A Three Book Problem, page 12
Miranda’s eyes sparkled and the edges of her mouth lifted. She picked up her glass and held it out in front of her in a toast. “I naturally assumed I was invited to add a touch of glamour and beauty to the gathering. I mean, my dear, someone had to.”
Jennifer shoved back her chair and leapt to her feet. She looked around the table, taking in everyone. Her eyes settled on Miranda. “You really are quite horrible, aren’t you?”
“I try,” Miranda said. “For some reason, dear David liked that in me.”
Jennifer ran from the room.
I exchanged a glance with Estrada. Her eyes opened wide.
“This crostini is delicious,” Miranda said. “My compliments to the chef.”
“You can crawl back into your den, dear,” Rebecca said. “I’m here now and if anyone’s going to offend David’s guests, it’s going to be me.”
“Have at it, dear,” Miranda replied.
Estrada’s eyes opened even wider. Annie chuckled. “Now now,” Cliff said. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
“Considering I met you for the first time a short while ago, I’d say that’s still to be determined,” Rebecca said.
“Rebecca doesn’t have friends,” Annie said. “She makes the acquaintance of people she can use and keeps them as long as that usefulness lasts.”
Rebecca stiffened. “That was uncalled for.”
“You used Uncle David to give you some respectability, but you soon found out he wasn’t interested in being friends with the sort of people whose approval you so desperately want.”
“Do tell,” Miranda chuckled.
“Can I get anyone more wine?” Donald leapt to his feet.
“Won’t say no to that.” Kyle shoved his glass across the table.
“I’ll forgive you, this time, because you were close to my dear husband,” Rebecca said. “Don’t let it happen again, Ann. Remember who’s paying for your little walkup in the Village. Or was paying, I should say.”
Now it was Annie’s turn to stiffen.
“I’m glad Rebecca’s here tonight,” Billy said. “It’s only fitting, isn’t it, that she’s with us as we remember Uncle David.”
“You are such a suck-up,” Annie said in a low voice.
Billy pretended not to hear. “Who has some nice stories to share about Uncle David?”
“He had a good collection of first editions,” Cliff said. “Some of them I sold to him myself. Gemma, you and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk, perhaps you don’t know that I’m a dealer.”
Kyle laughed.
“Antique and rare book dealer,” Cliff hurried to clarify.
“Cliff has a good reputation.” Donald poured the wine.
“Doyle collectables, first editions of books and magazines, some signed by Sir Arthur,” Cliff said. “You might be interested in stocking some things in your store. Why don’t we talk after dinner?”
I blinked in surprise. When we’d met Friday evening, when I tried to make polite conversation by telling Cliff I owned the shop, he’d brushed me aside, almost to the point of rudeness, and rapidly made his escape. David had been standing close, I remembered, and it was when Cliff realized David was listening, he’d left me so abruptly. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of things I sell,” I said. “The Emporium’s strictly retail. We don’t deal in anything collectible, other than the occasional second edition in not particularly good condition. Nothing valuable.”
“For your Uncle Arthur then. He’s a collector.” Cliff glanced at Donald. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“If you’d like to talk to Uncle Arthur, you can contact him when he gets back from Spain. He knows what he’s interested in, and I never act as an intermediary.”
“That crostini was great,” Rebecca said. “It looks as though we’re done. Is someone going to clear the table?”
“Kitchen’s that way.” Annie pointed. Both Annie and Rebecca were getting through the wine with considerable speed. Not that I was going to encourage them to slow down. Neither of them was driving anywhere tonight, and I was happy to see the wine loosening their tongues.
I stood up. “Irene, can you collect the plates, please.”
She began doing so, but to my considerable surprise Louise Estrada got to her feet. “Let me help, Gemma. You’ve done plenty.”
“How’s it going out there?” Jayne asked as we came in. She’d sprinkled fresh green herbs on the gorgeous lamb and placed it on a platter surrounded by a colorful array of glistening roasted vegetables.
“The meal’s going well,” I said. “The conversation even more so.”
