Elementary, She Read: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  I had not invited Robbie, but he came with Jayne anyway. He dropped into a seat, snapped his fingers at the waitress, demanded a beer, and then spent more time than I thought proper regaling Grant and Andy with the story of how he’d overpowered Ruby and saved my life. He was thinking, he told us, of abandoning his current art project and painting the darker side of Cape Cod. Ryan stared out over the calm waters of the harbor, and Grant attempted to surreptitiously check his phone.

  Andy had one drink and then stood up. “I have to get back to the kitchen. Nice seeing you all. Uh, good night Jayne.”

  “Night,” she called, wiggling her fingers.

  “Can you get me another beer on your way, buddy?” Robbie said. “Thanks. Hey, there’s Irene.” He called and waved. “Why don’t you join us? Did you hear what happened last night?”

  Irene was on her own, and she didn’t have to be asked twice to sit down. She pulled up a chair. “Exciting stuff. The chief gave a press conference this afternoon. It was long on facts but short on juicy details. I’ve been looking for you, Gemma, and I thought you might be here. You going to give me the scoop?”

  “It’s before the courts,” Ryan said.

  “The chief didn’t say where the arrest took place or under what circumstances, but I heard there was lots of police activity outside your house last night, Gemma.”

  I sipped my drink.

  “You can talk to me,” Robbie said. “I was the one who brought her down. And let me tell you, it was touch and go for a while there.”

  “Not now,” Ryan said. “If you’re going to give a statement to the press against my advice, don’t do it in my presence.”

  “When it’s over,” I said to Irene. “I’ll tell you all about it, like I promised. But not until then.”

  “Fair enough. In the meantime, maybe you can clarify one thing for me. The chief said the items believed to be the motive for Mrs. Longton’s murder were of no monetary value. Is that true?”

  I nodded. “Drop in tomorrow and you can see the new addition I’ve added to the walls of the Emporium. It will remind me not to take things at face value.”

  Ryan and Jayne both laughed. “As if you ever do,” Ryan said.

  “I feel sorry for Roy Longton,” I said. “Although I probably shouldn’t. Despite what he said to create public sympathy, he and his mother weren’t at all close. Has he been told that his so-called inheritance won’t get him a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”

  “He’s been told, but he doesn’t believe it. It’s a plot cooked up by the Kents and their high-priced lawyer to cheat him.” Irene attempted to hail a passing waitress. The waitress pretended not to see.

  “It’s time art faced up to the darker side of life,” Robbie said. “Don’t you think, Ryan? You must see some things you don’t talk about.”

  “Never,” Ryan said flatly.

  Jayne shifted in her seat, and I realized she was embarrassed. At last, the appeal of Robbie was beginning to wane.

  I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I forgot to ask Andy what the special is tonight. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and find out for us.”

  “Good idea.” Jayne pushed her chair back.

  “I’m thinking morgue shots mixed with the standard tourist stuff,” Robbie said. “Shock people out of their complacency.”

  * * *

  When Jayne came back from the kitchen, Robbie was still talking, Irene was trying to attract a waiter’s attention, and Grant and Ryan were holding their phones under the table. Jayne slid her chair closer to me.

  “I made a couple of calls this afternoon,” I said. “I found you a local berry farmer who’s more than delighted to start supplying the tea room.”

  “Great.”

  Robbie paused for breath, and Ryan put away his phone. He gave me a big smile. Heat rushed into my face, and I smiled back.

  Jayne looked at Ryan. She looked at me. She looked back at Ryan and then abruptly downed the rest of her drink. “Wasn’t that fun? Come on, Robbie, let’s go.”

  “What? We haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I’m cold. There’re plenty of tables inside.”

  I eyed her sleeveless sundress. It was so warm out, I’d taken off my sweater earlier and draped it over the back of my chair. “I can give you my cardigan.”

  “No. That won’t be enough. Irene, you’ll get better service inside, you know. Grant, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about book collecting. That must be so fascinating. I want to hear all about it.”

  “You haven’t been interested before,” I said.

  “Sure I have. I just haven’t met the right person to ask. Now I have.”

  “But Uncle Arthur . . .”

  Robbie lumbered to his feet. “I guess you better come With us then, buddy. Gemma said you’re paying.”

  “Andrew warned me that they’re almost out of the flounder. Better hurry and order,” Jayne said.

  I glanced at Ryan. He gave me a shrug and picked up his beer bottle. I began to collect my handbag and cardigan.

  “The only table inside by the windows is for four. Sorry,” Jayne said. She dragged Robbie away. Irene followed. Grant looked at Ryan and touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his forehead in a salute. And then he walked away.

  “Did that seem odd to you?” I asked Ryan.

  He laughed. “No odder than anything else that happened this week.”

  Acknowledgments

  I came up with the concept for this series while relaxing on the dock at Barbara Fradkin’s cottage during our annual writers’ “retreat” (much retreating, not so much writing) where Barbara and Robin Harlick helped me toss ideas around. The best part of being a writer, as I have said many times, is the friends I have made and the people I have met. People such as Cheryl Freedman, who provided helpful comments and suggestions on the manuscript that turned into this book.

  I’d like to thank my agent, Kim Lionetti, for believing in this series, and for the good people at Crooked Lane, particularly Matt Martz and Sarah Poppe, for making it a reality.

  I wrote this book during my time as the board chair of the Crime Writers of Canada, where Cathy Ace, Melodie Campbell, Vicki Blechta, and Alison Bruce made the job easy, giving me the time to write.