The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “I don’t think so,” Ashleigh said. “I’ve only sold one all day, that one just now.”

  “I sold one this morning before you arrived, and that left five on the rack. When I came back from lunch, I noticed one more had been taken, meaning four remained. There are now three. I hope someone didn’t move it. I hate that.”

  “Do you always know what’s on the shelves all the time?” Ashleigh said.

  “Of course.” I almost added, “Don’t you?” but Jayne had once told me people didn’t like that. If I was the only one working in the store, I also knew the contents of the cash drawer and the amount of the debit and credit card slips to the penny at any given time. When the business began to grow and I needed to hire an assistant, I hadn’t liked losing control, but I’d decided that having something approaching spare time would be worth it. “Are you sure you didn’t sell a coloring book from the time you arrived this morning until I came back after my lunch?”

  “Positive.” Ashleigh pushed buttons on the computer, “but I’ll check anyway.” She read the screen quickly and shook her head. “Nope. Only that one just now and the one from this morning.”

  “I don’t see it misplaced anywhere. It’s been stolen.” I glared at Ashleigh.

  She threw up her hands. “Hey, don’t accuse me. I didn’t take it. You can search my bag if you want.”

  “I’m not accusing you.” Although I was accusing her of being careless, in which case I needed to blame myself as well. I’d been so distracted, first by the theater people and then by the crowd pouring in after them, I’d taken my eyes off the shop. Shoplifting wasn’t much of a problem in the Emporium. Either the type of people who came into a bookstore weren’t the sort inclined toward a life of petty crime or the steely-eyed glares of Benedict Cumberbatch and Robert Downey Jr. as the Great Detective put anyone off any inclination to engage in criminal activities.

  “Maybe it’ll turn up,” Ashleigh said. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  “Thanks.” The coloring book wasn’t big, and it was soft-covered, meaning it could be rolled up. I thought back over the people who’d been in and out of the store this afternoon. It was a hot day, so no one had been wearing a coat, although a few had light jackets. Sir Nigel had been dressed in his Harris Tweed, suitable for a rainy autumn morning hunting grouse in the Scottish Highlands, but far too warm for a Cape Cod summer. Most people carried the usual assortment of handbags, a few beach bags, or shopping bags from other stores. A couple of the men had worn baggy shorts or loose pants with plenty of pocket room. And then there had been Gerald’s leather man-bag.

  I gave a mental shrug and put the loss down to the cost of doing business.

  From the top of the gaslight shelf, Moriarty smirked.

  Chapter 3

  The forecast had been for a steady downpour all day, but to Jayne’s infinite relief, and no doubt that of the West London Theater Festival fund-raising committee, Saturday dawned bright and sunny. A light breeze blew steadily off the Atlantic Ocean, and that promised to take some of the heat out of the day.

  As I’d promised, and as I’d been reminded constantly to the point of receiving an unwelcome six AM phone call from Jayne, I was in the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room precisely at eight o’clock. Violet, Great Uncle Arthur’s cocker spaniel named after Violet Hunter of the Adventure of the Copper Beeches, had been confused, although delighted, at being taken for such an early morning walk. We were so early that Stanford, the geriatric Bichon Frise who lived the next street over, hadn’t been outside, nor had his equally aging owner. The highlight of their day, man and dog, seemed to be escaping through a hole in the fence of the otherwise enclosed yard to greet Violet (the dog) and hurrying to catch him, apologize to me for the dog getting out, and invite me in for a “cuppa” (the man).

  By one minute past eight, I was rolling out biscuit dough. Cookie dough, I should say, being in America. Not to be confused with biscuits, which is what Americans call proper English teatime scones. What they call scones are something I’d never seen until I first came to West London. Meanwhile, Jayne rushed about and shouted orders at the staff. Jocelyn and Fiona had worked at Mrs. Hudson’s since it opened and were more than capable. Today, under the rising barrage of Jayne’s stress-induced anxiety, they were getting untypically frazzled.

  “We have this, Jayne,” I said once Jocelyn, distracted by Jayne’s screech that they were out of sugar, had caught the tray of tart pastries ready for the oven before it hit the floor. “I moved the big sugar container. It’s over there.”