“Don’t think I’ve heard such cattiness since I was in high school.” Estrada dumped her load of dirty dishes onto the counter.
“Tensions are overflowing, to be sure,” I said. “In some way that’s natural when there’s been such a sudden death, but I had the feeling even before David died that these people don’t like each other much. And that’s if they even knew each other before yesterday. To stir the pot even more, Rebecca’s arrived, desperate for attention and causing disruption wherever she goes.”
“The husband or wife is usually the prime suspect, or so they say,” Jayne said. “Is it possible she did it?”
I cradled a stack of dinner plates in my arms.
“Gemma?” Jayne said.
“Sorry. Just thinking. No, I don’t think she did. She wasn’t in the house, and my working theory is that it was an inside job. But more to the point, I don’t see her throwing a poisoned dart through a window. I doubt she has the skill or the knowledge. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“You have?” Estrada said. “That comes as a surprise to me. Not that you’ve been wrong, but that you admit it.”
“Try not to drop that platter,” I said. “It looks heavy.”
“As for having working theories, Gemma, I suggest you leave that to the professionals.” Detective Estrada picked up the lamb.
* * *
Back in the dining room, Cliff was trying to interest Donald in a first edition of Conan Doyle’s book The Case for Spiritual Photography. Donald politely pretended to be considering it, but I knew he didn’t have the money that would allow him to collect rare books. Steve was telling Rebecca about his heroic exploits in the United States Marines, and Rebecca couldn’t have looked more bored if she tried. Miranda told Irene she’d known David far longer than anyone else at the table—sly glance at Rebecca—and if the West London Star wanted to print a tribute to him, she’d be happy to contribute all she could. Rebecca perked up at that and said, “Oh, you’re with a newspaper, how interesting.” Kyle and Billy periodically checked their phones under the table. Annie scowled alternatively at Miranda and Rebecca and drank steadily.
Jennifer’s chair remained glaringly empty.
I put a plate in front of everyone and Estrada arranged the platter in the center of the table. Kyle dug in first.
“Kyle,” I said after he’d filled his plate and passed the platter to Miranda. “What brings you here this weekend?”
He shoved lamb into his mouth. “A free meal, what else?”
“Kyle’s a dear friend of mine,” Rebecca said. “I dared to hope David could help Kyle with his music career. David was interested in helping talented young people and he knows … knew … many influential people.”
Annie snorted and served herself lamb.
Rebecca’s eyes flicked toward Annie. “I said talented, dear.”
Annie stabbed her knife into the helpless piece of lamb on her plate.
I glanced at Kyle. His hair was too long and in need of a wash, his goatee unkempt, and he hadn’t bothered to put on a suit, or even a clean shirt, for this formal dinner. I couldn’t see David, with his late mother’s influence and his family’s donations to the symphony and opera houses, being of any help to Kyle. His fingertips had none of the calluses associated with being a guitar player and he didn’t have the muscular arms of a rock drummer. His hands were clean and soft, his nails cut short with no hangnails or signs of being bitten. He probably played the keyboards or was the lead singer in a down-and-out touring band. David would have been of no help to him, even if he wanted to, which I considered unlikely.
“To make things even better,” Rebecca went on, “Kyle’s interested in Sherlock Holmes, so I figured this weekend would be the perfect opportunity for them to get to know each other.” She smiled at us all.
If Kyle was interested in Sherlock Holmes, he was doing a good job of keeping it secret. I’d be interested in knowing the real reason he was here. My first thought might have been that he and Rebecca were lovers and for some twisted reason she wanted him to meet her husband, but it was obvious that was not the case. They were not lovers and never had been. They didn’t exchange what they thought were secret little glances or shy away from looking at each other. He continued to attempt to flirt with Irene, and Rebecca clearly didn’t mind. Maybe Kyle was here for the free food, like he said.
I sliced a piece of lamb, added a dab of mint jelly, and put it in my mouth. My goodness, but it was wonderful, the meat as soft and rich as butter, the sauce fragrant with herbs, the mint jelly bright and peppery.
