by Vicki Delany
I went back into the Emporium, but I kept my eye on what was happening in Mrs. Hudson’s. Estrada and O’Malley didn’t question Jayne for long, to my infinite relief. As soon as I saw them leave, I abandoned a customer in midsentence and hurried into the tea room. Jayne came out of the kitchen. She gave me a tiny, almost invisible nod meaning, Everything’s okay. She showed no signs of distress, so I believed her. I pushed her into the kitchen. “What happened? Did they tell you anything we don’t know? Do they believe you about what we were doing in Boston?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Gemma. I told them the truth about everything, like you told me to. Even though I’ve done nothing wrong, it was all highly stressful. Right now, I need to be alone, and I need to bake. We can talk later.”
“Sure.” I went back to the shop. Personally, I’ve never seen the attraction of being up to your elbows in flour or having all eight of your fingers and both thumbs covered in sticky pastry. Nothing appeals to me about rolling out pie crusts, slicing apples, and sticking my head into steaming-hot ovens. But Jayne thrives on it.
Although at the moment, I could see the attraction of pounding down mounds of rising bread dough.
* * *
I hoped I’d seen the last of Detective Louise Estrada today. But it was not to be.
Her timing was excellent, and she waited until I was about to lock up the Emporium for the day before pouncing. I was alone in the shop. The tea room had closed hours earlier, and Ruby had finished her shift. A light but steady rain had begun to fall around dinnertime, and when the street lamps came on, they did little to break the gloom. Windscreen wipers splashed rainwater in all directions, and tires threw up waves. What few pedestrians were still out hurried for shelter. We hadn’t had a customer in the store for almost an hour.
Estrada didn’t come alone, and I knew immediately that was not a good thing. A line of cruisers squealed to a halt outside, and men and women spilled out. On the other side of Baker Street, Maureen stopped in the act of locking her door to gape.
Estrada came in first, and the others fanned out behind her, spreading rainwater across the floor. At the moment, a dirty floor was the least of my worries. O’Malley was not with her, so this had nothing to do with the Boston murder.
Moriarty rushed to greet her. He wound his entire body around her legs.
“Good evening,” I said pleasantly. “How may I help you, Detective?”
The number of people with her could only mean one thing . . .
“I have a warrant to search the premises, as well as your home.” She flashed a piece of paper at me.
“On what grounds?” I knew some of the police officers. They came into the Emporium in search of birthday or Christmas gifts, treated visiting family to afternoon tea at Mrs. Hudson’s, or lined up every morning for coffee. They avoided my eyes. The ones I didn’t know stared openly at me. They were, I suspected, state police helping with the forensics.
“We finally got Mary Ellen Longton’s phone records,” Estrada said. “She called your number Monday afternoon.”
“Which number? My mobile phone, the shop, my house?”
“Here. This place.”
She had the warrant in hand, so there was no point in arguing with her. But I did anyway. “This is a business. We have customers. People come in here all day long, people I’ve never seen before and will never see again. It’s not my job to keep track of them. You’re clutching at straws.”
“The dead woman phoned you the day before she died. I believe that’s significant, and the judge agrees with me.”
“What time was this call?”
“Twenty to four.”
At twenty to four on Monday, as on most business days, I’d been in Mrs. Hudson’s preparing to have tea with Jayne and discuss our day. Ruby had not been working that day, so I closed the shop for a while. If someone had phoned while I was out, the voice mail would have answered and asked them to leave a message. I thought back to Monday, but didn’t remember anything of significance. As I do every time I’ve been out of the shop, as soon as I get back in, I check the phone to see if I have any messages. On Monday afternoon, if the little red light had been flashing, I would have seen it.
“How long did this supposed call last?” I asked.
“Less than one minute.”
“This is a store. We get people phoning all the time to ask about our hours, to check if we have what they’re looking for in stock. A call of less than a minute was likely picked up by the voice mail, which gives our opening hours and address.”
“About which, I don’t care,” Estrada said. “I’m not standing here arguing with you.”
The eyes of one of the out-of-town people drifted toward the Holmes bookshelf. Another shifted his feet. A third bent over and made clicking noises with her tongue and wiggled her fingers toward the cat. Moriarty abandoned Estrada, who was paying him no attention at all, and strolled over, tail held high.
I held out my hand. Estrada slapped the warrant into it. I read quickly.
“This gives you permission to check the store computers and any paper relating to the business. Apparently you are allowed to do the same at my home, but again only if I have business-related items there. I will, of course, accompany you to ensure you respect those boundaries.”
“Don’t try me, Gemma.”
“Don’t threaten me, Louise.”
We glared at each other for a few moments. Estrada broke first. “People, we’ll do the office first. Is your computer password protected?”
“It is because I keep confidential staff records on it.”
“Open it.”
“After you.”
Estrada marched up the stairs. Moriarty ran after her. There wasn’t room in my office for all the people who’d come with her, so I said, “Feel free to browse. If you want to purchase anything, you can come back tomorrow and pay for it. I’ll trust you.”
“Gemma!” Estrada yelled.
