A Curious Incident, page 16
“Right. If you’re still with me on Saturday, I’ll see you get to your game. Where is it?”
“West London Country Club. Two thirty.” Lauren headed off for lunch and her dog-walking duties. Moriarty went downstairs with her, and I picked up my phone. Ryan needed to know about Anna and Sheila and the gardening book. Sheila had asked me not to tell, but I had absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort. I wouldn’t tell him my impressions or my conclusions. I’d simply lay out the facts as I’d been told them.
“I paid a call on Sheila Tierney this morning,” I said once he answered.
“Has she left the hotel? She’s supposed to notify me of her movements.”
“No, she’s still at the Beach Front. Still in hiding. She didn’t know I was coming.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you found her, but I am. I won’t even ask how you managed that. What did she have to say?”
“That she wrote most of Anna’s latest book, and if you have someone compare the manuscript that I didn’t see in the bottom of her office drawer—although I was in her house at the invitation of her daughter—with the book that I did take out of the library, you’ll see she’s right about that.”
“It’s going to take me the rest of the day just to parse that sentence.”
“Sheila can prove she wrote much, if not most, of the book. Anna didn’t acknowledge Sheila’s contribution or give her a fair share of the profits, and Sheila was planning to take her to court over it.”
“That is interesting. I knew they’d been friends for years but had a falling out a few months ago. No one I’ve spoken to could say for sure why they argued, and Sheila herself said something about a disagreement that got out of hand and both of them too stubborn to apologize. But you, who didn’t even know the two women until this week, found out.”
“Because I listen to what people are saying, not only what comes out of their mouths.”
“I don’t quite know what that means, but I believe you.”
“Sheila would have realized that being cheated by Anna might be interpreted as potential grounds for murder, so she didn’t want to admit outright what happened between them. I also found out that Sheila is … fond might be the best word … of Mike Nixon. The word she used when talking about him was ‘sweet.’”
“Might be interesting. What was your take on him?”
I thought for a while. “I don’t have much of a take. He’s been in the Emporium a few times, but we didn’t talk about anything other than books. Outside the store, I’ve only met him once, but I liked him. I felt sorry for him. He seemed to be genuinely grieving Anna and confused at his loss. That, of course, doesn’t mean anything.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Lauren’s going to stay with me for a few more days, at least until one of her parents wants to claim her.”
“Thanks, Gemma. Take care.”
“Don’t I always?”
He hung up with a bark of laughter.
I went downstairs to spend some time on the shop floor. I believed Sheila might have killed Anna, but it wasn’t my job to prove it either way. I’d told Ryan what I knew, and I trusted him to put the pieces together.
* * *
At twenty-two minutes to four, as Lauren was ensuring the books on the bottom row of the gaslight shelf were property filed alphabetically by author, I said to her, “Jayne and I have a partners’ meeting at this time every day.”
“You can set your watch by it,” Ashleigh said. “I do. Rhetorically speaking, as I don’t wear a watch, and if I did, it wouldn’t need setting.”
I ignored my assistant. “Do you want to join us?”
Lauren grinned at me and leapt to her feet. “Yeah. That would be good. Are you partners? I didn’t know that.”
“We’re business partners. My great-uncle Arthur and I own half of the tearoom. Jayne owns the other half.”
“Cool.”
We went into Mrs. Hudson’s to find Jayne seated at our favorite table in the window alcove. The tearoom closes at four, and only a few guests remained, lingering over the remains of their afternoon tea.
Jayne smiled at us as we approached the table. “How was your day as a shop clerk?” she asked Lauren.
“Brilliant! I’m going to own a bookshop when I finish college. Did you go to university to learn how to be a bookstore owner, Gemma?”
“I went to the school of hard knocks,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I learned on the job. I used to have a mystery bookstore in London before I came to Cape Cod to help Uncle Arthur run the Emporium.”
Jayne checked the time on her phone as Lauren asked, “What does your uncle do?”
“As little as possible. He’s what we call a silent partner.” I suppressed a shudder as I thought back to January, when Uncle Arthur and Ashleigh ran the shop while Jayne and I were in London.
I’d been lucky to have a business to return to. He’d made it up to me by inviting the son of longtime friends to drop into the Emporium for a visit. That son goes by the name of Benedict Cumberbatch. As well as the life-sized cutout in the Emporium, a photo of Benedict as Sherlock, signed to Jayne and complimenting her on the quality of her scones, now hung in pride of place next to the shelf of assorted tea paraphernalia we offer for sale.
Fiona put a plate on the table. Today we had egg and salmon tea sandwiches as well as raspberry tarts, mini coconut cupcakes, and bright red macarons. We always got the day’s leftovers at the partners’ meeting—one of the joys of being a silent partner in a tearoom. And I am very much a silent partner. Unless I’m making a traditional English breakfast, a kitchen is not my natural habitat. The teapot and two place settings were already on the table, and the scent of warm, spicy Darjeeling rose from the pot.
“Would you like something to drink, Lauren?” Jayne asked.
“Can I have tea?”
“Another cup and plate, please, Fiona.” Jayne checked the time again. “And maybe a few more sandwiches, as we have a guest.”
