Body on Baker Street Read online

  Before I could invite him to join Jayne and me, she leapt in. “No. Gemma has to work until late, and then she and I are meeting for dinner. We have important business to discuss, and that’s the only time we can get together.”

  He glanced around the tea room. Four elderly ladies, Mrs. Hudson regulars, were shaking the last drops from their pot. Two women, shopping bags piled around their chairs, were handing Jocelyn their credit cards. “Another time, maybe,” he said.

  “What got into you?” I said once the door had closed behind Grant. “That was rude. We aren’t having any business meeting tonight. We’re just going out for dinner. Why shouldn’t a handsome single man come with us?”

  “He didn’t want to have dinner with us, Gemma. He wanted to have dinner with you.”

  “So?”

  “So. He’s not the man for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How’s West London’s hottest detective?”

  “I assume you mean Ryan Ashburton, and I have no idea. Having not seen him since the conclusion of the Longton case.”

  “Which, Gemma, is precisely my point. You should be having dinner with Ryan. Not Grant. The man’s mad for you, and I have to say, it seems to me as though the feelings are returned.”

  I stood up. “I’ve told you, Jayne, Ryan and I are finished. We had something once, but it didn’t work out. I’ll thank you not to interfere in my love life. I’ll meet you at the Blue Water Café just after eight. Things should be quieting down in the kitchen by then. Why don’t you get there early and ask Andy to join us for a drink?”

  * * *

  At five minutes after eight, I texted Jayne to say I was running late but would be at the restaurant soon. I thought that would give her and Andy time to have a nice quiet chat before I arrived.

  When I did arrive at the café, it was eight twenty-five, and Jayne was sitting alone at a table for two. The advance reading copy of Hudson House was open in front of her, next to two menus and a lurid pink concoction approaching the bottom of a martini glass.

  “Sorry I’m late.” I dropped into a chair. “Last-minute rush of customers.” Okay, that was a lie. “Where’s Andy?”

  “Night off.”

  “What?”

  “It’s his night off. He’s entitled to one now and again, you know. I sometimes think I’d enjoy a day off. I wonder what that’s like.”

  “You can have a day off in January.”

  “If I live that long.” She sipped her drink.

  “I’ll take the day too. We can go to the beach. It won’t be crowded.”

  Jayne laughed.

  “Evening, Gemma.” The waiter gave me a smile. “Can I get you something?”

  “Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

  “Ready for another, Jayne?”

  “Not quite yet, thanks,” she said.

  I glanced at Jayne’s book. The bookmark, a white cocktail napkin from the tea room, was about twenty pages in. “I thought you were almost finished with that.”

  “I have finished it. I’m reading it again.”

  “Really?”

  “I want to get some of the nuances I missed the first time.”

  “Nuances? She hammers you over the head with every clue.”

  “Well pardon me for liking it.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  The Blue Water Café occupies a prime space on the edge of the small harbor next to the boardwalk. The outdoor dining area, packed as always at this time of year, is suspended over the water. To the east, looking over the Atlantic Ocean, the sky was a deep purple. To the south and west, across town toward Nantucket Sound, the clouds were streaked pink and gray. Boats bobbed gently at their moorings, and charter fishing and pleasure craft returned to port, leaving no wake as they passed. Harbor seals played in the water around the pier while tourists leaned over the railing to take pictures. The hum of conversation and gentle laugher drifted around the deck. Candlelight glowed from inside hurricane lanterns, wineglasses sparkled, and marvelous smells filled the air.

  My drink arrived, and the waiter recited the daily specials. I handed him the menu without opening it. I always have the same thing when I come to the café. I know what I like. Why try something else and risk being disappointed? “Clam chowder and the stuffed sole, please.”

  Jayne asked for a green salad followed by the lobster pasta, and the waiter departed.

  “When’s Arthur due back?” Jayne asked.

