Theres a murder afoot, p.13
There's a Murder Afoot, page 13
“Arianna Nowacki. Maybe we’ll be lucky and she’ll confess when they question her.”
“That, I am not counting on. I have to go to work tomorrow. Things are happening that I can’t put off, even for this case. What’s your plan?”
“I want to pay a call on Gallery Lambert.”
“That’s the name on the business card you found in the Canary Wharf flat?”
“Yes. I’ll pose as a wealthy American art collector.”
“Are you going to take Jayne? I like her very much, by the way. You’re lucky to have a friend. I mean, to have a friend like her.”
Pippa, I realized, had let her tongue slip. Pippa had no friends. She had contacts and she had “people” and her “office.” But she had no friends. And that made me very sad.
I pushed the emotion aside to ponder another time. “Not Jayne. I’d like to take Grant. He can play the rich American, one not entirely averse to dealing under the table, better than Jayne. Besides, you never know when you’re going to run into someone who won’t take Jayne and me—young women—seriously.”
“I agree,” she said.
“Which brings up the question as to what on earth I’m going to do with the rest of them.”
“I have no more suggestions,” Pippa said. “Unfortunately, I can’t get them into Buck House for a private tour.” Buck House is the nickname for Buckingham Palace. “Her Majesty is in residence this week.”
I stared at her.
She reached into her coat pocket. “I bought you a present.” She handed me a mobile phone.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s untraceable. Use it if you need to leave your number with someone you don’t want knowing you have a North American phone number. Or if you have reason to believe the police might want to check into whom you’ve been speaking to.”
I took the phone and put it in my own pocket.
“I did enjoy our outing today.” Pippa stood up. “Do you know, I’ve never been to the Black Museum? It was fascinating. I need to start doing more recreational things.”
“You can come and visit me in Cape Cod,” I said without thinking.
She smiled. “I might do that one day. Let me make a few calls. I can probably arrange something to keep your entourage busy.”
“Never mind. I have an idea.”
* * *
“You still haven’t had a chance to visit the Sherlock Holmes Museum or go on the walking tour, Donald,” I said once Pippa and I were back in the library with fresh cups of tea on our laps.
When we returned, my mother had looked questioningly at us, obviously not believing my sister and I would spontaneously go for a walk, but everyone else had taken the text to Grant at face value.
“Mum, are you planning a fun day out with Jayne for tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’d love to, dear, but I have court tomorrow and I cannot put this one off. The Crown has delayed and delayed, and I simply can’t put my client through that any longer.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “There’s so much to do in London. Jayne’s been hoping to get to Baker Street and go on the guided walk also.”
“Me? I don’t … oh, yeah right. I can’t wait.”
Donald rubbed his hands together in glee. “Excellent. Who else is in?”
“I have no interest,” Ryan said. “This weekend has been enough Sherlock for me as it is.”
“Count me in,” Grant said. “It’s on my list of things to do.” Typical. The people I didn’t want tagging along after me wanted to come, and the one person I did want, didn’t. “I have a much better plan for you, Grant. Pippa told me about a wealthy collector who’s selling off his collection of rare books. His house is open tomorrow for interested buyers. Only for his friends and colleagues, but Pippa can get us an invite.”
Grant’s face lit up. Okay, so I lied. But I had to get him on his own tomorrow. I’d tell him then what we were really up to.
Unfortunately, Donald’s face also lit up. “Do they have anything by Conan Doyle? I’ll come also. Hopefully we can do both that and the walk.”
“Uh, no,” I said. “He only collected works by … uh … female authors. Jane Austin, the Bronte sisters, and the like.”
“I have no interest in either the Sherlock Holmes Museum or in rare books,” Ryan said, “but I’ll join you and Grant, Gemma.”
“Uh …” I said.
“Sorry,” Pippa said. “The owner won’t allow extra people. It’s a highly exclusive event. Why don’t you go on the tour, Ryan? It’s bound to be fun, and I believe as well as a walking tour, there’s a Holmes-related pub crawl.”
