Elementary, She Read: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  She gave me a weak smile. “Take care of yourself, Gemma.” She got out of the car. I watched until she was inside with the door shut behind her.

  I drove straight to the Emporium. My phone rang as I was about to get out of the car. Irene. I didn’t particularly want to talk to her, but she might have some information I needed to know.

  “Gemma, did you hear what happened?”

  “As I don’t know what you’re talking about, Irene, I can’t say if I know or not.”

  “Ryan Ashburton’s been taken off the Longton murder, and Louise Estrada is now in charge.”

  Not good. Not for me, anyway. “Do you know why?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources, of course, but I hear she found out that you and Ryan used to be an item, and she went to the chief to say that as you are—her words, Gemma, not mine—the prime suspect in this case, Ryan can’t be involved.”

  Prime suspect. Definitely not good. The afternoon sun was beating down on the car. I’d put the roof up and turned the engine off, but a chill ran down my arms and I shivered. “Did Ryan put up an argument?”

  “He said you and he are not together anymore and pointed out that the permanent population of West London is small. If he was disqualified from every investigation involving someone he knows, he might as well go back to Boston.”

  “That makes sense. But the chief didn’t buy it?”

  “He bought it just fine and said Ryan would remain the lead detective. Unfortunately, immediately after they all left his office, Louise looking like she was about to explode, or so my contact says, the chief got a call from his dad.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yup. The chief’s dad was calling at the request of his good buddy Arthur Doyle to advise the WLPD that they should immediately hand the Sherlock Holmes magazine over to a book expert for proper care and storage. Because the police facilities in West London are not adequate for the job.”

  That wasn’t what I’d asked of Uncle Arthur. All I wanted was a quiet word in the chief’s ear that the magazine needed to be handled carefully.

  “Louise said that made it obvious you intended to take ownership of the magazine, on the grounds that Mary Ellen Longton had given it to you, which suggests that you killed to get it . . .”

  I sputtered.

  “Ryan said that was ridiculous. Anyone who loves old books would be concerned for its care. Louise yelled at him that he was blind to your guilt, he yelled back, and the chief got mad at the both of them and said Ryan was off the case. He went back into his office and slammed the door. You know our chief. All he wants is peace and quiet until he can collect his pension.”

  “Then he should have taken a job working for the public library.”

  “Don’t bite my head off, Gemma. I’m only the messenger.”

  “I appreciate it, Irene. I really do. Talk to you later.”

  Inside the Emporium, Ruby was behind the counter, ringing up a copy of Jewel of the Thames by Angela Misri for a regular customer.

  “Birthday gift for your granddaughter?” I asked.

  “Hard to believe she’s going to be twelve. Seems like only yesterday her dad was twelve.”

  A couple of people browsed, and an elderly lady was ensconced in the reading nook, flicking through a graphic novel version of The Hound of the Baskervilles, while Moriarty snoozed on her lap. No one appeared to need immediate assistance. “Why don’t you gift wrap that, Ruby,” I said. “On the house.”

  The customer beamed at me. “That’s nice of you, Gemma. Thanks.”

  “All part of the service. I’ll be in my office, if you need me.” I climbed the stairs and dropped into the chair behind my desk. I kicked off my shoes, closed my eyes, and sighed. Then I made a long-overdue phone call. Ryan might be off the case, but he still needed to know what I knew. It would be up to him to decide what he wanted to do with the information.

  “Any luck in Boston?” he asked.

  “Waste of time, like you said. We arrived at the Kent home, but the security guard told us he had orders to admit no one. I couldn’t even drive in to turn the car around. How’s your investigation going?”

  “Gemma, did you call to ask me that? You know I’m not going to answer.”

  “Just fishing,” I said, because I knew he’d expect me to do that. “I have some information for you.”

  “Do you want to meet?”

  I pride myself on being a good liar when necessary. But not when Ryan Ashburton’s lovely blue eyes are gazing deeply into mine. “Far too busy. Ruby’s been swamped while I was away.”

