A Three Book Problem, page 21
The police left. I followed them and Jayne followed me.
“That was interesting,” I said once we were outside.
“As always, you just happened to be hanging around at the right time, did you?” Estrada said.
“Yup,” I replied. “That’s about it.”
“Did Rebecca say anything to you when you went upstairs with her?” Ryan asked Jayne.
“She was crying, quite a lot. I went with her to the door of her room, and she said she’d be okay, so I left her. She was polite about asking me to leave. Should I have stayed with her?”
“No,” I said. “You couldn’t have gone into her bedroom if she didn’t want you to.” Perhaps I should have been the one to take Rebecca upstairs. Unlike Jayne, I don’t care if people want my company or not. But I can’t be in two places at once, and I thought it more important to keep my eye on the others.
“Did she say anything about her plans?” Estrada asked.
Jayne shook her head.
“Did you learn anything in there, Gemma?” Ryan asked.
Estrada made a show of checking her watch, but she couldn’t quite pull off the totally disinterested look. She wanted to hear my observations. Although she’d die before admitting it.
“I need to think things through,” I said. “It was obvious from the time we first arrived that none of these people were particularly fond of David Masterson, and that includes his wife.”
“No brainer there,” Estrada said. “Anyone can see they can’t stand each other.”
“They did try to keep up appearances at first,” Jayne said. “I thought it was going to be a lovely weekend.”
I smiled at her. Jayne hadn’t noticed all the undercurrents swirling around these people. She always thinks the best of everyone and every situation.
“Let’s go,” Estrada said. “We don’t have all day to stand around chatting.” She marched across the courtyard to the cruiser and climbed behind the wheel.
I glanced at the house to see a cluster of faces peering through various windows. I refrained from waving.
“What are you up to now?” I asked Ryan.
“I’ve sent feelers out to New York for more info about Masterson and his affairs. I know you’re convinced this was done by someone in the house party, Gemma, and I’m inclined to agree, but I can’t forget the man had a lot of debts. And debts unpaid means enemies.”
“That was no professional hit, Ryan.”
“Not unless the mob has started writing obscure literary references into their contracts. People can have debts to non-organized crime figures.”
“Rebecca seemed to be genuinely shocked at what you had to say.”
The cruiser’s horn beeped.
“I have to go, or Louise will drive off without me.”
I didn’t ask if that would be so bad. Jayne had also left us and started the engine of her car.
“It’s possible Rebecca was aware David was in trouble, but not the extent of it,” Ryan said.
“Her shock was genuine. Annie was also initially shocked, but that turned quickly to amusement. Miranda seemed delighted to know David was on the verge of ruin, and Kyle and Billy are more interested in where their next beer’s coming from.”
“On the surface it looks as though Rebecca didn’t kill him, but I have some feelers out to Bridgeport, where she got that ticket on Saturday. Her alibi’s good, but it never hurts to follow up.” Not only was there a line of faces at the windows, but Estrada was watching us in her rearview mirror, so Ryan didn’t kiss me goodbye. Instead he simply gave me a private smile before walking away.
I hopped into Jayne’s car. She put her phone away and turned to me with a pout.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“A message from Andy. He has to cancel our dinner date. One of his sous-chefs cut his hand, badly enough that’s he’s gone to the hospital, so Andy has to stay through dinner service.”
“Isn’t that too bad?” I said cheerfully. “Let’s go to the Harbor Inn.”
“I’m tired, Gemma. If Andy can’t make it, I’d just as soon not have dinner out.”
“Who mentioned anything about dinner? I have a call to make, and you might as well take me as we’re in your car.”
Jayne gave me The Look, but she put the car into gear and we drove away.
Chapter Fifteen
I’d never admit it to anyone but myself, but I’d been wrong about David Masterson. I’d liked him when we met. I’d taken it at face value that he was what he appeared to be: a keen Sherlockian happy to use his ample financial resources to treat similar-minded people to a weekend of fine dining, good wines, country walks, movies and games, and above all stimulating conversation about the Great Detective.
