The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “You shouldn’t have,” I said. “He managed to turn your story into a pity party for himself.”

  “Jayne also says you’re blunt.”

  “When I need to be. Allow me to be even more blunt. Did you shove him off the cliff?”

  “No, Gemma, I did not. We walked through the woods toward the ocean. The bushes tugged at my clothes, so that must be when my apron tore. We watched the sea and the tide coming in. I said my daughter was waiting, and he said he was glad we’d talked. And he said he was sorry. I told him not to be. I went back to the house and left him standing there. All alone.”

  “Was he wearing his cravat when you left him?”

  She shook her head. “He took it off as we walked and carried it in his hand. He said it was hot. He was holding it when last I saw him.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the woods, anyone else out for a walk?”

  “No. I suspect if a herd of wild elephants stampeded past, I wouldn’t have noticed them, I was so deep in thought.”

  I believed her. I can’t say why I was sure, but her story rang true for me. She’d made her peace with Nigel and left him standing alone at the cliffside. If it had not ended well, if they’d quarreled, she’d have aired her grievances to me. She might not confess to having killed him, but she’d want me to know she had reason to do so.

  “Did you tell the police all of this?”

  “My life story? No. I kept it short and simple, that I admired his acting and wanted to tell him so. That I told him I’d had a minor part in one of his plays many years ago, and we went for a walk to get away from the party and have a little stroll down memory lane.” She shifted in her chair and once again studied the mug, now full of cold tea.

  “That could be interpreted as simply omitting some unnecessary facts. What did you outright lie to them about, Leslie?”

  She was quiet for a long time, and then she said, “I told them we didn’t get as far as the water’s edge. That we only talked for a minute or so, and I had to get back, so Nigel carried on alone, wanting to see the view from the cliff.”

  “That was a mistake,” I said. “Don’t lie to the police. You can decide not to tell them some things, but don’t out-and-out lie.” Leslie was probably as bad a liar as her daughter.

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “It’s unlikely they’ll ask me.” Now I, on the other hand, am an excellent liar. But I try not to make a habit of it.

  “If they do, and if it’s at all possible, I’d rather you didn’t mention what I said. About Jeff, I mean, and about my shotgun marriage to Rick.”

  “That I’ll keep to myself. I promise.” It’s not my place to tell the police how to do their jobs, particularly when they make it clear they don’t want my help. Leslie didn’t tell me about her pregnancy until I surmised it. Let the cops do the same. Ryan could, given the right circumstances. Estrada, maybe not. Estrada preferred the blunt approach.

  “Thanks for the tea.” I stood up. Leslie walked me to the kitchen door. I bent over and gave her a hug. She felt so frail in my arms. When we separated, her eyes were wet once again.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything will turn out okay.”

  “I was thinking about Nigel,” she said. “Poor Nigel. I loved him once, Gemma, I can’t pretend I didn’t. He wanted too much. He wanted everything, and he ended up with nothing. Such a sad, sad ending.” She rubbed at Rufus’s head, and the dog pressed against her leg, providing comfort.

  Chapter 8

  I’d never been a pet owner until Uncle Arthur showed up one day with a rambunctious six-week-old cocker spaniel. We had no pets as children because my mother is highly allergic to animals, and when I was married and living in London, we were too busy and didn’t have room to house a pet larger than a mouse at any rate. I don’t care much for rodents.

  I’d always told people I didn’t see the appeal of pets. Dumb creatures that never grow up, constantly demanding attention and needing feeding and watering and exercise and visits to the vet, along with all the expense that involved. Pets were props, I declared, for emotionally needy people.

  The moment Violet gazed at me with her adoring brown eyes, wagged her stubby tail, and licked my outstretched hand, I understood what all the fuss is about.

  One benefit of having a dog, I’d learned, is that long walks are a great way to get some thinking done. When I got home from Leslie’s, I abandoned the idea of going for a swim and instead laid out the things I’d need for my delayed Sunday breakfast and took Violet for a long walk.

