The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  Wednesday afternoon, I went next door to have my regular daily partners’ meeting with Jayne. I settled in the window alcove, and Fiona brought a pot of tea and a selection of sandwiches. “No brownies today?” I asked. “I feel like a bit of chocolate.”

  “Sold out,” she replied.

  Jayne dropped onto the window bench. “Another good day. You?”

  “The Hound of the Baskervilles opens tomorrow night, and theater patrons are streaming into town. As we’d hoped, many of them are Holmes fans, and the Emporium is high on their list of places to visit.”

  Jayne poured the tea, and we toasted each other with delicate china cups.

  “Seen much of Eddie?” I asked.

  “We had dinner Monday,” she said, “but that’ll probably be the last time for a while. He’s acting every night, and when he finishes, it’s too late for me to be going out.”

  “You don’t sound terribly disappointed at that,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It’s been fun to be with him, but I don’t see that anything can come of it. To be honest, Gemma, we have nothing in common. Eddie doesn’t seem to be interested in much in life other than Eddie. Not in the difficulties of owning and operating a bakery and tea room. He’s super excited about tomorrow’s opening. He says this performance is his chance at the big time.”

  “Summer stock in Cape Cod? Unlikely,” I said.

  “Actors have their dreams.” She smiled at me. “I’m happy here at Mrs. Hudson’s and in West London. I’m happy my mother isn’t going to be charged with murder. I’m happy I have a good friend, as exasperating as she might be at times. How about you?”

  “All of those things,” I said, returning her smile. “Ambition is highly overrated. Although I have no idea to what friend you might be referring.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, toasting me once again with her teacup. “What’s Ashleigh supposed to be today, by the way? I can’t imagine where she got that poodle skirt.”

  “I fear she’s planning to dress as though she’s in one of the plays for the rest of the summer. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and The Hound are easy, but I don’t know what she can wear that will put people in mind of The Odd Couple.”

  “She’ll think of something.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  The door opened, and Leslie Wilson bustled in. “I knew I’d find you two here.” She dropped beside Jayne and pulled an envelope out of her purse. “Surprise!”

  “What’s that?” Jayne asked.

  “Three tickets to tomorrow’s opening of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Rebecca Stanton told me to invite you two, with thanks for your help at the tea and for finding her stolen items. They were precisely where Gemma said they’d be.”

  “That’s nice of her,” Jayne said. “I’d love to see the play. Gemma?”

  “I want to see how they manage to misinterpret The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “I’m not sitting next to her if she’s going to complain and point out discrepancies all the way through,” Jayne said to her mother. “Is the third ticket for you?”

  “Yes. Remember, this is opening night, and dress accordingly. Everyone will be dressed to the nines.”

  “What goes for the nines in Cape Cod in summer,” Jayne said.

  “More like the sevens,” I said.

  * * *

  Thursday evening, I made an attempt to dress to the nines.

  I left the shop in Ashleigh’s hands at five, dashing out before she could show me the website she’d found about how to set up a mail-order business. I went home, took Violet out, and then hopped into the shower. I washed and blow-dried my hair, fluffed the curls into some semblance of style, and tied the edges off my face with rhinestone clips. I brushed a touch of blush onto my cheeks and put a dab of pink lipstick onto my mouth. I don’t have a lot of fancy clothes—I rarely go anyplace that requires them—but I do have the perfect “little black dress” that’s been with me since I left London. Fortunately, it was a warm night so I could do without the dreaded pantyhose and leave my legs bare. I added the small gold-and-diamond earrings that had been my parents’ wedding gift to me and a long gold chain. Last of all, I slipped into a pair of black high-heeled Ralph Lauren sandals that I’d bought on impulse and never worn.

  I then ruined the outfit by tossing my small black leather bag over my shoulder. Although women’s clothing is nothing at all like it was in the Great Detective’s day—thank heavens!—it’s still highly impractical at times. I never carry a clutch bag as I don’t like having my hands occupied, but I need someplace for my phone and keys, a bit of money to buy a drink at intermission, and an emergency tissue. Expensive little black dresses don’t come with pockets.

