A Three Book Problem Read online

  A Three Book Problem

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

  Vicki Delany

  To Mom

  Acknowledgments

  I started this book at the beginning of March 2020. I was staying with a friend in a hot, distant country for a month and I intended to get the first draft finished over that month. That would be about 70,000 words. Three weeks later I had 6,000 words and was on a plane home, having been called back, along with all the other traveling Canadians, by our prime minister. The rest of the book was written in quarantine, and then in lockdown, and over the very strange summer and fall. It took me longer than usual to write this book, mainly because of all else that was going on, even though I myself was going nowhere. Someone said that writing is largely done by the subconscious, and if your subconscious is otherwise occupied it can be hard to keep focus on the story.

  I believe that’s true, and I know so many writers and other artists who’ve been struggling in one way or another in these plague times. Fortunately, we writers, unlike stage actors or musical performers, can work at home in blissful isolation.

  Over this past year, I’ve missed traveling to bookstores and conferences and missed meeting so many people in person. Fortunately, we’ve had Zoom and the like to keep us connected and communicating.

  Let’s hope that by the time you’re reading this our lives are somewhat returned to normal and we can meet again.

  I’d like to thank my good friend Cheryl Freedman, who read the manuscript with her keen mystery-lover’s eye and provided much-needed gentle correcting. Also Sandy Harding, the best editor a writer can have, the crew at Crooked Lane Books for believing in Gemma and the gang, and to Kim Lionetti, my marvelous agent.

  Thanks to Robin Harlick, Barbara Fradkin, Mary Jane Maffini, and Linda Wiken, who provided humor, support, and friendship when we were all so far apart. And, as always, my marvelous daughters, Alexandra, Julia, and Caroline.

  Special thanks to Mike Ranieri, the Myers of the Bootmakers of Toronto, for the title.

  Chapter One

  “You’re sure we didn’t go through a warp in the space-time continuum and end up in Jolly Old England?”

  “Not according to the GPS.” Jayne Wilson peered at her phone. “Still Cape Cod. Still West London, Massachusetts.”

  “Still the twenty-first century?” I asked.

  “So this says.”

  I steered the Miata down the long driveway, passing rows of towering oak trees, their leaves turning yellow with the season. Between the flash of tree trunks I could see green lawns stretching into the distance, hedges and low stone walls, curving flowerbeds, a line of oaks and maples, bursting with autumn color, and the azure sea sparkling on the far horizon. “You must be right,” I said. “Too sunny to be England.”

  The driveway took a wide turn, the house came into view, and Jayne sucked in a breath. I might have gasped myself. The house was three stories tall, made of weathered golden stone, with tall curtained windows, numerous brick chimneys, and a grand portico waiting to greet guests. The driveway opened into a spacious courtyard and then it narrowed again to curve around the house, slipping between it and the detached four-door garage with dormer windows above which had probably once been staff accommodation. Those doors were closed now and two cars stood in the courtyard: a gleaming, recently washed and polished silver Lexus and a Honda Civic that seemed to be primarily constructed out of mud and rust.

  A man stood to attention under the portico, next to one of giant iron urns on either side of the great oak door. The urns were empty, and the man wore a black suit, stiffly ironed white shirt, black waistcoat, and black bow tie. His shoes were so highly polished the sunlight bounced off them. His black hair was slicked to one side with hair oil, but he’d missed a bit and a curl escaped from behind his right ear.

  “Is that Mr. Masterson, do you suppose? Jayne said.

  “Oh no. The gentleman of the house would never greet the paid workers. That, my dear, can only be the butler.”

  Jayne giggled.

  I pulled the Miata to a halt next to the front steps. The butler rounded the car and dipped his head, just a fraction. He was considerably younger than the norm for a properly trained and experienced butler, being in his early twenties. The escaped curl indicated this wasn’t his regular role in life. “Good afternoon, Ms. Doyle,” he said in a deep, sonorous voice. “Precisely on time. Mr. Masterson appreciates punctuality.” Something approaching an embarrassed smile touched the edges of his mouth and he shifted his shoulders and stretched his neck slightly, trying to loosen contact with the tight collar.