  While she sniffed under bushes, ran ahead as far as the leash would allow, or tried to dash across the street to greet a Jack Russell straining at his own leash, I thought about what Leslie had told me. Originally, I’d dismissed the idea that Nigel might have thrown himself off the cliff. He hadn’t seemed the suicidal type—whatever type that might be. But now I was reconsidering. He’d drunk far too much, and Leslie had left him sad and dejected, bemoaning his lot in life. Had he decided to end it all in a spectacular leap off the cliff to the rocky shore below?

  Possible.

  I couldn’t take this new theory to the police. According to what Leslie had told them, she and Nigel had a pleasant chat about the good old days, and he’d carried cheerfully on his way when she went back to the house. If I told them that wasn’t true, I’d have to say why I knew and then I’d break Leslie’s confidence.

  I wasn’t prepared to do that.

  Not yet, anyway.

  My phone rang as Violet and I were turning into our driveway. When I saw the caller was Jayne, my heart fell, fearing that the police had arrested her mum properly this time. “What’s happened now?”

  “Happened? Nothing’s happened. Nothing new, anyway.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Glad to hear it. What’s up?”

  “Are you at home?”

  “I’m back from walking Violet and looking forward to the breakfast I didn’t get as I had to run out in such a hurry.” Sausages, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, and toast and marmalade. Yummy. In a nod to healthy eating, the sausages were turkey, not pork; the eggs would be scrambled, not fried; the bread would be out of the toaster, not soaked in melted fat; and the tomatoes and mushrooms would be lightly sautéed in olive oil. But it was still a proper English breakfast, and it was my occasional Sunday indulgence.

  “I need you to go around to Rebecca’s house,” Jayne said.

  “Why?”

  “Estrada called to tell me they’re finished there, and they aren’t going to have my serving dishes and teapots forensically examined, so I can have them back. She said other witnesses also testified that Nigel didn’t eat or drink anything specially prepared or served to him. Thank heavens for that. I bet you forgot you were going to bring your own teapots in for me, hadn’t you?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “They’re by the door, ready to go.”

  “We can’t have the Holmes dish sets unfortunately. As Nigel was specifically given one of those, they’re still at the lab awaiting forensic examination. I hate to think about whatever chemicals they use being spread all over my plates and teacups.”

  Time was rapidly passing. As it was, I had barely enough time to cook my lovely breakfast and relax over it and the British papers online before dressing for work and heading into town to open the shop. “Can’t you go and get them after the tea room closes?”

  “I don’t want to leave my things there any longer. You have a car. It’s just after ten, so you have time before work.”

  I let myself into the kitchen. Violet made a beeline for her water bowl while I studied the breakfast preparations. The sausage was laid out on the counter next to two extra-large eggs; a thick, ripe red tomato; and a handful of plump white mushrooms. The bread was the heel of a crusty baguette, made by Jayne herself.

  “Thanks for taking Mom home,” Jayne said. “It was upsetting to both of us, and I don’t know why they had to make such a big show of it, but at least that’s over an
d done with. Estrada said she still wants to talk to me. I said I was busy, but I could find a few minutes after the lunch rush if she didn’t mind talking in the kitchen. When are they going to interview you?”

  I hesitated. That no one had called saying they wanted to talk to me was, I thought, not a good sign. “What time are you meeting with Estrada?”

  “One thirty.”

  “I want to be there. Don’t start without me, no matter what she says.” I intended to be early, in case Estrada tried to pull a fast one and get Jayne alone.

  “Okay. See you later.” She hung up, not having given me a chance to tell her I wasn’t going to pick up her dishes.

  I put the sausage and eggs back in the fridge, and then jumped into the shower and dressed for work. If I got talking to Rebecca, I’d not have time to come home before opening the store.