“I have nothing of significance to report,” I said as I poured my tea, “so you’ll be able to meet Andy for your walk and picnic at four as planned.”
“How’d—? Never mind. I don’t want to know how you know.”
“Sure you do. Andy went away for a few days to visit his family, but it would appear he’s now back, unless you’ve found another beau?”
“I haven’t.”
“Glad to hear it. You’re checking the time as though anxious that time is passing, although I’m not at all late. You’ve refreshed your makeup and brushed your hair, which you never do after work; and if I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing nicer trainers than the old ones you wear in the kitchen, but not the flimsy sandals you put on if you’re going to the shops on the way home. You’ve pushed aside the food plate, although you always have something at our meeting, which indicates you’re planning to eat shortly.”
Jayne shook her head. Lauren looked under the table, checking out the aforementioned shoes.
“We might be going to a restaurant for an early dinner, you know,” Jayne said.
“No, otherwise you’d have better shoes and you’d have changed into a fresh outfit, not kept on your work jeans. A walk after work is romantic. A picnic, even better.”
“Okay. He’s bringing the food and drink, and I’ve done some desserts.”
I mentally slapped my forehead. “I missed that. Macarons. You don’t normally make them. You’ve been trying something new, and the beginning of the season is not the best time to experiment. The red color is presumably intended to be romantic.”
“Andy’s working tonight, so we’re having an early date. A walk in the woods and then a picnic.” Jayne sighed happily.
I tried one of the macarons. Absolutely delicious. The deep red color came from fresh raspberries.
“My mom says I can’t date until I’m fourteen.” Lauren selected a salmon sandwich.
“If I were your mother, it would be twenty-five,” I said.
Jayne caught my eye and then raised one eyebrow and jerked her head in the direction of Lauren. I nodded and lifted my thumb to indicate all was okay as I picked up my teacup. Sheila had called the shop earlier in the afternoon, asking to speak to her daughter. I’d sent Lauren up to the office to take the call, and when she’d come back down twenty minutes later, she’d been smiling.
* * *
The Emporium closes at nine on Thursdays, so night was gathering as Lauren and I walked up Blue Water Place to my house. She seemed to have enjoyed her day and chatted happily about the delights of working in a bookshop. “I hope you’re not too hungry,” I said to her. “It’s late for someone your age to have dinner, but I like to relax over my meal at the end of the day, not wolf it down on a quick dinner break and then hurry back to the shop.”
“I had plenty to eat at tea with you and Jayne, Gemma. Those sandwiches were so good.”
“Glad to hear it. That is, after all, the purpose of afternoon tea, to tide one over until dinnertime.”
I let Violet into the enclosed yard, and Lauren fed Snowball and cleaned the litter box. Important tasks done, I took a beef stew out of the freezer and reheated it in the microwave while Lauren threw vegetables together to make the salad.
When dinner was over, we washed up and then took Violet for a walk. Lauren had given the dog a good long walk in the afternoon, so we didn’t stay outside for long and were home before ten thirty. I sent Lauren, yawning heavily, off to bed along with Snowball, who was also yawing heavily despite having not spent the day working.
I was settling myself down in the den with my book when Jayne called.
“How’d it go?” I asked her.
“Heavenly,” she breathed. “I can’t believe Andy and I have been such good friends all these years and I didn’t realize how absolutely marvelous he is before now.”
It was an effort but I refrained from saying, “I told you so.”
“Did you just get home? I thought Andy had to work.”
“He did. I went around to my mom’s after, and then I thought you’d be busy having dinner and stuff.”
“Which I was. Lauren’s in bed now.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Having her here? It’s been marvelous. It’s fun to see the store through eager young eyes.”
“Mom told me everyone in the garden club’s saying Sheila’s skipped town. Some people are saying that’s proof of her guilt. No one knows where she is. I’m assuming you do?”
“I do. Ryan knows, so she’s not proving she’s guilty of anything. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and the fact that the garden club people know she’s not home is proof enough that they’ve been going around there. Probably under the pretext of offering sympathy.”
“That sounds about right. Sheila and Anna used to be good friends, Mom says, but then they had a terrible fight and could barely stand to be in the same room. I’m assuming you know about that.”
“I do.”
“Okay, keep your secrets. Except for one: Was Anna having an affair with David Tierney?”
“I don’t think so. I’d say his business problems are all consuming these days.” More likely, I thought, that Sheila wanted an affair with Anna’s husband but was getting nowhere on that front. I sucked in a breath.
“What?” Jayne said. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you? I love it when that happens, even though I never have a clue what it was I said.”
“You reminded me of something. Good night. Gotta run.”
When Sherlock Holmes was faced with a complicated case, he lit his pipe (or prepared his seven percent solution), then either played his violin or leaned back in his comfortable arm chair at 221B Baker Street, closed his eyes, and considered the case.
On the other hand, I have a business to run, a lively dog to care for, an eleven-year-old to temporarily mother, and a friend’s romantic entanglements to guess at. Never mind trying to manage my own romantic entanglements.
I had let aspects of this case slip out of my mind, and that would never do.
The mysterious M.
