Elementary, She Read: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  My friend Andrea Morrison, co-owner of the inn with her husband, Brian, stood behind the desk, tapping on the computer. No one waited for her attention, and I approached her.

  “Good afternoon, Gemma,” she said, giving me a bright smile. Her smile was the same whether she was speaking to hotel guests or to good friends. Andrea genuinely liked people. Her husband is what’s commonly called a curmudgeon. Brian was kept away from the public, busy enough running and maintaining the prosperous hotel from behind the scenes.

  “I understand you have a guest by the name of Colin Kent,” I said.

  “We do. The very one who’s involved in a legal dispute over some rare magazine, according to the papers. Which is, I assume, why you’re here, Gemma.”

  Straight to the point, as she always was.

  “Yup,” I said. “Will you phone his room and tell him I’d like a word?”

  “I don’t have to. He walked past a few minutes ago, heading to the veranda. We’re still serving lunch.”

  “Perfect, thanks.” I crossed the room and went outside. I was a woman on a mission, but even so, I took a moment to admire the view. The sky was a soft robin’s egg blue and sunlight sparked on the water while fluffy white sails and sleek blue hulls crisscrossed the horizon. In the warm months, the veranda’s used as an extension of the hotel restaurant. Terracotta pots overflowing with mounds of red and pink geraniums or tall purple grasses lined the knee-high stone walls.

  “Can I show you to a table?” The pretty young hostess plucked a menu from the top of the stack and gave me a smile full of blindingly white teeth.

  “Thank you, but I’m joining someone.” I’d spotted my quarry. Colin Kent was bent over a thick binder spread out on the wrought-iron table in front of him. A glass containing a couple of inches of a smoky liquid was at his elbow. Whisky, I guessed.

  I crossed the old stone floor quickly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kent.”

  Startled, he looked up. “Yes?”

  “I’m Gemma Doyle. From the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop. We met the other day?”

  He blinked. “Oh, yes, I remember.”

  “My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thanks. What can I do for you Ms. Doyle? I’m rather busy.”

  I pulled up a chair and dropped into it. I took a deep breath. Yup, whisky all right, and not the inexpensive kind. My ex-husband had been very fond of his Highland Single Malt, the more exclusive the better. We’d had quite the set-to one night. Business had been poor for the previous quarter, and I’d come home late after trying to balance the bookshop accounts, desperate to find the funds to pay the staff on time, to find him tucking into a fresh bottle of Glenmorangie. I haven’t been able to abide the smell of the stuff since.

  It would appear Colin hadn’t been told I was the one who’d discovered his wife’s body, and that was definitely a good thing. A battle raged across his face. Good manners versus wanting to get rid of me. The latter won. “I’m sorry, Ms. Doyle, but I have a great deal of business to attend to.”

  “Business,” I said, “is why I’m here.”

  A waiter put a plate on the table. A roast beef sandwich on a thick baguette. Leaves of bright-green arugula peeked out from beneath the bread and the scent of spicy mustard and caramelized onions overrode that of the whisky. A small pile of crisps—potato chips—sat on one side. “Can I get you something?” the waiter asked me.

  “No,” Colin said.

  “Tea would be nice, thank you. Hot tea. With milk, not cream.”

  The corner of Colin’s lip turned up, but seeing as how I didn’t plan to leave, he put down his pen, reached for his glass, closed his eyes, and took a long drink. When someone closes their eyes to drink, it means they really need it. I leaned forward and quickly scanned the page open in front of him. It was a balance sheet, the print very small, and I was reading it upside down, but I got the gist. The company—Motortown Supplies—was deep, very deep, in the red. Expenses vastly exceeded income, a trend that had been accelerating over the past three years.

  I changed my strategy on the spot. I’d come here planning to use the pretext of offering Mr. Kent something for sale. Judging by these books, he was not in the position to be buying anything. He might be drinking good whisky, but the collar of his golf shirt was slightly frayed on the left side. The tan line on his wrist indicated that he’d recently replaced a watch with a large face and heavy band with the smaller, lighter imitation he was now wearing. His shoes, I’d noted as I approached his table, were scuffed and slightly worn at the heels.

