by Vicki Delany
The large living room windows faced the driveway. Something moved, and I pulled back the sheer drapes to see a WLPD car pull up outside.
Rebecca met them at the door. Ryan had brought Detective Estrada. She did not look pleased to see me standing behind Rebecca.
Fair enough—I wasn’t pleased to see her either.
“What are you doing here?” Estrada said to me.
“I came to pick up our dishes, and Rebecca was kind enough to offer me a tour of her art collection,” I said pleasantly. “It was only then Rebecca noticed some pieces seem to have gone missing.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Ryan said. Estrada said nothing.
“This way, please.” Rebecca led the way through the house to the library. She pointed dramatically to the empty space on the display cabinet. There wasn’t so much as an outline of dust to show where the missing pieces had sat.
Rebecca told the police what was missing and that we’d done a brief search of the room.
“You’re sure the small bowl and the little ornaments were here yesterday before the tea guests arrived?” Ryan asked.
“I saw them myself,” I said.
“Is that so?” Estrada muttered. “What a coincidence.”
“Nothing odd about it.” I tried not to get my back up. “I admired the house and took a moment to have a peek. I love classic libraries like this one. The chandelier caught my attention, and then I noticed the glass sculptures.”
“How much other admiring and noticing did you do?” Estrada asked.
“None. I had a job to do. I went back to it. I shouldn’t have to point out to you, Detective, but I will, that if I had stolen the pieces, it is highly unlikely I would bring their absence to Rebecca’s attention.”
“Wouldn’t put something like that past you,” she said, “to throw us off the scent.”
I looked at Ryan. Too clever by half, he’d once called me.
“I’ll agree,” he said, “that that’s highly unlikely.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t help throwing a glance at Estrada. I might have even smirked. Probably not a good idea.
“We’ll send some fingerprint techs around,” Ryan said. “I’ll have to ask you to stay out of this room until they’re done.”
I held up my hands. “I’ve already admitted to being in here. I might have touched the bowl yesterday, and I lifted things up and opened cabinet drawers when we were searching. I poured Rebecca a drink at her request.” I pointed to the bottle of Laphroaig and the glass sitting on a side table.
“Convenient.” Estrada returned my smirk.
“Make the call, Detective,” Ryan said. “Did you have any security here yesterday, Mrs. Stanton? While the party was going on?”
She shook her head. Not a hair moved. “I never thought . . . I’ve hosted a handful of garden parties over the years . . . I mean, these people, most of them, are my friends. Respectable members of the community. Not the sort to . . .”
“Exactly the sort to drop valuable and rare pieces of art casually into their bag,” I said. “Your average street thief would have gone for electronics and jewelry. Did you check your jewelry this morning?”
She instinctively touched the gold hoops in her ears. “I noticed nothing missing. I would have, I assure you, when I got dressed. My jewelry boxes are well organized, as are my closets. I saw no signs of an intruder being upstairs.”
“So anyone at the party could have come in,” Estrada said.
“The doors were not locked. People were welcome to use the powder room.”
“Which is conveniently located right next to this room,” I said.
“Gemma’s right,” Ryan said. “This is unlikely to be the work of anyone whose fingerprints are on file. But you never know. Someone might have a history of kleptomania.”
“You think that’s all it is?” I asked. “A loose-fingered art collector?”
“If so, it doesn’t have anything to do with death of Bellingham,” Estrada said. “This could have been handled by a patrol officer. Are we finished here, Detective Ashburton?”
I refrained from pointing out to the good detective that “it is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment.” Without examining the available evidence, or waiting for more to come in, Louise Estrada had decided the theft had nothing to do with the death of Nigel Bellingham. From this point on, she would be biased against any evidence that pointed otherwise.
Fortunately, Ryan wasn’t in such a rush. “You said the bowl that was stolen was identical to this one?” He pointed to the remaining piece.
