The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “I don’t.”

  “Louise wants to arrest her.”

  “Arrest Jayne’s mother? You can’t!”

  “I’m not ready to even call this a homicide yet. No one saw, or claims to have seen, what happened. Louise is a good detective, but she can be impulsive.”

  We stood by the window. A steady stream of traffic moved down the street and pedestrians browsed shop windows. Across the street, Maureen was opening Beach Fine Arts. She checked to see if anyone was watching, grabbed the terracotta pot overflowing with purple and yellow impatiens from the front of the accessories store next door, and hauled it closer to her property. Maureen didn’t believe in doing her own decorating or in spending money on plant life.

  “I’ve do believe I have just observed a crime in action,” I said.

  “You mean that flowerpot,” Ryan said. “I saw it too. The community patrol officer is always getting calls to that store. Calls that originate from the shops in that block. Don’t try to change the subject, Gemma. Tell Leslie Wilson to talk to me about what she knows. It bothers me—a lot—that I can’t find that pink ribbon. We asked the women who wore the aprons, and none of them noticed any tear on theirs, or so they say. It’s the small things that can make or break a case. Until I locate that ribbon, I can’t declare this an accidental death.”

  I was saved from replying when someone came to the door.

  Not just someone, but Grant Thompson. He gave me a wave and a smile. The smile faded when he saw who I was with.

  “First customer of the day,” I said. “I have to open.” I unlocked the door, and Grant came in. He and Ryan didn’t exactly glare at each other, but they didn’t exchange fulsome greetings either.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Grant said.

  “We’re finished here,” Ryan said.

  “Glad to hear it.” Grant pointed to the theater poster on the door. “I see that’s still up. Is the play going to go ahead?”

  “I haven’t heard otherwise,” I said.

  “Until this gets sorted, one way or another,” Ryan said, “the cast and crew have been told they can’t leave Barnstable County. No one except Gerald Greene had any objections.”

  The three of us stood by the door. Finally, I said, “Detective Ashburton is leaving. Can I help you, Grant?”

  “Don’t run off on my account,” Grant said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ryan said, “but duty calls. Think over what I said, Gemma.” He left.

  Ryan knew I knew something I wasn’t telling. He’s not the sort to pound the table and demand that I talk, which would have been guaranteed to get him precisely nowhere. I thought about the scrap of pink ruching hidden at home in the safe behind the painting of the opera diva. Was it possible Leslie Wilson killed Nigel? That they struggled, he lost his cravat, and her apron was ripped before she shoved him off the cliff in an act of rage pent up for thirty-five years?

  Absolutely not.

  I hoped the British police would have something incriminating to report about Gerald.

  “Dinner?” Grant said.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer, as we were interrupted when Donald Morris burst through the door. He’d done without the Sherlock getup today and wore slightly tattered khaki trousers and a T-shirt that proclaimed, “You Know My Methods.” He carried his well-worn leather briefcase with his initials embossed in gold, a remnant of his previous life as a family law attorney. He beamed when he saw Grant. “Ah, excellent. I don’t want to start a bidding war here, not between two of my closest friends, but if I must, I must.”

  “Bidding war?” I said. “What on earth are we bidding over?”

  “The playbill, of course. I told you about it at the tea. I bet you regret now that you didn’t purchase it at the time, Gemma.” He formed his face into somber lines. “Most unfortunate news about Sir Nigel. What a tragedy. Still, I can’t pretend not to know that the value of my playbill has increased dramatically.”

  “Playbill?” Grant said.

  “Used to promote the Shaftsbury Theater run of The Hound of the Baskervilles and signed by Sir Nigel himself. I see you have no customers at the moment. No time like the present. Shall we start the bidding at five hundred dollars?”

  “No,” I said. “Donald, you know I don’t sell anything at that sort of price.”

  “I thought you might make an exception for such a rare and valuable piece of Holmes, as well as theatrical, memorabilia. Grant?”

  “I’m a book dealer, Donald. Posters are out of my range of expertise.”