  “Your late father was a noted Sherlock collector,” I said.

  He almost spat. “That stupid hobby was the ruin of my family.”

  If I’d known he’d be so blunt about it, I wouldn’t have bothered reading the balance sheet upside down. It had given me a headache. “Be that as it may, he must have some good pieces.”

  He studied my face. The sandwich lay forgotten on its plate. “He might have.”

  “I’m interested in buying. If you’re selling.”

  “You don’t know what we have.”

  “Beeton’s Christmas Annual.”

  “The police have that.”

  “They can’t keep it forever. In the meantime, I’m assuming additional items of similar value are in the collection.”

  “Maybe.”

  “May I examine them?”

  “I’ve not had them properly evaluated yet, although I’ve already heard from some interested parties wanting to have a look. I don’t like to be rude, Ms. Doyle, but judging by your little store and the sort of customers you have, you don’t play in the big leagues.” He was lying—he was perfectly happy to be rude to me. “I heard you’re planning to make a claim for it on the highly nebulous grounds that Mary Ellen gave it to you before she died.”

  “I’ve heard that also, but it’s simply not true. She didn’t give it to me. She hid it, and I found it. If she’d hidden it under the bed in her hotel room, no one would think it was intended to go to the chambermaid.”

  “You’re an honest person. A rarity.”

  I leaned back as the waiter placed a tray in front of me. I gave him a smile. The tray held a white cup with matching saucer, a small pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a tiny spoon. Plus a proper tea pot from which fragrant steam was rising. The water was hot, not lukewarm, and the tea bag had not been either dipped and immediately withdrawn, or left to stew for so long it stood up on its own.

  “An honest transaction is all I’m interested in.” I poured my tea, added a splash of milk and a half spoon of sugar. I stirred carefully. “As for being a small shop owner, that’s true, but I have . . . contacts.”

  “Do you now?”

  “My contacts are interested primarily in the Beeton’s and would want it either alone or as part of a package. We know your father’s will is in dispute, so I have to ask what your expectations are in that regard.”

  “The suit will be settled in my favor. I mean, in my family’s favor. My father was taken advantage of by an unscrupulous, crafty woman, and I have no doubt the court will agree with me.”

  “You and your siblings are the rightful heirs?”

  That was, of course, absolutely none of my business, whether I was interested in buying some of his property or not. But the sun was hot, birds were singing from the trees surrounding the property, and the whisky glass was almost empty.

  He took a hefty swallow, and now it was empty. He glanced around for the waiter and pointed toward his glass. I sipped my tea.

  “My father didn’t even like her, that Mary Ellen Longton. She was a tyrant, and she bullied him relentlessly as his health declined. He wanted me to fire her. I would have liked to, of course, but it’s not easy getting live-in nursing staff who’ll put up with someone of my father’s . . . temperament.” I suspected Colin hadn’t tried all that hard. “In retrospect, of course, I should have gotten rid of her, whether I had a replacement or not. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn’t it?”
>
  I took a crisp off the abandoned lunch plate and popped it into my mouth.

  “I told the police they should check to make sure my father’s death hadn’t been hastened by that woman, but they said they found nothing. Frankly, I don’t think they even bothered. A ninety-four-year-old, bed-ridden man—what do they care if he meets his maker a couple of months before natural causes would have had time to finish their work? Before the will was changed, a few pieces of my late mother’s jewelry were to go to my daughter, Sapphire. My sister’s daughter, Charmaine, was the only one in the family interested in Father’s collection, so he left her some items from that.”

  “The Beeton’s? I should be talking to her then.”

  “No,” he snapped. “I speak for the family. My younger brother has never had any interest in the family’s business affairs, and my sister is . . . a woman. My father had old-fashioned ideas about gender roles. He made a few bequests here and there, items of sentimental value, but our family has always believed in the importance of the family above all. Everything stays together.”

