I didn’t have to wait until teatime Saturday to meet the Great Thespian himself.
Shortly before one on Wednesday, I was shelving books in the section reserved for the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stories when I felt the air move as the front door opened. The front door opens a lot during the day—we are a store after all—but this time the sheer crush of people had an almost physical effect. I straightened and turned to see what was going on.
Jayne’s mother Leslie is an older and slightly rounder version of my friend, but she shivers with the same intensity of excitement. And she was certainly excited now as she held the door for Sir Nigel Bellingham.
I’ll admit that I’d been curious, and on Monday night when I got home from dinner with Jayne at the Blue Water Café—sadly disappointed that Andy had taken the night off—I’d searched the Internet for information on the legend of stage and screen. Many years had passed since the role for which he was most famous: the Roman Wars trilogy as the heroic general inspiring the legions to rise up against the injustices of decadent, decaying imperial Rome. He hadn’t been young then, and the years since had not been kind to him. He was jowly and pudgy and slow-moving, and the only color in his face was the network of red lines running through his nose and bloodshot eyes. His thin gray hair was worn far too long, curling around his neck in greasy strands. He wore a brown tweed suit, unsuitable for the heat of the day, and leaned heavily on his cane. I recognized the gold-topped cane as the sort with a screw-top handle and a hollow interior into which one could slip a glass container.
He stood in the doorway to my shop, red eyes blinking. No one said a word. “As marvelous as described,” he said at last, and the man behind him clapped as though Sir Nigel had finished a particularly difficult Shakespearean soliloquy. His voice was deep and rolling, the English accent what we call posh. I knew from the other night’s reading that although Sir Nigel hadn’t appeared in a movie or on the stage for years, these days he did a lot of “voice work”: speaking parts for commercials and animated movies or voice-over for documentaries. As soon as Jayne told me he was coming, I’d ordered a few CDs with the audio version of The Sign of the Four, narrated by none other than Sir Nigel, and they’d arrived this morning.
Moriarty leapt off the sales counter, ears up, tail moving.
Sir Nigel swept into the shop, followed by his entourage. As well as Leslie, he was accompanied by a small man with dark darting eyes and nervous mannerisms who carried a large over-the-shoulder leather briefcase, a heavyset woman dressed in a flowing white dress dotted with pink flowers, an exceedingly handsome man who looked as though he was smelling something very bad indeed, and a pretty young woman hanging onto Sir Nigel’s arm with a smile as fake as her tan and light blonde hair.
The shop was full of customers, and everyone stopped to stare at the new arrivals. Whispers spread rapidly through the crowd and heads popped in from the adjoining tea room.
Moments later, Jayne arrived in the shop at a rapid trot, eyes open wide, beaming with delight. Ashleigh—dressed today in her best ladies-who-lunch-at-the-yacht-club style—blinked in surprise. Clearly she, at least, didn’t know who these people were.
I stepped forward. “Welcome, everyone. Good afternoon, Sir Nigel. Hi, Mrs. Wilson. If you need any help, be sure and let me know.”
The actor extended a vein-lined, liver spot–encrusted hand. I took it in mine. His grip put me in mind of the last piece of cod at the fishmonger’s at the end of a hot day. The scent of tobacco surrounded him like an aura. “An Englishwoman,” Sir Nigel said in that rich, legendary voice. “Such a pleasure to meet you, my dear. You correctly surmised that I am Sir Nigel. Are you the proprietress of this fine establishment?”
“Gemma Doyle, recently of London, England. Currently of West London, Massachusetts.”
“Doyle? Any relation?”
“You mean to the creator of Sherlock Holmes? No,” I said. Uncle Arthur insists that he’s a distant cousin of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but my father says that’s nothing but the overactive, and hopeful, imagination of a Sherlock fanatic.
Moriarty rubbed up against the actor’s legs, but Nigel ignored him. The cat then went on to check out the other arrivals. The younger man bent over and gave him a scratch. Moriarty purred.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Doyle,” Nigel said. “Such an interesting shop you have here.”
Alone of the items in an actor’s tool chest, the voice is immune from the effects of a lifetime of drinking, and rather than destroying it, tobacco often improves the timber of a voice. His hands shook, and that—along with the red-lined nose, the whiff of whisky on his breath, and the flask-containing cane—was a clear sign of an alcohol problem. The only reason he’d have to fortify himself with a drink before coming to the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium would be because Sir Nigel needed to fortify himself for everything he did.
This man was going to play Sherlock Holmes? Maybe he’d suit in the movie version of A Slight Trick of the Mind by Mitch Cullin, although that had been done recently, and very well, by Sir Ian McKellen, but not Holmes in the prime of his life, at the height of his powers, bounding across the moor in pursuit of the great spectral hound.
I turned to the woman on his arm. “Hi.”
“Hello.” It’s difficult to sound totally bored in one word, but she managed. Her accent was American. Californian, I thought. She looked very West Coast with her long blonde hair, blindingly white teeth, deep tan, and almost skeletal figure. She wore short white shorts and a tight blue T-shirt with silver sparkles spelling out the words “I Love Life.” Exclamation marks were added for good measure. Breasts of that size are rarely natural on a woman that thin. On closer inspection, I could see the network of fine lines under her eyes and around her mouth, which she’d tried to conceal with skillfully applied makeup. She was a good deal older than she first appeared. Mid to late thirties, no longer the ingenue she so desperately wanted to be.
“This is Miss Renee Masters,” Sir Nigel said. “Miss Masters will be appearing as Miss Stapleton in our production of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Miss Masters yawned.
