A Three Book Problem, page 11
“Oh,” I said ever so casually, “what sort of leads?”
She sipped her tea equally casually. “One thing I will say for getting to know you, Gemma, far better than I might otherwise like …”
“What might that be?”
“You and Jayne have introduced me to tea. Before now, the only tea I drank was the cold stuff out of a can.”
I repressed a shudder. “My work here is done. I can toddle off back to England content.”
“Don’t I wish,” she mumbled around her cup.
“What did Rebecca Masterson have to say for herself?”
“Nothing I’m going to share with you. That dress is pretty impressive. You look like you should be in a movie.”
I twirled around to display all of it. “As long as we’re carrying on with the dinner, might as well dress the part. It smells great in here,” I said to Jayne.
“Everything’s so under control, I’m afraid I missed something.”
“I feel rather bad about this. I’ll be enjoying your lovely meal while you slave away in here all evening.” Not bad enough to offer to change places, though.
“Don’t worry about it, Gemma. It’s not often—like never—I get to put on a formal meal. You know how much I like to cook.”
“Which is why you’re so good at it.”
Estrada put down her cup. “I’m going to check with the folks outside. They should be finishing up about now.”
“Fiona called while you were getting dressed,” Jayne said once Estrada had left. Fiona was one of Jayne’s assistants at the tea room. “She said they were unexpectedly busy today and ran out of almost all of the muffins and other baked goods I’d put in the freezer.”
“Not scones, I hope. You can’t run a tea room without scones.”
“Not yet, but stock’s getting low. I have to get back to town tomorrow as soon as possible, Gemma. I need to get muffins made for Monday morning.”
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. If we’re doing soup and sandwiches for Sunday lunch, I can take care of that and you can leave early. I’ll get Irene to help, if she’s still here. Otherwise, maybe Annie. Where is she, anyway?”
“She went up to her room.” Jayne lowered her voice. “I don’t think Annie’s going to be any help this evening. I asked her to give me a hand earlier, and she said she was paid to pretend to be the housekeeper, not to work in the kitchen. She’s worried she won’t even get paid for that, not now that David’s … gone. She’s going to tell Rebecca she won’t do the turndowns tonight, or strip the beds and do the laundry in the morning, as is apparently part of the contract for the rental, if she doesn’t get paid right now.”
“If my bed is not turned down when I retire for the night, I will be so disappointed,” I said with a martyred sigh.
Jayne grinned, and I gave her a grin in return and went off to the drawing room. The music I’d heard earlier had stopped.
The bar cart had been set up, but Billy wasn’t staffing it. Instead, he was enjoying a glass of whiskey and talking to Kyle, who had a beer. I assumed that, like turning down your own bed, drinks would be self-serve tonight.
“I’m looking forward to my role as butler this evening,” Donald said.
“You look the part,” I told him. And he did. The suit jacket was buttonless, with satin lapels, cut to the waist in front and draping to the knees in back, worn over a deeply cut waistcoat, a starched white shirt, and white bow tie. “That’s quite the getup.”
His cheeks turned pink with pleasure. “The Victorians knew how to dress for dinner. May I say, my dear, you have risen to the occasion yourself. May I get you a drink?”
“You may. I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.” While Donald bustled off, I looked around the room. Most of us had, as Donald said, risen to the occasion. Miranda’s dress was modern and elegant, a sleek sliver sheath that showed her thin frame and long arms to perfection. A silver scarf was draped loosely around her neck to cascade down her back, and earrings of thin lines of silver brushed her shoulders. Jennifer was in an elaborate dark blue and gold gown with a deeply cut neckline, full skirt, and tight bodice. An elaborate, multitiered necklace of black pearls was around her throat and chandelier earrings with pearls and sparkling stones in her ears. She carried a lace handkerchief in her gloved hands, and as I watched she lifted it to her eyes. She’d washed her face and applied a light touch of makeup, but her eyes and nose were tinged red. She saw me watching her and gave me an awkward smile.