  “So I’ve been told,” I said.

  He glanced at Jayne. “Ms. Wilson?”

  “Hi,” she said.

  The van that had followed us out of town lumbered down the driveway and pulled in behind us.

  “I am Smithers,” the butler said.

  “You’re kidding?” Jayne said. “Oh, sorry.”

  A flash of humor touched his eyes, and he said, “This weekend anyway. I will instruct your staff to carry on around the house to the kitchen entrance at the back. You may park over there.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, matching his tone. “My staff need supervision.”

  “Very well. I’ll give you time to unload and have Mrs. Higgins meet you in the kitchen to show you to your rooms in half an hour.”

  He dipped his head and stepped back. I waved to the driver of the van to tell him to follow and we drove slowly around the house. At the rear, the façade of a nineteenth-century stately home nestled deep in the Home Counties fell away, and the house became just a big mid-twentieth-century American house on a huge lot.

  “This is so exciting.” Jayne clapped her hands. “I’ve lived in West London most of my life and always wondered what this place is like. People talk about it, but no one’s ever been invited inside. No one I know, anyway. Not even my mom. She’s insanely jealous that we’re spending the whole weekend here and she has to miss it.”

  I parked close to what I took to be the kitchen door and the van pulled in beside me.

  The weekend catering staff, otherwise known as Detective Ryan Ashburton, jumped down from the van. “Impressive place,” he said.

  “I’ve seen better,” I said.

  Jayne and Ryan both laughed. “Gemma Doyle, you can be such an English snob sometimes,” Jayne said, and I grinned at her.

  “We have half an hour to take the food in and get it put away,” I said to Ryan, “before the housekeeper shows us to our rooms.”

  “The housekeeper? Was that guy who spoke to you out front the organizer of this shindig?”

  “Of course not,” Jayne said. “That was the butler.”

  “A housekeeper and a butler,” Ryan said. “Fancy.”

  “Fancy,” Jayne said, “is the word for this gig.”

  I opened the unlocked kitchen door while Ryan and Jayne started unloading the van. We (meaning Jayne) were here to cook and serve six meals, plus drinks, snacks, and nibbles, and so we’d brought a lot of stuff. In addition to what we’d need to feed the weekend house guests, the van was packed with assorted paraphernalia I’d grabbed off the shelves at my store, the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium.

  Jayne didn’t run a catering business; she was busy enough as the head baker, part owner, and manager of Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room. Ryan Ashburton didn’t normally work as sous-chef and dishwasher, and I didn’t make a habit of combining my own meager cooking skills with the role of Sherlockian expert. Because I’m neither a cook nor a Sherlock expert.

  But Donald Morris, who is a Sherlock expert, a regular patron of my shop, and a good and loyal friend, had sung Jayne’s and my praises to the organizer of this weekend. We were being
paid for our troubles, and paid very well indeed.

  Well enough for us to leave our businesses in the hands of our assistants for the weekend after Columbus Day, when most of the tourist hordes had left the Cape and the slow season began. Jayne’s mother, Leslie, was looking after my dogs, Violet and Peony, as my great-uncle Arthur (also a Sherlock expert) would be joining the house party as a guest. This house is no more than a ten-minute drive from my place, but we’d been offered overnight accommodation, so why not take it? Particularly as we were expected to be on hand to serve late-night drinks and hearty hot breakfasts.

  This weekend would be all Sherlock Holmes, all the time. Our host David Masterson was a prominent, not to mention rich, Sherlockian. He’d been wanting to organize a special weekend for his fellow followers of the Great Detective for a long time, but a suitable venue hadn’t presented itself. Last year the owner of Suffolk Gardens House, a twentieth-century replica of an English stately home, died, and his heirs immediately put the house up for sale. They weren’t getting a lot of offers, if any, so in order to bring in some income the house was rented out for special occasions. Donald told David about it, David realized the property was perfect for what he had in mind, and here we were today.