“We’re supposed to be going home tomorrow,” Kyle said. “Do you think the cops will make us stay?” He looked around the room, taking in the opulence of his surroundings, the table laden with food, the sideboard holding bottles of excellent wine. “Can’t say I’d mind if they do.”
“Good question,” Billy said. “I’m in no hurry to rush away, either. I could get used to living like this.” He speared a potato. “Detective Estrada?”
“Regardless of any instructions you get, or don’t, from the police,” she said, “as this house is rented for the weekend, I can’t see the owners allowing you to stay on. Not without paying.”
“Which I am most certainly not going to do,” Rebecca said. “Not for you lot, anyway.”
“David rented it for a week,” Billy said. “Thursday until Thursday.”
Rebecca beamed. “Is that so? It’s such a beautiful house. I can stay on and be close to dear David until”—she dabbed her eyes with her napkin—“the police allow me to take him back to New York City to join his beloved parents in their eternal rest.”
“First rule of acting,” Miranda said to Steve in voice she didn’t bother to lower. “Don’t lay it on too thick.”
Rebecca ignored her. “I wonder what they’re asking for it. Do you know, Ann?”
“What?”
“Do you know how much they want for this house? To buy it, I mean. I’ve been thinking a place on the Cape would be nice. The house in the Hamptons is pretty small.”
“Not if you have to clean it,” Annie said. “But whatever they’re asking, Rebecca, you can’t afford it.”
Rebecca smiled over the rim of her wine glass. “I’m sure I can.”
“Not once Uncle David’s will’s been read.”
Rebecca’s grip on her glass tightened so much I feared it would crack. Her smile did crack, but only for a moment. She took a sip of wine to compose herself. “Mr. Morris, I didn’t have a chance to tell you I like your suit. Did you have it custom made?”
Donald blushed at the sudden attention. “I had the honor of attending the BSI weekend dinner last year, and had it tailored for me then.” Donald was referring to the major gathering of Sherlockians in New York City, held every January in honor of the birthday of the Great Detective.
“I had to miss that,” Steve said. “Came down with a dreadful cold a couple of days before. I was sure disappointed. Some other guys with a specific interest in Doctor Watson’s army career were going to be there.”
“I would have enjoyed that discussion,” Donald said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet them. Perhaps you and I can find some time later …”
“Sure,” Steve said.
And the conversation moved on.
Once everyone’s plate was clean and the serving platters decimated, I began gathering up the used dishes. I kicked the back of Irene’s chair as I passed, and this time she did get to her feet to give me a hand.
“You’ve done a marvelous job, Jayne,” I said. “Now it’s time for you to sit down and relax. Did you get something to eat?”
“I made myself a sandwich. How was the lamb? I was worried it was overdone.”
“Superb,” I said.
“Best I’ve ever had,” Irene hiccupped. Irene had also made free with the wine.
Jayne smiled and began loading the dishwasher. The huge glass bowl containing the trifle rested on the island, next to the plate of shortbread cut into small squares and sprinkled lightly with sanding sugar. Coffee and tea were made and laid on a tray loaded with cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar, and small jugs of milk and cream.
“Oh, no.” I plucked a dirty plate out of Jayne’s hand. “You deserve to sit down and have some dessert and coffee. Irene, Donald, and I will do the dishes later.”
“I don’t mind,” Jayne said. “It’s what we’re being paid for.”
“If we ever get paid, which might not happen. You might not mind, but I do. Come along, Jayne.” I put the plate on the counter, grabbed her by the shoulders, spun her around, and undid her apron.
She didn’t require any more persuading.
“You carry the trifle in,” I ordered.
She did so, blushing with pride and pleasure, and Irene brought the biscuits and the dessert plates. Without David at the head of the table to announce that coffee would be served in the library, I made the executive decision to have it in the dining room at the same time as dessert, and I followed them with the tray and arranged things on the sideboard for people to help themselves.