  “If you say so,” he said.

  “Kurt Kent’s daughter-in-law Elaine might have been in West London on Tuesday as part of an organized bus tour that came into the shop and the tea room in the afternoon. That’s why I went to Boston earlier. I wanted to confirm my suspicions before taking them to you. I wasn’t able to talk to the woman.” That was true enough. “I thought I should let you know.”

  “What makes you think it might have been her?”

  “I was searching for information on the Kent family—out of interest, since I have become, unwillingly, involved in their domestic drama—when I saw a picture of her in an old newspaper article. I’m pretty sure it’s the same woman, but I wanted to double check.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “What’s the name of this tour group?”

  I told him. “The woman’s traveling under the name of Ellen Kirk, but she left the tour abruptly. A death in the family, or so she said.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I phoned the tour company.”

  “Gemma, don’t get involved . . .”

  “In your investigation. Yes, yes. I’m trying to save you time, Ryan.”

  He cleared his throat. That meant he was about to give me bad news. I’d not told him I knew the news already. “I’ll pass what you’ve told me onto Louise. She’s in charge of the case now.”

  “Why not you?”

  “She found out that you and I . . . were once friends. That creates, she says, a conflict of interest, as you are a person of interest in this case.”

  “She’s new in town,” I said. “Things are different here than in New York City.”

  “How do you . . . ? Never mind.”

  “Everyone in West London—full-time residents, anyway—is friends with everyone else. And if not friends, then enemies.”

  “I know that. I pointed it out, and the chief agreed with me. But then . . . well something else happened to strengthen Louise’s hand, and the chief caved.”

  “Is she a good detective, Ryan?”

  “Yes.” The assurance in his voice made me feel slightly better. “I still have work to do. A burger shack near the Sound beach had a break in last night. Bringing the miscreants to justice is now my top priority.” He tried not to sound bitter.

  “I didn’t kill anyone, Ryan,” I said.

  “I know that, Gemma. You take care, and please, please try to stay out of trouble. We—I mean, Louise does have some other leads in this.”

  “Among them, I hope, Mary Ellen Longton’s son, Roy.”

  He groaned. “I will not ask how you know about him.”

  “Ryan, don’t try to make me sound like some sort of evil genius with a finger in every pot. Irene told me about him. He came to her because he wants press support for what he sees as a forthcoming battle with the Kent family over his mother’s inheritance. Which he now considers to be rightfully his.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that. He’s in town and he’s another one making a lot of noise about us handing the . . . items found . . . over to him.”

  “Another one? As well as Colin Kent you mean? Anyone else?”

  “Other than Colin and you, Gemma, no.”

  “I don’t want any part of this. I keep telling people that and no one believes me. Don’t tell me you think I’m dumb enough to suppose I have a claim to the magazine just because it was hidden in my shop.”

  “I have never believ
ed you to be dumb, Gemma.”

  I sucked in a breath. I didn’t like the tone in his voice one little bit. I’d been disappointed when he’d been taken off the case, thinking Estrada had it in for me. Maybe all Estrada was doing was picking up on signals from Ryan.

  Now I was being paranoid.

  Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  I shook the thought away. He’d loved me once; I knew that. Our relationship didn’t work out, but that didn’t kill the feelings we still had for each other. Did he still have feelings for me?

  “Well, I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t want the hassles that go with it. So there. Is it possible Roy killed his mother? Matricide is an extremely rare crime, but it does happen.”

  “I suppose I can tell you that he doesn’t, so far, have a good alibi for the time. And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I interviewed Jayne yesterday about the events of Tuesday.”

  “Yes.”

  “You might be able to wiggle your way out of any uncomfortable situation, but Jayne Wilson can’t. She says she was with you at the estimated time of Mary Ellen Longton’s death, and I have to tell you, Gemma, I believe her.”

  I felt the weight of the world fall off my chest. “I knew you would.”

  “I doubted you, and I let . . . maybe some of my personal feelings get in the way. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Your confidence means a lot to me.”

