The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “I hope this won’t take long, Detective,” I said. “As you can see we’re very busy.”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes. I don’t recall inviting you to this interview.”

  I pulled up a stool. “I don’t mind. Save you the trouble of having to hunt me down.”

  Jocelyn was also allowed to stay, while Fiona attempted to run the busy tea room by herself.

  Estrada leaned against the counter and took out a pen and small notebook. She began with routine questions. Had we seen anyone acting suspiciously? (I refrained from asking what that meant.) Had we noticed Sir Nigel Bellingham arguing with anyone? (Other than getting falling-down drunk and offending almost everyone there, no.) Did we know of anyone who might have a reason to wish Nigel harm? Jayne said no; Jocelyn shook her head. I mentioned that he was ruining Rebecca’s party, threatening to turn Pat’s play into a farce, standing in the way of Eddie getting the lead role, had publically insulted Renee, and appeared to make a habit of sneering at and belittling Gerald. I’d observed all that having only met the dratted man twice.

  “Quite a list of suspects you’ve given me,” Estrada said. “Everyone else is saying he was a charming man, dedicated to the success of the festival, who simply had one drink too many on top of a serious case of jet lag.”

  “For some reason, it’s become expected not to speak ill of the dead,” I said. “I think that’s foolish in a murder case, and I suspect you agree, Detective.”

  “We’re not yet convinced that this is a murder,” she said. “We’re still investigating the situation.”

  “Not a murder?” Jocelyn said. “You mean it might have been an accident or something?”

  “Possible. The man was highly inebriated—that is not in dispute. So far no one has come forward to say they went with him to the cliff’s edge.”

  “Suicide?” I said. “He was drunk, as you say, and depressed.”

  She studied my face. “No one has reported him as being depressed.”

  “That would be because they are not coming to the logical conclusion. He ruined his performance in front of people paying two hundred bucks a shot to see him and was stood up by a much younger man. Actors are emotional creatures. It comes with the job. He was a big star once, knighted by the Queen. These days, he’s reduced to performing in a barn in West London, Massachusetts, and appears to be unable to manage even that. After being unceremoniously shoved offstage at the tea, did he despair of the downward spiral and decide to end it all?”

  “I bet that’s it,” Jocelyn said. “Poor old guy.”

  I got to my feet. “If we’re done here, we’ve all got work to do.”

  I’d attempted to distract Estrada from what I feared was her line of inquiry. In that, I failed also. “Your mother told us she was an actress at one time,” Estrada said to Jayne. “Is she the emotional type, as Gemma calls them?”

  Jayne blinked. “My mom? She’s no more emotional than anyone else, I’d say.” She gave a tight laugh. “When we were kids, she could get mighty angry at my dad, and then she had a mean arm with the crockery.”

  “Jayne!” I said. “Don’t make jokes.”

  The color drained from Jayne’s face. She had been trying to lighten the mood and instead played straight into Estrada’s hand. “I didn’t mean she throws things at people. She . . .”

  “You seem to have a lot of questions about Mrs. Wilson, Detective,” I said. “Any reason for that?”

  “Do you expect me to tell you, Ms. Doyle?”

  No. But I had gotten Jayne to stop talking.

  “Did your mother ever mention Nigel Bellingham prior to this week?” Estrada asked.

  “Not that I can remember.” Some of the color came back to Jayne’s cheeks, and anyone could see she was telling the truth. Estrada asked if Leslie Wilson had been particularly excited when she heard the news that Nigel Bellingham would be coming to West London.

  “She was pleased that the play was going ahead and that they’d scored a famous actor to be in it,” Jayne said. “The entire theater group was over the moon. The Hound of the Baskervilles will be their centerpiece this season.”

  At last, Estrada put away her notebook. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Wilson. I’ll be in touch if I need anything more.” She left.

  The three of us didn’t say a word. I let a minute or two pass, and then I tiptoed to the door and checked behind it. Louise Estrada did not have her ear pressed up against the wall.

  “She didn’t thank me for my time,” Jocelyn said, “or Gemma either. Did anyone else think some of her questions were weird?”