If there wasn’t such a thing as a Sherlock Holmes pub crawl, I was beginning to think Pippa would have one up and running by tomorrow.
Ryan got to his feet. “Gemma, can I have a word?”
“Now,” Pippa said, “what are we doing for dinner?”
“Why don’t I order takeaway,” Mum said. “Indian or Chinese?”
“Indian.”
“Chinese.”
“Indian,” I said.
“Chinese.”
“Either.”
Ryan didn’t offer an opinion; instead he gave me that look.
“Lebanese,” said Donald. “I’ve always wanted to try Lebanese, and I saw a place on Gloucester Road.”
“Then Lebanese it shall be,” Mum said. “I’ll call them now. I think it’s time to open a bottle of wine, and Henry has a few bottles of beer around here somewhere.”
“I’ll help,” Jayne said.
“Gemma?” Ryan said. “A word, please.”
Reluctantly, I stood up and followed him out of the library. He opened a door at random, and we went into the dining room. He turned to face me. He was not smiling. “What are you and Pippa up to?”
“Nothing,” I said trying my best to look innocent.
“Don’t give me that innocent look, Gemma Doyle. I enjoyed our outing today and was glad Pippa arranged it, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling you were trying to get rid of us. And this scene just now? The two of you are pretty good at manipulating people, but that got out of hand. Pippa just happens to know of a one-day exclusive viewing for books that just happen to be right up Grant’s alley? What’s up, Gemma?”
I never can lie to Ryan. I can bamboozle, misrepresent, deflect, even ignore. But I can’t lie.
“Pippa and I are concerned that DI Morrison is concentrating his investigation on Dad to the exclusion of other suspects. Real suspects.”
Ryan groaned. “So you’ve taken it on yourselves to investigate.”
“Not investigate so much as poke around.”
“Same thing, Gemma. I’d tell you not to do it, but you won’t pay any attention to me, and your sister certainly won’t. I assume you have some nefarious plan for Grant tomorrow, a plan that doesn’t involve looking at rare books. I’ll come with you instead. Let him go to the Holmes stuff.”
“That won’t work, Ryan. You pretty much have C-O-P tattooed on your forehead.” Ryan was no actor. But, more to the point, I didn’t want to put him in any position in which he might be legally compromised.
Not that that was going to happen with a casual visit to a nice art gallery.
I smiled at him. He did not smile back.
The door opened and Pippa came in. She handed Ryan a glass of beer without a word. “Trust Gemma,” she said. She closed the door on her way out.
Ryan studied me over the rim of the glass. “Guess I’ll have to.”
Chapter Eleven
Ryan and I desperately needed some alone time. Some relationship-building time. Dinner together, just the two of us, or at least a quiet nightcap in the hotel bar. Instead, we ate takeaway Lebanese food off paper plates in my parents’ formal dining room and walked back to the hotel with the group.
“I’m very tired.” I took Jayne’s arm as we walked into the lobby. “Time for an early night.” If I had any alone time with Ryan, I knew it would turn into him asking me what my plan was and me confessing.
“Really?” Ryan said. “It’s only five in the afternoon Boston time.”
“We’re not in Boston,” I said. “And you must still be jet-lagged. I am. Night all.” I dragged Jayne away.
“I’m game for another beer,” Grant said. As I’d been digging the last of the tabbouleh out of the container, Pippa’s phone—one of Pippa’s phones—buzzed and she’d risen from the table to take the call without even checking the screen. She never came back, so I assumed she’d been called in to work to “take the minutes.” If the call had something to do with Randy’s death, she would have told me.
“Not me,” Donald said. “We have a busy day tomorrow, so I need my rest.”
“Might as well,” Ryan said.