  “You’ll be eager to have it when you see the quality.” Donald led the way to the sales counter, where he opened his case with a dramatic flourish. The item in question lay within. It was in good condition, with no discoloration or tears, and the signatures—Sir Nigel’s in particular—were clear and legible.

  “I can use it as a wall hanging,” I said. “Fifty bucks.”

  Donald sputtered.

  “I might be able to unload it,” Grant said. “Fifty-five.”

  “Gemma,” Donald said. “What is your counterbid?”

  “Don’t have one,” I said. “I can’t even afford fifty dollars, but I thought it would look nice hanging on the wall next to the Beeton’s Christmas Annual cover.”

  “Fifty-five dollars,” Grant said. “My final offer. And at that, I’d want to check first and see how common these things are. That play ran only a couple of years ago.”

  Donald slammed his briefcase shut. “You two have no eye for a good deal.”

  “Why don’t you ask Rebecca Stanton?” I said. “She might be open to using it to honor Sir Nigel’s memory.”

  “Excellent idea.” Donald turned and stalked across the floor. He reached the door and then turned. “I almost forgot. Do you have my coat, Gemma?”

  “Coat?”

  “My ulster. You took it into the kitchen at the tea.”

  “Oh, right. The police must have it.”

  “The police!”

  “Sorry, I sorta lost track of it, Donald. It wasn’t there when I went back to Rebecca’s on Sunday. They probably thought it was out of place and took it in. Sorry.”

  “Do I have to remind you that that’s a rare and valuable item of clothing, Gemma? You can’t buy genuine ulsters off the rack, you know.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated. “The police’ll take care of it. It’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting the fingerprint powder off it.”

  He screeched, threw open the door, and marched into the street.

  Grant and I exchanged a look, and the moment the door slammed shut behind our erstwhile entrepreneur, we burst out laughing.

  “About that dinner?” Grant said eventually. “Are you free?”

  “No. I mean, no, I’m not. Ryan’s visit reminded me of something I have to do. Sorry.”

  * * *

  Despite it being a Monday, the store was busy all day, and I didn’t get a chance to escape until twenty to four, when it was time for Jayne and my daily business partners’ meeting. The tea room was almost full, and my favorite seat in the window alcove had been taken, so we went into the kitchen. Jayne poured tea, Lapsang Souchong today, and I examined the food offerings. They were, to say the least, sparse. “Is this the best you can do? Holmes ate better when he was hiding in a Bronze Age hut in the Great Grimpen Mire.” I selected a cucumber sandwich, squished almost flat, and a fruit tart with a broken crust.

  “I do run a business here, Gemma. We’ve been so busy today, I can hardly keep up. Rejects are the best you get. Is the Grimpen Mire a real place?”

  “No, but it’s based on Fox Tor Mire in Devon, or so they say. I’ve been there, and it is mighty creepy.”

  We discussed business for a few minutes, and then I updated Jayne on Great Uncle Arthur’s current whereabouts (they’d decided to leave Greece and head for Majorca) before asking, “Have you
spoken to your mum today?”

  “I called her last night when I got in. I wanted to go around, but she said she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early. I said I’d come over after I finish work today, but she mumbled something about a previous engagement. I didn’t believe her. I think she’s avoiding me, and I’m getting worried. What’s happening, Gemma? You seem to know more than I do.”

  “It’s not for me to tell, but I will say that I’m not happy with the direction the police investigation is taking.”

  Jayne threw up her hands. “My mom is under suspicion for murder, and no one will tell me why that’s even a possibility!”

  “Are you seeing Eddie tonight?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Gemma.”

  “I’m not changing the subject. The theater people are at the heart of this.”

  “If you must know, we’ve arranged a late date. He’s in rehearsal until seven.”

  “I bet that’s interesting. To watch a rehearsal, I mean. Perhaps we could drop by. Wouldn’t that be great fun?” I nibbled on a tart. It might be a reject because of its appearance, but that did nothing to spoil the taste.

  “You’ve never cared about the theater before.”

  “Sure I have.”