Instead he humiliated his relatives by making them play at being servants, blackmailed a family friend, deceived his wife about his financial situation, and extended a shy, lonely woman a proposal he knew he couldn’t keep.
If I’d been wrong about David, who else had I been wrong about?
At the moment Ryan seemed to be concentrating on David’s family as the potential killers, in light of the revelations of his financial situation, but I knew he hadn’t forgotten that other people had been in the house at the time.
I hadn’t forgotten the rest of them either.
I took a chance that Jennifer Griffith would be at the inn. I never like to phone ahead to tell people I’m coming, not if I don’t have to. If they’re trying to hide something from me, better not to give them time to prepare.
We arrived at the Harbor Inn a few minutes before seven. A good time to find someone at dinner. “Let’s have a peek into the restaurant first,” I said to Jayne as we walked into the hotel. “If she’s not there, we can call up to her room.”
“If who’s not there?” Jayne said. “I hate it when you don’t tell me what’s going on, Gemma.”
“Do I do that?”
“All the time.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We’re looking for Jennifer, I assume.”
“See. I don’t have to tell you things. You figure them out for yourself.”
“I knew you couldn’t stop yourself from investigating,” she said.
I had to admit, if only to myself, that she was right. I waved to Andrea behind the desk as I crossed the lobby, Jayne muttering under her breath beside me.
The approaching storm had brought a decided chill with it, but a good number of guests were determined to enjoy one of the last chances for al fresco dining. Heaters had been set up on the veranda in an attempt to extend the season by a few more weeks, and a pile of blankets rested on the table next to the hostess stand for those needing more warmth. The iron urns and terra-cotta planters bursting with ivy and colorful annuals had been dug up and crimson and golden chrysanthemums planted in their place.
The restaurant was about half full and I spotted my quarry immediately. Jennifer had taken a table for two adjacent to the low stone wall, with a view down the steep hill to the lights lining Harbor Road and the night-wrapped ocean beyond. She wore a thick beige sweater, her nose was buried in a book, and a half-full glass of wine was next to her. One place had been set.
She didn’t hear us approach and started when I said, “Good evening.”
“Oh. Hello.” She blinked rapidly underneath her glasses.
“Enjoying the book?” I asked. She was reading Arthur and Sherlock: Conan Doyle and the Creation of Holmes, which she’d bought at the Emporium earlier.
“Fascinating. I learn something different about Sir Arthur all the time.” She smiled at me.
I smiled back.
Jayne shifted from one foot to the other.
A waiter placed a bowl of soup in front of Jennifer. It was thick and creamy, overflowing with small potatoes and plump clams. He arranged a breadbasket and a dish containing curls of butter, and then glanced at me. I gave my head a slight shake, and he slipped away.
Jennifer unfurled her napkin, arranged it on her lap, and picked up her spoon.
Clearly an invitation to join her was not forthcoming. I didn’t take it personally. I hate being interrupted and expected to engage in friendly conversation when I’m indulging in a rare treat of a nice meal alone in a good restaurant. Although, come to think of it, that treat has been so rare of late, I can’t remember the last time I dined in a restaurant alone, good one or otherwise.
As I wasn’t going to be invited to sit, I simply pulled out the unoccupied chair and dropped into it. Jayne hissed, “Gemma!”
“The clam chowder’s particularly good here,” I said.
“Uh …” Jennifer said. “Won’t you join me?”
“That would be lovely, thank you. Jayne, grab yourself a seat. We won’t be able to stay long.”
Jennifer didn’t say “thank goodness,” but her face did. I waved to the waiter. “I’ll have a cup of tea, please. Black tea, with milk. Jayne?”
“What? Oh, a glass of water, please.” She perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair she’d dragged over from an adjacent unoccupied table.
“Have you spoken to the police today?” I asked Jennifer.
