A Three Book Problem, page 16
I found it incredibly sad. I looked into her eyes, and she gave me a small smile. “Thank you for this.”
I shrugged into the straps of the backpack and grabbed the handles of a large suitcase with one hand and a smaller one with the other. “My car’s at the back. Have you said your good-byes to the others?”
“Why would I do that? The only one of them I liked was Donald, and he stopped in to say goodbye before he left. Him, and you and Jayne, that is. As for Rebecca and Miranda, I hope never to see either of them ever again. Cliff tried to talk me into buying a first edition from him, but when I told him I don’t collect, he lost interest in talking to me. At first, I thought Steve was okay, but then he was so rude about David’s essay. That wasn’t very nice.”
“It’s okay to have a difference of opinion. Isn’t that what Holmes societies are for? Reasoned debate?” I dragged the two suitcases after me. They got stuck in the door, meaning I got stuck in the door. I backed up and pushed the larger one into the hallway. I clattered and clunked my way down the stairs and then alternately shoved and dragged the luggage down the hallway.
“A difference of opinion, yes,” Jennifer said as she followed me closely, too closely, down the stairs. I could only hope she was holding on tightly to her cases. “But Steve was out and out rude.”
No one came to investigate what was making such a racket. The others didn’t seem to care any more for Jennifer than she did for them.
“David was a genius,” Jennifer said. “People often don’t appreciate genius in their own time.”
We went through the kitchen, spick and span, and left the house via the back door. Jennifer came to a sudden halt when she saw my sporty little convertible. “Oh, dear. Will all this fit?”
“We can make it fit,” I said optimistically as I eyed the two-seater Miata not at all optimistically. But make it fit we did once I’d put the top down and tied the tower of suitcases with a length of rope I’d found in the trunk, last used to bring home our Christmas tree. I eyed the precarious stack and hoped the police wouldn’t stop us on the way into town.
“Where to?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Jennifer said from beneath her garment bag, backpack, shoulder bag, and handbag.
“How can you not know? Didn’t you find a hotel?”
“I hoped you’d recommend something.”
I put the car into gear and we pulled away. I drove slowly, taking care to avoid any bumps for fear of the suitcases tumbling off.
The gates at the bottom of the driveway were closed. I pulled up to a panel mounted on a post and pushed a big green button, hoping for the best. The gates swung open and we drove through.
“At this time of year you’re probably in luck,” I said. “In the summer, you can’t get a room in West London at the last minute for love nor money. What’s your price range? Motel? Mid-price hotel? B&B? The Ritz? Not that there’s one of those.”
“Something nice,” she said. “I have my savings to tide me over until David’s will’s read and his funds released.”
“My favorite’s the Harbor Inn. It’s a small, privately owned boutique hotel in what was once a private home, but it is pricey, no matter the time of year.”
“That’ll do.”
I drove through West London toward the Harbor Inn. At midday on a Sunday in fall, tourists poked around the shops, or relaxed on restaurant patios, but it was nowhere near as busy as it would be in July and August.
“This is Baker Street,” Jennifer said in a voice full of delight. “Oh look, that dress store’s number 305. Is there a 221?”
“There is, but it’s a cheap souvenir shop. If you look on the other side of the street, just up ahead, the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium is at number 222, and Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room’s at 220.”
Jennifer clapped her hands. “I see them. Oh, your store looks so amazing. I love the silhouette of Holmes with his pipe hanging over the door, and look at all those books in the windows! I’m going to check it out as soon as I can. Is it walking distance to the hotel?”
“Yes.” I took a quick glance at the store as we passed. Moriarty basked in the sun streaming through the front windows, his head resting on a copy of Villains, Victims, and Violets. Next door at Mrs. Hudson’s an older man, going in, held the door for two young women coming out gripping takeaway cups. One of them thanked him and he dipped his head. In the short time I’d been away, the company hired to maintain the beauty of the Baker Street business district had dug up the purple and white petunias in the flower boxes under the windows and the pots on the sidewalk and replaced them with yellow and gold chrysanthemums.
At the end of Baker Street, I turned left onto Harbor Road and drove parallel to the boardwalk. To our right, the open Atlantic Ocean stretched into the distance. Jennifer settled back in her seat and admired the scenery. “I’ve lived near the ocean my entire life, being from LA. But this is so different, isn’t it? The sky’s different, the water looks different. The trees sure are. I’ve never seen trees that color before, although I’ve seen it in books. You’re from England, is the sea different there too?”
“It can be. But this is the Atlantic, we’re just on the other side of it. England’s right over there.” I pointed. “To the north east.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to England. To London. I’ve never gone, as I’m terrified of flying, and to take a ship both ways would take more than my job’s vacation time. But … David said he’d take care of me and it would all be okay. We were planning to go there for our honeymoon. We’d see 221B Baker Street and the Sherlock Holmes Museum and the British Library, and then go to Edinburgh, where …” Her voice trailed off. “Now, I’ll have to do all those things without him.”
