A Three Book Problem, page 23
I became aware of a rapid drumming sound and realized that fat raindrops were bouncing off the hood of my rain jacket. I jumped off the picnic table and called to the dogs. They, eventually, came and we headed home.
* * *
I kicked off my sodden trainers, hung my dripping rain jacket up, and grabbed an old towel off the hook next to it. I did my best to wipe the dogs dry, and then they ran into the house to rub the rest of the rainstorm off on the living room furniture.
By the time I took my reheated casserole out of the microwave, it was cold, but I dished it up anyway and carried it and a glass of water to the rarely used home office at the back of the house. I put the tray on the desk and booted up my computer.
Steve Patterson, or perhaps the less frequent spelling of Paterson, is a mighty common name. I wish everyone had a name like Ebenezer Ferdinando Jones. Then again, if everyone was named Ebenezer Ferdinando Jones it would be hard to locate the particular person I was interested in.
It took a lot of time, but I finally narrowed down my search of Steve or Steven/Stephen Paterson/Patterson to the man I’d met this past weekend. He had no social media presence—nothing on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or any other common site. Whether he was deliberately keeping a low profile, or simply not interested in having one, I couldn’t tell. But it’s difficult, if not close to impossible, to keep oneself entirely off the internet. I found several pictures of him at a wedding. His niece had been married over the summer at a big splashy event in Harwich Port, and she created a public website to share details and photos of the engagement party, the showers, the ceremony and reception, as well as the honeymoon. She had, conveniently, been meticulous in labeling all the people who appeared in her pictures. Uncle Steve, full name Stephen LeFrancois Patterson of Chatham, Massachusetts, had not gone on the honeymoon but he’d been in the church, seated next to the grandmother of the bride, and gave a toast at the reception.
Conveniently (for me), my Steve Patterson had an uncommon middle name, probably his mother’s family name. Once I had that, I was able to drill deeper and found that he was originally from Boston, but had lived in Chatham for twenty years. His wife was a high school teacher; they had two children, one of whom was a bit-part actor in Hollywood and the other a teacher in Boston. Steve’s wife was still teaching, and Steve worked full time at a hardware store.
Hold on. Hadn’t he been in the Marines? Semper Fi and all that? Hadn’t he taught military history at some war college or other? That’s what Donald said, and Steve had not contradicted him.
I dug deeper still, into places I was probably not supposed to venture. It didn’t take long before I had what I needed and I backed out of those places, leaving no trace (I hoped) of my presence behind.
Steve had joined the Marines when he quit high school without graduating, and had spent ten years in the service. His career had been one without distinction but without disgrace either. He and his wife had then moved to Chatham and he’d started working at the hardware store, where he was still employed.
Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all.
But he was not a distinguished professor of military history, specializing in the Afghanistan wars of the nineteenth century.
Tsk tsk.
I picked my phone off the desk and dialed.
“Ummmm?” came a muffled voice.
“Donald, it’s Gemma.”
“Gemma! What’s wrong? I’m on my way. Where are you?”
“I’m at home and nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask? Oh.” The clock in the bottom corner of the computer display said it was one AM. The congealing chicken casserole on the tray looked highly unappetizing. “Sorry.”
“Let me switch on a light. There, that’s better. How can I help?”
“As long as you’re up … Tell me about Steve Patterson. Had you met him before this weekend?”
“No, and I wasn’t aware he lived so close. I’m surprised that we’ve never met, but some people are more reclusive than others.”
“But you knew of him?”
“Oh, yes. He’s active in many of the Holmes online clubs.”
“I searched them but couldn’t find his name.”
“As I recall, he calls himself SLPats. Not everyone uses their full name, particularly when it’s one that might have been registered before. When David sent out the invitations for the weekend, he introduced us all to each other.”
I, as a worker, not a guest, hadn’t received the formal invitation. “As SLPats, is he well known in Sherlockian circles?”