“I was admiring your necklace and earrings,” I said.
She lifted one hand and lightly touched her right ear. “Oh, thank you. Do you like them? I bought them to wear tonight but then I started to worry they’d be too gaudy.”
“They’re prefect with your dress,” I said, and she gave me a smile.
Irene, in contrast, had chosen an outfit of white jacket worn over a tight knee-length black skirt and a black satin blouse. Her black shoes had sky-high heels.
“You look very modern,” I said. “The Victorians would be scandalized.”
“I wanted to wear something different tonight, that’s all.”
“Good choice. I wouldn’t want you to get that lovely suit you had on yesterday dirty when you help Jayne with the dishes later.”
“If I must,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “you must.”
Steve had put on a tuxedo, and Cliff wore a dark gray business suit. Kyle looked very hipster in beige corduroy trousers, brown jacket, and rumpled pink shirt. Billy, who probably hadn’t brought anything else to wear tonight, was still in his butler’s uniform.
In contrast to everyone else, Annie, who also wouldn’t have brought evening clothes, wore a pair of pale blue jeans, a gray T-shirt, and her Doc Martens. The shirt featured a portrait of Bach.
Donald handed me my G&T and left to join Steve and Cliff. I sipped my drink—which was excellent—and watched. Was one of these gaily dressed people a killer?
Almost certainly.
By quarter to eight, I was beginning to wonder if Rebecca Masterson was going to join us after all when I felt the air move. Conversation died immediately, Billy froze in the middle of pouring himself another drink, and, as one, the party turned toward the door.
Rebecca stood there, her arms spread out, her hands resting on the doorframe. It was a dramatic pose and had the effect of drawing every eye, which she clearly intended. Her scarlet dress clung tightly to her hips before flaring out and cascading to a pool at her feet. Rubies shone around her neck and in her ears. A single red ostrich feather was tucked into the blonde hair.
She’d told Ryan she was visiting a friend when he called her with the news of her husband’s death. I found it hard to believe they regularly dressed like that for dinner at her friend’s house. Maybe she made sure she was always prepared.
She’d had a bath, judging by the scent of bath products surrounding her, and reapplied her makeup. But even the most skillfully applied makeup can’t hide signs of fresh, deep grief, and Rebecca showed none of those signs.
“Good evening,” she said. “I hope you’re all enjoying yourself. I am, for those you I haven’t met yet, Mrs. David Masterson.”
Everyone muttered some form of condolences. Jennifer smothered a sob and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. Miranda swept across the room in a silver river. “Darling! It’s been so long. I’m only sorry it took this tragedy to bring us together again.” She sounded as though they hadn’t met this afternoon in the hallway.
The women exchanged air kisses, managing not to actually touch. The air between them was no warmer than it had been earlier.
When Miranda had stepped away, Rebecca said, “Please, ladies and gentlemen, continue to enjoy yourselves. My husband loved nothing more than Sherlock Holmes. I sometimes thought he loved his idol more than he did me.” The attempt at a joke—if it was a joke—fell flat. “He’d consider it an honor that you continue with this weekend in the style he intended.”
Donald clapped politely. He was the only one to do so, and the applause dribbled to a halt.
“Billy,” Rebecca said. “I’ll have a glass of wine.” With that, she sailed into the room.
“I don’t believe we’ve met, gentlemen,” she said to Cliff and Steve. “How did you know my husband?”
“Always the drama queen,” Annie muttered. I followed her to the bar cart, where she poured herself a hefty serving of whiskey. She added a splash of water from the jug provided and lifted her glass to me. “Cheers, as you say in England.”
“Cheers.” I returned the gesture. “Did you sort out your financial arrangements for the rest of the weekend?”
“After a fashion. Rebecca said I can stay in the house tonight, but people can make their own beds. I think she thinks she’s being generous. I’ll take what I’m owed out of Uncle David’s booze and the dinner your friend’s giving us. Before I came in, I set a place for me and one for Billy at the table.”