* * *
My sleeping pattern was still messed up with the time change, and rather than going to sleep when Jayne and I got to our room, I sat up for a long time. I checked out Gallery Lambert, preparing for our visit tomorrow, and read what news I could find about the death of Randolph Denhaugh. The murder having taken place at a Sherlock Holmes convention had caused some amusement and tasteless jokes in the press. The police statement said an arrest was imminent, and asked people to come forward with information. Nothing at all worthwhile. An “imminent arrest,” I knew, was police-talk for “haven’t got a clue.”
I put the iPad away and opened my book, accompanied by the peaceful sound of Jayne’s deep breathing.
When I woke, sunlight was streaming in our window and Jayne was up, showered, dressed, drinking coffee, and using her iPad.
“Morning,” I mumbled. “Anything interesting in the world?”
“Same old, same old. I’m reading about all the exciting and interesting things there are to do in London, which I am not going to do because I’m going to the Sherlock Holmes Museum and touring Baker Street. Why are you taking Grant today and not me?”
I explained my reasoning to her. Grant would present better as a wealthy, yet somewhat clueless, art collector than she would.
“Okay,” she said, “I guess that’s fair enough.”
“I need you to keep Ryan occupied. He’s getting suspicious.”
“When it comes to you, Ryan is in a permanent state of suspicion. As he should be.”
“I don’t need him deciding he needs to come to my rescue and tagging along after us. That would only complicate everything.”
“Because it’s not at all complicated now.” She snapped her arm up into a stiff salute and touched her forehead. “I have my orders. I’ll follow them to the letter. Sir.”
I went for my shower. When I came out, Jayne said, “Your phone buzzed.”
Pippa: DREADLOCKED WOMAN IDENTIFIED BY POLICE. SHE PAID FOR LUNCH WITH CREDIT CARD. A name and address followed.
Me: WHEN DID THEY GET THE ID?
Pippa: YESTERDAY AFT
Me: ANYTHING COME OF IT?
Pippa: DON’T KNOW
Meaning the police would have paid a call on her yesterday and they hadn’t arrested her. So she should be free today.
I’d drop in on her after Grant and I visited the art gallery.
I texted Grant: LOBBY. 10:30. DRESS RICH.
He replied immediately: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
Me: YOU’LL THINK OF SOMETHING.
“Breakfast?” I asked Jayne.
“I’ve arranged to meet Donald in fifteen minutes in the hotel restaurant. Want to come with us?”
“No.”
* * *
I spent a lot of time deciding what to wear. I wanted to look like the wife of a man who bought fine art, but I hadn’t brought anything very posh with me. My coat was a black woolen thing bought at an end-of-season sale three years ago which was pilling badly around the elbows. If we were invited into the gallery’s private office for tea, I’d have to take the coat off. The forecast for today was for slightly warmer temperatures than yesterday and no rain, so I eventually decided on slumming it in jeans and a navy-blue blazer. I’d need some high-end accessories though, if I wanted to look the part.
I answered the door to a knock. Ryan stood there, grinning slightly, hair damp from the shower, freshly shaven, looking absolutely delicious. He held out two takeout cups and a small paper bag from Paul’s Boulangerie. “Room service, madam.”
I laughed and stepped back to allow him in. He put the drinks and bag on the small coffee table, threw Jayne’s backpack on the floor, and sat on the couch. I dropped beside him and curled my feet up under me. Ryan handed me a cup and I took the lid off and breathed in the scent of hot fresh tea. He ripped open the bag to reveal two flaky pain au chocolat, fragrant and warm from the oven.
“Perfect,” I said.
We sipped our drinks and nibbled on the pastries. “Everything okay back at home?” he asked.
“I might not have a business to go back to.” I told him about the cat/computer mishap and the angry best-selling author, and he laughed.
“Nothing much happening at my end. I called Louise this morning, and she told me the WLPD was managing perfectly fine without me.”
“She’s probably lying. If the place was falling into rack and ruin, she’d hardly tell you.”
“True.” He looked rested and relaxed. Apart from murder at the conference and wondering what I was up to, the time off work was doing him good.