“Moderately so. He’s a specialist in Doctor Watson’s military career, because of his own military service and teaching credentials. Didn’t I mention that, Gemma? I’m surprised you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten, no. Thanks, Donald. Good night.”
“Why are you—?”
I hung up. I drank the glass of water as I returned my attention to the computer, this time to search the message boards and online forums for SLPats. He did participate quite a bit and he did have something to add to the discussions. My own knowledge of the details of the Canon isn’t that great, but it seemed to me as though SLPats’s information and opinions were insightful and perhaps even valuable. Others on the discussion boards seemed to agree. I found a couple of articles he’d submitted to the journals of Sherlock societies and an essay in a book of Holmes-themed pieces produced by a small but respectable publisher. The short bio attached gave his online name only and mentioned that he’d been a professor of military history.
I leaned back in my chair. The dogs were curled up on the rug next to the desk, sound asleep. Peony’s little legs moved as he dreamed he was chasing squirrels. Violet sighed and rolled over. Rain pounded the roof, branches scratched at the windows, and the old house groaned as it resisted the attempts of the wind to knock it over. This house had been built in 1756 and had weathered many storms, even by English standards, and it would weather many more. A car drove slowly past, splashing through puddles and kicking up rainwater.
Steve Patterson had no need to pretend to have a background in academe that he didn’t. His knowledge of his field should have been enough, no matter where he acquired it or what he had done with it. But lies, once begun, take on a life of their own. He’d probably exaggerated his résumé when he first joined Sherlockian groups, trying to make himself sound important, and then, having started the lie, decided it was too late to back out. Instead, he’d dug himself deeper and deeper, exaggerating ever more.
How important was his status in Sherlockian society to Steve Patterson, aka SLPats?
Very important, I guessed. The deception would explain why he didn’t socialize with Donald and his circle in person and why he hadn’t gone to the BSI weekend: real historical experts, people with credentials, were going to be there.
Important enough that he’d pay blackmail money to David Masterson?
With that thought, I shut down the computer, woke the dogs, put them out for one last quick romp, dumped my chicken casserole in the trash, let the dogs back in, rubbed gallons of rainwater off them, and we all retired to our beds.
Chapter Sixteen
Before I’d gone to sleep, I set my alarm for the unsuitable hour of eight AM. Unsuitable for me at any rate. Jayne would have been up for four hours by then and put in what for other people amounts to half a day’s work.
I had a business to run, but I wanted to pay a call on Steve Patterson, and I thought my chances of finding him at home would be best in the morning. He wouldn’t work at the hardware store seven days a week, but if he did intend to go to work today it likely wouldn’t be until nine thirty or ten at the earliest.
The storm had raged throughout most of the night, but it had worn itself out by morning, and when I took a peek outside, the sun was rising in a clear sky. The street was awash with puddles as well as numerous small branches and leaves, but I could see no serious damage.
I put the dogs out and showered and dressed quickly. I had a glass of water for my breakfast and apologized to Violet and Peony for not taking them on a morning walk. I promised to get home during the day to do that, and I was in the Miata backing out of my driveway before eight thirty.
Early to pay a social call, particularly on someone you barely know, but if Steve Patterson didn’t want my company, he shouldn’t have gotten himself involved in a murder.
It was a pleasant morning for a drive. Midweek in late October the streets weren’t busy with tourists heading to the beaches, and it took only a few minutes to get to Chatham.
Steve and his wife, who I’d learned was named Judy, lived on a street of small, nondescript houses, most of which appeared to have been built in the 1960s or ’70s, on large lots. A clean Ford Explorer was parked in the driveway in front of the closed garage door. I pulled in behind it, got out of my own car, and checked out my surroundings.
Last night’s storm had left a scattering of twigs, small branches, and freshly fallen autumn leaves on the lawn, but otherwise the yard was scrupulously maintained: leaves raked, grass mowed, bushes pruned, perennials cut back, annuals dug up for winter, flowerbeds turned over. The house itself boasted a new steel roof, and the doors and window frames appeared to have been painted within the last year or two.