“Yes,” I said, “but much smaller. Clearly the thief didn’t take the larger one because it wouldn’t have fit into their bag, and they couldn’t openly march out with it.” I thought back to yesterday. Had I seen any good-sized bags? A few women had tote bags, but most carried tiny purses. Renee’s bag had been large enough to conceal the bigger bowl as well as the smaller. Then again, of course, there were all the kitchen supplies. Easy enough to slip the pieces into a catering box and retrieve them later, although that had its own risks, as anyone might have gone into the box looking for something or to put something away.
Most of the men at the party were older, not the sort to carry a man-bag. But two had. The chap with the pink shorts and his hair in a bun had a small brown bag thrown over his shoulder, and Gerald carried his ever-present leather satchel. Mentally, I zoomed in on the satchel. When he and Nigel arrived, the satchel had been flat, as though it contained nothing larger than a few pieces of paper. But later, when he’d fussed over Nigel after the disastrous reading? Yes, it had a slight bulge.
“Gerald Greene carries a good-sized leather bag,” I said. “Yesterday, after the discovery of Sir Nigel’s body, when I came back to the house, he was coming around the corner of the house. He said he’d been on the phone with his mother in England for a long time. Did you think to ask him about his whereabouts after the tea, Detective?”
“We did. He said nothing about any phone call, just that he hadn’t seen his boss for some time. Not since the tea ended. I’ll check into that; thanks, Gemma. We have his number.” Ryan snapped a picture of the remaining bowl with his own phone. “Were these insured, Mrs. Stanton?”
“They were. The insurance company has photos of all the valuable pieces. The kisses weren’t at all valuable, so I don’t have any pictures of them.”
“They’re an inch and a half tall. One is clear glass with swirls of white in the interior and gold sparkles and the other blue-green with traces of white.”
“You remember them very well, Gemma,” Estrada said.
“That would be because I admired them, as I believe I said previously.”
Ryan put his phone away. “If you notice anything else missing, Mrs. Stanton, give me a call. In the meantime, stay out of this room and don’t move anything until our people have finished.”
“Thank you, Detectives,” Rebecca said.
“I’ll get what I came for and be on my way,” I said. “I can see myself out.”
I went into the kitchen, ran out the back door, and dashed around the house. I was hiding in the perfectly sculpted shrubbery when the front door opened and Ryan and Estrada came out. They said good-bye to Rebecca. She shut the door, and the police walked to their car. Ryan put on his sunglasses. Estrada said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, wasting valuable time on a petty theft. I keep telling you, Leslie Wilson is hiding something. We need to hit her and hit her hard. She’ll crumble like a dry cookie. You’ve been told before to stay away from that interfering English woman. I don’t know why you can’t see . . .” She got into the car, slammed the door shut, and I heard no more.
Chapter 9
Running a business interferes with one’s detective work. Not that I am a detective, nor do I want to be one, but sometimes it seems that I can’t help myself.
Today, however, I had nothing to do on that front until the evening, so I tried to focus my attention
on the store.
By the time the police had driven away and I crept out of the bushes—picking twigs out of my hair—gone back for Jayne’s things, loaded them into the car, drove into town, and unloaded the box, it was twelve thirty. Late for opening.
Moriarty greeted me with his customary hiss and display of sharp little teeth. “And top o’ the mornin’ to you too,” I said. He arched his back and spat. I am the hand that feeds him, after all, but that doesn’t stop him from open displays of hostility.
As I’d unlocked the front door, I’d spotted Maureen across the street, checking her watch. I had no doubt this minor infraction would be reported to the Baker Street Business Improvement Association with the same seriousness as though I’d been discovered dealing drugs out the back door. Someone else who didn’t like me. I was surrounded by enemies.