  “If you’re investigating Eddie and his crowd to try to help Mom, I suppose that’s good. But I still don’t understand what’s going on. I suggested calling Jeff and asking him to come for a visit, but she said not to because he’s busy. He’s always too busy, but that’s another story.”

  I leaned across the butcher’s block table, where Jayne rolled pastry and otherwise performed amazing feats of magic with flour and sugar, and took her hand. “If she doesn’t want to talk to you about some things, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t know you have her back. Now, I bet Eddie would be more than delighted to have you drop in on rehearsal. If you bring a friend, all the better. Do they rehearse at the barn?”

  “I think so.”

  I eyed her work clothes of jeans and T-shirt. “I’m guessing you’ll want to go home and freshen up. Get your car and collect me at the Emporium at six.”

  “Don’t you want to freshen up too?”

  “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

  * * *

  The West London Theater Festival operates out of a huge old barn on the outskirts of town. From the outside, it looks like a typical barn surrounded by acres of verdant green fields—with a sloped roof, wide entrance ramp, aging wood, and coat of dark-red paint freshly applied—but the inside is more like a palace for cattle, if ever cows achieve aristocratic status. The moveable seats are wide, plush, and comfortable, the prominent stage well-lit. A chandelier almost as ornate as the one that crashed down at the climax of the Phantom of the Opera hangs overhead. A long bar is set up at the back, and gleaming, white-tiled restrooms are installed in what was once the tack room. In the spring and fall, the barn is used for weddings, but in the summer, the theater festival takes over.

  I’d provided the favors and decorations for a wedding here last autumn. The centerpieces on each table had been deerstalker hats and magnifying glasses. Every guest—all one hundred of them—received a set of the Complete Sherlock Holmes (both volumes), and the after-dinner coffee was served in Sherlock mugs (“I am SHERLocked”). They’d approached Jayne about catering, but she hadn’t been set up to manage food such as kedgeree and new potatoes or steak and ale pie with Yorkshire pudding, although she had provided the dessert of sherry trifle and the wedding cake—with the topmost layer recreating the front door of the 221B Baker Street of legend in buttercream frosting. Fortunately, the Sherlock-mania didn’t extend as far as wedding attire. The bride didn’t appear as The Abominable Bride but wore a simple and attractive cream satin gown. Men’s formal fashions haven’t changed too much in a hundred years, so although the groom might have wanted to look like Dr. John Watson, his morning suit wasn’t entirely out of place at his own wedding.

  Today, a scattering of cars were parked close to the building. A tiny Smart car, a flashy BMW convertible, a black Cadillac Escalade, a gleaming Lexus, and a practical tan Dodge Caravan. Except for the minivan, which sported New York license plates, all were from Massachusetts. The big barn doors were locked, but I hammered until someone slid a side door open with a loud creak. A youngish man, dressed in overalls and a baseball cap worn backward, stuck his head out. “We’re in rehearsals. Box office is in town, next to the library.”

  “We’re not here for tickets.” I put my foot in the door. “We’re friends of the festival. Pat Allworth will be delighted to see us.” The man glanced over his shoulder, and I took the opportunity to shove the door open. I walked in, and Jayne followed. The stagehand shrugged, not much caring, and strolled away.

  The theater was empty save for a handful of people sitting in the front row and one man wrapped in shadows in the back. Our footsteps echoed around the barn as we made our way down the center aisle. Several members of the cast were on stage, dressed in street clothes. Pat was talking to Eddie while gesturing wildly. Eddie spotted us, and his handsome face lit up in a smile. Pat turned. “Gemma. Jayne. I’m sorry, but we’re rather busy here.”

  I took a seat front row center. “Don’t mind us. We have some free time and thought we’d pop in. Carry on.”

  I leaned back and crossed my arms. Jayne slunk into the seat beside me. I nodded to Rebecca, seated halfway down the row. She gave me a curt nod in return.

  “I suppose that’ll be all right,” Pat said. “Very well, let’s continue. Ralph, I need a lot more surprise from you when you see Eddie come out of the wings. No, not surprise. I need shock! Astonishment! If you think you can manage that, then take your position.”