“Perhaps you can go on a guided tour. There are plenty like that. You’d travel with like-minded people and see the things you’re all interested in.”
“That would be marvelous,” she said.
I pulled into the half-full parking lot of the Harbor Inn. Jennifer struggled to throw off the garment bag, backpack, and shoulder bag, and I ran around to help her. I then untied the rope holding the suitcases in place and we dragged, shoved, and carried the lot into the inn.
A handful of people were scattered about the lobby, enjoying coffee in the lounge bar, or lingering over a late breakfast on the restaurant veranda, but at midmorning on a Sunday it was fairly quiet.
Andrea Morrison, owner of the inn, stood behind the reception desk. She spotted me and gave me a wave. I waved back. “I’ll watch the cases while you check in,” I said to Jennifer.
She looked around her, wide-eyed. “Oh, this place is absolutely beautiful.”
It was nice, it was very nice, but I’ve never thought the Harbor Inn was all that exceptional.
“It’s been a long time since I stayed in a nice hotel,” Jennifer said to me.
“Really?”
“When I was a child we usually went camping on our holidays. The weather had to be pretty bad for my father to move us to a hotel.” She chuckled fondly at the memory. “My parents still love to travel in their RV. When I was in college, I had a couple of fun vacations with my sorority sisters, but that’s about it. My company has a big sales conference every year at a hotel in LA. Because I lived locally, they never paid for me to have a room.”
“Go to the desk and tell her you want to check in. Andrea will take care of you. I’ll wait here with your things. Uh … you do have a credit card?”
“Yes.” Jennifer approached the reception desk, did what was necessary, and then rejoined me, gripping the plastic key card tightly in her hand. Andrea’s husband, Brian, came out of the door next to the reception desk. He might have briefly started when he saw the pile of luggage, but he fixed his professional smile into place. “Allow me to help you,” he said to Jennifer.
“Thanks, Brian,” I said. “I’ll be off now. The shop’s open until five on Sundays, Jennifer, so pop in and say hi if you’re out for a stroll.”
Chapter Ten
Ashleigh was delighted to see me walk through the doors of the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, although Moriarty was not.
He hissed at me, displayed his backside, and stalked off to his bed under the center table.
I did a quick mental inventory of the shop, and was pleased to see that a healthy amount of our stock had been sold during my absence.
“Did you have a good weekend?” Ashleigh asked when the customer she’d been helping had left, lugging a cloth bag heavy with books. “I suppose when that guy died it spoiled the mood.”
“It managed to put a damper on the festivities, yes. Not that most of the guests noticed, or cared.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“How was the dinner last night? Everything Jayne was making looked fabulous.”
“It was fabulous. The food anyway. Send me the details of the things you brought to the house yesterday. I’ll try to get someone … anyone … to pay me for them, but I don’t have much hope. Aren’t you slightly overdressed today?” Ashleigh’s clothes closet would put a repertory theatrical company to shame. She dressed according to her mood and the role she felt like playing on any given day. Today, she obviously felt like being a boss. Not that I, who am the boss, ever come to work in a dark gray business suit, pink shirt with gigantic floppy bow, stockings, and beige pumps.
“Overdressed? I don’t think so. One should dress professionally at all times, wouldn’t you agree, Gemma? You’re back early.”
“We decided to cut our losses and skip Sunday lunch. Have you heard anything more about what happened there?” The shop was momentarily empty and we could talk freely.
“It was reported in the Star’s Twitter feed last night, and a story went up on their website a short while ago. It’ll probably be in the paper tomorrow. Irene wrote the story and filed it directly from the scene this morning. So exciting!”
“What did she have to say?”
“Just that the host of a Sherlock Holmes weekend, being held at historic Suffolk Gardens House in West London, had died and the police were on the scene. Nothing specific. She interviewed the dead man’s wife and some of the guests but they had nothing to say except it came as a complete shock. I didn’t see mention of your name. Or Jayne’s.”
“Irene knows better. She didn’t say anything about cause of death?”
“No. She said the police are not commenting at this time. The man was in his fifties and in good health. That kinda implies he was murdered, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. Accidents happen. Health problems can go undetected no matter what one’s age.”
“Yeah,” Ashleigh said. “I thought so. He was murdered.”
The chimes over the door tinkled, Ashleigh put on a welcoming smile, and we both went to work.
Moriarty continued to sulk.
* * *
At four o’clock, Fiona closed the sliding door joining the Emporium and Mrs. Hudson’s, and she and Jocelyn began stacking chairs on tables prior to sweeping the floor. Jayne didn’t appear, but she’d told me she had a lot of work to do tonight to replenish the fridge and the baking tins to be ready for opening on Monday. I’d popped into her kitchen in the middle of the afternoon to check on her, still concerned that she might have a delayed reaction to witnessing David’s death. She’d seemed perky enough and I hadn’t pressed the point.
I had, however, texted Andy to tell him to look after her.
Andy: Need you ask?
