by Vicki Delany
Colin must have known that, but perhaps he’d decided he couldn’t wait. Depending on the quality—and determination—of Mary Ellen’s lawyers, the will could be tied up in court for months, years even. Colin needed to get that magazine sold to pay off some pretty substantial debts to what sounded like some pretty nasty people. He might have a buyer lined up already. No questions asked, no explanations given. Cash in hand.
The death of Elaine, his wife, might turn out not to be directly related to the magazine after all. Having taken the fateful step of killing one person, did Colin decide getting rid of Elaine would be an easy way of avoiding an expensive divorce? If the marriage was falling apart, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to take a small vacation, get away from things for a few days. She wouldn’t have needed to use a fake name, but she might have had her reasons. Perhaps her being in the Emporium when Mary Ellen came in really was a coincidence.
Although I still had trouble accepting that.
At 3:38, I headed into the tea room for my daily business-and-friends meeting with Jayne.
As we sat over our tea and today’s selection of leftover sandwiches, Jayne expressed much the same thought I’d earlier heard from Maureen but in a far more reasonable way.
“What will happen, Gemma, if they never find out who did it?”
“Life will go on,” I said.
“Will it? Or will they keep coming in here, asking questions, poking around? It makes the customers jittery.”
“I thought the customers seemed to be enjoying the hint of high drama.”
“They might at first, but when it starts to become a habit? People won’t like that.”
“If it starts to become a habit, and it won’t.”
“You’re not concentrating on the business. I went in to talk to you a while ago, and Ruby said you’d gone out.”
“I leave the store plenty of times, Jayne.”
“Not in the middle of a Saturday afternoon at the start of the season.”
She had a point there. I could tell the moment I walked into the shop after my tea and conversation with Colin Kent that we’d been busy. A good number of fiction books, a biography of Jeremy Brett, a DVD of Murder by Decree starring Christopher Plummer as Sherlock (my personal favorite of all the movies), two puzzles, three key rings, and six coffee mugs were gone.
“You can run the bookshop however you want.” Her voice turned unusually sharp. “You can go on a Caribbean cruise in the middle of the season, if you feel like it, except that you also own half of my business. What have you done about finding me a new fruit farmer?”
“A what?”
“See what I mean? I told you that Ellie McNamara’s daughter is taking over her farm, and I don’t think she’s going to be at all reliable. You said you’d look into it.”
“Oh, right. I did say that. Sorry.”
She let out a long sigh and touched the back of my hand. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I know you’re worried. I’m worried. Estrada likes you for the murders, Gemma.”
“That’s the only thing she likes me for.”
“That means she thinks you did it.”
“I know what it means, Jayne. Did she come right out and say it?”
“More implied it. Our interview yesterday was all ‘just between us girls,’ while that big lug from Boston tried to keep his hands off my strawberry tarts. ‘You can tell me, Jayne. Gemma can be very persuasive, can’t she? You didn’t really know what was happening, did you?’ She spoke to me like I was a first grader who’d been caught helping a bigger kid get to the cookie jar.”
I glanced around the tea room. Two elderly ladies, Mrs. Hudson’s Saturday afternoon regulars, had taken a table at the back. Jocelyn collected their used teacups and plates and asked after their grandchildren, whereupon photographs were instantly produced. A young couple put money on their table beside the check and left with a promise to return soon. Fiona wiped down the counters. I leaned closer to Jayne and lowered my voice. “I paid a call on Colin Kent this afternoon. He’s staying at the Harbor Inn, and he’s absolutely desperate, for reasons I don’t need to go into right now, to get the magazine and the jewels back. I’m almost certain he killed both women.”
Jayne’s big blue eyes grew even bigger. “Wow! Are you going to tell the police?”
“I have to, but I’ve been thinking about the best way of going about it. Estrada is likely to dismiss me as trying to throw suspicion off myself. I’ll have to talk to Ryan.”
She studied my face. “Why haven’t you?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t answer that even to myself.
“Do you want me to be with you when you do?”
“I think that would be for the best.”
She pulled out her phone. “What’s his number? He can come down now and talk to us here. The tea room closes soon, and I can ask Fiona and Jocelyn to leave early. We can talk in private.”
She placed the call. I held my breath, hoping he’d pick up. Now that I’d decided what to do, I wanted to get it done. Both accusing Colin Kent of being a double-murderer and facing Ryan Ashburton.
You can always tell when someone’s talking to a person rather than a machine. For some reason, they go all formal and robotic when a machine’s on the other end. In this case, Ryan had answered. Jayne told him where we were and that we had something important to discuss with him. “Great. Thanks.” She hung up. “He’ll be here in ten.” She put her phone away and stood up. “Police questions go better with fresh baking. I’ll see what we have left and tell Fiona not to dump the coffee yet.”
The last of the customers left, and Jayne told Fiona and Jocelyn she’d finish the cleaning up so they could leave early. They gave us questioning glances but didn’t exactly hang around to argue. Jayne was laying out a selection of fruit tarts when Ryan knocked on the door to the tea room.
