by Vicki Delany
“He’s an odd one, that guy,” Ruby said. “All these Holmes fanatics are weirdos.”
“Not all. Many people enjoy the intricacies of the stories and the historical setting. It’s their hobby, like model trains. People such as my uncle Arthur.” I gave her a warning look. Don’t you dare criticize Uncle Arthur.
She got the hint and flushed.
“Some of the modern novels or short stories that take their inspiration from the Holmes canon are brilliant,” I said. “It takes a lot of imagination to take something old and make it new again.”
“You’re right. I read a couple of those short stories the other night, and they were clever. I was just wondering what Donald wanted.”
“What he always wants,” I said. “Something he can afford that’s escaped everyone else’s notice.”
At that moment, a police car pulled up out front and parked (illegally, I might add) in a loading zone. Louise Estrada got out of the passenger side, a uniformed officer joined her, and they headed for the Emporium. I considered making a break out the back door into the alley, but Ruby was muttering under her breath, so I knew she’d seen them even though she pretended not to. If I asked her to lie for me and tell them I was long gone, she’d point dramatically in the direction in which I’d fled and say, “She went thataway.”
I greeted the new arrivals with a smile, while Ruby scurried into a corner and began rearranging the games and puzzles. “Good afternoon, Detective,” I said. “Looking for gifts today or something for yourselves? A little token for your grandmother maybe, Officer Johnson?”
“Let’s cut the friendly chit-chat, okay,” Estrada said. “I want to know what you and Jayne Wilson got up to in Boston this morning. Does murder follow you everywhere, Ms. Doyle?”
Ruby’s eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“Perhaps we can talk in my office,” I said.
“In your office or down at the station,” Estrada said. “It’s all the same to me. For now, anyway.”
The three of us climbed the stairs. I took the chair behind my desk, and Officer Johnson leaned up against the closed door, feet apart and arms crossed over her chest, while Estrada sat in the single visitor’s chair. Her black eyes were like chips of coal in her olive face. I almost expected to see a spark of red flash in their depths. The sleeves of her blouse were elbow length, and when she shifted her shoulders, they slid up to reveal paler skin. So the color on her face and hands was from being outside dressed in work clothes. That might account for the almost invisible trace of paler skin on the third finger of her left hand. Either she worked all the time or she didn’t know how to relax and have fun when she wasn’t working and her husband had left her because of it. Or perhaps she left him because he didn’t understand her ambition and her schedule. I didn’t think I was in the position to ask. Her clothes showed no traces of recent contact with a baby or toddler—no sticky patches on the shoulders or handprints on the hips of her trousers. Then again that might not mean she was childless; older children were less likely to leave physical traces of their passing. That she was from New York City, I had no doubt at all; even to an Englishwoman, the accent was unmistakable. She smoothed some of the rougher edges most of the time, but slipped up once in a while, and she occasionally put the emphasis on the wrong part of a syllable. She’d been brought up in a rough neighborhood and had worked hard to make something of herself.
An admirable trait. I would have taken the time to admire her, if she wasn’t looking as though she was eager to arrest me the moment I slipped up. “Let’s skip the beating about the bush,” she said, although I hadn’t said a word, much less beat about any bush. She pointed a finger at me. Unlike the rest of her, which put me in mind of a dark, sleek racehorse, always ready to bolt out of the starting gate, her fingers were short and plump. Her nails were chewed to the quick, and a fresh but healing tear on her left pinkie finger marked where she’d tugged at a hangnail only hours ago. “You went to Boston this morning. You were seen on the way. The security guard at the Kent home identified a car very similar to yours as arriving at 2:34 seeking admittance. Two women were in it. He described them as being much like you and Ms. Wilson. I have a photograph of you on file, and I’ll be dropping in on Ms. Wilson to ask her for one when I leave here. Any reason he won’t pick the two of you out of a photo line-up?”