“Thank you for the lovely meal, Jayne,” Donald said. “It was excellent.”
Everyone applauded and she blushed even more as she took the chair vacated by Jennifer. Which reminded me … “Why don’t I take some dessert and coffee up to Jennifer, check she’s okay?”
“She’s okay,” Rebecca said. “Never mind her. She seems like a drama queen to me.”
If she was a drama queen, as Rebecca said, Jennifer would have come back down, eager to engage in more drama. I’d considered going up to check on her earlier, but so much was happening down here, and even I can’t be in two places at once. But Jayne was here now, and between her and Irene I’d get a report on what I missed. I couldn’t count on Louise Estrada to share anything with me.
I balanced a bowl of trifle, a small plate of shortbread, and a cup of coffee on a tray and left the dining room. First room on the right, Annie had told me. The one next to David’s, which was now Rebecca’s.
I climbed the stairs and knocked lightly. “Jennifer. It’s Gemma. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Come in,” a voice called, and I edged the door open.
“I brought you some dessert and a coffee. If you’d prefer tea or something stronger, I can get that.”
She was sitting on the bed, propped up on pillows, the duvet pulled up to her waist, showing the thin straps and lacy bodice of a delicate peach negligée. A thick hardcover book rested on her knees. The blue and gold dress was tossed over a chair; the necklace had been thrown onto the dresser, but she was still wearing the earrings.
The room was decorated in shades of dusty rose with light gray accents; very feminine, with gray curtains, a white dressing table with a tiny stool covered in fabric matching the curtains pulled up to it, a large antique wardrobe, and paintings of wheat-filled fields or calm seas. Two doors led off the room, apart from the one I’d entered through.
I put the tray on the dresser and carried the individual plates to her night table. She gave me a sad smile and put the book she was reading to one side. The Life and Times of Sherlock Holmes: Essays on Victorian England by Liese Sherwood-Fabre. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“You must come and visit my shop one day,” I said. “That’s exactly the sort of book we carry.”
“I’d like that. Although I don’t know if I’ll ever want to come back to Cape Cod.” She chewed her lip and looked away as tears filled her eyes. The light from the night lamp shone on the earrings, and I realized the stones were not glass as I’d first believed.
I glanced quickly at the necklace as I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She turned back to me. “How’d …?” She burst into tears, and I awkwardly patted her hand and mumbled useless platitudes. “We thought we were being discreet,” she sobbed at last.
She and David had been discreet. While he was alive. His death obviously hit Jennifer hard, harder than anyone else, including the man’s wife, but she hadn’t sought solace from the others in the group. She’d kept the depth of her grief to herself. Now that I was looking, the evidence was everywhere. The grief, the peach negligée, the his/hers bedrooms with connecting doors. She’d mentioned earlier that she’d toured the garden “first thing Friday morning.” Meaning she’d arrived on Thursday, a day before the guests were due. As had David. They’d had pizza and wine and put the garbage into the kitchen bin.
“Had you and David been … together for long?” I asked.
She shook her head. I handed her the box of tissues resting on the night table beside the book, and she blew her nose with gusto. “We met a few months ago in a Sherlock Holmes online discussion forum. He was so interesting, he knew so much, Gemma! He was interested in all the things I’m interested in. We soon broke off from the rest of the forum. We were online for hours, night after night! Just talking, exchanging information and discussing theories. It was … it was … the best time of my life.” More sobs. More blowing noses. More hand patting and platitudes.
“I … I live in Los Angeles, where I grew up. I lead a fairly quiet life, and it suits me. I’m a copy editor at a company that publishes history textbooks. I don’t travel very much. I don’t like airplanes, you see. David said if I took the train to Boston, he’d meet me there. I wasn’t sure, at first, but the idea was so exciting. Traveling across the country by train, staying at a big country house. Like Sherlock Homes and Dr. Watson on their way to the Copper Beeches or the Abbey Grange! David was there, at the station in Boston, waiting to meet me when I got off the train. He was … everything I’d ever dreamed of.”