I climbed the steps and knocked briskly on the door. I had no reason to be calling, so I’d decided not to bother coming up with one. I’d simply ask Steve if David had been blackmailing him.
The door opened and a woman peered out. “Good morning.” She was in her late fifties or early sixties with gray hair cut short, washed and brushed but not styled, watery brown eyes, pink cheeks, and skin showing signs of age. She was considerably shorter than my five foot eight, and about thirty pounds heavier than she probably liked. She was dressed in a plain brown skirt, ironed white blouse under a black sweater, nylon stockings, and thick-soled brown shoes. The clothes were mass-produced, cheap but clean and well-maintained. Behind her, I could see a brown purse and a large, bulging tote bag on the small table in the front hall.
This was Judy Patterson, Steve’s wife of more than thirty years, and the very picture of a high school teacher about to head off to work.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “Is Steve at home?”
“No. He’s not.”
“If he’s gone to work I can try and get him at Household Hardware.” I dropped the name of his place of employment so she’d know I wasn’t a total stranger or a door-to-door salesperson. If they even had such a thing as door-to-door salespeople anymore.
“Today’s his day off,” Judy said. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“We met this past weekend at Suffolk House.”
She nodded. I decided not to ask this pleasant woman if her husband was being blackmailed and if so might he have murdered his blackmailer. Not because I was being sensitive to her feelings, but because it was unlikely she’d know. She hadn’t gone to the weekend, even though it was close to home and being held at a place most people would have loved to visit. Even in this day and age, some Sherlockian societies try to maintain the aura of a men’s club and frown on the presence of women, but that had not been the case at Suffolk House. David made Miranda come specifically so Jennifer wouldn’t be uncomfortable at being the only woman. Easy to conclude that Judy hadn’t gone because she wasn’t interested in her husband’s hobby.
“He’s there now,” she said.
That took me by surprise. “You mean Suffolk Gardens House?”
“Yes. I heard what happened on Saturday. A man died.” She shook her head. “Terrible thing. Steve called to tell me about it before word started spreading around town, and he said he wanted to stay and finish the weekend. Man doesn’t have a lick of common sense, not when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. I don’t get the appeal myself.” She studied my face, searching for signs of a lack of common sense.
“I’m Gemma Doyle. I was working there this weekend.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I recognize you.”
“You do?” Good thing I hadn’t pretended to be someone I wasn’t. Despite being a keen Sherlockian, Steve had never been in the Emporium. Some consider our pastiche novels and games and puzzles and knickknacks to be beneath them, or at least not of any interest. I’d never seen Judy either.
“I’ve been to the tea room next door a couple of times. Some of the teachers at my school are regulars, and we celebrated the end of the school year there in the spring.”
“That’s nice to hear. Thank you. Uh … do you know why Steve’s gone to Suffolk House this morning?”
“A few of the guests stayed on, he said. He went to see how everyone’s doing.” She glanced over her shoulder at her purse and bag. “I’m sorry, but …”
“You have to get to work. Thanks.”
“I’m late as it is. I had a doctor’s appointment and then I had to rush home to get some papers I forgot. Shall I tell Steve you called?”
“Not necessary.” I started to walk away. Halfway down the steps I turned. “One more thing. I thought I saw Steve last week at the archery range. Was it him?”
She looked at me in genuine surprise. “Archery? Good heavens no. What would Steve be doing at a place like that?” She chuckled. “I might not share his love of military history or of Sherlock Holmes, or even understand those things, but otherwise, I’m a lucky woman. Steve’s hobby’s looking after the house.”
“Thanks,” I said as I skipped down the steps.