Me: Makes me feel better
Andy:
Business in the shop was quiet over the hour before closing. At four thirty, Ashleigh began to prepare to leave. Moriarty had eventually come out of his self-imposed quarantine to greet customers. Moriarty was generally an excellent shop’s cat. He didn’t care much for dogs, but otherwise he greeted our customers, particularly children, warmly and with guarded affection.
It was only me he didn’t like. I try not to take it too personally. Other animals seem to like me okay. I have two dogs, who like me a great deal.
At least they pretend to like me. Maybe they don’t, but they know who fills their food bowls. I’d never looked at it that way before. I’d only been away two nights, but I found myself looking forward to seeing to Violet and Peony. Had they missed me and were eager to go home or had they regarded the time at Leslie’s as we would a vacation at a luxury hotel? Would I have to drag them, kicking and screaming, all the way home?
“I loved your story for the online news,” Ashleigh said, and I turned to see Irene coming through the door.
“Thanks,” Irene said.
“Have you learned anything new?” Ashleigh asked. “Can I get a sneak peek at tomorrow’s paper?”
“No,” Irene said.
“Okay,” Ashleigh said cheerfully. “Night, Gemma. See you tomorrow.”
“Why’s she dressed like that?” Irene said to me once Ashleigh was skipping happily down Baker Street. “Is she going to a funeral?”
“Don’t ask. What’s up? Any breaking developments in the story?”
“You’d know better than me. My sources called to say the police arrived right after I’d left and searched everyone’s room, but they didn’t say what they were looking for. Are you going to tell me what they learned that caused them to do that?”
“Is Sherlock Holmes a Russian spy? No.”
Moriarty leapt onto the counter and rubbed his body against Irene’s arm. “Hello there, big boy,” she cooed. “You’re looking particularly handsome today, you lovely fellow.” She stroked him and he purred. “My bad luck. I left earlier than I should have because I was beginning to fear I’d grow old listening to Rebecca prattle on about herself, except for the odd moment when she remembered we were supposed to be talking about David.”
“Did you get the sense she was genuinely grieving, and hiding her feelings under her chatter?”
“That’s a good question.” Irene thought for a few moments. “A couple of times, she did have to stop and collect herself, and I might have seen a trace of sadness in her eyes. Thing is, Gemma, my take on Rebecca is she’s so self-absorbed that she hasn’t got the mental capacity to care for anyone else, even someone she might love.”
“That’s a good insight.” To me, the fact that Rebecca moved into David’s room and happily stayed in the house where he died indicated his death had little emotional impact on her. But, as I’ve observed before, we all grieve in our own way.
“I went straight home and filed a preliminary story for the online news. I called Ryan, but he had nothing to share with the press.”
“No surprise there.”
“He did say the police continue to investigate, which means he thinks it’s a suspicious death. My inside source at the house, who’s Miranda in case you’re wondering, said Ryan told them they were treating David’s death as a murder.”
I nodded.
“You don’t want to tell me what the police are thinking, but you can tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t help you, Irene. I don’t have any insights into this case at all.”
“You were there, Gemma, in the library when David died. I know you saw something. You bolted out of the house leaving Jayne to call for help.”
“Irene, you can ask all you want. You can keep asking. But I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying. Can you, Moriarty?” she asked the cat. “I do have something to tell you.”
“Are you talking to Moriarty or to me?” I asked.
“Sometimes I think I’ll get more information out of him. I won’t even ask for an exchange of information. I got a strange, very strange, phone call about twenty minutes ago. A gentleman by the name of Daniel Steiner, who …”
“Is the owner of Suffolk Gardens House.”
“The very one. He asked me to keep his house’s name and location out of the papers. I said it was too late, the story was out there. All the neighbors saw the police activity, and West London’s a small town. Word gets around, and Suffolk House has always been a place of interest. He didn’t like hearing that.”
“That’s understandable. He’s trying to sell the house. News that a murder might have been committed there won’t help.”
“So it is murder!”
“I said might. That’s what he’s thinking anyway.”
“Thing is, Gemma, he implied, strongly, that things can go wrong for me if I mention the property again.”
My ears pricked up. “What sort of things?”
“He knows people. People who know people—”
“Sounds like lyrics to a song.”
“I’m not joking. And neither was he. Influential people in the world of print media.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, that and more. The West London Star, like community papers everywhere, is barely breaking even these days. It would be too bad, Steiner said, if the owner found himself unable to continue funding the paper due to an abrupt drop in advertising revenue.”
Moriarty hissed, and I leaned back against the counter. “Nasty. What are you going to do?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll take it to my editor. He can decide. I might be a firm believer in the independence of the press, but this is above my pay grade.”
“You’d censor a story because of a threat?”
“Not censor. We can say prominent West London estate, rather than Suffolk Gardens House.”
“Sounds like censoring to me.”
“Yeah. It does. If he’d threatened me alone, then it would be my decision, Gemma. But he threatened the existence of the paper itself.”
“Do you know anything about this person? Does he have the sort of contacts he’s implying he does?”
Irene’s face twisted. “Some reporter I am. I didn’t even check, I came straight here to talk to you.”