“Did you and Grant stay in the bar for long last night?” I asked.
“No. As soon as we sat down, I realized I was bushed. I didn’t even finish my beer.”
“Did you manage to get any sleep?”
“I did. Either Donald’s snores were quiet last night, or I was so tired I was able to ignore the cacophony. I think Grant’s developing a thing for your sister. She’s all he talked about. She seems nice enough, although she’s scarcely said two words to me the entire time we’ve been in the same room, but I didn’t find an extensive list of her virtues all that interesting.”
“She’s an interesting person,” I said.
“But not the most interesting of the sisters.” He put down his cup and licked chocolate off his fingers. “What time are you and Grant meeting?”
“Half ten.”
“Ten thirty? It’s quarter to ten now. I saw Jayne and Donald heading for the restaurant when I was going out for our coffee. They’ll be a while yet.” He plucked my cup out of my hand.
* * *
I was in the lobby precisely on time, and Grant was waiting. Ryan had come down with me.
“I’m not going home tomorrow as planned,” I said to the men. “I’ll need to extend my stay in the hotel.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” Ryan said.
“I’ll stay as long as I can be of help,” Grant said.
I felt something warm move in my chest. “Thanks, guys.”
We went to the reproduction-antique desk that served as reception to make the arrangements. The woman seated behind it smiled at us and asked me to take a seat.
I did so, but I didn’t sit there for long.
The hotel was fully booked all through to the weekend, she told me with a shake of her head so regretful you might have thought she was being kicked into the street rather than us.
“You’re unlikely to find anything else suitable in the immediate area. A big convention is starting on Wednesday. Something to do with the architecture of computer systems. Whatever that is.”
“Thanks,” I said, and got to my feet.
“What are we doing to do now?” Ryan asked.
“Start calling hotels, I guess,” Grant said.
“I have an idea,” I said. “Let me take care of it.”
“Happy to.” Ryan kissed me goodbye, wished Grant and me a good day, and headed off in search of Jayne and Donald.
“I need to make a call before we go,” I said to Grant.
I phoned Dad. “Good morning, my dearest,” he said. I was pleased to hear the light tone of his voice.
“Hi, Dad. Just checking in. Any developments?”
“No. Nothing from Morrison or anyone else since yesterday.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine. The headache is almost gone.”
“What headache? You didn’t tell me about any headache.”
“Didn’t I? Not a problem, is it now, as it’s almost disappeared. Your mother is in court today, and she left me strict instructions to check in with her regularly. Which I plan to do. What are you up to?”
I sidestepped the question. “Speaking of problems, we have one. We can’t stay at the Bentley after tonight, as they’re full up for the rest of the week. I’m worried that staying in London much longer, plus the cost of changing flights, is more than we, Jayne and Donald in particular, can afford.”
“You can all come here.”
“Are you sure?”
“We have the room if some of you double up.”
“Thanks, Dad. Call me if anything comes up.”
“What are your plans for today again?”
“Bye.” I put the phone away and said to Grant, “Tomorrow we’re all moving to Stanhope Gardens.”
“Nice of your father to have us.”
“You’ll have to share a room with Donald.”
“I can do that. If I have to. In the meantime, I cannot wait to see these books. I was up half the night, trying to find any whispers of what this soon-to-be-sold collection might consist of. They’re keeping a mighty tight lid on it; I couldn’t find a thing.”
“Books? What books?”
“The ones Pippa told us about last night? The ones we’re going to see today?”
“About that. I may have stretched the truth a tiny bit.”
“Meaning?”
“First, let’s go shopping.” I turned to the doorman holding the door open for us. “Can you get us a cab, please?”
The taxi dropped Grant and me off at Harrods. Grant always dressed well, if not actually rich (because he wasn’t), and today he looked the part of a well-off art collector in a brown sheepskin bomber jacket with checked white-and-brown scarf over a good gray wool sweater and dark jeans rolled up at the cuffs. Study brown leather boots were on his feet.