“An officer came around this morning to go over my statement again, but I didn’t remember anything new. I bet his wife did it, but … well that’s only a guess on my part. She wasn’t even there, at the house, but she could have snuck onto the grounds, killed him, and then snuck away again, right?”
I said nothing.
“She had motive. David was going to leave her and take all his money with him. I called Detective Ashburton a while ago and told him that, but he just thanked me for my time. Although, if he’s building a case against her, he wouldn’t tell me, would he?” She scooped up another spoonful of the soup. It looked and smelled delicious.
Ryan wouldn’t share information about David’s financial situation with Jennifer. Jennifer had no legal status in David’s life, no matter what promises he’d made to her.
“Jayne and I have been at Suffolk Gardens.”
Jennifer put her spoon down. “Oh, yes. Visiting the grieving widow. If you’re here because you think I want to hear how she’s doing … I don’t care one little bit. Even if she didn’t kill him, she didn’t love him and he didn’t love her, and that’s all that matters to me.” Her eyes filled with tears and she dabbed angrily at them with her napkin. “I asked Detective Ashburton how I could get in contact with David’s lawyers, but he said I had to ask her. She’s not going to tell me, is she? Do you know the name of the lawyer?”
“I don’t,” I said truthfully.
She grabbed a roll out of the basket and began tearing it into shreds. “How will I get what’s mine? What David wanted me to have.”
“If you’re mentioned in the will,” Jayne said, “the executor will get in touch with you. If you’re unwilling to wait, wills are a matter of public record. Once his has been released, you can go to the records office in the town in which David lived and ask to see it. The lawyer’s name will be on it, and you can contact them.”
“Do you know when the will’s going to be released?” Jennifer asked me.
“No, I don’t. Jennifer, I hope you understand that David might not have changed his will in your favor. He was a middle-aged man in good health. He would have expected to live for many years yet, plenty of time to take care of that.”
“He told me he had,” she said firmly.
“Men say a lot of things they don’t always mean,” Jayne said.
“David wasn’t like that. I changed my will before I left California. If I died suddenly, I wanted him to have everything.” Tears fell again. “He did the same for me.”
I stood up. “We’ve kept you from your dinner and your book. Please drop into the Emporium any time.”
We left Jennifer ripping her bread into crumbs and staring out over the ocean, thinking of what might have been.
“You didn’t tell her about David’s financial situation,” Jayne said. “I expected you to.”
“That had been my original intent. I wanted to see her reaction to the news. I changed my mind. It’s irrelevant.”
“How can her reaction be irrelevant?”
“I believe she genuinely loved him. Whether that would have lasted upon getting to know each other doesn’t matter. Whether he returned her feelings or however much money he had, or didn’t have, doesn’t matter either.”
“You’re scratching her off the suspect list?”
“Not at all. She’s grieving, genuinely, but many a killer has regretted what they’ve done as soon as they did it. She came a long way to be with him. She left her home and her job, she even changed her own will. Is it possible he told her on Saturday morning, once they’d risen from their comfy little love nest, that he wasn’t planning on marrying her? No. Even if that was what he had in mind, he wouldn’t tell her until the end of the weekend. He probably wouldn’t have told her at all. Just driven away, leaving her standing in the dust. She’s a smart enough woman. Maybe she overheard him on the phone making plans with Rebecca. Any one of a number of things might have alerted her to his real feelings and intentions. If so, she would have been humiliated. Humiliation, I’ve found, is one of the most powerful motives for murder there is. More powerful than money. Now, where shall we go for dinner?”
“Like I said earlier, I’m tired, Gemma.”
“Let’s pay a call on Donald.”
“Donald! That’s about the last place I’d want to go to eat. Donald’s a horrible cook. He burns canned soup.”
“True, but he can provide an evening of scintillating conversation.”
Jayne gave me The Look.
“You can drop me at home first if you like, and I can take my own car.”