Maybe not entirely surrounded. The first customer through the door had been in only yesterday and bought the two Anthony Horowitz novels. “My brother was so thrilled with his gift,” she said. “I told him I’d rush right over and get him more.” She was in her fifties, bright and perky and cheerfully plump with sparkling eyes and an enormous smile. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, drooping on one side, red Bermuda shorts, and a garish T-shirt covered in pink flowers. “But first, where is that adorable cat? There you are, you sweet thing.” She scooped Moriarty up in her arms. If I tried that, he’d have me calling for an ambulance. He purred and licked her hand. She fussed for a few minutes and then carefully put him down.
“What sort of book are you thinking of?” I asked. “Another contemporary or maybe the original Conan Doyle books, if he hasn’t read them?”
“He’s always been a big Holmes fan,” she said. “He has a set of the originals. He hasn’t had time over the past years to read much, but he’s laid up right now and thus has all the time in the world to read.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, meaning the laid-up part, not the reading part.
She laughed. “Foolish man. He fell off the roof last week when he was cleaning the gutters. His wife told him to hire someone to do it, but would he listen? Oh, no. Not my brother. He knows it all. Except how to safely position a ladder, it would appear. Anyway, he loved House of Silk, so I’m looking for something similar. All these years of exchanging birthday and Christmas gifts that he never used, and at last I’ve hit a gold mine.”
I walked her to the shelf, and we chatted while she browsed. She eventually left with Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar after giving a preening Moriarty a departing scratch.
“You’ve earned your day’s kibble,” I said to him. He lifted his tail and stalked back to his bed.
The next person through the doors was one of the town’s well-known busybodies. I knew her by reputation—via Great Uncle Arthur—as she’d never darkened the door of the Emporium before. She snapped up a copy of The Sign of the Four, narrated by Sir Nigel Bellingham.
“Holmes fan, are you?” I said as I rang up the purchase.
“I’d love to have time to read more, Emma, dear.”
“Gemma.”
“But I’m so busy with my charities and other activities. I never can find the time to sit down and relax and indulge myself. It’s like a curse. Everyone tells me that at my time of life, I can afford to take it easier, but I simply can’t disappoint anyone. How is your dear uncle? I haven’t seen him around for some time. I was so sorry when he dropped out of the bridge club. We can always use a man around, you know.”
Among the ninth and tenth decade crowd, Uncle Arthur is a much sought-after commodity—a single man in full possession of his faculties. All of his faculties, he liked to hint on occasion. I pretended not to understand what he meant.
“Audiobooks are great for busy people such as yourself.” I gestured toward her purchase. “You can listen when you’re in the car. You’ll enjoy this one. Sir Nigel does a good job.”
“Heavens, Emma. I have no interest in popular fiction. When I do find time to read, I only read works of literature. I’m hoping this’ll be worth something on eBay. Not only is the narrator dead, but he signed it himself. Have a nice day. Tell Arthur I was asking after him.” She sailed out.
She did have a point. I studied the remaining audiobooks. I took one into the back for myself. Just in case.
Ashleigh arrived to start work at one. Today, she was dressed all in black. Black jeans, black jacket, black boots, black T-shirt. “The whole town is talking about nothing else but yesterday’s tea and Mr. Bellingham’s death. Gosh, I wish I’d been there. It must have been so exciting. Like something out of CSI.”
“Not really. Most police work is extremely boring. Waiting around for the police to finish whatever they’re doing and give you permission to leave is even more boring.”
“I suppose you’d know. You’ve been involved in police cases before.”
“Never when I can help it. I have to pop next door for a while. If you need something, give me a shout.”
I went to Mrs. Hudson’s. By now, I was starving. I hadn’t had anything today except a cup of tea—that I didn’t want and didn’t finish—at Leslie’s house. I thought sadly of my abandoned Sunday full English breakfast. Every table in the tea room was taken, and people were lined up out the door and down the sidewalk. Mrs. Hudson’s serves takeout coffee and baked goods all day, breakfast between seven and eleven, lunch from eleven until two, and afternoon tea from one until closing at four. I tried not to breathe in the enticing scents of bubbling hot butternut squash soup, warm bread, sugared pastries, and melting chocolate as I headed for the kitchen. I failed.