  Violet eyed me. She did not look impressed.

  “Don’t wait up,” I said.

  My phone beeped, telling me Jayne and Leslie were on their way to pick me up. I went outside and waited for them at the curb.

  When we arrived, a long line of cars was pulling into the driveway leading to the theater barn. The building itself was fully lit, a brilliant yellow glow against the encroaching purple darkness of the night sky. Young men and women in safety vests waved flashlights to direct cars to their parking spaces.

  Fortunately for the sake of men’s Italian shoes and women’s heels, it hadn’t rained recently. The theater parking lot isn’t paved.

  “Don’t you two look great,” I said once we were out of the car.

  “I don’t often get a chance to dress up.” Leslie wore a long dress of soft blue, all swirling silk and touches of lace.

  “You’re definitely a nine,” I said.

  “A nine?”

  “As in dressed to the nines. Jayne, I’ll give you nine and a half.” She beamed at me, looking fabulous in a wide knee-length skirt in shades of red and gold, a deeply plunging gold shirt under a tight red jacket, and ruby-red shoes with four-inch heels. Her blonde hair was piled on the top of her head with a few tendrils left loose to curl softly around her face.

  “Not too bad yourself.” Jayne slipped her arm through her mother’s, and we headed for the barn.

  Rebecca Stanton stood at the main doors, greeting patrons. She wore a designer gown of swirling red satin that probably cost in the thousands; gold and diamonds flashed from her throat, ears, and wrist. She and Leslie exchanged air kisses.

  “Looks like it’s going to be quite the night,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Don’t congratulate me until the play’s over,” she said. “The proof is in the pudding.”

  “‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating,’” I said.

  “Pardon me?” She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

  “That’s the correct quote. People often get it wrong.”

  Jayne stuck an elbow into my ribs.

  “Although,” I admitted, “quotations have been known to evolve over time.”

  “We’re holding up the line,” Leslie said. “Let’s go in and find our seats.”

  I had to remind myself we were in a barn. The press at the bar was heavy, conversation and laughter echoed off the slatted walls, and the soft lighting made everyone look good. A handful of tourists were dressed in everyday wear, but like us, most people had gone to some trouble. Jewelry sparkled, and the scent of perfume mingled with aftershave and freshly laundered men’s dress shirts.

  “The play hasn’t even started,” I said, “and the magic of the theater is already all around us.”

  Leslie beamed; the light of true love shone in her eyes.

  Which, I thought to myself, is perhaps why I am not a big fan of theater. I don’t care for deception, in any form.

  I told myself to relax and enjoy the evening.

  “I’ll join you two in a minute,” Leslie said. “I see someone I want to talk to. Here’s your tickets, in case I don’t get back before they call us to sit down.” She handed them to us and slipped away.

  “Good evening, Gemma, Jayne. May I say you look
quite lovely tonight?” Donald Morris stood at my side. He wore a proper nineteenth-century morning suit: stripped trousers, tailcoat, waistcoat, high white collar, and gray tie. Even a gray top hat.

  “Good heavens,” Jayne said. “Wherever did you get that outfit?”

  “I’ve been saving it for a suitable occasion.” Donald, I thought—and not for the first time—was a man out of his era. He would have been happiest waving a walking stick to hail a hansom cab on the foggy cobblestones of London or the teeming streets of New York City.

  That reminded me. “Did you get your ulster back?” I asked.

  “I did. It was, I was unhappy to find, in the police evidence locker. The officers were pleased to discover the owner and returned it to me.”

  “No harm done then,” I said.

  “Are you looking forward to the play, Donald?” Jayne said.

  He sniffed. “We will see. I hope they don’t add any of those oh-so-clever modern touches to this interpretation. I’ll be content with nothing less than a faithful rendition.”