  I shrugged. “You know him. He’ll be back when he gets back.” Great Uncle Arthur Doyle is the one who first came to West London. He bought the building at 222 Baker Street on a whim and, being a lifelong Holmes lover, took advantage of the address and opened the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop. His whim didn’t last long, nor did his desire to settle in one place, and when he tried to sell the business, it was the worst possible time for independent bookstores, so he couldn’t find a buyer. At the same time, I was in the process of getting a divorce from my cheating husband and extracting myself from the mystery bookstore we jointly owned, close to Trafalgar Square in London. I jumped at the chance to start fresh, came to West London, and bought half the store from Uncle Arthur, as well as a share of his 1756 saltbox house with a view of the ocean. I took over the store, and he was content to leave me to run the business. Uncle Arthur is fast approaching ninety years old, but he can still be counted on to wake up one morning and decide to go exploring in his prized 1977 Triumph Spitfire or join one of his old Royal Navy buddies on their sailboat for a cruise around the Mediterranean.

  I’d refused a third glass of wine, the waiter was clearing our plates—scraped clean—when a buzz began in the hallway leading to the deck. I was seated with my back to the room, facing out to the harbor. I swiveled in my chair to see what was happening behind me.

  “Oh, my gosh,” Jayne said. “It’s her.”

  Renalta Van Markoff swept into the room, followed closely by Kevin and Linda.

  It was nine thirty, and the restaurant was thinning out. The hostess showed Renalta and her group to a table for four smack-dab in the center of the deck. Renalta didn’t exactly wave to the watching diners, but she did lift her head and glance about the room before taking her seat. Tonight she wore an ankle-length black cotton dress under a bold-red jacket with giant black buttons and black stitching around the collar and cuffs. Her shoes were red patent leather with four-inch heels. The hostess lifted the hurricane lamp to light the candle nestled inside, and Renalta’s ruby earrings flashed in the light. Kevin was dressed in dark jeans and an open-necked white shirt under a blue jacket with a white handkerchief in the breast pocket and two inches of starched white cuffs showing. His hair was flicked casually back, and stubble was dark on his chiseled jaw. I wondered if his striking looks were part of her public image.

  Linda was still wearing what she’d had on earlier at the Emporium. She kept her head down and slipped into her seat without making a sound.

  Waiters descended with menus and pitchers of water. Kevin made a show of an intense study of the wine list. Renalta fluffed her napkin and patted her hair while Linda buried her head in her menu.

  “You’re staring,” I said to Jayne “That’s not polite.”

  “She isn’t trying to be incognito. Do you need any extra help on Saturday? Renalta Van Markoff does seem to attract a crowd.”

  “I don’t think so. She’ll give her talk and then sign books. Kevin said she’d speak for twenty minutes. I don’t know if that’s in addition to time for questions. I’ll check when they arrive. I’ll keep the lineup organized, and Ashleigh can run the cash register.”

  “I miss the days when cash registers went ca-ching ca-ching,” Jayne said. “The sound of money being made.”

  “You’re not old enough to remember ca-ching ca-ching. Neither am I.”

  “No, but my mom tells me all about it.”

  We drank our coffee and talked about mutual friends. By the time we were ready to leave, full dark had fallen over Wes
t London. I turned around to look for our waiter so I could ask for our check.

  A woman walked into the dining room, trailed by a very anxious-looking waiter. The new arrival didn’t appear to be here to relax and enjoy a nice meal and a glass of wine. Even in the dim glow from the row of electric lights lining the railing and the tabletop candles, I could see the fury in her eyes and the determined set of her square jaw.

  “Please, madam,” the hapless young waiter said.

  She ignored him. Spotting her quarry, she set her shoulders and marched across the deck with firm steps.

  Renalta Van Markoff and her companions had been served their first courses. Kevin lifted a glass full of deep-red liquid to his lips. He was the first to spot the new arrival, and his face paled. He almost dropped his glass as he jumped to his feet in an attempt to intercept her. He was too late.

  “There you are,” the woman yelled. “I’d say you’re enjoying the fruits of your labors, but you’ve never worked at anything in your life.”

