The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  My reasoning was sound. But the police were highly unlikely to agree with me. They tended to want to draw their own conclusions.

  I decided to look at it this way: I’d be helping the police by not allowing them to get distracted by a triviality that would lead nowhere. I wasn’t, however, prepared to destroy the evidence. Not yet.

  I went down the hall to my office and found a plain white envelope. I slipped the cloth into the envelope, took it to the den and locked it inside the safe. Uncle Arthur and I don’t have anything that needs to be protected by a safe, but it had come with the house, embedded in the thick brick walls. We’d hung a portrait over it.

  I fed Violet, told her not to wait up, and walked down to the harbor. The summer night was approaching, and the sky over the ocean to the east was inky black; behind me, it was streaked with shades of red, pink, and gray.

  The Blue Water Café sits on the edge of West London’s small boat harbor close to the fish pier. In the off-season, it’s warm and cozy and small. In summers, it more than doubles in size when the doors are thrown open to a spacious deck resting on pylons jutting out over the water. I pride myself on being punctual, but tonight I’d been delayed, debating what to do about the pink cloth, and arrived five minutes late to find Grant already seated. He jumped to his feet with a wide smile as I made my way across the deck. The restaurant was full tonight, as it would be most evenings for the next few months. Lights shone from tiny bulbs wrapped around the railing, and on the tables, white candles flickered in hurricane lamps.

  “Quite the exciting afternoon,” Grant said as I took my seat.

  “More excitement than we would have liked.”

  “The tea was great though. Everyone I spoke to enjoyed it very much. As they say, there’s a silver lining in every cloud, and in this case, you can be sure people will remember you when they’re planning an event.”

  “It has also been said, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. About that, I disagree. We don’t want to be remembered as people who catered an event where someone died.”

  The water arrived and we placed drink orders. Grant accepted a menu but I waved it away. I always have the same thing at the café. The fish doesn’t get any fresher than here: from the restaurant’s deck, you can watch the day’s catch being unloaded and the sleek gray fur of seals bobbing through the water searching for scraps. “I thank you for the sentiment and for trying to cheer me up.”

  “Do you need cheering up?” Grant asked.

  “No. I didn’t know Nigel, and I didn’t much like what little I did see of him.”

  We leaned back to allow the waiter to place our drinks on the table. A frosty mug of Nantucket Grey Lady for Grant, a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc for me. Grant ordered Caesar salad followed by a steak, medium rare. I asked for clam chowder and the stuffed sole.

  We clinked glasses and said, “Cheers.”

  “I heard the word murder bandied about this afternoon,” Grant said. “What do you think happened?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you going to get involved?”

  “Involved in what?”

  “In the case. You did those other times.”

  “The first time, I was directly affected. Detective Estrada thought I’d done it. The second time, Donald Morris asked me for help. This time, I’m not even a witness. Merely the person unfortunate enough, as were you, to come across the body. No, it has nothing to do with me. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it.” I was thinking of little else, but talking was another matter altogether. The pink ruching would remain in my safe, tucked away in the wall behind the portrait of a glamorous opera singer I believe had been Uncle Arthur’s one true love. I remembered Leslie’s words to Nigel: “It’s time.” Plenty of people spoke to Nigel that afternoon, and not all of them were friendly. It meant nothing. So I told myself. Nothing other than the pink ruching connected Jayne’s mum to the dead man; I had no reason to get involved.

  “There’s Jayne now,” Grant said. I turned to see my friend crossing the deck, following the hostess. To my surprise, she was with Eddie Barker, the actor. I knew they’d arranged a date for tonight, but I would have expected him to cancel it after what happened this afternoon. I wasn’t happy to see him out with my friend. He had a lot to gain from the death of Sir Nigel, and that put him pretty high on my suspect list.

  Not that I was keeping a suspect list.