“Fine by me,” I said. Annie had seemed shocked and upset earlier at the death of her uncle, but now her face was clear and the redness gone from her eyes. Whether because her grief hadn’t been long-lasting, or because sparring with Rebecca had temporarily taken precedence, I couldn’t tell.
“I’ve never been in your store,” she said, “but I saw it when Billy and I passed through West London on our way here. I’m not all that interested in Sherlock Holmes, I have to admit, although I pretended I was to keep Uncle David happy. Do you stock other things?”
“We have a good range of historical fiction,” I said. While we made light conversation, I wondered if Annie had expectations of inheriting from her uncle. No doubt most of his estate would go to his widow, but he might have made provision for his niece, particularly if what Annie had said was true and he was on the verge of divorcing Rebecca. I glanced at Billy, huddled in the corner with Kyle after delivering the drink to Rebecca. Did he also have expectations?
If so, might one, or both, of the cousins have decided to hurry their inheritance along? Wouldn’t have been the first time. Annie spoke as though she’d been fond of David, but how humiliated might she have felt here? To be paid to act as a servant while he lavishly entertained his friends?
“Did David do this sort of thing often?” I asked. “Rent a house for a house party?”
“No. Never. He saw a TV show called Lords and Ladles, about re-creating the menu as once served in grand Irish country houses, and that gave him the idea of having a Holmes-themed weekend at such a place. One of his Sherlock friends told him this house was available for rent and it sounded perfect.” She held out her arms to indicate the entirety of the house and property. “What do you suppose this place is going for? Ten, twenty million? Perfect place for him to play lord of the manor. David wasn’t much of a party guy, like I told you. Rebecca, on the other hand, lives for parties. The more people, the louder the music, the faster the booze flows, the better. She’s never rented a place. She doesn’t need to. She has David’s house in the Hamptons to throw her parties in, that and his apartment in Manhattan. When she was in the Hamptons carousing with her friends, he was in Manhattan poring over his Holmes collection. When she put on a big shindig at the apartment, he was in the Hamptons or maybe hiding in a hotel room somewhere. When she was out clubbing, he was alone in his study with his nose buried in some journal or other.”
“Sounds like a strange marriage. A marriage of opposites.”
Annie lowered her glass and peered at me. “Take it from me, Gemma, it wasn’t going to last much longer. No, the bloom fell off that rose mighty fast. They married hastily, and he came to regret the marriage before the end of the honeymoon. Which, by the way, was in Saint-Tropez, not exactly Uncle David’s scene. Uncle David was beyond tired of her lifestyle and her histrionics and the constant whining for money. More and more money.”
“I thought you said she had money of her own?”
“Her inheritance, yes, but that’s running out, and fast. Her own parents are average middle-class people; they can’t support Rebecca in the style to which she’s become accustomed, and I got the feeling they wouldn’t even if they could. The only time I met her parents was at the wedding, which was a pretty fancy affair, although far less lavish than Rebecca wanted, but never mind that. They seemed to me to be practical, sensible people. Nice people. Totally unlike Rebecca. They were delighted when she married David, and hoped she’d settle down to a quiet married life, maybe even have children if she’s not too old yet, but that never happened.”
“How do you know all this?”
She shrugged. “Uncle David told me. He also told me that when he got home from this weekend, he was calling his lawyers to get divorce proceedings started.”
Annie was very forthcoming all of a sudden. Less than an hour ago, she’d been cagey about her uncle and his marriage, and now she was telling me all. Whatever that phone call had been about, it had been good news. Her face was animated and her eyes sparkled.
Rebecca laughed heartily at something Steve said. He beamed, clearly pleased at the reaction his joke had received.
“Looks like Uncle David’s death worked out rather well for Rebecca, doesn’t it?” Annie said.