  “So you’re not a fan of the Benedict Cumberbatch series,” Jayne said.

  “On the contrary. I love it. A modern interpretation for our times. Faithful to the original, yet also suitable for the twenty-first century. It doesn’t attempt to be some sort of ham-fisted crossover.”

  Grant Thompson joined us. He carried a glass of wine and was dressed in a gray business suit. “Ladies. Donald. Quite the night. Can I get you something to drink, Gemma?”

  I opened my mouth to agree when Jayne jumped in. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”

  “Isn’t that Andy Whitehall over there?” I said. “Why, so it is. Oh, look, he’s seen us. He’s waving. He seems to be trapped in conversation with that old couple. Go and rescue him, Jayne.” She hesitated, and I gave her a light shove. “Off you go. Maybe he’d like to go for dinner after the play or something.”

  “Sounds like an idea,” Grant said.

  “Excellent!” Donald said. “I’d love to join you. Where are you sitting, Gemma?”

  I checked my ticket for the first time. “Front row, it looks like.”

  His face fell. “Oh. I’m in the back. The sightlines will not be good. Can’t be helped now. I’ll meet you at the main exit after curtain. I see Matthew Berkowitz from the Boston chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars is here. I’ve been meaning to ask him about . . .” Donald hurried away.

  “I’m also in the cheap seats,” Grant said.

  “Pays to have friends in high places,” I said. “Rebecca gave the tickets to Leslie.”

  “Speaking of Rebecca, I read that the police closed their investigation into Nigel’s death, so I didn’t think you’d have any more interest in what I learned about the financial affairs of the festival.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you not to bother.”

  He grinned. “Not a problem. I got a nice cup of tea out of it. I ran into Rebecca on Baker Street the afternoon after that trip to the hospital with Renee, and I dropped hints that I was considering investing in the festival next year. She invited me to Mrs. Hudson’s to talk about it. I’m afraid lying isn’t something I’m good at, so I pretty soon confessed that I didn’t have a lot of spare money. She waved that trifle away and said she was more interested in getting volunteers. And”—he blushed ever so slightly—“young single men are hard to find to volunteer for anything. I got the impression she doesn’t much care if the festival makes money or not. She’ll put in whatever she has to to keep it going. It’s the appearance she’s interested in, and the standing in the wider community she gets from being the chief patron of a successful festival. A strong stable of eager volunteers means the festival has respect among the people who matter. Matter to Rebecca, anyway.”

  I thought of her standing proudly at the entrance tonight, resplendent in satin and diamonds, greeting guests as though they were visitors to her house.

  “I should have known I’d find you here,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see Ryan Ashburton, also looking very dapper in a business suit.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

  “Evening, Detective,” Grant said. “Are you here on business?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I’ve come with my mother. She bought two tickets the day they went on sale, but my dad’s hip’s bothering him something bad today, and he didn’t want to go out. Being a lady of a certain age, Mom was prepared stay at home with him rather than come alone, so he asked me to escort her.” He gestured to a steel-haired woman in her early seventies, chattering to a group of her peers. She glanced up, saw me watching, and turned sharply away.

  I’d met her when Ryan and I were together. Looks like she still hasn’t forgiven me for our breakup.

  People continued to arrive, and the lobby was soon bursting at the seams with excited people and loud chatter. I shifted from one foot to another, hoping we’d be seated soon. I was seriously regretting wearing these shoes. Only now that it was too late to do anything about it, I remembered why I’d never worn them.

  My gaze continued to travel across the room, and I saw someone I definitely didn’t expect to see.

  Gerald Greene, heading our way.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you’d gone back to England.”

  “I did, but I wanted to see how the play turned out, so I flew over for a few days. It was my first ever flight in business class—what a treat! I’m staying at the Harbor Inn, at my own expense.” He read my face and preened. “I’ve come into some money since we last met. Sir Nigel left the majority of his estate to his charitable foundation, but to my considerable surprise, he was kind enough to mention me in his will. His estate turned out, again to my surprise, to be quite extensive. Some properties in Chelsea and Kensington he’d bought in his salad days for rental income. His mother, obviously a wise woman, had insisted he invest every cent he made from Roman Wars into property.”