  The waiter brought a fresh drink, and Colin downed half of it in one go.

  People, most people anyway, love to talk. And they love to talk most of all about themselves. Particularly if they have grievances and someone willing to listen to those grievances. I helped myself to another crisp.

  “I need those jewels, and I need that magazine.” Perhaps realizing he was talking too much, he took a deep breath and slowed down. “What I mean is, I don’t trust items of that value in the hands of a bunch of small-town cops.”

  “Evidence has been known to disappear from custody,” I said, stirring the pot a little. And I don’t mean my teapot. Whether or not the officers of the West London Police had ever lost anything, I had no idea.

  Might be worth investigating, though.

  “I heard something recently,” I said, “about a drug case being thrown out when it came to court and the evidence couldn’t be found.” I can lie if I need to, but I try not to. I’d heard of such a situation only last week. It happened on some TV show Jayne loves and persists in telling me all about despite my considerable lack of interest.

  Colin Kent’s face turned puce. He quickly took another drink. “That’s why I’m here, Ms. Doyle. To make the police see reason and return my rightful property to me. Mary Ellen is dead, that’s most unfortunate, but it does clear the air somewhat. The jewelry and the magazine belong to me. To my family. Good heavens; my wife died two days ago and here I am, stuck in this two-bit tourist town arguing with the cops.”

  I’d been wondering about that. Why he wasn’t at home in the comfort of his close, grieving family. I hadn’t been sure how I could ask the question with some degree of delicacy.

  The hostess showed a couple to a table not far from ours. I watched Colin as he watched her. She was lovely, with long glossy black hair, sleekly muscled legs, a tiny waist, and small but perky breasts. She wore a short, tight skirt and a sleeveless, scoop-neck blouse. She bent over the table to arrange the cutlery, pointing her generously curved bum straight toward us. Colin’s eyes practically leapt out of their sockets. Those same eyes then followed her back inside.

  This was not a man grieving his wife. All men admire pretty young women—I know that, and I don’t have a problem with it. But not two days after a beloved wife’s death.

  “Your sandwich is getting cold,” I said.

  “Not really hungry,” He pushed it out of the way. “This has all been highly distressing. First my father, and then poor Elaine. That’s . . . I mean she was . . . my wife.”

  Cry me a river, buddy.

  “I’m sure the police’ll protect your valuables. In the meantime, you must have plenty of other things to sell me. Your father’s collection was legendary. One of the best and most comprehensive in the world, they say.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?” His speech was starting to slur and his eyes were watering. He waved to the waiter and indicated he’d have another.

  “This tea is excellent.” I poured myself more. “They know how to do a proper English cup here.”

  He pounded the binder with such force, I jumped. “I’m ruined! It’s all a sham. Every bit of it. I need that magazine, and I need it now!”

  “Did you explain that to the police?” I said.

  “Explain what? That I was forced to take out loans from less-than-respectable businessmen, and they don’t care if my father’s estate is locked up? That my brother bought himself a fancy vacation property in Florida only months before the market tanked, and now it’s worth a fraction of what he paid? That my daughter doesn’t know the meaning of restraint? That my witch of a wife was threatening to leave me over some stupid mindless affair, and her brother just happens to be the most ruthless divorce lawyer in the state of Massachusetts? That the stupid hick son of the useless private nurse is trying to shake me down? You tell me, Miss Fancy-Pants English Lady, how I’m going to explain all that to some small-town cop who can barely afford the down payment on a used Toyota Corolla.” He pounded the binder again. Birds were flying out of the trees, and heads were turning. “Where’s that blasted waiter!”

  I pushed back my chair. “Thanks for seeing me. Do let’s keep in touch.”

  I left him sucking on the edge of his empty glass and glaring at the people at nearby tables.

  “A word to the wise,” I said to Andrea as I passed the reception desk. “Keep a close eye on Colin Kent’s credit card. I have a feeling it won’t be good for too much longer.”