  Jayne saw us and waved. She said something to the hostess, and they changed direction to come our way. The people at the table for two next to ours were fumbling with their wallets and laboriously calculating the tip.

  “Mind if we join you?” Jayne said. She looked lovely and fresh in a blue dress the color of her eyes with a thin white belt and low-heeled sandals.

  Grant hesitated. He obviously didn’t want the company but didn’t know how to say so politely. Understandable if he thought we were on a date. Were we? I didn’t know. In order not to have to make a decision about that, even to myself, I waved to the nearly vacated table. “Good timing.”

  “I’ll get this cleared away,” the hostess said.

  The other couple left and Jayne sat down. Eddie looked about as thrilled as Grant at the change in seating arrangements.

  “How’s everyone handling the death of Nigel?” I asked him.

  “Gemma,” Jayne said, “that’s a bit blunt.”

  “It is? It’s what we’re all thinking about.”

  “I’m not thinking about it,” Eddie said.

  “Sure you are,” I said.

  “Gemma,” Jayne said in that warning voice I know so well.

  “I’m thinking it’s a nice night in a beautiful place, and I’m with a beautiful woman.” Eddie smiled at Jayne. She smiled back. I mentally rolled my eyes. “Two beautiful women,” he added politely.

  “You’re not really from California,” I said. “Mississippi would be my guess. Louisiana, maybe.”

  Grant smothered a laugh with a mouthful of beer.

  “You’ve a good ear,” Eddie said. “I’ve worked hard to get rid of that accent.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Sorry about your marriage breaking up,” I said.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Gemma’s observant,” Jayne said quickly. “I bet she noticed a tan line on the ring finger of your left hand or something.” She involuntarily glanced across the table; Eddie slipped the guilty hand into his lap. Guilty because his marriage wasn’t entirely over?

  “Good evening,” the waiter said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Will the play go on?” I asked once the waiter had left with their orders, as well as a request for another round for Grant and me.

  “Pat wants it to,” Eddie said, “as a memorial to Sir Nigel, and Rebecca agrees.” He lowered his eyes for a moment in a gesture of respect.

  “With you in the lead role,” I said.

  He lifted his head, and his eyes bored into mine. The carefully arranged length of sun-kissed (in a hair salon) blond hair moved in the breeze. “That will be up to the director. She knows best.”

  “Have you been to Cape Cod before, Eddie?” Grant asked. “If not, I can recommend some places worth a visit on your days off.”

  “We won’t be getting many days off, I’m afraid, but I’d like that. No, I’ve never been here. I’m from the west”—a glance at me—“I mean, the south.”

  “Where are you staying?” Grant asked.

  Eddie sighed. “We’re at a B and B for the duration. The Sailor’s Delight. What a chintzy name. Nice enough, I guess, but I hate B and Bs. You’re expected to make friendly with a bunch of strangers over breakfast. Nigel and Gerald got themselves put up at the Harbor Inn. Now that Nigel’s not using it, I might ask if I can move in.”

  “Did he get a particularly nice room?” I asked.

  “Nothing but the best suite. With an adjoining room for Gerald. I’m surprised they bothered with that.”

  “Why?” I ask
ed.

  “I’d have thought they’d roll out a camp cot in the hallway for Gerald. Guy’s a wimp if ever I saw one.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of them in your time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” I sipped my wine.

  Jayne stood up. “I’m going to powder my nose. Gemma?”

  “What?”

  “Do you need to come also?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I do?”

  She glared at me and jerked her head toward the back.

  “Oh, right. I need to powder my nose. I totally forgot to do that before leaving the house.” I pushed myself to my feet and followed the angry tap of Jayne’s heels on the wooden deck.

  “Why don’t you just say you’re going to the loo?” I said to her back. “They know we don’t need to apply face powder in unison.”

  The moment we walked into the building itself, Jayne turned on me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Doing? In regards to what?”