I lifted Moriarty off the keyboard and unlocked my computer. A man in a cheap, crumpled business suit dropped himself into my chair. He flexed his fingers and went immediately to my e-mail inbox. Meanwhile, a woman in an equally crumpled suit dragged my file folder of paper documents across the table and began flicking through it. Estrada leaned up against a wall and watched.
“You have a whole bunch of people here asking about buying a rare magazine,” the forensics officer at the computer said.
“You will note that not only did I not reply to a single one of them, I didn’t even open most of those emails. I can’t help it if false rumors are floating about.”
“She’s right about that,” he said. “Nothing outgoing.”
I keep my business accounts in perfect order, and it didn’t take long for both of the searchers to lean back and say “Nothin’”
“Because,” I said, “there’s ‘nothin’’ to find. Not if you’re searching for any communication between me and Mary Ellen Longton or a member of the Kent family, or any mention of a certain magazine.”
“Take the computer down to the station,” Estrada snapped.
“You can’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you know all sorts of fancy computer tricks. I want a full search of whatever might be under the surface.”
I do know all sorts of fancy computer tricks, as she put it. But my business accounts are nothing but respectable and aboveboard. “You’re wasting your time,” I said.
“It’s my time to waste. We’ll take these papers as well.”
“If you must. I expect it all returned promptly. I do have a business to run.”
“All in good time,” she said. I imagined all my records gathering dust in the cellar of the police station. I couldn’t run the business for long without them, not if the police kept the computer as well. I back up the important details, and my accountant keeps a full set of my financial papers, but I need my supplier numbers and latest order details.
“Your home next,” Estra
da said.
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Not so fast. You can come with me.”
We drove to my house in silence broken only by the steady swish swish of the car’s windscreen wipers. The boardwalk was empty, the ice-cream stand closed and shuttered, the deck of the Blue Water Café empty. Boats moored in the harbor rose and fell on choppy waves.
Estrada parked on the street, and the small convoy of cars following us did so also. We’d lost two of the forensic officers, who’d gone back to the station with my computer and box of papers.
I unlocked the door, and we went inside. Violet ran to greet me, and she was absolutely delighted that I’d brought my friends for a visit.
Estrada was not equally delighted. “Lock the dog away, please.”
“She won’t get in anyone’s way.” Did the woman have a heart of stone? Violet’s big brown eyes were shining, her stubby tail wagging for all it was worth, and her entire body shivered with pleasure.
“Lock the dog away, or I’ll have it taken to the pound.”
Yup, a heart of stone.
I picked the squirming body up. “According to your warrant, you are to search only business-related items. I have an iPad in the antique secretary in the den, and I have a home office down the hall, where I sometimes do business matters. And that’s it.”
“How do I know you haven’t stashed relevant papers elsewhere, or have another computer?”
“Because I’m telling you I haven’t. You are not to go upstairs or into any of the bedrooms. Otherwise, I’ll have to contact my lawyers.” I didn’t wait for her to answer but turned and carried Violet away. I put her in my bedroom, gave her a hearty pat, and promised to return. Judging by the look on her face, she’d been abandoned on an ice flow and shoved out to sea.
When I got back, the police were in the den. The secretary was open, and a man held the iPad. I unlocked it, and he sat in my favorite wingback chair to read it. I considered telling him to move but decided I could only fight one battle at a time.
I showed Estrada to the room I use as a home office, where, as before, I unlocked the computer. I keep no business-related papers in the house.
The computer was carted out and taken away. The man making himself comfortable in my den called, “Detective. I’ve found something.”
Estrada’s ears almost physically pricked up. She threw me a self-satisfied smirk and sauntered, oh so casually, into the den.
I didn’t hurry. I knew what he’d found.
“The history shows a lot of searching for Mary Ellen Longton and Kurt Kent,” the man said.
“And what is the date and time of those searches?” I asked.
“Beginning Tuesday around eight.”
“After I found the dead woman in the hotel, and after Detective Estrada brought me home. When you would expect any normal person to show some curiosity.” I hoped they wouldn’t ask how I knew her name or about her relationship with the Kents before that information was made public. Although by now, enough time had passed that I could claim the hotel receptionist had told me, and if she was pressed, she wouldn’t remember if she had or not.
Estrada hadn’t asked to see my phone, and my quick read of the warrant showed that it wasn’t mentioned. That could only mean that Mary Ellen Longton had not called me on that number. No surprise, as she didn’t know me, and I didn’t know her. I might have been able to argue that the iPad is not a computer, but a smartphone without phoning ability, but I didn’t. I thanked my lucky stars that the warrant didn’t extend to the phone. The pictures I’d taken in Mary Ellen’s hotel room were still on it. If Estrada came across them, I would have had to do some quick talking. I maintain a healthy suspicion of the Cloud, and even though I don’t usually keep anything particularly private on my devices, I don’t have my photos set to automatically back up or coordinate between the iPhone and the iPad.
“Go further back,” Estrada snapped.
“Nothing. Sorry, Detective.”
“We’ll take that downtown. She’s erased it.”
“Enough,” I said. “You’re searching for something that’s not there. And no amount of looking is going to find it. I do not give you permission to take my iPad.”