  At the big house overlooking the sea, I parked by the kitchen door. I rang the bell. I hadn’t seen any cars in the driveway, but the garage doors were all closed. I tapped my foot and rang again. The tinny sound of the bell echoed back at me. I was about to go around to the front when the door opened.

  “Sorry,” Rebecca said. “After all these years I still can’t tell the ring of one bell from the other in this house. I assume Jayne sent you to get the last of your things.” She was dressed in the summer uniform of a wealthy Cape Cod matron. White capris, blue-and-white striped T-shirt, loads of gold jewelry. Her feet were bare and her toes painted a soft pink.

  She stepped back and waved me inside. Before leaving yesterday, we’d returned the kitchen to its immaculate (and apparently never used) state. Our boxes were stacked by the door where I’d left them. Other than that, the only sign of human habitation was a small container of fat-free milk sitting on the counter beside the coffeemaker. Catching sight of the left-out milk, Rebecca hurried to put it away. In the cavernous depths of the fridge, I glimpsed three-quarters of a pizza, wrapped in plastic wrap, all alone on a shelf.

  “You have a lovely home,” I said politely. “I hope you don’t mind, but I noticed some beautiful glass art yesterday when I was hunting for the loo. Chihuly?”

  She smiled. “Do you know Dale’s work?”

  Dale. As though the two of them were great mates or something. Then again, maybe they were. “I know of it. I’ve been to the Chihuly Center in Florida. Gorgeous stuff.”

  “Would you like a quick tour?”

  “If you have the time, that would be great,” I said, as though I hadn’t engineered the invitation myself. I didn’t know what I hoped to find in Rebecca’s house. Nothing probably. But it never hurt to have a look around the vicinity of a crime scene in case the police had missed something.

  She led the way out of the kitchen and into the family room. Her home was beautiful, the furnishings and decorations expensive, the taste exquisite, the views unbeatable, but the never-lived-in look made it cold and impersonal.

  We went into the library and stood for a few moments, not speaking, simply admiring the blue-and-green chandelier. “It’s like living light,” I said.

  She beamed. “Exactly. I have another in the main hall. It’s bigger, but I think I like this one the best. It’s the ocean, brought indoors. My late husband bought the first few pieces, and since his death, I’ve been fortunate enough to acquire more. As you know, Dale works large. Large and flamboyant, like the man himself. Most of his art is enormous, but he does occasionally create some smaller objects. Like this . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  We were standing in front of the display case. The large bowl I’d admired yesterday, the one resembling the inside of a sea shell, was still there. It’s much smaller companion was not. Nor were the two glass “kisses.”

  Rebecca’s face was a study in shock.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “That one of the guests picked them up to admire and put them back in the wrong place.” A quick glance told me that was unlikely to be the case. Everything in this room, probably everything in Rebecca’s life, was a picture of order. The books were in a straight line on the shelves, filed in alphabetical order by author name, the rugs perfectly parallel to the walls, the log in the fireplace placed dead center. I checked anyway. I opened cabinets, finding only lead crystal glasses, decanters, and liquor bottles; writing paper, pens, and envelopes; and an iPad in a purple leather cover. No misplaced glass bowl or whimsical ornaments.

  Rebecca dropped into one of the wingback chairs. “It’s been stolen.”

  “A smaller version of that bowl and two glass pieces in the shape of chocolate kisses. I noticed them yesterday.”

  She nodded. “Can you pour me a drink, please, Gemma? There’s whisky in that cabinet. My late husband always said a good dram would calm one’s nerves.”

  I took out the bottle of Laphroaig and one heavy crystal glass and poured. “Ice? Water?”

  “A drop of water brings out the flavor,” she said. “Thank you.”

  I trotted into the kitchen and poured water directly from the tap. I didn’t like leaving her before I’d had time to search the room, but I didn’t see that I could refuse the woman a drop of water. When I got back, she was sitting exactly as I’d left her. I handed her the glass, and she twisted it in her perfectly manicured fingers, studying the smoky depths.

