When we got back to West London, Jayne let me off in the alley behind Baker Street.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go home and, uh, return to normal before going in?” she asked.
“I’d rather not take the time. I asked Gale to work until five and it’s almost that now. I keep some spare clothes here, in case of emergencies, and I can change quickly.”
“Okay. For anyone else, an emergency is coffee spilled on a white blouse. For you, it means the sudden need to assume an impenetrable disguise.”
“Are you going straight home?”
She chuckled. “I will admit I considered going into the Blue Water Café and demanding to speak to the chef, but I decided probably better not to give Andy the fright of his life.”
“Thanks for this,” I said.
She threw me a huge smile. “Any time, Gemma. You make my life interesting.”
I used my key to let myself into the Emporium through the back way. A small queue waited at the counter to be served while Ashleigh rang up a satisfyingly large stack of books. Gale was helping customers at the children’s and YA shelf.
“Good afternoon,” I said in my own voice.
Gale froze in the act of taking Jewel of the Thames by Angela Misri off the shelf. Her mouth dropped open. “What the—”
“Carry on.” I headed for the stairs. “I’ll be down to take over from you momentarily, Gale.”
As I climbed the stairs, I heard Gale say to Ashleigh, “Is that—”
“I’ve learned,” Ashleigh said, “not to ask too many questions. Gemma comes, Gemma goes. Gemma does strange things.”
Moriarty streaked past me, but this time I was on guard, and I nimbly avoided him lying in wait on the landing.
I gave my hair a good brushing, scrubbed off the excess makeup, and changed into black leggings, a loose T-shirt under a cotton jacket, and ballet flats. I slipped the fake wedding ring into a desk drawer and went downstairs.
Time to go to work.
As I’d said to Jayne, I believed we’d proved a negative—Mary had not killed Iris Laval. Unfortunately, our little outing had taken me no further forward in proving a positive—who had killed the medium.
When Ryan admitted he’d like my help, I knew he meant providing ideas and suggestions. He wouldn’t approve of me taking action in an investigation, so on the grounds that what he didn’t know would never hurt him, I hadn’t yet called to tell him about our expedition. I would, however, bring it up at some point. The police depend on concrete evidence and provable fact. My understanding of character or observation of minor details would be of no use to them in court, but my impressions of Mary’s behavior and motives might be of help in determining where, and upon whom, he should focus his attention.
I thanked Gale for coming in on short notice. She peeked at me out of the corner of her eye and only said, “Any time you need me.”
She went upstairs for her purse and when she slipped out, still watching me, she held the door for Larissa Greenwood.
“Welcome,” I said.
“Thank you.” Larissa looked around. “What a lovely store you have, Gemma. I haven’t come to buy, I’m sorry to say. I’m meeting Max in a few minutes, but I wanted to take the opportunity to come in and thank you.”
“Thank me for what?”
“Max and I went to the police station this morning. We had a long talk with Detectives Ashburton and Estrada. They were not happy to hear we hadn’t told them of our prior knowledge of Iris Laval, but they thanked us for eventually doing the right thing. I’m glad we did.”
The door behind her opened, and two teenage girls came in.
“Why don’t we step out of the way?” I suggested. I led the way to the reading nook and invited Larissa to take a seat in the comfortable wingback chair. I sat on the window ledge beneath the big bay window facing Baker Street.
She perched on the edge of the chair and shifted nervously. Moriarty appeared out of nowhere, as he’s sometimes inclined to do, and leaped onto her lap. Larissa started, and then she broke into a small smile. “What a lovely cat. What’s his name?”
“Moriarty.”
He graciously allowed Larissa to stroke his back and scratch under his chin as she talked. “Detective Estrada said that seeing as how Madame Lavalier—Iris Laval, that is—has died, they obviously can’t go after her for embezzlement. However, they can refer the case to Boston, and the police there can attempt to find out who assisted her in setting up and conducting the supposed séances. Max asked her not to do that. He doesn’t want our daughter upset any further, but it was pointed out that if Laura was a victim of fraud, she’s unlikely to be the only one. To be completely honest, Gemma, Max doesn’t much care what happened to anyone else, he only wants to put an end to this. I managed to convince him, for the time being anyway, to let the authorities do what they have to do.”