  “I’m used to you deducing things about people they’d rather you didn’t know, but tonight you’re being out-and-out rude. If Eddie wants people to think he’s from California, what does it matter? Why did you challenge him on it? Never mind that bit about being divorced.”

  “I don’t think you should be going out with him.”

  “Why on earth not? And why on earth should I care what you think?”

  “For one thing, I doubt he’s divorced. Easy enough to check. He’ll have a bio on IMDb. I’ll look him up on the Internet when I get home.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Gemma Doyle. I like him, and he seems to like me, and I want it to lead where it might. I do not want your interference. Do. You. Understand?”

  “Jayne, he’s a possible suspect in a murder.”

  “He’s not a suspect. Yes, he was there, but so were a lot of people. I was there. You were there. Even my mom was there.”

  “Uh, right. I don’t think it’s wise for you to get involved with an actor.” We were standing in the hallway leading to the restrooms, close to the open kitchen. Staff passed us with trays piled high with food. I saw my clam chowder and Grant’s Caesar salad sail past. “There’s Andy.” I called out, and he glanced up from a sizzling frying pan. I gave him a wave. He waved back. When he saw Jayne with me, his face lit up. He said something to a young woman, and she took over the frying pan. Andy wiped his hands on his apron and came out of the kitchen.

  “Nice to see you, Gemma. Hi, Jayne. Are you here for dinner?”

  “Why, yes,” I said, “we are. I bet you could use a break right about now. Why don’t you and Jayne take a few moments for a quiet drink? We’re here with a couple of friends; they won’t mind.”

  Andy looked hopeful. Jayne looked shocked.

  “Don’t try to change the subject.” She turned to Andy. “Will you take a rain check? I hope you don’t mind, but Gemma and I are having an important business meeting here, and she’s trying to weasel her way out of it.”

  Andy tried not to look too downcast. “Rain check it is. Any time at all.” He slunk back into the mysterious depths of his kitchen.

  I hadn’t been changing the subject at all. I simply thought Andy a far better match for Jayne than some passing actor, who may or may not be divorced.

  “Gemma, please don’t get involved in my love life.”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Repeatedly and constantly. I’ll admit Robbie might have been a little bit of a mistake.”

  “A little bit.”

  “But Eddie is not Robbie. He’s sooo good looking for one thing, and he’s doing really well as an actor. He’s met all sorts of great people. Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp, Kristen Stewart.”

  I considered pointing out that his career wasn’t exactly on the path of DiCaprio and Depp if he was playing the understudy for a summer repertory theater in Cape Cod, and that “met” didn’t mean “working beside,” but I bit my tongue. Jayne didn’t often get angry with me, but she was heading there now, and at a rapid clip.

  All I had at heart were her best interests, particularly if Eddie was going to be involved in a police investigation. “Okay,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Okay. You win. I’ll let you make your own mistakes. I mean, your own decisions.” I smiled at her.

  She did not smile back. “I don’t know what you’re doing here with Grant, anyway. Suppose Ryan sees you.”

  “What would that matter?”

  “If you don’t know, Gemma, I am not going to tell you.” She headed back outside. Apparently her nose didn’t need powdering after all.

  Chapter 7

  Once again, I was woken by the ringing of the phone at some ungodly hour.

  I hadn’t gotten to bed too late, perhaps because our dinner hadn’t been entirely comfortable. Eddie and Grant didn’t want to be seated with another couple, and Jayne was still cross with me. Only I seemed to be enjoying my meal. When I finished my coffee and announced that it was time for me to be off home, Eddie barely restrained himself from punching the air in delight.

  Grant walked me home, but I didn’t invite him in, and he didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t know what my feelings were for him, if I had any beyond friendship, but that wasn’t the only reason. It had been a long, emotional day.