  I complained about getting up at six, but it didn’t look as though Jayne had even gone to bed. The tea room opened at the regular summer hour of seven to serve coffee and light breakfasts as well as fresh baked goods for takeout. In addition to all her usual chores, Jayne was a ball of nervous action preparing afternoon tea for one hundred and eight fussy, well-heeled theater patrons, twelve actors, and the six volunteers her mom had begged us to also provide for.

  “Any more blueberry muffins?” Fiona’s head popped into the kitchen. “I’ve got a takeout order for three blueberry and three bran muffins for a business breakfast meeting.”

  “On the cooling racks.” Jayne didn’t look up from the industrial-sized mixer currently churning a thick, deep chocolate dough.

  “What are those going to be?” I asked.

  “Brownies.”

  “Yum.” We don’t traditionally get brownies in England. They’ve become my favorite dessert treat. Particularly the way Jayne makes them with lots of walnuts and a light chocolate glaze topping. My favorite other than her pecan tarts, that is, with a melt-in-your-mouth short-crust pastry and thick syrupy filling packed full of the sweet nuts. Or maybe it’s . . .

  “Gemma, once you’ve finished the cookies, you can start on the sandwiches,” Jayne said. I studied my handiwork. Cut into perfect circles, sugar cookies were laid out in neat rows on baking sheets. I’d dusted them lightly with sugar tinted Christmas-decoration red.

  “Is it okay to make the sandwiches this early?” I washed sticky dough and red sugar off my hands.

  “They’re fine properly covered and kept in the fridge.” Jocelyn dodged around me with a tray of almond croissants.

  The kitchen behind Mrs. Hudson’s is small. This morning, it was a scene of total chaos. Jayne checked recipes, wrote up sandwich instructions, and made dessert tarts and squares. Jocelyn pulled freshly baked bread and sweet rolls out of the oven and prepared soup for today’s lunch between ferrying bagels and one-person-sized baguettes to the front counter. Fiona ran in and out, shouting for more cream cheese or demanding to know where the cucumbers were and somehow managing not to get in anyone’s way. Me, I was in everyone’s way pretty much all the time.

  A kitchen, busy or not, is not my natural domain.

  “Perhaps we should have hired extra help for today. Where’s Lorraine?” I asked, referring to the part-time waitress.

  “Sick. Don’t worry; we’re fine.” Jayne wiped at a lock of hair that had escaped her net, leaving a streak of flour across her nose. Only Jayne could look delightful wearing a hairnet and flour. “We’re hoping to make a fat profit out of this tea, remember.”

  “Right. Profit. Now sandwiches.” I’ve helped at other times when the tea room has put on a special function. I can’t be trusted, according to Jayne, to use my own initiative, so she prepares the sandwich ingredients herself and prints out directions for assembling them along with an illustration of the final product. This afternoon, we’d be serving smoked salmon and cream cheese on wheat bread cut into pinwheels, finger sandwiches of thinly sliced roast beef with locally made mustard and fresh arugula on light rye, cucumber with a touch of cream cheese on white bread triangles for the vegetarians, and egg salad, also on thinly sliced white bread.

  I liked making the sandwiches; it suited my orderly mind. I cleared everything off the back countertop and laid out the slices of bread in a long row. I went up and down the line following Jayne’s
instructions: buttering the bread, laying on the filling, adding pretty herbs and fresh greens as required, putting the tops on, cutting them into the proper shapes with a careful eye for uniformity of size. Then I carefully placed the tiny, gorgeous sandwiches onto platters and covered them tightly in plastic wrap. Jocelyn ferried them to the fridge.

  I made five hundred small sandwiches. I was rather pleased with myself, but Jayne, being Jayne, wouldn’t allow me to rest on my laurels. “Fiona’s overwhelmed out front. Jocelyn, take off your cooking apron and go and help. Gemma, you’ll have to finish the cupcakes.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. They need frosting.” One hundred and twenty-five tiny, perfect coconut cupcakes were cooling on a high shelf. The kitchen, as I have said, is small. We were running out of room to put all the food. “The frosting’s made. All you have to do is use an ice cream scoop as a measure. One scoop on each cupcake. Don’t worry about covering the tops to the edges. When that’s done, give the frosting a little swirl with a knife to make it look pretty and sprinkle coconut on top.” While she talked, Jayne mixed the dough for the next batch of scones. I set about icing coconut cupcakes in the same assembly-line fashion I had with the sandwiches.