Chapter Seven
Twelve of us gathered for dinner around the big table. Candles glowed, glassware shone, silverware sparkled, and the linens were ironed. The chandelier was turned down low, and the soft light hid the peeling wallpaper, the damp spots on the ceiling, and the dust on the picture frames, mirror, and the chandelier. It was a warm night, and no one had started a fire.
Donald began the evening by offering a toast to David Masterson, and from then on the mood was solemn. Rebecca was either not a good hostess or didn’t want to be bothered, and without a host to lead the conversation, everyone retreated into their own heads or spoke mainly to their immediate companion.
The mood might also have had something to do with the presence of Louise Estrada, seated at the table, drinking nothing but water, speaking to no one, listening to everything.
The specter of death hung over the table; the laughter was too loud and voices strained. Jennifer sat wrapped in sadness, said little, ate less, and stared off into space as though imagining something that would never be. I wanted to know more about her relationship with David, and why she seemed to be the person most upset at his death, but I hadn’t grabbed my seat at the dinner table fast enough, and instead of being next to her I was stuck between Donald and Steve, across from Miranda. Rebecca had taken the chair at the head of the table, and Annie glared at her from the foot. Irene and Billy had joined us, leaving only Jayne in the kitchen doing the actual work. That meant I wasn’t able to follow the table conversation as closely as I might have liked as I was constantly popping up and down, clearing the dishes after each course and bringing in the next round. As the meal began, Donald went around the table pouring a light white wine to accompany the consommé, but he soon wasn’t needed as people began helping themselves.
Louise Estrada sat on Rebecca’s left. Still in her black leather jacket, she did not look entirely comfortable. In fact, she looked entirely uncomfortable. I hadn’t wanted her to join us, and politely tried to suggest she was needed in the kitchen to guard Jayne, but for some reason she didn’t take my advice.
I’d feared her presence at our dinner table would inhibit the free flow of conversation, but I needn’t have worried. The whole thing was so surreal, the presence of an observant and armed officer of the law soon became unremarkable.
I did notice, however, that Kyle, seated next to her, subtly tried to move his chair a few inches away, and he half turned toward the diner on his other side.
Kyle wasn’t fond of police officers. I could only speculate as to why that might be.
“I forgot to mention,” Donald was saying as I returned from the kitchen with the platter of smoked salmon crostini, “that I contacted the Baker Street Irregulars and other Sherlockian societies to tell them about David’s death. They all send their condolences, Mrs. Masterson.”
“So kind of them,” Rebecca said. We were only onto the fish course, and she was already on her third glass of wine, and that following the drink she’d had in the drawing room earlier.
I took my seat and turned to Steve. “Are you from New York City also?”
“Nope.” He scooped up a crostini. He then helped himself to another. “I live in Chatham.”
“Chatham? You mean on Cape Cod?”
“Isn’t that where Chatham is?”
“Yes, but … How did you know David?”
He shifted in his chair and picked up his wine glass. He took a deep drink, avoiding my face and giving himself time to think. Interesting. “Online. We met online. Holmes stuff, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“My particular field of expertise is the Afghanistan campaign in which Doctor John Watson was injured.”
Donald leaned toward me. “Steve’s a former Marine. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
Steve bit into his crostini.
“After active service,” Donald continued, “he taught at several war colleges. The Afghanistan campaigns of the nineteenth century are critical to understanding irregular warfare in difficult desert and mountainous terrain, and naturally as a Sherlockian, Steve was particularly interested in where Doctor Watson might have served and what adventures he had while he was there.”
Steve mumbled something around a mouthful, and Donald began telling me, as if I didn’t know, the various theories as to why Sir Arthur Conan Doyle first gave Watson a wartime injury in his shoulder and then it moved to his leg.
“What the heck does it matter?” Miranda said. “It’s just a couple of silly stories.”
Donald gasped in horror. Rebecca laughed and grabbed the wine bottle.
“Please do tell us again why you’re here, Miranda,” Jennifer said. “Surely not because you have anything intelligent to contribute to the conversation this weekend.”