Estrada bristled. The man watched us both.
“Jayne Wilson,” Estrada said.
“What about her? You don’t have a warrant for her, or you would have told me. I’m guessing you tried, but the judge didn’t think you’d find anything incriminating among the bulk orders for flour and almonds and receipts for dollar-fifty cups of coffee.”
“Why’s she covering for you?”
I laughed. And this time it was a genuine laugh. “Jayne is the most honest person I know. If you did some real police work and asked questions, anyone would tell you. They’d also tell you she can’t act her way out of a paper bag. If she had done something underhanded, you’d know all about it.”
It was probably not a good idea to make an enemy of Detective Louise Estrada. But she was pushing all my buttons, and all at the same time. There were, as far as I had determined, plenty of good candidates for the murder of Mary Ellen Longton. Estrada was wasting police resources because of some fixation on me.
She stared at me though narrowed eyes, almost begging me to do something, anything, that would give her cause to arrest me.
In the bedroom, Violet barked.
Estrada blinked. “Let’s go,” she snapped. “We’re finished here.”
I saw them to the door and ran to the bedroom to let the dog out. Only then did my legs give way, and I dropped into a chair. Violet nuzzled her nose into my lap, and I stroked her silky, soft head, finding comfort there.
* * *
I don’t know how long I sat alone in the dark, the dog’s head on my lap, but when I finally roused myself and stood, my back was stiff. I rubbed at my face, and Violet performed a little dance. Not being one to brood on accusations of murder and a police invasion, her expression said, “Play now?”
“Good idea,” I said. “A walk will do us both some good.”
She recognized her second-favorite word—“dinner” being the first—and ran for the mudroom. I followed with somewhat less enthusiasm. But once I’d clipped on her leash, grabbed an umbrella, and locked the door behind me, I was feeling a good deal better. Since becoming a pet owner, I’ve found that there’s nothing better than walking a dog to give me time to think and, at the same time, put my troubles in perspective.
Rain was still falling hard, and moisture dripped steadily from the trees, but Violet never seems to mind, no matter how wet it gets. She trotted happily ahead of me with her head down, stubby tail wagging, splashing through puddles, checking under bushes, following a trail only she could see. It was past midnight, and the houses we passed were wrapped in darkness. In our peaceful, respectable neighborhood, no one else was out. Not even a single car drove by. I was mentally analyzing the contents of the home computer the police had taken away—hoping I hadn’t forgotten something I didn’t want them to see—and Violet was sniffing a pile of artfully arranged rocks in an equally artfully arranged garden when she suddenly lifted her head, pricked up her ears, turned, and gave a single warning bark.
I whirred around. All I could see was falling rain and swaying branches, and all I could hear was rain pounding against my umbrella. The lights were off in the house we were passing, and the street lamp high over my head did little to break the gloom.
I didn’t bother to call out, “Is anyone there?” If someone was creeping about in the bushes after midnight on a rainy night, they were unlikely to reply.
I lowered my umbrella and snapped it closed. Cold water immediately found its way down the back of my neck, but I could hear better when I wasn’t standing in an echo chamber. Not to mention that a furled umbrella makes a formidable weapon.
Violet woofed once again. I let her have her head, and she ran back the way we’d come, all interest in following the trail of passing squir
rels or cats gone. I heard nothing and saw nothing but falling rain and branches swaying in the wind, but then again, I don’t have the ears or the nose of a dog. Fortunately, I also don’t have the attention span of a dog. Violet soon lost interest in whatever was out there. The long hair running along her spine settled down and she turned her attention to the base of a tree.
I noticed only one thing out of place: the scent of tobacco and unwashed clothes lingered on the damp air.
Chapter 14
I was woken around four am by Violet’s barking. I groaned, punched down my pillow, and rolled over.
The barking didn’t stop. We get a lot of squirrels in our yard, the occasional mouse, and sometimes even a cat. If Violet’s outside, she’ll chase them, but otherwise she pays no attention.
I opened my eyes and rolled onto my back. The rain had stopped, and all was quiet, except for water dripping from the trees and the barking, steadily increasing in intensity.
Something had her upset. I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. I grabbed my phone off the night table and crept down the hallway without turning any lights on. The dog was in the mudroom. Light flooded into the rear of the house; the motion detectors over the garage doors had come on. They are not so sensitive as to be activated by a small animal, but we do get the occasional deer around here, and some of the neighbors don’t keep their dogs as close to home as they should. Then again, the backyard is fully fenced so Violet can’t wander, and I always shut the gate behind me.
I moved my phone to my left hand, slipped open a drawer as I passed and took out a carving knife. When he’s home, Uncle Arthur does most of the cooking. As with everything in his life, he takes good care of his tools. He regularly sharpens his Henckels knives.
“Shush, girl,” I said.
Violet stopped barking but kept her entire attention focused on the door. I bent down and laid my hand on the top of her head to tell her to be quiet. Her body shivered. Whatever was out there, it was no squirrel or cat. She whined and scratched at the door. The new locks were in place, along with a fresh pane of shatterproof security glass. I peered outside but could see nothing but the light from the garage.