  “A swirl, Gemma. Just a swirl,” Jayne said. “If you’re trying to make a work of art out of each one, you’ll be here all day.”

  I studied the cupcake at hand. I hadn’t been trying to re-create the London office tower nicknamed the Gherkin in coconut icing, but it did bear a slight resemblance.

  “I’ll finish up,” Jayne said. “It’s almost ten.”

  “It is?” I glanced at the wall. “So it is.” Time to open the Emporium. “Are we done?” I surveyed the kitchen. Mixing bowls and baking pans and spoons were piled in the sink in a stack that also bore a resemblance to the Gherkin. The contents of sugar and flour and nut containers appeared to have been emptied onto the counters and spread across the floor.

  “We made good progress,” Jayne said. “Time to begin lunch prep.”

  I took off my apron and hung it behind the door. Before leaving, I took a moment to admire it. It resembled a Jackson Pollock painting: spatters of cream cheese, a streak of the pink salmon spread, a dusting of flour, an explosion of icing sugar, and a few drops of chocolate brownie dough (although I’m sure I didn’t go anywhere near that mixing bowl). “Perhaps I could frame this and ask Maureen to sell it at Beach Fine Arts,” I said. “It’s no worse than some of the so-called art she tries to unload on innocent tourists.”

  “Bye, bye, Gemma,” Jayne said. “Remember, we’re leaving at two o’clock on the dot.”

  I dodged around Jocelyn, bringing in a tray piled high with still more dirty dishes, and escaped Jayne’s realm.

  Once again, I thanked my lucky stars that I’d decided to become a bookseller and not a professional baker.

  * * *

  Jayne closed the tea room at two after politely but firmly shoving two women lingering over a late lunch out the door, and I prepared to leave the Emporium in the capable hands of Ashleigh for the remainder of the day.

  “Break a leg,” she called after me.

  “I don’t think that’s an appropriate saying for nonacting people,” I replied.

  Moriarty hissed at me from the top of the gaslight shelf. No doubt he was also telling me to break a leg. But in his case, it was more likely to be the literal meaning.

  “Whatever,” Ashleigh said. “While you’re out, I’ll continue my survey of the customers as to their paperback preferences.”

  That I had not asked my assistant to survey my customers on their paperback preferences, or anything else, appeared to be of no consequence. I waved good-bye.

  Jayne, Jocelyn, Fiona, and I carried the food and drink preparations to a catering van rented specifically for the occasion. Earlier, I’d changed into dark slacks and a dark long-sleeved shirt in my office. Jayne handed me a clean, highly starched Mrs. Hudson’s waitress apron, white with the tea room logo of a steaming teacup next to a pipe.

  “Why are you giving me this?” I asked. “You say I can’t be trusted to serve our guests. Not after what happened that other time.”

  “Times,” Jayne said. We paused for a moment in memory of past disasters. “I might need you out front today. Mom’s organized volunteers to do the serving, and that means anything can happen. She told me Mrs. Franklin wants to help. Mom’s the type who can’t say no.”

  “What’s wrong with Mrs. Franklin?”

  “She’s a marvelous woman, and I love her to bits. But she’s ninety-four, uses a walker, and won’t admit that she needs glasses.”

  “You’re saying even I’m a better waitress than her?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve changed my mind and decided it would be best if I stay in the kitchen with Jocelyn. Fiona will supervise the serving, and you’re backup in both of those roles in case of emergencies.”

  Jayne opened the tea room a year ago, when she returned to her hometown of West London after learning her trade in Boston. Over the course of that year, I’ve come to know her very well. I reached out and placed my hand lightly on her arm. “It’s all under control. Don’t be nervous.”

  “Nervous. I’m not nervous. Jocelyn! Did you remember the napkins? Quick, run back and check.”