I let him in, locking the door behind him, and then went to close the sliding door leading into the Emporium. Ruby gave us curious glances through the glass.
Jayne put the tarts on the table, along with a small plate and a paper napkin. “Coffee, Detective?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’m being bribed,” he replied.
“I have to get rid of the day’s leftovers somehow. Consider it doing me a favor.”
“In that case, I will. Black, no sugar.” He gave her a smile. That warm, lovely smile. Then his expression turned serious, and he faced me. “What’s up, Gemma?”
“Might as well get straight to the point,” I said as Jayne served the coffee and sat down. “Your tip was exactly what I needed. I learned a lot.”
“What tip? And what did you learn about what?”
“Why, Colin Kent, of course. I went to see him at the inn. Like you told me to.”
“Good,” he said. “I don’t know how these things work, but I figured you would.”
“You don’t know how to question a suspect?”
“A suspect? What suspect?” He groaned and slapped his forehead. “Gemma! I told you Colin Kent’s in town trying to get the magazine released because I thought you were interested in buying it.”
“Buying it? I can’t afford it.”
“I know that, but don’t you deal with book collectors and people like that? I thought you might be in line for a finder’s fee or something if you can arrange the deal. You put me in touch with that guy, the one you were having dinner with the other night, so he could examine the magazine.”
“You had dinner with Grant Thompson?” Jayne said. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I don’t tell you everything,” I said.
“I thought you did,” she said.
“It slipped my mind. It was just a business meeting.”
“Didn’t look like a business meeting to me,” Ryan said. “But that’s totally beside the point. Please tell me you didn’t go around to the inn to interrogate Colin Kent.”
“Hardly interrogate. I joined him for a cup of tea. It’s extr
emely pleasant having tea at the inn on a lovely spring afternoon. We had a little chat. A highly informative chat.”
“Might as well tell me,” he sighed as he selected a tiny strawberry tart. It disappeared in one bite.
I explained what I’d learned about the state of the company’s finances, Colin’s debts, his family obligations, the pending—and potentially very expensive—divorce.
When I finished, I leaned back, feeling quite pleased with my reasoning, if I do say so myself.
“So there,” Jayne said. “Means and motive, and probably opportunity too.”
“Why didn’t you take this information to Louise?” Ryan asked.
“I should, I know. But, well, I get the feeling she doesn’t trust me. And to be honest, I don’t trust her. She’s likely to think I’m trying to throw suspicion off myself.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” Ryan said.
“So you’ll handle this?” Jayne said.
“If you had taken this to Louise, it would be entirely within reason for her to toss you in jail for a night for wasting police time.”
“What?” Jayne and I chorused.
“Colin Kent was in a business meeting—a real business meeting—in downtown Boston from seven AM on the day of his wife’s death until he got a call from the police in the afternoon. They didn’t so much as take a break for lunch but had coffee and sandwiches brought in. It was a long meeting, very intense and very important because they’re hoping for one last chance to restructure the entire group of Kent companies to save it from bankruptcy. At no time was Colin away from the meeting long enough to do anything but go to the restroom or make a quick phone call. Ten of Massachusetts’s most prominent businessmen and women can testify to that.”
“The Boston police got the time of death wrong,” I said firmly. “He must have killed her before he left for work.”
“The family has a part-time maid who comes in three times week. That’s all, I’ve been given to understand, they can afford in the way of help. She arrived at six thirty, in time to wave good-bye to Colin as he headed for the office, and left at eleven thirty to get to her afternoon job. Mrs. Kent came downstairs at eight. Mrs. Kent took her coffee out to the pool, as is her habit when the weather is nice. The maid did not see her again, but she says that’s not unusual. It’s a big house, and Mrs. Kent, so the maid says, was not friendly. She often confined herself to her room or the pool deck when the maid was working.”
“Oh,” Jayne said.
“Did this maid see anyone come to the house?” I asked.
“She says not. As you yourself proved, Gemma, it’s possible, easy even, to get access to the property and leave unseen. The maid said it was not window-washing day, so she doesn’t think she so much as glanced outside all the time she was there.”
“What about Mary Ellen Longton then? Colin was furious at the woman for trying to cheat him out of his inheritance. He suspects she might have helped hasten his father’s death.”
“He insisted the Boston PD investigate Kurt Kent’s death, and they did, but they found no evidence of foul play. As for the time of Mrs. Longton’s death, Colin Kent was in bed with a junior employee of his company.”
“What?”
“A cast-iron alibi, Gemma.”
“She’s lying. Have you considered he paid her off to say that?”
“Gemma, we’ve checked. The couple was seen arriving at a not-exactly-family-friendly motel in Boston at the time in question. They are, apparently, not unknown there. The woman told Louise she was about to break the affair off anyway, because, reading between the lines, he wasn’t giving her enough presents.”
Didn’t that take the wind out of my sails? I fell back against my chair.
“Oh,” Jayne said.
Ryan helped himself to a raspberry tart. “I told you not to interfere, Gemma. I’m repeating that advice.” He ate the treat and got to his feet. “Now, I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee, Jayne.”