So he had remembered me after all. More to the point, he remembered my car. I’d have to consider getting something a bit less noticeable. “Not at all.” I related the story of our arrival at the gates and being refused admittance.
“What did you do then?” Estrada asked.
I could quite comfortably lie my way out of it. But Jayne couldn’t, and that would look even worse than giving them the truth when asked. It didn’t appear that anyone had yet traced the anonymous 9-1-1 call to me, but I couldn’t count on that never happening.
All my subterfuge hadn’t bought me any time at all. Too clever by half.
I told Estrada everything.
“You didn’t think to call the police?”
“We were, of course, very upset. Not thinking clearly. I feared the killer might still be around, lurking unobserved in the bushes. All I wanted to do was get as far away from there as possible.” If Estrada or the uniformed officer had been men, I might have allowed myself a little shudder. Maybe beseeched them with my eyes to offer me protection.
Instead I kept my face impassive. “End of story. We came home.”
“Did you go into the house itself?”
“No. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I was curious to see what an elegant old Boston mansion is like, so we poked around the yard a bit. And then we found Mrs. Kent.”
“They have lots of fancy houses in England,” Officer Johnson said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“We don’t all live in Downton Abbey,” I replied. Although my mother is a distant relation of the Carnarvon family—whose home, Highclere Castle, served as the stand-in for the house in the TV show—we’ve never been extended an invitation to visit.
I doubted Estrada was interested in the story of my mother’s relations and what had brought about their fall from grace.
“I could arrest you, you know,” Estrada said.
“On what grounds?”
“Trespassing. Obstruction of justice.”
I said nothing.
“But I won’t,” she said. “Not this time. The initial report from forensics at the scene says the woman died sometime between seven and ten o’clock this morning. The staff here tells me Ms. Wilson was working in the bakery all morning, and you came in around ten . . .”
“You’ve been checking up on me.”
“Did you doubt I would?”
“No.”
“Perhaps more important, considering employees can be offered incentives not to tell the truth, you were observed leaving West London, almost a hundred miles from the Kent home, at twelve thirty by none other than me. You’re in the clear. For now, anyway.”
“Nice to hear.”
“Don’t leave town, Ms. Doyle.”
“Why ever would I want to do that?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Gemma. After the murder at the hotel, you were ordered to remain in West London. Despite you disobeying that order, Detective Ashburton allowed you to go to Boston. Detective Ashburton is no longer in charge of this case. I am. You’ll find that I’m not as lenient as he is. Do you understand me?”
“I do.”
“Glad to hear it. An initial estimate of time of death is often wrong. If, on further examination, it’s found that Mrs. Kent died later, say around three o’clock, shortly after you were seen trying to gain admittance to the property, I’ll want to talk to you again. In less pleasant surroundings.”
“You’ll find nothing to incriminate me,” I said. “Now, have you found out why Elaine Kent was in West London on Tuesday?”
“She was?” Officer Johnson said.
Estrada wasn’t surprised. I didn’t think sh
e would be. Ryan would have told her what I said. “When I do, Ms. Doyle, you will not be the first person I tell. Understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Stay out of this. The Boston PD is handling the Kent investigation, but I am in charge of the one in West London. And believe me, despite what others might think, you are still very high on my suspect list. In fact, at this time, you’re the only one there. Good day, Ms. Doyle.”
The police showed themselves out.
Estrada didn’t frighten me. Or so I tried to convince myself.