  Renalta didn’t so much as bat a fake eyelash. She was seated and the intruder stood over her, but the author managed to look down her long nose at the newcomer. “You again,” she said. “And just when I was enjoying some peace and quiet. How dreadfully tedious this is.”

  “Get out of here, Paige,” Kevin said.

  She glared at him. “Or what? Are you going to have me thrown out? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you love to see me humiliated once again?”

  “Yes.” Kevin jerked his head toward the waiter. A small crowd of staff had gathered, attracted by the woman’s raised voice. The hostess slipped away. All conversation stopped as everyone watched the altercation. Linda dove under the table and came up clutching her cavernous bag. She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the furious intruder.

  “You’re nothing but a pretty lapdog,” Paige said to Kevin, almost spitting out the words. “In a fair world, you’d be working for me, not trying to get me tossed into the street.” She swung back toward Renalta. “I saw your car in the parking lot. That hideous, ostentatious, gas-guzzling vehicle. You have to advertise everywhere you go, don’t you? I’m surprised you don’t have your picture posted all over it. You’re nothing but a joke.”

  “Clearly,” Renalta drawled, her fake old-money accent firmly in place and her voice pitched high enough that everyone in the room could hear, “you are not laughing.” She lifted her glass to take a sip of wine. The woman, Paige, knocked it halfway across the room.

  The watchers let out a collective gasp. In the distance, getting closer, came the sound of a siren.

  Paige turned to face the other diners. “You all think she’s some great talented writer. But I’m telling you she owes everything to me. Everything! She stole my book! I thought I was helping her, and she stabbed me in the back. Without me, her best line would be, ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

  A few people tittered, more in embarrassment than amusement. Kevin placed himself firmly in front of Paige. He was careful, I noticed, not to touch her. Clearly this wasn’t the first time this had happened. She, however, wasn’t quite so circumspect. She shoved at his chest. He took a step backward and held up his hands. She was in her early sixties, tall, and very thin. Her slate-gray hair was cropped short, and the bangs were ragged as though she’d cut them herself with nail scissors. The skin on her haggard face and neck hung in loose folds, and her eyes blazed with rage. She had, I thought, remembering my Shakespeare, “a lean and hungry look.”

  Linda was on her feet now, snapping more pictures. In case they needed them in court, probably. Renalta reached across the table and grabbed Kevin’s glass. She swiveled in her chair so she faced into the outdoor room. She held the wineglass up as if in a toast and took a drink.

  The police arrived, led into the dining room by the hostess.

  I recognized Officer Johnson from the WLPD. She headed immediately for the center table. “What’s happening here?”

  “This lady,” Kevin said, “has interrupted our dinner and refuses to leave.”

  “She owes me for a glass of wine,” Renalta said. “A very expensive glass too. Thank heavens she didn’t throw the bottle.” She sipped. Her eyes sparkled. She was enjoying this.

  “You’ve been asked to leave.” Johnson put her hand on Paige’s arm. “I’m sure you don’t want any trouble here. Come with me, please.”

  Paige made no move to shake Officer Johnson off. “I’ll leave,” she bellowed, also playing to the audience. “Not because of her, but because this nice young officer has asked me to. You all know the truth now. I won’t rest! I’ll never give up! Not until I get my rightful recognition. You haven’t heard the last of me, Ruth!”

  “No,” Renalta said languidly, “I’m sure I haven’t.”

  “Let’s go.” Johnson began to lead Paige out of the room.

  “Oh, Officer,” Renalta called, holding her glass high, “please do come back as soon as you’ve disposed of the trash. An officer of the law is always welcome at my table. Waiter, we’ll have another bottle.”

  The diners laughed.

  “And,” Renalta exclaimed, “because I am so dreadfully sorry to have been the inspiration for that hideous interruption to your lovely, peaceful evening, a round of after-dinner liquors for these nice people, please.”

  The diners applauded.

  Johnson led Paige away, and Kevin followed them. A busboy hurried forward with broom and dust pan to sweep up the shattered remnants of Renalta’s glass.