I walked Ryan to the door and unlocked it. “I’m sorry,” I said as we stepped out onto the sun-drenched sidewalk. “You once told me I’m too clever by half. Seems you were right. As usual.”
He shook his head. “Gemma. Stay out of it. Murder is a nasty business.”
“No more detecting,” I said.
“My fault, I guess,” he said. “For sending you after the magazine. Colin Kent is in the clear, so I probably figured you knew that.” He walked away.
“Any developments?” said a voice behind me. I turned to see Grant Thompson.
“No. Nothing.”
“Why was he here?”
“Ryan? He’s a friend. We were having coffee with Jayne.”
“I was coming to look for you. I had a great time the other night. Would you like to go for dinner again tonight?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not feeling all that well.”
I went into the shop, leaving Grant Thompson standing on the sidewalk.
Moriarty greeted me with a smirk.
Chapter 17
Staying out of it was exactly what I was going to do from now on. The police had resources I did not, and there was no point in me working on my own. I could be a help to them, if they’d ask, but as they—both Ryan and Louise Estrada—were too stubborn to ask, then I’d leave them to it. I put the entire case out of my mind and concentrated on my work.
Although it wasn’t perhaps entirely out of mind, as I snapped at Ruby more than once. She simply rolled her eyes, curled her lip, and carried on with whatever she’d been doing. She left at eight with a grunt of “good-bye,” and I stayed until closing at nine.
After I’d seen the last customer of the day out the door, I sent Uncle Arthur a text: How U doing?
He replied almost immediately: Maude and I visited the Bodie Island Lighthouse today. Fascinating place.
Who the heck was Maude?
Me: When U coming home?
Uncle Arthur: When I’m ready. Am I needed?
My fingers hesitated over the keys, but finally I said: No.
The streets and the boardwalk were busy as people enjoyed the warm spring evening. My mood didn’t match theirs, and I hurried home, keeping my shoulders hunched and my head down in case someone I knew tried to engage me in conversation.
All the lights were off in our saltbox, and for the first time ever, the house didn’t seem warm and welcoming. But I knew Violet was waiting, and that made me feel a little bit better. I let myself in through the back door and switched on the lights. While I was accepting the dog’s enthusiastic greetings, and enthusiastically greeting her in return, my phone beeped.
“Hold on a minute, Violet,” I said. “I’d better get this.”
It was a text from Jayne: Robbie and I going to a late movie. Want to come?
This time I didn’t hesitate before typing: No.
Aside from the fact that Robbie didn’t like me any more than I liked him, I couldn’t imagine myself sitting through anything he chose to watch. And Jayne’s taste wasn’t much better. Robbie liked action movies where no one said much of anything, leaving their fists and guns to do the talking, and Jayne liked European art flicks where all the characters did was talk to each other about their feelings.
I took Violet for an uneventful walk around the neighborhood. No one followed us and Stanford didn’t hurry out to greet us, so we were soon home again. I pulled a container of beef stew Uncle Arthur had made out of the freezer and popped it into the microwave. While it was heating, I chopped vegetables and tossed together a salad. I arranged a single place setting on the kitchen table and sat down to eat, feeling about as low as I ever did. I have to confess that I do sometimes get a bit puffed up with my own cleverness. Things that are completely obvious to me seem to baffle everyone else. I know everything that’s in my shop, and at the end of the day, if I’ve been working alone, I know the contents of the cash register and credit card receipts to the dollar without counting.
I’m so cle
ver I chased away the man who loved me, and my best friend’s starting to find me exasperating to be around. As I ate, I resolved to try to be more like a normal person. Whatever that meant. From now on I’d pretend not to notice things like dirty engagement rings, unraveling hems, watered-down drinks, or secret glances between two people who are married to others.
Thus resolved, once I’d finished my meal, I opened my iPad and checked for updates on the Longton/Kent case, as would any concerned citizen.
There were no new developments, at least nothing the police were sharing with the press. Tabloid and gossip blog reporters were staking out the hospital in which Sapphire Kent had been admitted, trying to get an update on her condition. Receiving nothing they could use, they churned up old stories about Sapphire’s high-living ways, which they ran with file photos of her at various events. In one picture, she looked particularly unglamorous standing on the sidewalk on a dark rainy street. Her hair hung in wet strands, her makeup had run, her eyes were narrow with anger, and one corner of her lip curled up. According to the caption, she’d been caught having a “screaming match” with her boyfriend in the alley behind a night club.
I looked at the picture again. I looked closer. I expanded the view on the iPad and zoomed in on her face.
And I knew.
Chapter 18
Knowing who’d killed Mary Ellen Longton and Elaine Kent was one thing. Proving it was entirely another.
And getting the police to believe me was yet another.
I should have called Ryan, but after what happened that afternoon, I simply couldn’t face him. It was likely he’d hang up without so much as hearing me out. I’d become the girl who cried wolf. I’d accused Colin Kent—fully confident of my facts, boastful of my reasoning—of a double murder when he’d had two cast-iron alibis the whole time.