  “Wow!” I said. “That would have appreciated a lot over forty years.”

  “He also had a country home in Cornwall, and it, along with a small income, he left to me.”

  “Congratulations,” Ryan said.

  “Such a great man,” Gerald said. “So thoughtful. I see Mrs. Stanton. I must give her my wishes. Please excuse me.”

  The three of us stared at his retreating back.

  “If I hadn’t closed this case,” Ryan muttered.

  “You’d ask cui bono,” I replied.

  “Who benefits?” Grant added. “Gerald appears to have. Do you think he knew he was mentioned in the will?”

  “No way of finding out now,” Ryan said. “Gemma?”

  I thought back to my conversations with Gerald. “Unless he’s a far better actor than I took him for, I don’t think so. The last time I spoke with him, he was bemoaning the fact that he was penniless and out of a job. Of course, I’ve misjudged people before.”

  “That comes as a surprise to me,” Grant said.

  “I try not to make a habit of it,” I said.

  Bells began to ring, calling us to be seated. A buzz of excitement washed through the barn.

  “I’ll see you at intermission,” I said, and we went our separate ways.

  Leslie, Jayne, and my seats were in the front row, slightly off to the left side. Leslie sat between Jayne and me. The mayor took the seat to the right of Jayne, her husband on her other side. Farther down the row, I recognized the chief of police between Mrs. Chief and the head of the town’s arts council and none other than one of our state’s senators was at the far end of the row. Rebecca would be thrilled: all the town’s dignitaries had shown up.

  A man dropped into the chair on the other side of me. I shifted the bag over my shoulder and turned to greet him. “Mr. Blackstone. Good evening. Are you excited about the play?”

  His hair was tied into its habitual man-bun, and he wore tight dark-blue jeans turned up at the ankles, a pink shirt with a red bow tie, suspenders, and the sort of
cloth cap with a brim that was once only worn by men of the British working classes. What passes for evening wear in the hipster world, I assumed. “Excited?” he drawled. “I long ago gave up being excited about anything. But I am looking forward to it. I have a lot riding on this production.”

  “Investor, are you?” I asked, not really caring.

  “You might say that. How much remains to be seen.”

  “How are The Odd Couple and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof coming along in rehearsals?” I asked for no reason but to be polite.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  The lights began to dim, and conversation slowly died to a halt. I settled back in my seat. Beside me, Leslie tittered in excitement.

  Instead of the curtain rising, Rebecca Stanton came out of the wings. She walked slowly to center stage, her red gown flowing around her slim figure. A single spotlight threw sparkles off her diamonds.

  She waited patiently for everyone to give her their full attention and then thanked us for coming and the mayor and the town of West London for its support of the arts. We all clapped enthusiastically. Rebecca then told us that the run of The Hound of the Baskervilles would be dedicated to the memory of Sir Nigel Bellingham. Another round of applause.

  Rebecca left the stage and appeared moments later on the floor in front of me, heading for her seat, front row center.

  The lights dimmed, and the curtain opened.

  221B Baker Street in all its glory. Fireplace and mantle. A “patriotic” VR shot into the red wallpaper. A tattered red rug, two worn leather couches. A table containing a coffeepot and one place setting.

  Eddie Barker—I mean, Sherlock Holmes—sat at the table with his back to where Dr. John Watson stood by the mantle, examining a walking stick.

  They paused, the audience breathed, and then Sherlock said, in a deep rumbling English voice, “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

  And the play began.

  It was, I have to admit, well done. The sets, lighting, and costumes were excellent, and the actors rose to the occasion, although I did think Renee Masters played Miss Stapleton a bit too much like a high school girl desperate for an invitation to the dance.