  The English stately country home feeling fell away when we walked into the kitchen. Instead of a warm Aga, heavily trod and creaking floorboards, scrubbed pine workbenches, brick walls, elderly wet dog snoozing under the rocking chair next to an open fireplace, there were two top-of-the line ovens, a huge gas range, stainless steel freezer and fridge, a white marble-topped island about the size of a small Caribbean country, rows of bright orange cabinets, and a glass and chrome table surrounded by six orange leather stools. Everything was clean and tidy except for two wide-bowled glasses containing the residue of red wine in the sink, and the trash bin by the kitchen door. It was missing its lid, and I peeked in to see a handful of crumpled white napkins, an empty pizza box, and two empty bottles of a good Oregon pinot noir.

  Ryan and I carried in boxes while Jayne started poking in cupboards, getting the lay of the land, so to speak, and issuing orders. “Gemma, you can start stacking the nonperishables in the pantry. Ryan, get all that cold stuff out of the coolers into the fridge. Anything that’s frozen needs to go into the freezer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a salute and me a wink.

  “I love this kitchen.” Jayne sighed happily. “It’s my dream to have a kitchen as big and as well-equipped as this one someday.”

  “The house is for sale,” I said. “Contents included. Maybe you and Andy can buy it.”

  She smiled at the thought and absentmindedly twisted the engagement ring on her finger, but she said, “Fat chance.” Jayne had recently become engaged to our friend Andy Whitehall. Summer and early fall had been so busy for the both of them, they hadn’t had the chance to set the date, make any plans for the ceremony and celebration, or even talk about where they were going to live. I was starting to fear I’d have to lure them to my house one day and lock them in the basement until they got on with it. “It would be nice, though,” she said dreamily. “Imagine having all this cupboard space.” The kitchen at Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room was about a quarter the size of this one.

  A floorboard creaked in the hallway and a young woman came into the kitchen. “Hi. I’m Annie, aka Mrs. Higgins. You must be Gemma and Jayne.”

  In another break from English stereotypes, the housekeeper wasn’t a stern-faced woman with a pronounced accent and a stiff bun, but a tall woman in her early twenties with short blond hair, rows of piercings through both ears, a tattoo of a dragon curling up her right arm, and a welcoming smile. She wore white shorts and a red shirt under a denim jacket. Sturdy Doc Martens were on her feet.

  “We are,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” We all shook hands, and I introduced Ryan. I couldn’t help but notice her checking him out. Ryan is always worth checking out, but particularly so today in casual jeans and a loose T-shirt, with his black hair uncombed and the dark stubble coming in on his strong jaw and beneath his high, sharp cheekbones.

  Annie tore herself away from admiring Ryan and turned to Jayne. “You finding everything okay?”

  “Pretty much. We brought most of what we’ll need, as per the instructions Mr. Masterson sent me.”

  “Good, because I’ll try to help you if I can, but I only got here this morning myself, and I’ve been busy getting the bedrooms ready.”

  “Shall I assume you aren’t a professional housekeeper?” I said.

  She grimaced. “Got it in one. My name’s Annie Masterson, but for this weekend, I’m not supposed to be related to David so I’m to be called Mrs. Higgins. David insists on having his pretentions and we all find it easier just to go along with him. In real life I’m in show business, but I’m temporarily between gigs.”

  She didn’t, I thought, look entirely happy about playing the servant role, but she’d decided to make the best of it. “It’s a hard time, I’ve heard, on Broadway these days.”

  She looked at me quickly, and then she grinned. “I’m not on Broadway, but you recognized me! What did you see me in?”

  “Gemma notices things,” Jayne said before I admitted I’d never seen this woman before, on stage or off. She was young, tall, and pretty, and not at all overweight by normal standards, but her body was softer and plumper than was acceptable for American actresses, so she was unlikely to be in film or TV. I also guessed (although I always insist I never guess) she appeared on stage rather than film, as she had a deep voice and a certain presence, a way of walking and holding herself that indicated she’d been trained to be observed. Mr. Masterson, the organizer of this weekend, lives in Manhattan. Therefore, Annie most likely lives in New York City also. Meaning she either works in commercials, soap operas, or the stage, and I settled on the latter.