Faced with the evidence I had, I’d concluded it was possible Sheila was guilty of the murder of Anna. Whether she was or not, I mustn’t forget about the other complications.
Jayne’s mention of garden club gossip reminded me that it was rumored Anna had been having an affair with her gardener.
What was his name?
Manuel. M.
How likely was it that Mike Nixon couldn’t spell Sheila’s last name? Not very. His wife and Sheila had been good friends as well as writing partners, which means they would have spent a lot of time together.
If Mike had sent the note, he might have deliberately misspelled her name, but I could see no reason for that. How likely would it be that a man like Mike Nixon would stick a note in the postbox anyway? Surely, if he wanted to tell Sheila to back off, he’d have sent a text.
If Anna was having an affair with Manuel, as garden club gossip said, wouldn’t that put her husband on the suspect list?
Did Sheila want the gardener for herself? If so, that was yet another reason for Sheila to have bumped off her rival.
Another nail in her coffin.
I told myself to slow down. Someone with the initial M asked Sheila to leave him—or her—alone. My natural assumption had been that Sheila had been pursuing this person for romantic reasons, and the feeling was not returned. I suppose it could be about something else, like Sheila wanted them to cut her lawn, but who slipped a note worded like that one into a mailbox to refuse a job cutting grass?
Do not bother me again, it had said.
I didn’t know everyone in Sheila’s life. There might be plenty of people with the initial M, but the only ones I’d come across were Mike Nixon and Manuel the gardener. The young, handsome, muscular gardener. Sheila had been quick to jump to the assumption that her husband was having an affair. Was that guilt talking? Because Sheila was having an affair herself, or she wanted to?
Which brought me to another train of thought.
I put my book aside and got my iPad out of the reproduction antique secretary.
Divorce laws were loosening by Sherlock Holmes’s time, but before then, ending a marriage might well have been a matter of murder, and often was. Arsenic was commonly used to rid oneself of an unwanted spouse in the days of limited divorce.
But in Gemma Doyle’s time, divorce isn’t rare, needn’t be complicated, and isn’t the least bit scandalous.
However, it can be expensive, which is particularly difficult for those already having financial troubles.
I started my search with David Tierney and dug deeper past what I’d already learned. Ten years ago, he’d left the high-tech company he’d been working for and started D&S Restaurant Consultants to advise fast-food restaurants on using technology to improve the time it took to take customer orders. Computer industry buzz had been very excited. I recognized some big-name coffee chains and fast-food restaurants among his stable of clients. Pictures appeared of him shaking hands with important people and of him and a beaming Sheila greeting the rich and famous at charity benefits and convention banquets. Industry news called his company “innovative,” “brilliant,” “groundbreaking,” and even “future-creating.” Whatever that means.
Over the previous year, things started going downhill and, like an out-of-control toboggan on a snowy hill, fast.
As I’d deduced from the contents of David’s computer, his company was in severe financial difficulties. He’d vastly overextended himself, taken on too many clients too fast, promised more than he could deliver, and had then been forced to hire staff who didn’t have the cutting-edge qualifications he needed. He’d failed to complete some contracts and had done a shoddy job on others. He’d been sued more than once, not only by his clients for failure to deliver as promised, but also by his employees for not paying them. He was searching for fresh funding, basically carrying his begging bowl all around the East Coast in search of new investors. His recent history should have been the kiss of death to any attempts to rebuild the company. That he hadn’t been outright shown the door by prospective partners was because his work was still being called “original” and “potentially groundbreaking,” although no longer “future-creating.” It was obvious that if anyone did go into partnership with him, that person would take control of almost everything, and David would be relegated to being a junior partner. If that.
I own one bookstore in conjunction with my great-uncle, who is almost ninety and would rather be at sea than worrying about the business, so I’m not exactly a titan of industry. But if David Tierney asked for my advice, it would be to consolidate what he had and simply get the job done. Take contracts he could handle on his own, with one or two assistants, and do them. He might even take the time to help his wife manage a fledging career as a gardening guru.
But none of that would bring in the kind of bucks that led to charity benefits and shaking hands with the CEO of the world’s largest coffee chain.
Nor would it bring in the sort of money needed to allow his wife to spend all her time in her garden, or put a child in private school, or pay for membership at the West London Country Club.
About the last thing in the world David Tierney needed right now was a drawn-out, bitterly contested divorce.
If Sheila had been murdered, David would be at the top of my suspect list. But Sheila hadn’t been murdered—Anna had. If David and Anna had been involved, so what? Once again, this wasn’t Sherlock Holmes’s time, where a spurned lover might have threatened to sue David for breach of promise or destroy his reputation.
I then went on to see what I could find about Anna’s husband, Mike Nixon.
Was everyone in West London minutes from penury?
It still surprises me sometimes what a person with a bit of internet knowledge and a suspicious mind can find out. Sherlock Holmes had to send the Baker Street Irregulars fanning out across the back alleys and waterways of London as well as dispatching a flurry of telegrams to all parts of the Empire and beyond. I could simply curl up in my favorite chair, my dog at my feet, a cup of tea at hand, and dig deep beneath the public surface of the internet.