  “I think Fiona is overwhelmed out there,” I said. “Go and give her a hand. The food orders must be backed up for miles.”

  “No one will mind if she tells the customers we’re helping the police with their inquiries.”

  “I don’t think that phrase means what you think it means,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “It doesn’t mean you’re helping the police with their inquiries in an attempt to be a responsible citizen. It means you’re being questioned as a suspect and about to be arrested.”

  “Oh.” She grabbed a fresh apron from the hook by the door and left the kitchen.

  “Jocelyn’s been watching too many British TV shows on Netflix,” I said to Jayne.

  “Why does Estrada want to know so much about my mom?”

  “I can’t say, Jayne. Talk to her. I’ll pick you up at your place at five to seven on the dot.”

  “I still don’t know where we’re going.”

  “You will in due course.”

  * * *

  I wasn’t convinced that the theft from Rebecca’s house had anything to do with the death of Nigel, but right now it was the only lead I had. If a party guest had nicked the little ornaments, it was highly unlikely they did it intending to sell them. The bowl was the smaller half of a set, and the imitation kisses were not by Dale Chihuly. If they were valuable, not every common or garden thief would know how to unload highly identifiable (and heavily insured) art. This type of theft was more likely to be, as Ryan had said, done by a kleptomaniac. Someone who stole simply for the sake of it with no desire to profit from the theft. That sort of person, particularly in the rarified world of theater festivals and garden parties, would have a great deal to lose if they should be discovered.

  Someone like Gerald Greene with his convenient and large, ever-present leather satchel.

  The bookstore closes at five on Sundays, giving me time to go home and take Violet for long walk. Back home, I changed into black trousers with numerous spacious pockets and a dark-gray T-shirt. I slipped a navy jumper over the shirt and put on a pair of trainers—what Americans call sneakers. The trainers were from a midrange, mass-produced line and bought at Walmart. Impossible to trace if I did get sloppy and leave footprints behind me. I slipped the necessary supplies into my pockets.

  Violet lay on the bed, her face resting between her paws, watching me.

  “What?” I said. “You didn’t know a good break-and-enter outfit is what every modern girl needs in her wardrobe?”

  I was hoping I wouldn’t need Great Uncle Arthur’s set of lockpicks tonight. I’d recently lost them.

  Actually, I hadn’t lost them. I knew exactly where they were: in the police station. Ryan Ashburton had confiscated them.

  I arrived at Jayne’s at five to seven. Good thing I’d thrown a pair of sweat pants and a black cardigan into the back. Her idea of dressing in dark clothes was a red T-shirt and beige shorts.

  “Now are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she said by way of a greeting.

  “The Harbor Inn. It’s the dinner hour.”

  “We’re having dinner at the Harbor Inn? That’s nice, but I wish you’d told me. I would have worn something more suitable.”

  “I brought you suitable attire.” I gestured to the back of the car. “Put those on.”

  She reached around and found the clothes. “Tell me you’re kidding, Gem
ma.”

  “I have reason to believe Gerald Greene might have stolen the pieces from Rebecca’s house. I’m going to check.”

  “Anyone else would tell the police and let them check.”

  “Anyone else wouldn’t have Estrada on their case.”

  “Tell Ryan then.”

  “I can’t, Jayne. Not yet. Estrada is looking for a reason, any reason, to have Ryan removed from the case, like she did with the Longton murder. Ryan and I are no longer an item . . .”

  “Although you should be,” Jayne said.

  I ignored that. “To her that’s irrelevant. She wants his job. Any suggestion that he’s unduly influenced by me will be ammunition in her gun belt. I can’t take suspicions to Ryan, only facts. You know what our police chief is like. All he wants in life is for everyone to get along—he should have been a kindergarten teacher. He would have greatly enjoyed writing ‘plays well with others’ on their report cards. If he has to demote or fire Ryan to stop Estrada from complaining, he will. Therefore, tonight, ‘I shall be my own police.’”

  “I sense a Sherlock quote.”

  “‘The Five Orange Pips.’”