  “Perhaps we could . . . uh . . . get together for a drink some time,” he said. “When this is over.”

  “I’d like that.” I hung up the phone, full of thought.

  I had not killed either Mary Ellen Longton or Elaine Kent.

  Estrada was a good detective.

  Put those two facts together, and I should have been relieved, able to go about my business confident of not being arrested.

  But I wasn’t.

  All I wanted to do was sit and think, but I did have a business to run. I went downstairs.

  The store was empty of customers. Ruby was at the sales counter, standing over Moriarty, who lay on his back with his eyes closed, his feet in the air, and his belly exposed. She was rubbing at his soft fur and cooing gently. “Who’s a nice boy? Who’s a beautiful cat?”

  “I’m back,” I said.

  Ruby squeaked, and Moriarty rolled over. He hissed at me before jumping down.

  “You scared me there,” she said.

  “Sorry to interrupt your private moment,” I said with a laugh. “Everything okay here?”

  “Moderately busy, but the phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day.”

  “Why?”

  “All calls for you. No one would tell me what they wanted. A few said they’d call back. Some left numbers.” She pulled a stack of pink phone memo slips out of the drawer.

  “That’s odd. I’ll check them in the office, but I’ll come out if you need me.”

  “Sure.”

  I climbed the stairs once more, flipping through the messages. I didn’t recognize any of the numbers. Most were from Boston, two from New York City, one from somewhere in California. Very strange. I chose one at random and called. An answering machine picked up.

  “You have reached the desk of James Finegram Editions, specializing in books of distinction. Please leave a message . . .”

  I slammed the phone down. Book collectors. These were all book collectors and dealers. The only possible reason they’d have for calling me is that word must be spreading that I might be in line to inherit the Beeton’s, and they’re hoping I’m going to sell it.

  I felt Detective Estrada pounding another nail into my coffin.

  I opened my office computer and called up the store’s e-mail account. The screen filled with new messages. I deleted all the emails from names I didn’t recognize. Such was my haste in hitting the delete button that I almost got rid of an urgent letter from one of my suppliers.

  He told me that release of the hottest new Sherlock Holmes pastiche novel had been delayed when, at the last minute (“last minute” meaning “on the eve of printing tens of thousands of copies”), it had been found to contain an enormous error. At the climax, Sherlock reveals that the killer is none other than John Watson! That would have been a shocker indeed, but apparently (drat, now I knew the ending) the guilty person was the good doctor’s long-lost identical twin brother, James Watson, and no one—not the author, editor, copy editor, proofreader, or advance-copy reviewers—had noticed the misplaced first name.

  I groaned. If word got out of what the typo was (thus prematurely revealing the killer), orders of the book would sink to unseen depths. I’d done up posters and put them in the window, announcing the pending arrival of the book, and cut back on other orders to give the new novel plenty of shelf space. Now I’d have to order more stock of other titles to fill the gaping hole in the shelves.

  I wanted to check online and see what was happening with Elaine Kent. But first, I’d decided I better get some work done.

  Ruby’s head popped into the office. “Gemma, I’m still not feeling well. I think I’m coming down with something, so I made a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow at noon. I need the time off.”

  “That should be okay. I’ll be here.”

  I reflected that Sherlock Holmes hadn’t had a business to run while he was hot on the trail of a criminal. I emailed my supplier back, asking him to keep me posted on the new book, and ordered more copies of books I had in stock already.

  By the time I finished that, I had an e-mail from the publicist for the author of the unfortunate pastiche novel asking if the author could come to the Emporium for a book signing. That my earlier invitation to such an event had been rudely rebuffed, on the grounds that my premises weren’t large enough to accommodate the expected crowds, made me think they were desperate to save the book.

  I generously replied that we were extremely busy over the summer months, but I could probably squeeze him in.

  Only once I’d sent that off and deleted another unread message from a rare book dealer was I able to lean back in my chair and think.