  “Yes, Jayne, I remembered the napkins. Along with everything else you had on the checklist, and some things you didn’t.”

  “Perhaps I’ll drive.” I plucked the keys out of Jayne’s hand.

  * * *

  Guests were due to begin arriving at three. They would be served Prosecco while wandering the spacious lawns, admiring the gardens and the view of the Atlantic Ocean, exchanging air kisses, and backbiting mutual friends. Rebecca had provided the sparkling wine as well as one hundred and twenty tall crystal flutes and silver trays with which the volunteer servers would circulate. Guests would be called to sit down to afternoon tea at four.

  I hadn’t been to Rebecca Stanton’s home before, and I let out a low whistle as Jayne slowed the van and turned into the driveway. I’d expected it to be nice—she was hosting afternoon tea for one hundred and twenty people, after all—but it was indeed spectacular. The long driveway curved between two rows of tall pines through which I caught glimpses of perfectly maintained lawns and carefully cultivated perennial beds. The forecourt was wide, ending at a staircase with huge black iron urns planted with yellow begonias, tall ornamental grasses, and trailing purple-and-green vines. The house itself consisted of two levels of pale-gray siding and a dark-gray roof.

  A large sign with the words “West London Theater Festival Afternoon Tea” had been erected in front of the three-door garage. A big black arrow directed ticket holders to the path at the right of the house. Jayne told me to pull the van left, around to the kitchen entrance. I parked and clambered out of the van, feeling the fresh salty breeze on my face and hearing the soft pounding of surf against the shore.

  Rebecca came out to greet us. She was beautifully dressed for the party in a sleeveless teal-and-navy dress that flowed around her slim ankles. Long strands of silver draped from her ears, and a chucky turquoise and silver necklace circled her throat. “Welcome,” she said. “If you need anything at all, be sure and let me know.”

  Leslie Wilson stood behind her with something resembling a manic grin on her face. I recognized that grin: I’d seen it a few minutes earlier when Jayne had climbed into the passenger seat of the rented van and said, “Isn’t this going to be fun?” Mrs. Wilson wore a pale-pink summer dress with a white apron over it. The neck, hem, and pockets of the apron were trimmed with pink appliqué. “The tables and chairs have been set up on the lawn,” Leslie said. “The dishes have arrived and are in the kitchen, and my volunteers will be here any minute to help set the places.”

  “That’s all good then,” Jayne said. “Not a thing to worry about.”

  “Absolutely not a single thing,” her mum replied.

  They grinned at each other.

/>   With Leslie’s help, we carried our cartons of supplies into the kitchen. Rebecca stood to one side and supervised.

  The kitchen was all modern and high-tech. So high-tech, I doubted anyone ever did any cooking in it. The marble and soft-stone countertops were polished to a high gloss, the black-and-white ceramic tiles showed not a speck of dirt or stray crumbs, and the glass doors to the cabinets sparkled. There were no containers of jumbled cooking utensils within easy reach of the stove, no drying rack, no dirty dishes piled in the sink, no paper towel holder or spice container, no sticky finger marks on the microwave door, no dish towels tossed over the oven door handle. There weren’t even any pictures and postcards or yellowing newspaper articles stuck haphazardly to the stainless steel, ice-machine containing, double-door fridge. The only countertop appliance in view was a huge black Cuisinart coffeemaker.

  This room was about three times the size of the kitchen in Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room.

  “Nice place,” Jayne said in the understatement of the year.

  A breakfast bar—black marble countertop and red leather stools—separated the kitchen from the entertainment room. Comfy-looking couches (also looking like they were never used), gas-burning fireplace, enormous flat-screen TV, tasteful art. The far wall was all glass, looking out over a patch of lush lawn lined by woods better groomed than would be found in nature.

  “Use those doors,” Rebecca said, pointing to French doors leading off the kitchen, “to get to the patio and the garden. Jayne, do you have my phone number on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me if you need anything.” Rebecca slipped out.

  “She must be worth a few bucks,” I said. “Do you think she made this kind of money as a theater promoter?”

  Leslie laughed. “She married the boss. He was quite a bit older than her, and he died a few years ago. Neither of them had any children, so everything he had went to her.”