“Oh, no. You’re on the trail, and I’m coming with you.”
* * *
“Gemma. Jayne. What brings you two here? Not that it’s not always a pleasure, of course.”
“We were in the neighborhood,” I said. “I wanted to check up on you. I hope you’ve recovered from the weekend.”
“Perfectly, thank you,” Donald said. “Not that there was anything to recover from. It was quite delightful. Except for … the unpleasantness regarding our host.”
Which was an unusual way to refer to murder most foul, but I reminded myself that Donald had never met David prior to Friday evening.
“Is Cliff still here?” I asked. “You said you’d invited him to stay with you for a few days.”
“He is. We’ve been having some marvelous conversations, although,” Donald’s voice dropped, “as I realized earlier, he’s not as knowledgeable about Sir Arthur or the Canon as I might have expected, but he is interested in learning more. He’s trying to interest me in some first editions, and I will admit, Gemma, I’m sorely tempted.” Donald smiled ruefully and lowered his voice. “I fear my budget doesn’t match my tastes. Oh well, such is life. I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t been entirely honest with Cliff. I haven’t told him that I’m … temporarily short of funds.”
Donald was nothing of the sort: he was permanently short of funds. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Donald. Your financial situation is no one’s business but your own. I can’t invest in first editions either.”
“I wish Arthur was in town. He would have enjoyed discussing book collecting with Cliff. Oh, would you like to come in?”
“What an excellent idea. Thank you.”
“We’ve finished eating and are having a postprandial libation in the living room. We’re getting ready to watch the Jeremy Brett version of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Cliff says he hasn’t seen it for years. Marvelous story, of course, and Brett’s interpretation of Holmes is, as always, spot on. Would you care to join us?”
“Not to watch TV, thanks. We won’t stay that long. Morning comes early for Jayne, as you know. A cup of tea would be nice, though.”
“Come in, come in,” he urged, and Jayne and I stepped into Donald’s small, untidy, 1960s-era, never-updated bungalow.
We found Cliff in the living room, all ready to settle down for an evening’s viewing, glass of whiskey at hand. He leapt to his feet when we came in. “Hello, uh …”
“Gemma and Jayne,” I said. “We were passing and Jayne said, ‘why don’t we drop in on Donald.’ Didn’t you, Jayne?”
“I did? I mean, yes, that’s exactly what I said.”
“You sure you don’t want something stronger than tea?” Donald asked.
“Thanks, but no. I haven’t had dinner yet, and mustn’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“No tea for me,” Jayne said. “Or I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll never understand how you can drink that stuff so late, Gemma, and not be up all night.”
“I have a clear conscience,” I said. “Take your time, Donald. No need to hurry.” I gave my head a quick jerk to one side. I wasn’t sure if he understood that I was saying “take a long time, Donald.” He bustled off to tend to the tea making, and Jayne and I attempted to make ourselves comfortable. I assumed the one empty chair, next to the side table holding a glass of whiskey, was for Donald, so I lifted a stack of yellowing copies of the West London Star off a ragged armchair and dropped them on the floor while Jayne did likewise with a jumble of books, many of which came from my own shop. She held the books in her arms, looking around the room for a place to put them. Let’s say Donald’s housekeeping leaves something to be desired. I took the books from Jayne, and as I did so I stared into her eyes. Her own opened in a question, and then she nodded, handed me the books, and sat down. I put the books on top of another bunch and flicked idly through them.
“How are you enjoying West London?” Jayne asked Cliff.
“Pleasant little town,” he said. “I haven’t dropped into your store yet. Donald’s been singing its praises, so we’re hoping to get there tomorrow.”
“It’s not my store,” Jayne said. “Gemma and her Uncle Arthur own it.”
“I’ve heard of Arthur Doyle. Never had the pleasure.”
“Suffolk House was fun, wasn’t it?” Jayne said. “Like being in England.”
“If I wanted to play at being in England, I’d have gone to England,” Cliff said.