* * *
Fortunately, booking a table at the Blue Water Café had not been left up to me, because when I arrived, the place was full. I was precisely on time, as I always am, but Grant was already seated. I like punctuality in a man. He got to his feet when he saw me standing at the entrance to the deck and waved. He had a big smile on his face, and my heart might have skipped a beat. Just one. I felt myself smiling in return as I crossed the deck. I’d gone home and spent an inordinate amount of time deciding what to wear, watched closely by Violet. The nice thing about summer, and particularly dining outdoors in summer, is that anyone can dress supercasually and still look good. But I didn’t want to look too casual, as if I didn’t care what I wore, or too formal, as if I’d fussed. I’d finally selected a plain white skirt, a loose blue blouse worn over a white camisole with a neckline trimmed with lace, and blue suede flats. I accented the ensemble with silver-and-turquoise jewelry Uncle Arthur had brought me from New Mexico. Uncle Arthur always claimed he couldn’t bear to be away from the sound of the sea, so I’d expressed surprise that he’d gone to landlocked New Mexico. He said, “Interesting people in the Four Corners.” Which I assumed meant he’d followed a woman. I’d had to look up the Four Corners later.
“Busy spot,” Grant said once we were seated. The menus were already at our places, but he hadn’t ordered a drink yet. He’d been given one of the best tables, tucked into a corner, with an uninterrupted view across the harbor on one side and out to the expanse of the sandbar and the open ocean beyond on the other. The tide was at its highest point. Boats rose and fell gently at their moorings, and water lapped at the stilts of the pier. The night was soft and warm, and the air was full of the scent of the sea mingled with delicious food. But the wind from the east was rising, bringing with it a whiff of ozone, and I knew a storm was coming.
“Unlike some restaurants that get crowded because they’re momentarily fashionable,” I said, “the Blue Water Café deserves its reputation.”
The waiter appeared at our table. “Whatcha havin’, Gemma? Buddy?”
Andy struggled to get good, reliable staff for the busy spring and summer months. If they could match the dishes to the customer, he’d once told me, that was good enough.
I ordered a glass of white wine, and Grant asked for a pint of the Nantucket Grey Lady.
“Did you hear the news?” he asked me once the waiter had left.
“News?” I said innocently.
“Kurt Kent’s daughter was murdered.”
“Daughter-in-law.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Yes, I did hear. It was his son’s wife, not his own daughter. Tragic.” I glanced out over the water, but I kept his face in sight. It was almost dark now, and black clouds were filling the horizon. Along the boardwalk, the lamps came on all at once, and the lights rimming the restaurant’s perimeter cast a soft white glow. A single candle in a hurricane vase sat on our table. Grant’s face was mostly in shadow, broken by the occasional flicker of the candle.
“Fabulous evening,” he said.
I took a deep breath of the sea air. “Storm coming.”
“Do you suppose Mrs. Kent’s killing had anything to do with the magazine?” he said. “It seems a heck of a coincidence, so soon after that other woman’s death not far from here.”
The expression on his face indicated mild curiosity, nothing more. Anyone who knew the circumstances of the death of Mary Ellen Longton and the appearance of Beeton’s Christmas Annual would be thinking the same.
“I don’t see how they can’t be related,” I said. “How did you hear about it?”
“It was in the news. They’re a wealthy family.”
I leaned back as the waiter placed a glass in front of me. “You talkin’ about that killing? Yeah, man, big news. We had a bunch of reporters in here yesterday. Asked if I knew anything.” His long earring bounced as he shook his head, clearly disappointed at not being able to be part of the story. “I told ’em I’m just a summer visitor. They sure can drink.” He put Grant’s mug of beer on the table and walked away.
We laughed. “Good help is so hard to find these days,” I said.
“Cheers.” Grant lifted his glass, and I responded in kind.
“I called Detective Ashburton this afternoon,” he said, “asking if I could finish my inspection of the magazine. He told me to talk to Detective Estrada if I wanted information, but he could tell me that the magazine is in an evidence locker and there it will remain for the time being. I left a message for Estrada. I’m not holding my breath waiting for a return call. But I heard from Colin Kent.”
My ears pricked up. I sipped my wine. “When was that?”
“Midmorning maybe. He wants me to handle the sale of the magazine. The police told him I’d seen it.”
Midmorning. Around the time his wife was being murdered. “Bit premature, isn’t he? It’s in the courts.”
“That’s what I thought, but he said he’d checked my references and as I was already familiar with the item, it would save him time.”