  Had my trip to Boston caused the death of Elaine Kent? I am not so full of myself that I think every event in life circles around me, but I had been looking into (“interfering with,” as Ryan calls it) the affairs of the Kent family. I hadn’t announced my suspicions to the world, but I hadn’t kept them entirely to myself either. I’d told Alicia at the bus tour company who I was looking for. I’d told Jayne. We’d been in the back of the bakery at the time. Jocelyn had gone out front with the tray of fresh croissants, but she could easily have stood at the door listening. So could Fiona. So could any of the customers, come to think of it. The swinging doors that open into the kitchen are located beside the display of loose teas and assorted tea-making paraphernalia we offer for sale. Then again, according to my calculations, by the time Jayne and I were making plans to go to Boston, Elaine Kent was already dead.

  I’d talked to Alicia shortly after eight. She’d said she was in Truro, which is more than a two-hour drive from Boston. Easy enough to check if she was telling the truth, as she was in charge of twenty-three bridge players eager to get a start on their day. She could, of course, have called someone in Boston immediately after speaking to me and sent them around to do the deed. I could see no motive, but then again, I knew absolutely nothing about Alicia.

  I glanced at the clock on the shelf above my desk. It had been a gift from Uncle Arthur when I took over the business. It was of modern manufacture and kept perfect time but had been handcrafted to look like a timepiece Captain Jack Aubrey might have in his quarters on HMS Surprise.

  Seven o’clock. Where, I thought, had the time gone? All I’d had to eat today was toast and marmalade in the morning and a leftover blueberry muffin on the way to Boston. Jayne and I had not had our 3:40 business meeting in the tea room. Perhaps I could sneak in time for a quick dinn
er.

  Dinner! I mentally slapped myself upside the head.

  I was supposed to be having dinner tonight with Grant Thompson. How could I possibly have forgotten?

  Perhaps, I thought with a sigh, I’d deliberately not wanted to remember that he and I had talked early this morning. And that I’d told him I was going to Boston.

  He’d called me from his cell phone. I assumed he’d been in West London, as he suggested we meet for lunch. But that was at eight o’clock. Easy enough to get back to the Cape by noon if he’d been in Boston.

  I cursed the lost days of landlines and set area codes and prefixes. Without police resources—and I could image Detective Estrada’s reaction if I asked her to run a check for me “as a favor”—I had no way of knowing where Grant had been calling from.

  Boston?

  He was interested in the Beeton’s. Any rare book dealer would be, particularly one who specialized in Victorian and Edwardian detective fiction. How far did that interest go? Had he gone to Boston to see what else the Kent estate might have for sale?

  What of it? It would be natural enough for him to want to find out that information.

  According to what I’d read on the Sherlockian discussion boards, there was a great deal of interest in the Kent estate. I knew little of Massachusetts laws of inheritance, but surely if the will was in dispute, nothing could be sold until the estate was settled. Certainly not the magazine and the jewelry that were at the heart of the fight.

  No outsider had seen the Kent collection for many years. I thought about the house and the gardens, crumbling slowly into ruin. It was possible the old man had put every last penny of his family’s money into his hobby. Or maybe he refused to sell his beloved items to raise desperately needed funds. It had happened before. To the family’s horror.

  Was that why Elaine Kent had been in West London? Was she following Mary Ellen, trying to locate the disputed magazine and jewels? If they were all the items the family still owned of any substantial value, then they’d be even more desperate to get them back.

  When the will was settled and the magazine put up for sale (if it was, and judging by the state of the Kent property it would be) it would likely go to auction. It might bring in an enormous sum. Seven years ago, no one had been willing to pay four hundred thousand pounds for a similar magazine, but conditions may have changed in the interim. The price might go even higher, particularly if something of interest had been written in it—a note by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, perhaps, or maybe even a handwritten correction. Only today I’d heard about a book on the verge of being released that contained a plot-changing typo. Could it be possible that Conan Doyle himself had made a change in the margins of the Beeton’s and A Study in Scarlet, as we know and love it today, wasn’t as the author had intended? My heart pounded. I forced myself to calm down. That was nothing but speculation.