  “Don’t think I know that one. Is it . . . ? Why are we talking about Sherlock Holmes, anyway? By check, I gather you mean we’re breaking into Gerald’s hotel room and searching his things. I assume you know that’s a crime, so I won’t mention it, but I have to ask why we’re doing it when it’s still daylight and how you know he won’t be there.”

  “He won’t be there because he’s expecting me to meet him for a drink at McGillivray’s Irish Pub right about now. He left me his business card the day they came into the Emporium, and I gave him a call this afternoon while we were waiting for Estrada. It’s the same reason we’re doing this at seven o’clock rather than in the middle of the night. The inn will be busy serving dinner, and most, if not all, of their guests will have gone out on such a lovely evening. I don’t know the man’s sleeping habits, and I most certainly do not want to find out, so I can’t break in after dark.”

  Jayne groaned. “How do you talk me into these things?”

  “Fear not. You won’t be doing anything illegal. All you’ll be doing is standing guard.”

  “I think that’s illegal, Gemma.”

  I pulled into the driveway of the Harbor Inn. It’s one of the nicest hotels in West London, a grand old Victorian mansion saved from demolition by a young couple determined to turn it into a successful business. Tonight, the parking lot was almost full, and I parked the Miata between two giant SUVs. I didn’t bother to hide my car. If Gerald caught us, the game would be up, and if he didn’t, no one would be checking who’d been visiting the hotel tonight.

  “I’ll admit,” I said. “This would be easier in December, under cover of darkness, but I’m counting on everyone minding their own business. People on vacation are usually too busy enjoying themselves to bother about what other people are up to, and the staff will be hopping.”

  We got out of the car. Jayne took a step toward the entrance.

  “Not that way,” I said. “They won’t tell me his room number, and even if they did, I don’t want it on record that I asked.”

  “Then how do you expect to find it? We’re not peering into every window, I hope. Suppose it’s on the second floor.”

  I headed for the west side of the inn. The lobby and comfortable lounge face the ocean to the east. In the summer weather, like tonight, the restaurant extends onto the veranda giving a magnificent view down the hill to the harbor.

  To the west of the building, the hillside crowds the house; a thick hedge provides privacy from the property next door, and the farthest wing of the inn faces a patch of woods.

  “After the renovations were completed, Andrea and Brian hosted an open house,” I said. “That was three years ago, before you came back to West London. Canapés and champagne and a woman playing the harp in the lobby. She was excellent, I remember, although the champagne was on the cheap side. We were given a grand tour of the place. I was most impressed. The inn isn’t large, so it has only one suite. It’s on the first floor, meaning the one above the ground floor—which as long as I am in America, I must remember to call the second floor—at the far corner of the house. Two balconies, one facing east overlooking the ocean and a smaller one adjacent to a grove of old hardwood trees to the north. That would be the room they gave Sir Nigel. I’ve been told Gerald has an adjoining room. It’s highly unlikely the theater people paid the extra one hundred and twenty five dollars a night to give Gerald a sea view with spacious balcony, so it’s elementary to conclude that that one must be his.” I pointed.

  “Very clever. How are you going to get up there?”

  “You might notice that they’ve allowed that maple tree to grow a branch too close to the upper floor windows.”

  “You can’t possibly tell me you remembered the position of that tree from a quick peek three years ago and deduced how much the branch would have grown in the interim.”

  “Nothing so complicated. At this spot, the woods edge close to the house. Owning and running a business like this requires an enormous amount of work. Andrea and Brian put every cent they have into this place and took out loans for the rest. They watch their pennies and do as much of the work themselves as they can to cut down expenditures. I hoped Brian wouldn’t have taken the time to clear the trees until it was absolutely necessary; that’s all.”

  I studied the upper floor. What I suspected was Gerald’s room had a small balcony. It was so small, it was more a decoration than a place to sit out and enjoy the fresh air. I felt a small grin cross my face. He’d left the sliding door open to catch the soft evening sea breeze. If I wasn’t such a suspicious sort, that’s exactly what I would have done had this been my room. He might have locked the screen door, but I hoped that wasn’t the case. I felt the wire cutters in my pocket. If I had to, I’d slit the screen where it met the doorframe and count on Gerald not noticing. I’d later send Brian and Andrea enough cash to cover the damage, along with an anonymous note (the letters cut out of a Boston newspaper) advising them to trim the trees back.