  I had taken Pat’s position, and she dropped into the vacant chair beside me.

  “You’ve decided to go ahead with it then,” I said.

  “We’re going to dedicate the run of the play to Sir Nigel. He’d want that, don’t you think?”

  “That and a bottle of cheap champagne.”

  She snorted. “Makes no difference really. Nigel had exactly one rehearsal with Ralph, and it was a disaster. He couldn’t remember the lines. ‘Jet lag,’ he said.”

  I’ve never seen the play, but I know the story well. As does most of the population of the Western Hemisphere, if not the world. The man on stage was obviously playing John Watson, and this was the dramatic scene where Watson discovers that, rather than being back in London working another case, Sherlock Holmes has been living in a hut on the moor observing everyone and everything.

  “Why are you rehearsing out of order?” I asked. “This scene takes place near the end.”

  “It’s critical to create the dynamic between Holmes and Watson, Eddie and Ralph. I always rehearse the important scenes first, to see how the actors play off each other.”

  On the stage, Ralph was carefully examining nothing. I assumed props would be added later. Offstage, someone whistled, and he leapt to his feet. He lifted his walking stick and assumed a defensive pose. Eddie emerged from the wings. It was just Eddie, wearing purple board shorts and a T-shirt—young and blond and handsome—but he walked with the stiffness of a Victorian-era English gentleman (albeit one hiding out in an abandoned hut) and held his head with all the arrogance of the Great Detective. “It’s a lovely evening, my dear Watson,” he said in a London accent almost as good as my own. “I really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in.”

  “Before we break for the day,” Pat whispered, “I hope to do Renee and Ralph.” She nodded to her left, where Renee sat alone at the end of the row, watching the action on stage. She’d seen us come in but had made no attempt to greet us and was now pointedly ignoring us.

  “Where Miss Stapleton mistakes Dr. Watson for Sir Henry and attempts to warn him off,” I said.

  “That’s right. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Renee is struggling with the accent. Maybe you can give her some tips.”

  “Why not let her speak in her own voice? The aud
ience knows it’s just a play.”

  “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? We don’t want the audience to remember that they’re sitting in a barn in New England in the twenty-first century watching a bunch of people pretending to be something they’re not. We want them to believe they’re in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street, or lost on the Great Grimpen Mire.”

  “Oh.” Jayne sighed. “I miss the theater so much.”

  I was about to suggest that, if the accent was so important, they hire English actors, when Ralph stopped in midspeech. He shook his stick at us. “How am I supposed to concentrate with all this chatter going on? This is an intense scene that requires my full concentration. Or have you forgotten, Ms. Allworth?”

  “A good actor,” she said, “can perform as the theater falls to ruin around him. However, I take your point. Please continue.”

  We watched in silence for a few minutes. It was a lot of stopping and starting. Eddie didn’t like the way he had to turn to speak to Ralph, and Ralph thought Eddie wasn’t being serious enough. Pat kept interrupting to tell Ralph to be more startled! Astonished! She also suggested that Eddie’s Holmes might not be quite so sneering toward the eternally hapless Dr. Watson.

  The entirety of this scene would fill about two minutes of the play. If they took this long over every piece, I wondered that they’d ever get through it.

  Finally, Pat got to her feet. “That’s enough of this for today. Thank you, Eddie. You’re wanted in costume for another fitting. Ralph, a five-minute break and we’ll do a run through of the scene where you meet Miss Stapleton for the first time. Someone tell Harry we’ll be ready for him soon.”

  “Who’s Harry?” I asked.

  “Plays Stapleton. He wasn’t at the tea. Lives in Boston, so went home for the weekend.”

  Eddie jumped off the stage. He said hi to me, but his eyes were on Jayne, and they had a decided twinkle to them. “Hey, nice to see you. Thanks for coming. I hope this didn’t put you off. Early rehearsals are usually a mess.”

  “It’s marvelous,” Jayne said, her eyes glowing. “I wanted to be an actor at one time, but I let my mom talk me out of it. I’m regretting that now.”