  “I’ve never quite made it to the big time,” she admitted. “Not yet anyway, but I’ve been in some off-Broadway shows and I recently toured in the Midwest. Unfortunately, that ended not long after it began, because it turns out that people in Kansas farming communities are too busy in the summer months to come out for a live show in the high school gym. But,” she held up her right hand, showing me crossed fingers, “I’m eternally optimistic, and I’m young enough to still have time to get that big break. As for this weekend: I’m your housekeeper, David’s not my uncle, and I’ll show you to your rooms. David and the first of the guests are here already, and the rest are due to arrive at five.”

  “Cocktails and canapés at six in the drawing room,” Jayne said. “Dinner at eight. Is that still the plan?”

  “Right.” Annie pulled a slip of paper out of the pocket of her short white shorts. Definitely not an outfit you’d ever find an English housekeeper wearing. “I see you have two rooms. Oh, you’re together.” She glanced between Ryan and me, trying to hide her disappointment.

  Ryan put his arm around my shoulders. “Yup.”

  * * *

  We followed Annie out of the kitchen and up the rear stairs. The servants’ stairs: narrow, curving, ill-lit. As we were here to work, our rooms were on the third floor and at the back of the house. They were, Annie told us, originally staff quarters, but over the years, as the need for rooms for live-in maids and kitchen workers declined, the rooms were upgraded and turned into additional guest accommodations. Ryan immediately hit his head on the sloping ceiling; he cursed and I smothered a laugh. Our room wasn’t large, and it was plainly and practically furnished, but it had a fabulous view over the pool, closed for the winter, and the now-empty patio, across the lawn and ornamental gardens to the woods lining the back of the property. It was mid-October and the trees were a riot of color.

  “Nice digs,” Ryan said after Annie had left, testing out the bed by bouncing on it. “Long as I don’t stand straight.”

  I turned away from the window. “It’s nice of you to do this for us.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for spending a weekend at Suffolk Gardens House. T
his place has always been the talk of the town, and so far I’m not disappointed.”

  “This isn’t a holiday. You’re supposed to be working, remember.”

  “I’ll look at it as though I’m on one of those cooking vacations in Tuscany. I don’t mind helping Jayne in the kitchen, and I don’t mind spending time with you. Speaking of which …” He patted the bed.

  “We should unpack.”

  “There’ll be plenty of time to unpack later.” He gave me a wicked and totally irresistible grin, and patted the bed again.

  I stepped away from the window.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Come on, you two,” Jayne called. “No time for lollygagging around. I have to finish putting all my food away and check what’s available in the way of linens and dishes. Ryan, I need you to prepare the vegetable tray while I arrange the cheeses.”

  “No one ever eats those vegetable tray things,” he called.

  “Perhaps not at police functions,” she called back. “Maybe not Sherlockians either, but it’s expected.”

  “A man’s work,” Ryan said, pushing himself reluctantly off the bed, “is never done.”

  Chapter Two

  “Splendid, Gemma, absolutely splendid.” Donald Morris beamed at me. Barely able to contain his excitement, Donald had arrived at Suffolk Gardens House half an hour early and joined me in the drawing room as I was putting the finishing touches on the display.

  I straightened a life-sized cardboard cutout of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as Holmes and Watson. I had another one of those back at the store, signed by Benedict himself when he’d visited the Emporium over the summer as a favor to his parents’ friend, my great-uncle Arthur.

  “I don’t think Holmes’s head should be at that angle, Gemma,” Donald said, not at all helpfully. He tilted his own head and peered at the images.

  “Ryan had trouble fitting this into the van with all Jayne’s supplies and so poor Benedict has a droopy neck. Pass me that tape will you, please?” I did my best to straighten the offending piece.