  I took Violet for a turn around the block and then went to bed, where I read The Whole Art of Detection until I fell asleep, looking forward to tomorrow. Sunday’s my favorite day of the week. I love to swim, and I live minutes away from the ocean, but the summer’s so busy at work I rarely get a chance to enjoy the beach in the heat of the day. On Sundays, the shop doesn’t open until noon, and it closes at five, making it the one chance I get to have a swim at a reasonable hour. I planned on enjoying a leisurely cup of tea and a proper English breakfast over the online papers before heading to Nantucket Sound with my chair and umbrella, swimming costume, and book. After work, Violet and I would enjoy a long walk along the wilder section of the coast.

  Instead, I fumbled for the phone, almost knocked it off the night table, and finally mumbled, “Hello.” The bedside clock said it was quarter to eight.

  “Gemma!” Jayne yelled. “You have to come. Now. The police have arrested my mother.”

  That woke me up all right. I sat up. “What! Why? When? Where are you?”

  “She just called me. They were on the doorstep first thing, and they’ve taken her down to the police station.”

  “Did they actually arrest her—read her her rights and everything—or just ask her to come with them?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say. I’m heading to the station now. Can you meet me there?”

  “What do you want me to do?” I shoved the covers aside and jumped out of bed. Violet watched me with great interest.

  “Maybe you can talk to Ryan—Detective Ashburton. Tell him my mom doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “I don’t think he’ll listen to me, Jayne.”

  “Sure he will.” She hung up.

  I dressed quickly in whatever clothes happened to come to hand. I ran a comb through my unruly curls and tied my hair back with a clip. I couldn’t leave without letting Violet out, so I tapped my foot impatiently while she checked behind all the bushes and through every patch of impatiens for signs of invading squirrels or other unwelcome nighttime visitors. Finally, she finished her morning ablutions and security check and trotted back inside. I don’t normally drive into town, but I didn’t know what else I might be expected to do today, so I decided to take the car. Uncle Arthur’s prized blue 1977 Triumph Spitfire 1500 was safely stored in the garage, and my red Mazda Miata sat in the driveway.

  I found Jayne pacing up and down in the lobby of the police station, still wearing her gray baking apron. A streak of flour ran across her left cheek, and flakes of dough stuck to her fingers.

  She greeted me with a wail and a hu
ge hug. When I finally freed myself from her death grip, I said, “What’s happening?”

  “They won’t let me see her.” Jayne sobbed. “They told me she’s not under arrest ‘at this time.’” She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “She’s answering questions.”

  “Do you know a good solicitor?”

  Her blue eyes opened wide. “You mean a lawyer? Do you think we need one?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, Jayne, but you might. It wouldn’t hurt to find one and put him or her on standby.” I led her to a row of cheap plastic chairs against the wall. We were in the outer area of the police station, watched over by a scowling officer seated behind a glass partition. The air conditioning was turned up so high, if we had to stay here very long, I might have to go home to get my winter coat. “You need to get back to work,” I said. “I can stay here and let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m good. Thanks for coming down.” She slipped her hand into mine. “I’m sorry I got mad at you last night.”

  “What happened after I left?” I asked. Believe me, I didn’t want to know, but I lit on the first available subject in an attempt to distract Jayne from her worries.

  “It was lovely.” Some of the worry cleared from her face. “We had another drink, then some coffee. We talked and talked for ages. He’s so nice, Gemma. And so interesting. Makes me almost wish I hadn’t let Mom talk me out of going into acting. We went for a walk along the boardwalk. So romantic. Then he walked me home. He kissed me goodnight on the doorstep. Wasn’t that sweet?” She sighed happily. But then she remembered where we were, and why, and the blissful look disappeared from her face. “I’m sorry I panicked, Gemma. This is routine, I suppose. The police will be asking everyone who was at the tea to come in for questioning.”

  That, I doubted. They had to have some reason for focusing on Leslie Wilson.

  It wasn’t the torn apron, so it had to be something else.

  Had someone seen her and Nigel at the edge of the cliff? Overheard them arguing? Had Leslie threatened Nigel?