Moriarty purred and stretched his neck as high as it would go, allowing Larissa to scratch his throat. He loves that. Not that I know from personal experience: on the few occasions I’ve tried to stroke him, I’ve had to go in search of bandages.
“Have you told your daughter what happened here? To Iris Laval?”
“No. Max insists we say nothing, but I’m not convinced that would be best. Laura will eventually find out, certainly if the police investigation grows. I suspect we’ll have an uncomfortable sail to Boston. After we left the police, I asked Max if we should go to Rebecca Stanton. Tell her who we are, and extend our condolences and apologies for the death of her sister. Max said no. He wants to just slip quietly out of town.”
“I think that’s probably wise.”
She gave Moriarty a concluding pat and indicated he could get down. He snuggled in further. She said, “Off you go now, you beautiful boy.”
He didn’t get the hint, and after further failed encouragement, Larissa finally had to pick him up and plop him on the floor. He walked away, tail swishing behind him, without a backward glance, letting us know such had been his intent all along.
“We’re leaving in the morning,” Larissa said. “It’s unlikely we’ll be back, so I wanted to thank you in person.”
“I hope it all works out. For you and your daughter.”
Ryan called shortly before closing to invite himself to my place for dinner. He’d pick up take-out Indian food on the way.
He arrived, fragrant bags in hand, shaking rainwater off. Behind him, cars splashed through puddles quickly forming on the street.
I took the food from him and said, “It’s raining. I checked the weather forecast earlier, and it said nothing about rain.”
“As reliable as ever,” he said as he came into the house to be greeted by the two dogs.
I dished up heaping plates of rice, chicken korma, lamb curry, saag paneer, and crispy papadums, and we dug in. As we ate, we talked about nothing in particular: the news of the day, updates on our families and mutual friends.
Once our plates were scraped clean and the leftovers stacked in the fridge, we snuggled together on the couch, listening to the rain falling outside, and argued over what movie to choose, watched over by Violet and Peony. I’d decided to tell Ryan, while he was in a relaxed frame of mind, the bare-bones details of my expedition to Sandwich, concluding that I didn’t believe Mary Moffat had killed her golden goose.
“Sounds reasonable,” he said. “But she’s not out of the woods yet. Her history in Vegas isn’t entirely on the up and up, and it would appear she and the so-called Madame Lavalier were involved in some nasty stuff in Boston. I will say no more about that except that you seem to know as much as I do, if not more. As you so often do.”
It hadn’t been confirmed to me that Mary had acted as the assistant to Laval when she’d fleeced young Laura Greenwood.
Now it had been. I didn’t say so.
He flicked idly through the movie offerings on the streaming service. “As for who else might have been responsible for the killing, we’re not getting far, Gemma. We don’t need a motive to prove a case, but it certainly helps build the foundations of one, and I’ve got nothin’. Other than Moffat, who I’m not ruling out despite your conclusion, none of these people seem to have even met the woman before that night. The Greenwoods had reason to wish her harm, but I have no evidence indicating they did so.”
“That doesn’t mean someone hadn’t met her previously. It just means the guilty party hasn’t told you about it.”
“Precisely. I’ve heard this movie is good. The guys at the station say it’s nonstop action.”
“I have no need for nonstop action, fictional or otherwise, in my life. What about that one? The lead actor plays such great romantic roles.”
“Nothing with spontaneous acts of equestrianism,” he said.
“Nothing with explosions and flying bodies,” I said.
“I believe we’re at an impasse then.”
I plucked the control out of his hands and switched the screen off. “Whatever will we do with the rest of the evening?”
He grinned at me and took my face between his hands. “Maybe some nonstop action?”