just not receiving guests?” Jayne said.
“I don’t know. I’ve a standing order of no visitors, that’s all.” The hem of his trousers was scuffed, his trainers dirty, and he sported a highly unattractive goatee. His uniform could do with a good wash.
“Have you been on duty long today?” I asked.
“Came on at noon.”
It was two thirty now.
“So you’re not entirely sure who’s at home?” Jayne said.
“Look, lady, all I know is no visitors.”
I opened my door, and he just about jumped out of his skin. I made no move to get out of the car and slammed the door shut with considerate force. A crow squawked at us from the canopy overhead. Otherwise, all was quiet. “Sorry,” I said, “my shirt was caught in the door.”
I rummaged in my bag for a business card. I held it out to him. He eyed me but made no move to take it.
“Would you give this to Mrs. Kent, please? She can ring me at that number. I have business that should interest her.”
“I’m no messenger boy.”
“Next time you’re talking to her then,” Jayne said.
“I’ve never talked to her. I’ve never talked to any of them. They drive in. They drive out. I open the gate, and then I shut it behind them.”
I shoved my unwanted card into my pocket. “Very interesting. Good day, sir.” I backed onto the street.
“Waste of time,” Jayne said.
“Nothing is ever a waste of time.” Fortunately, the Kent property occupied the corner of the street. I simply drove around the corner and stopped the car.
“What are we doing?” Jayne asked.
“Looking for ingress,” I replied.
“What? We’re not going to sneak in!”
“It would appear that we have to.”
“Come on, the place is a fortress. I bet they have cameras everywhere, even if we get over that fence. And I’m not climbing fences.”
“They might well have cameras, but no one’s watching them.” I edged the car forward and scanned the shrubbery. “Excellent.”
“What’s excellent?”
“Gap in the fence up ahead. The hedge is covering it, but not very well.”
“We can’t simply park here. We’d be noticed in a neighborhood like this one. Someone would be calling the cops in minutes.”
“You’re probably right. I saw a suitable place to leave the car not far away.”
A few streets over, the properties were much less ostentatious and the lots so small, comparatively speaking, the houses could be seen from the road. One of those houses appeared to be hosting a child’s birthday party this afternoon.
A cluster of brightly colored balloons danced in the air above the mailbox to which they were tied, and SUVs and luxury cars crowded the driveway. I could leave the Miata on the street, and it would look as though it belonged to late-arriving partygoers.
“What makes you think no one’s watching the cameras at the house?” Jayne asked.
“That security guard has remarkably little interest in his job, but no one seems inclined to remove him from it. I took a quick glance inside the guard house and saw a bank of display screens, all of which were blank. He was watching his phone when we drove up and, with considerable reluctance, came out to see what we wanted. He’s not exactly bright and alert. The condition of the fence also indicates that security here is but a pretext.”
“What’s wrong with the fence?”
“Jayne, you need to pay more attention to your surroundings. I immediately noticed several gaps, as well as places where the wire is rusting, thus easy to penetrate. And the hedge is badly overgrown, giving cover to anyone trying to break in.”
“Didn’t you notice the ‘Beware of Dog’ sign on the gate?”
“Of course I did. At the same time as I noticed that not only does the guard not have a dog with him, but nothing barked when I opened the car door and slammed it shut as loudly as I could.”
I parked the car in front of the party house, and we trotted down the calm, leafy streets back to the Kent property. When we reached the spot I’d identified, I bent over and took off one of my shoes.
“What are you doing?” Jayne said.
“Ensuring no one’s coming. Be quiet.” I shook an imaginary stone out of my shoe and listened. Birds chirped in the trees, but otherwise all was quiet. This wasn’t a neighborhood where residents walked anywhere. It was the middle of the afternoon and getting hot. Staff who walked from the bus stop would have arrived at work long ago, and joggers and runners would have been out before the heat settled in. I put my shoe back on and slipped into the shrubbery. Jayne followed.
I pushed branches and the rusted fence aside, and we scrambled through to emerge on the lawn at the east side of the house.
“The things I do for you,” Jayne said as she picked leaves and twigs out of her hair.
We were exposed standing out in the open, so I loped quickly across the grass to another, smaller hedge closer to the house. This one was also badly overgrown, and I slipped inside. I gestured for Jayne to do the same. She grumbled as a broken limb scraped against her cheek and I told her to shush. From between branches, I peeked out and studied the property.
The lawn on which Boston’s elite had once gathered to sip champagne and Darjeeling and nibble on
crustless sandwiches while exchanging the latest gossip and business news, and incidentally drop a few pennies for charity, was choked with crabgrass and dandelions. The hedges were a tangled mess, and the decorative bushes unpruned. Last year’s leaf fall cluttered the no-longer-neat perennial beds where daisies, bellflowers, hosta, and ornamental grasses struggled in vain against the weedy onslaught.
“What now?” Jayne asked.
“You have blood on your cheek,” I said.
She squawked and wiped furiously at it.
“We ring the doorbell, of course,” I said. “Like any proper visitor.”
We kept to the hedge until it reached a wall of the house. It was a marvelous old building: golden, weatherworn stone; tall beveled windows; several brick chimneys. I glanced in the windows as we passed but could see little, as the light of the sun reflected back at me. The driveway made an expansive circle at the front of the house before ending at a four-door garage. All the doors were closed, and no cars were parked outside. The drive itself was large enough to accommodate rows of horse-drawn carriages carrying hoop-skirted ladies and mustachioed gentlemen to balls and concerts. The garage doors desperately needed a coat of paint, and the surface of the driveway was chipped and pitted and potholed. Giant stone urns marched in straight lines up the steps and guarded the front door. Once, they would have overflowed with colorful flowers and topiary, but now they contained nothing but dry dirt and a few struggling weeds.
I climbed the steps. Jayne scurried behind me. I rang the bell, and in response, chimes echoed throughout the house. No other sounds followed.
“Not at home,” Jayne said. “Let’s go.”
“I would have expected a maid,” I replied. “Colin lives here, I know, and thus I assume his wife does also, but I don’t know about their daughter or any of his siblings. I was planning to ask, but that so-called security guard doesn’t seem to know or care what goes on here. Let’s have a peek around.”
“Gemma, we’re trespassing.”
“So we are.” I jumped off the front steps and went to a window. I put my face up against the glass and cupped my hands around my face. A hallway, dark and foreboding. “Interesting that this place has been allowed to fall into rack and ruin.”