  “Thanks, Gemma.”

  “You might want to cut him off bar service too.”

  Chapter 16

  That had been a highly informative conversation.

  The question, however, was what to do with the information.

  I should take it to Louise Estrada. But she was as likely to throw me into the slammer for interfering in a police investigation to thank me for being of service to the community.

  That left Ryan. He told me where I could find Colin Kent because he knew I needed to do something to clear myself of Estrada’s suspicions.

  I walked back to the shop so deep in thought I almost forgot to admire my surroundings. The shopping district of West London is never lovelier than when it’s freshly ready for the tourist season. The town had hung huge wicker baskets of flowers and greenery from the lampposts, and shop owners tended boxes in their window ledges or by their doors. Leafy trees hung heavily over the street, offering welcome shade on hot summer days. The neat rows of one- and two-story buildings housing the variety of stores sported deeply weathered gray siding or fresh paint with blue or pink accents and awnings. Alone on the street, 221 Baker Street didn’t make any attempt to put out plants. Instead, or so street gossip said, one night after closing, Maureen crept over to the shops on either side of her and pulled their pots of flowers up to the property line. Thoughts of Maureen made me quicken my step, but I wasn’t fast enough, and a flurry of righteous indignation burst out of Beach Fine Arts.

  “Gemma Doyle,” she called. I kept walking. When someone you know well calls you by both names, they don’t mean you any good. I ran across the street, without waiting for a break in traffic. The cars were moving slowly, and I judged I could make it with inches to spare. A rude person—tourist judging by the Iowa license plates—honked at me, but I ignored him.

  Behind me tires screeched, more horns honked, and drivers shouted, “Watch where you’re going!” as Maureen attempted to follow me.

  She made it across, pale faced and shaking. Knowing she’d just follow me into the Emporium, I waited for her on the sidewalk. “Gemma Doyle,” she said. “Everyone in town is talking about you.”

  “Are they?”

  “Police activity is never good in a tourist town. Cruisers parked outside your shop, detectives marching in and out. The police carrying away your computer. Unsavory men asking questions about you. People want to know what’s going on, Gemma.”

  “Maureen, I’d
think my willingness to help the police would be considered a good thing. As for unsavory characters, you don’t have to talk to them. I would ask people not to spread idle gossip, but I can’t think of anyone small-minded enough to do that.” I smiled at her.

  She shifted uncomfortably. “If the goings-on at your store interfere with business on this street over the summer, I’m going to have to speak to the business improvement association.”

  At that moment, a cluster of middle-aged women laden with shopping bags burst out of the tea room. One of them said, “I see an art gallery across the street. Let’s see if they have anything nice.” Being tourists of the polite sort, they headed to the corner to wait for the light before crossing. I smiled at Maureen. “You have customers. Imagine that, they didn’t flee in fear of their lives after visiting Mrs. Hudson’s and the Emporium.”

  “No doubt,” she sniffed, “they didn’t hear the latest news. You watch yourself, Gemma Doyle. You and your ridiculous store are a curse to this street.” She marched off, head high, steps firm. She also crossed at the light. Only one of the tourists went into her shop; the others peeled off and headed for the adjacent accessories store. I suppose that will also turn out to be my fault.

  I worked in the shop for the rest of the afternoon, but my attention wasn’t on it. As I helped customers, rang up purchases, and chatted with browsers, my mind was on Colin Kent.

  I had no doubt he’d killed first Mary Ellen Longton and then his own wife.

  The motive for the death of Mary Ellen was obvious—she had the magazine, and he needed it. It seemed to me that the Kent family had an excellent claim to their father’s bequests. The nurse had only worked for Mr. Kent for a few months. He was a frail, dying old man, and shortly before he died, he rewrote his will, leaving some precious items to her. It would help Colin’s case if he’d told anyone his father accused Mary Ellen of bullying him, but I doubt he would have bothered. Regardless, any judge in the land would almost certainly decide in the family’s favor.