  “Wasn’t that awkward,” Jayne said to me. “Do you think there’s any truth in what she said? That Renalta stole her book?”

  “Probably not. I’ve heard of this sort of thing happening before. Some people can’t accept failure. They haven’t achieved their dreams in life, so have to believe someone else stole it from them.”

  “Poor Renalta. How absolutely awful for her. She handled it with her usual grace and charm though.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Renalta had adored the attention. She practically lapped it up. Perhaps I’m cynical, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she paid people to follow her around and pretend to be stalkers.

  “The woman called her Ruth,” Jayne said. “Do you suppose that’s her real name?”

  “Renalta Van Markoff does sound excessively dramatic, don’t you think?”

  A few women, who’d been too polite to approach the author earlier, had gathered around her table now, expressing their sympathies. Renalta sipped her wine and waved her hand in the air. “The price of fame, darlings. It is such a dreadful burden sometimes. The poor deluded dear simply pursues me everywhere. I feel so terribly sorry for her. Don’t worry, my darling Kevin will sort everything out. He’ll see that she’s not treated too harshly.”

  Cameras and mobile phones began to come out of bags, and soon bulbs were flashing and shutters clicking as the author posed with her beaming fans. Eventually the women returned to their seats. Waiters moved from table to table, taking after-dinner drink orders to be added to Renalta’s bill. The hostess whispered something to Renalta, who replied that they would not wait for the gentleman.

  “I won’t have another drink,” Jayne said. “It’s long past my bedtime, and I have an early start tomorrow.”

  I shuddered at the very thought. Jayne got up at four AM, seven days a week in tourist season, to start the bread.

  “Time for me to be off too,” I said. I could only hope that Paige had learned her lesson and wouldn’t pay a visit to the Emporium on Saturday.

  Chapter 4

  Until I came to West London, I’d never had a pet. My mother is highly allergic to dogs and cats and not overly fond of rodents or fish either. I’d always lived in London: at my parents’ home, in student digs, in a miniature flat in a soulless modern high-rise, and finally in a row house with my husband. Life had simply been too busy.

  I hadn’t realized what I’d been missing until the day Great Uncle Arthur came home with a cocker spaniel puppy he’d named after
Violet Hunter of The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. With the first wag of her stubby tail, Violet enriched both my life and my heart. She’s supposed to be Arthur’s dog, but he travels so much, most of the responsibility for her care now lies with me. It can be difficult to get away from the store in the middle of the day in the busy season to take her for a walk, but it’s a task I always look forward to.

  One of the best things about owning a dog, I’ve found, is when I arrive home at the end of a long, tiring day to be greeted with that boundless passion and sheer joy of living.

  After I got in from dinner with Jayne and Violet and I had exchanged a round of enthusiastic greetings, we set out on our nightly walk. I live on Blue Water Place, a street of leafy old trees, neat gardens, white picket fences, historic homes, and friendly neighbors. The boardwalk and the harbor lie at the end of my block, and several of the houses on the street are B and Bs, so traffic in the tourist season can be a great deal heavier than in the winter. But the B and Bs are gracious and tend to the more expensive end of the scale, and we’re far from the restaurants and bars in town, so once darkness falls, all is calm and peaceful once again.

  Violet and I strolled through the silent streets. While she checked out the latest news from the doggy neighborhood, I thought about Renalta Van Markoff and Saturday’s signing. I also thought about the woman named Paige who seemed intent on making trouble.

  It was late when we got home, but after I filled Violet’s water bowl and got into my pajamas, I went into the den. I switched on a single light, curled up in my favorite wingback chair in front of the cold fireplace, and made a call.

  “Gemma.” The deep voice said my name like a caress. “Nice to hear from you. What’s up?” In the background, people laughed, music played, glasses and cutlery clinked.

  I could have called the West London police station with my concern. But it was too late, I told myself, for what was not an emergency. I could have called in the morning. But, I told myself, I wanted to do it while the thought was fresh in my mind.