  I pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of my pocket.

  “This is a strange time to take up smoking,” Jayne said.

  “They’re for you. If someone comes by, pretend you sneaked out for a smoke. If you have to take a drag, don’t leave the butt on the ground.” I handed them to her.

  “I have no intention of taking a drag, as you put it.”

  “Good. A used and discarded cigarette can carry DNA. Don’t worry about dropping ash though. In the highly unlikely event the police investigate this, everyone knows you and I don’t smoke. All I need you to do is stand here with your cigarette and look innocent. If anyone comes by, say hello in a strong but not overly loud voice, so I’ll know not to come down at that particular moment. If you have reason to believe someone is showing undue interest in what’s going on, cough and say that you have to give up smoking one day. That will tell me not to come down by the tree but to walk out the door.”

  “Have you ever considered going into a life of crime yourself, Gemma? You’d be good at it.”

  “Unfortunately, I was cursed with a conscience.” I pulled a pair of blue latex gloves out of another pocket and slipped them on. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I haven’t climbed a tree since I was eleven or twelve, playing with my siblings in the abandoned apple orchard behind my grandparents’ country home in Suffolk. But like riding a bicycle, it’s a skill one never forgets.

  These trees had thick, strong branches, and the bottom one was only a few feet off the ground. I swung myself up and then climbed steadily. The only real danger of discovery would be if the occupants of the room on the ground floor suddenly opened their drapes. I was counting on them to be out over the dinner hour. If I’d miscalculated, I’d have some fast explaining to do.

  When I was about halfway to my destination, I glanced down. Jayne’s h
ead was thrown back as she watched me climb. Jayne and I had been speaking in low voices. If someone was in the rooms on the ground floor, I wanted them to think that a couple of guests were out for an evening stroll or had left the window to their room open. If someone did look out now, they’d be curious about what Jayne was finding so interesting. I couldn’t shout at her, so I gestured to her to look away. She did so, and I continued climbing.

  I reached the level of the balcony in question. I lowered myself onto the branch extending toward the wall of the inn. It swayed slightly under my weight. Okay, the other danger would be if the branch snapped and I fell and broke my neck. I crawled on my hands and knees along it. The branch swayed and dipped, threatening to bring me too low to grab hold of the balcony railing. I hadn’t taken that into consideration. Taking great care, I slowly stood upright. I grabbed the bottom of the railing, and that took enough of my weight that the branch moved a bit higher. I pulled myself, hand over hand, up the railing, and the branch rose more. Finally, I was light enough and the branch high enough that I could swing one leg over the railing. I pulled up the other leg and dropped onto the balcony. It was barely wide enough to accommodate me, but I wasn’t planning to sit out and enjoy the evening. I tested the screen door, and it opened easily.

  How trusting people are.

  I slipped inside. My phone had started vibrating when I was climbing the tree. I checked it now. A call from Gerald’s number and a voice mail message. I texted him back: Sorry, car problems. Be there soon.

  It was coming up to half seven. I didn’t know how long he’d wait for me. A long time, I hoped. He was an Englishman in a pub, after all. I hadn’t asked him on a date when I’d called this afternoon. I simply said I thought he might not want to be alone tonight, so why didn’t we have a drink?

  I put the phone away and checked the room. It was small but nicely decorated in a nautical theme. Gerald was not a neat man. The drawers were half-open, showing clothes randomly stuffed in, his shoes were kicked across the room, stacks of paper were tossed onto the desk, and his toiletries were spread all over the bathroom counter. His satchel lay on the bed. I checked the closets and cupboards quickly, finding no Chihuly bowl. There was, unfortunately, a small room safe, and it was locked. I tried the standard combination of 1-1-1-1, and then 1-2-3-4. It opened on 0-0-0-0. Bad boy. No precious glass ornaments in there either. Nothing but his passport, English driving license and bank card, and a small stack of well-used pound notes. I didn’t bother checking through his passport. That wasn’t why I was here, and I needed to be quick.