  “Is anything else missing?” I asked.

  “Not that I can see. Not in this room, anyway. We’ll have to search the house. I have some nice pieces in the living room.”

  “The iPad wasn’t taken.”

  “Perhaps the thief only had an eye for art.” She groaned and sipped her drink. “I can’t believe that I opened my house for charity, and someone came in and stole from me.”

  “It might turn up,” I said, although I didn’t believe it.

  Rebecca tossed the contents of her glass down her throat, and then put it onto the table beside her with a solid thud. She stood up. “Call the police. I’m going to check the rest of the house.”

  I didn’t call 9-1-1 but instead punched in a very familiar number.

  “Gemma. This is a surprise,” Ryan said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m at the Stanton home, and it appears as though there’s been a robbery.” I trotted after Rebecca as I talked. “You’d better come over. I know you’re busy with the Bellingham death, but if this happened yesterday during the tea, it might be connected.”

  To Ryan’s credit, he never said, “Are you sure?”

  “On my way,” he said. He also didn’t bother to tell me not to touch anything. First of all, that wasn’t necessary, and second, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d touch what I wanted to touch, thank you very much, and I wouldn’t touch anything else. He knew that too.

  We walked quickly through the dining room, which accessed the kitchen via another door, down the hallway, and into the living room. My taste agreed with Rebecca’s. As lovely as the red-and-gold Chihuly chandelier in the front hall was, it wasn’t as beautiful as the smaller one in the library. The paintings on the walls, soft watercolors of ocean views mostly, looked original and expensive. They hung as straight as though they were measured with a plumb line every morning, and there were no gaping spaces with a nail in the center indicating that anything had been taken. A tiny bronze statue of a woman resting on a garden bench with her book sat on a table by the front door. It was small enough to fit into a handbag, and I found it significant that it hadn’t been pinched. Either the thief hadn’t gotten this far into the house or they were only interested in Chihuly.

  Rebecca stood in the middle of the living room—decorated in feminine shades of cream with gold accents—looking around. I’d thrust my hands into my pockets as soon as we left the library. I hadn’t been in any of the other rooms yesterday, and I didn’t want to risk leaving fresh fingerprints.

  I read Rebecca’s face. “Nothing’s been taken.”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Did you see the missing pieces after the party?”

  “I can’t say I noticed. I was tired by
the time the last of the guests and the police finally left. If you hadn’t asked to see them, it might have been a few days before I realized they were missing. I don’t go into the library often. It was more Ron’s room.”

  “Did you have any visitors after we all left yesterday?”

  “No. I ordered a pizza for dinner, but I met the deliveryman at the door.”

  “Did your maid come in this morning? It looks as though the house has been cleaned after the party.” We’d tidied the kitchen but not the rest of the house.

  She gave me a look. “She doesn’t come on Sundays. And I don’t see that the house is any cleaner than normal.”

  It was a heck of a lot cleaner than was normal in my house. Rebecca herself was the neat-freak and not inclined to let things go until the hired help could take care of it. I didn’t think that information would prove useful, but I filed it away just in case.

  “How much would you say the missing pieces are worth?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t care about the value, Gemma. They were important to me.”

  “You might not care, but the police will. And the thief certainly did.”

  “The two bowls are a set. Twenty thousand.” She waved her hand in the air. I swallowed. “Or thereabouts. I suspect the value of the smaller one will be diminished considerably if it’s not part of the set. The kisses? Around ten each.”

  “Ten thousand dollars for those little things. Wow.”

  She gave me a strained smile. “Ten dollars, Gemma, not ten thousand. They’re not by Dale. I bought them because I like them. I used to have four, but I gave two to my sister’s girls when they admired them.”

  “It’s possible that our thief, if there was a thief, didn’t know that. Or he or she took them because, like you, he fancied them.”