* * *
It was now nine o’clock. The Emporium opens at ten, and today was Ashleigh’s day off. I could try to get to Suffolk House, interrogate Steve, call the police if I learned anything relevant—such as that he’d finally had enough, snapped, and in a fit of rage had murdered his blackmailer—and get to the shop in an hour, but that was unlikely to happen. Oh well, couldn’t be helped. I’d just have to be late.
The Baker Street Business Improvement Association would not be pleased. They’d reminded me more than once that I was required to have the shop open at the same time as the rest of the stores on the street.
Sherlock Holmes, I thought as I drove out of Chatham, was a full-time consulting detective. I’m a shop owner who sometimes gets more involved in police cases than is good for her.
One thing I’d learned this morning: Steve was not a blowgun aficionado or practitioner. Blowguns and poisoned darts are not the same as bows and arrows, but I’d given Judy Patterson the opening to tell me if her husband enjoyed that sort of activity. She’d reacted only with surprise, and I believed she had a readable face. The property did look as though the owners spent a lot of time caring for it.
My route took me down Harbor Road, toward town. At the last minute, I decided if I was paying a social call I shouldn’t arrive empty-handed, and I swung into Baker Street. I found a parking place in front of Mrs. Hudson’s, which would be an unheard-of occurrence in the busy summer months.
At this time of the morning—breakfast rush finished, lunch and afternoon tea patrons still to arrive—the restaurant was quiet. A couple of students tapped at their computers while they sipped coffee, and in the window alcove, a group of thirty-something women laughed uproariously over a joke and nibbled at breakfast pastries. No lineup was at the counter. The wet streets and post-storm clean-up had kept many people at home this morning.
“Good morning,” I said to Fiona as I studied the display behind the glass. “Quiet today?”
“Normal for the middle of the week at this time of year. Things will slow down for a while until the holiday shoppers get out there in force. Quite the storm last night, wasn’t it? My neighbor had a tree come down. Missed her car by inches. Tea?”
I was about to say no, I wasn’t going into the Emporium, when I remembered that all I’d had for breakfast was a glass of water. “Yes, please. In a takeaway cup. I’d also like eight muffins. Whatever assortment you want to give me.”
“Morning, Gemma.” Jayne’s smiling, flour-dotted, hairnet-topped face popped out of the kitchen.
Fiona handed me two bulging paper bags and a takeout cup of tea.
“Someone’s hungry,” Jayne said.
“This isn’t all for me. I’m popping around to Suffolk Gardens House.”
“Lucky you,” Fiona said. “Jayne says it’s a fabulous place. Are you investigating that man who died there on the weekend?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Jayne said.
“No,” I said. “I’m simply paying a friendly social call. Want to come with me, Jayne?”
Jayne’s eyes flicked to Fiona. “Can you and Jocelyn manage for a few hours? I’ve done most of the lunch prep. Soups are bubbling and Jocelyn’s making sandwiches now.”
Fiona indicated the nearly empty restaurant. “We’ll be fine. Unlikely to have a big rush.”
“I’d like to be back by one,” Jayne said, “in time for tea.” Proper afternoon tea service—good china, linen napkins, three-tiered cake stands bearing scones with jam and clotted cream, small sandwiches, delicate pastries—started at one and continued until closing at four.
“We won’t be long,” I said. “I’m going to drop these muffins off, ask if everyone’s okay and enjoying their visit to West London, and oh by the way is anyone ready to confess to murder, and come straight back.”
“Good thing you’re not investigating,” Jayne said.
“Investigating is a nebulous term. I have to get back to the shop anyway. I felt Maureen’s steely gaze on me when I parked the car out front. She’ll be on the phone to the BIA at one minute after ten to say I haven’t opened on time.”
“No, she won’t,” Fiona said. “She’ll come in here first, asking if you’re sick or something. Much innuendo will be placed on the word something. She’ll then imply that she doesn’t want to cause trouble for anyone but it’s her civic duty to mention your absence to the other residents of the street. Whereupon she’ll ask if we have any baking left over from yesterday that I can sell her at cut rate.”