Jocelyn was preparing the chicken salad filling for tea sandwiches, and Jayne was taking a tray of raspberry tarts out of the oven. I grabbed a piece of shortbread and stuffed it into my mouth. “Hey,” Jayne said, “I need that.”
“I am beyond hungry. I left home at the crack of dawn to help you and your mum, then I missed breakfast because you wanted me to go to Rebecca’s, and now I’m going to miss lunch because you made an appointment with the police for one thirty.”
“I didn’t ask you to sit in when I talk to Estrada.”
“Irrelevant,” I said.
Jayne passed me a bowl full of fresh greens, purple and yellow cherry tomatoes, dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, and crumbled feta cheese, topped with the tea room’s homemade (and justifiably famous) raspberry vinaigrette dressing. “Eat. I don’t want another dead body lying around. Yesterday was enough.”
I ate. As I did so, I asked if they’d heard anything more.
“The gossip mill is in full flight,” Jocelyn said. “Everyone has a theory.”
Jayne handed Jocelyn a tray of muffins. “Will you take this out front, please?”
“Last time I looked, we didn’t need them yet.”
“Please,” she said.
Jocelyn raised her eyebrows toward me but did as she was told.
“I called Mom earlier,” Jayne said as the door swung behind Jocelyn, “to check in. She’s pretty shaken up. I said I’d take the rest of the day off and come around to be with her, but she said she wanted to be alone.”
“It’s an upsetting business. Did anything happen since I left her?”
“I don’t think so, but she told me the police took away the clothes she was wearing yesterday.”
Not good. “Seems a stretch to me. Nigel wasn’t knifed or anything like that. There would be no blood spatter to search for.”
“Can they get fingerprints or DNA off fabric?”
“Sometimes. Depending on the type of cloth. The killer’s more likely to have left traces on Nigel, if he was pushed, rather than the other way around.” They were looking for signs of a struggle. Had Nigel grabbed his assailant in an attempt to keep his balance? Had they fought, a la the Reichenbach Falls, at the edge of the cliff? Although in this case, only one person went over.
That they had not asked me or, as far as I knew, anyone else for their clothes meant they were closing in on Leslie. I r
emembered what Estrada had said as they left Rebecca’s home. Hit her and hit her hard.
“I don’t think that’s normal procedure,” Jayne said, “to take someone’s clothes, I mean. Estrada’s coming here to see me. She didn’t send someone around to bring me down to the police station. I can’t understand why they’re so interested in Mom. Did she tell you anything when you took her home, Gemma?”
“She was seen talking to Sir Nigel shortly before he died.”
“So? Lots of people talked to him. It was why he was there, to meet fans and encourage them to support the festival. Mom loves theater. It’s natural enough that she’d want to chat with him if she got the chance. There has to be more than that!”
“You’d better ask her yourself, Jayne.”
“Ask her what?”
“Have a talk. That’s all I’m saying. In the meantime, I agree with you. Their interest in your mum seems more than routine. Something else of interest happened today.” I told her about the theft at Rebecca’s home.
“You think that’s related to the murder of Nigel?”
“I don’t think the idea should be dismissed out of hand. Coincidences happen, but sometimes they’re not coincidences.”
“What are you going to do?”
Jocelyn was taking a long time to lay out half a dozen muffins. I stepped firmly on the loose floorboard between the counter on which I was leaning and the door. I was rewarded by the scurry of rapidly retreating footsteps. “Me? It seems that, against my will, I’m drawn into this. I have an idea, but this isn’t the place to discuss it. Be ready at seven o’clock tonight for an outing.”
“I’m having dinner with Eddie.”
“Cancel on him. Wear dark clothes.”
“Not again!” Jayne cried.
* * *
I went to the Emporium and found the object I needed in a drawer beneath the cash counter. I then hid in the restroom to make a quick phone call. When I got back, Detective Estrada was being shown into the kitchen by a wide-eyed Fiona.