“Did he ask you to buy it?”
“I wouldn’t purchase it outright; I don’t have that kind of money. I’d act as the intermediary, find him a buyer, negotiate the price. I got the feeling, Gemma, that Mr. Kent wants whatever he can get, and he wants it as fast as he can get it.”
Which corresponded with my thinking on the matter.
“I’ve heard your name as possibly having claim to the magazine if you can prove Mary Ellen intended to give it to you.”
“I’d love to have it,” I said. “If for no other reason than to give it as a gift to my uncle Arthur, who would truly appreciate it. Except for the not-inconsequential detail that Mary Ellen did not give it, or anything else, to me. She hid it from her pursuers, and I was lucky enough—more like unlucky enough—to come across it. She intended to come back later and get it.”
He smiled at me. “I’m glad to hear you say that. You don’t want to get mixed up in something like this. In my line of work, I’ve seen a lot of very nasty inheritance battles. Usually the only people who make any money are the lawyers. The so-called winning side ends up having to sell whatever they’d been fighting so hard for to pay the fees, and the losers are completely out of pocket. An ill-considered will or a thoughtless bequest can destroy a family.” He shook his head and looked so mournful that for a moment I wondered if he was speaking from personal, not just professional, experience.
“Considering,” he continued, “that it’s entirely possible the court case might go against Colin Kent and decide the magazine doesn’t belong to him, I don’t want any part of this.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I saw no need to lay my cards on the table straight off. Who knows, maybe he’ll send some other business my way. I asked if there were other books or items of value in the estate that he might consider putting up for auction soon.”
“What did he say to that?” I closed my eyes and imagined an enormous library—wood-paneled, with floor-to-ceiling windows, leather chairs, silver ashtrays and cut-glass wine decanters, dust mites under every table—stuffed to the ancient oak rafters with first editions, magazines, novels, and maybe even some books by Conan Doyle’s contemporaries that had been gifted to him, signed and personalized by their authors.
“He said he’d get back to me.” Grant opened his menu. “Shall we order? What’s good here?”
“Everything,” I sa
id. “Or so they tell me. I always have the clam chowder to start, followed by the stuffed sole.”
“Always?”
“I know what I like. If I order something different and I don’t enjoy it, I’ll be crushed by disappointment, my evening ruined.”
He grinned at me. I smiled back. The waiter appeared at our tableside, pencil poised. “The specials today are . . .”
While he recited, and Grant asked questions, I thought.
So Colin Kent had been on the phone with Grant Thompson around the time his wife was murdered. That in itself meant nothing, but his apparent eagerness to get rid of the magazine as fast as possible might be significant. The Kents had money, even if their circumstances seemed to be restrained at the moment. By all accounts, Mary Ellen Longton did not, and it didn’t seem to me as though her son Roy had any either. Did Colin have reason to believe the decision about the will would come his way? Family connections, business colleagues, old private school chums, the right word whispered in the right ear?
Did Elaine Kent know something that might interfere with the expected court decision? Such as that her husband murdered his father’s nurse?
Or had Elaine herself killed Mary Ellen, and someone then decided she had to be gotten rid of before that could be uncovered by the West London police? Alicia, the bus tour leader, told me that after their visit to the bookshop, Elaine had gone to her room immediately upon arriving at the hotel and had not been seen again until the next morning.
And speaking of the West London police, might Colin be thinking not of the court decision but of the magazine itself, currently resting safely in the custody of our town’s finest? Did he think he could convince the police to hand the property over to him—some pulling of strings, maybe—whereupon he’d sell it toute suite? And then present the court with a fait accomplie?
Anything that went for the magazine would apply to the jewelry as well. The jewels Mr. Kent had left to his nurse had been those of his late wife. It would be natural for his heirs to want them for sentimental reasons, but after having a look at the state of the family home, I considered it possible, likely even, that they needed them for the cash. Were they so desperate they’d take pennies on the dollar to get cash in hand as fast as possible?