“Let’s not take up all these people’s time, Nige,” the large woman said. “They have a business to run here.”
Sir Nigel didn’t openly cringe at the diminutive of his name, but the small, nervous man with the briefcase did.
“I’m Pat Allworth,” the woman said to me. “I’m directing the plays for the festival this year. Last night, Rebecca suggested Nige here should see this store, and I decided to tag along and bring some of the others. Sorta help us get into the Sherlock mood, right? It was nice of Leslie to offer to pick us all up.”
Leslie’s face was already tinged pink. The color deepened. She gave Nigel a hesitant smile, but he appeared not to notice.
“You’re welcome to join us in Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room when you’ve finished shopping,” Jayne said. “We serve a full afternoon tea, a cream tea, or a selection of tea sandwiches and pastries, if you’d prefer. We stock a wide range of teas.”
The handsome man’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw Jayne, and he straightened. She noticed him watching her and gave him a soft shy smile that was utterly charming, even more so because she didn’t realize it. Unhappy at the sudden loss of attention, Moriarty hissed. The expression on his face was almost identical to that of Renee the actress.
“Sounds great,” Pat said. “I—”
“I know the play version of The Hound of the Baskervilles inside and out,” Sir Nigel said, as unhappy as the cat at losing the spotlight, “but I always enjoy catching up on the original. Do you happen to have it in stock?”
“I do,” I said. “Later, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a few copies of the audio version of The Sign of the Four, which you narrated so well. Would you be so kind as to sign them for me?”
“I’d be delighted, my dear. Anything to help out an Englishwoman far from our shores.”
Renee took the opportunity to tug herself free of Sir Nigel’s arm and move closer to the younger man. “I’d adore a little prezzie, Eddie. Something Sherlock-like. Isn’t that Benedict Cumberbatch a dream?” She smiled up at him, but he pointedly ignored her and continued grinning at Jayne. Renee huffed, spun on her excessively high heels, marched away, and pulled out her phone. Sensing dissent in the group, Moriarty followed her. Sir Nigel headed for the Conan Doyle bookshelf, and the small man scurried after him.
“I’d better get back to work.” Jayne indicated her apron with the Mrs. Hudson’s logo. “To the tea room, I mean.”
“I suddenly have a real craving for a cup of hot tea and a scone,” the younger actor said.
Jayne blushed to the roots of her hair, lowered her head, and scurried away to the mysterious depths of her domain.
“My daughter’s the owner of Mrs. Hudson’s,” Leslie said to Pat. “She’ll be catering the Saturday tea.”
“Should be good then,” Pat said diplomatically.
“I’ll see if Nigel needs any help making his selection,” Leslie said.
“As no one bothered to introduce me, guess I have to do it myself.” The handsome man extended his hand. His grip was firm, his hand dry. “I’m Edward Barker. Everyone calls me Eddie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eddie,” I said. “What role do you have in the play?”
“You recognized me.” He smiled. I smiled back. I’d never seen the man before, on stage or off. Even if he hadn’t been in the company of theater people, I’d instantly take him for an actor. Most middle-class Americans have good teeth, but only actors or models have that pure blinding whiteness. He was about five foot eight, slightly shorter than me, and his head was larger than average. He wasn’t excessively muscular, but he was lean and fit. Clearly a man who worked out regularly, probably a runner. His voice was deep, his accent West Coast, his blond hair (dyed and highlighted) carefully arranged with a single lock falling over his forehead. He wore a black leather jacket over a plain white T-shirt and fashionably distressed jeans.
“I play Felix in The Odd Couple. I’m also . . .” His smile faded as his eyes wandered to where Sir Nigel was being helped by Ashleigh to examine the books while Leslie Wilson flitted about. “Understudy to the role of Holmes.” Ah, yes, the actor who’d prepared for the part only to be bumped by Sir Nigel.
“The understudy might yet get to have his day. I’ve heard Sir Nigel’s been ill.” I attempted to be tactful. I needn’t have bothered.
“In a rehab clinic, more like it,” Eddie said. “I’m surprised they let him out early.” He caught himself, and the smile returned. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m heading back to the B and B. I’ll drop in another day and browse when the place is less crowded.”
“Any time,” I said.
“Do they do takeout coffee at the place next door?”
“They do.”
“I’m not one for tea,” he said, “although I might manage to develop a taste given the right incentives.” He headed for the sliding door joining the two businesses.
Renee looked up from her phone and fixed her eyes on him until he disappeared. She did not look happy. Moriarty stood on the shelf beside her. She rubbed his head absent-mindedly. My customers went back to what they were doing.
Attracted by the crowd of people, Maureen, the owner of Beach Fine Arts situated across from us at 221 Baker Street, pushed her way into the shop. Avoiding my eyes, she slid up to a woman who was examining a framed poster of Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law in Game of Shadows and said in a voice that wasn’t nearly as low as she thought it was, “If you’re looking for a souvenir of your visit, genuine Cape Cod art can be found across the street.”
I’ve chased Maureen out of the Emporium more than once for trying to poach my customers. Without my having to say anything, Ashleigh headed toward them. “Can I help you?” she boomed. Maureen slunk away, but she didn’t leave the shop. She edged close to Sir Nigel, waiting for an opportunity to pounce and suggest he might like to purchase some art.
“Not that one, you stupid man.” Sir Nigel was a trained actor with a powerful stage presence. Apparently he didn’t know when to use his indoor voice. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look and then quickly returned to their own business, embarrassed to be so crass as to stare.
Sir Nigel loomed over the small man. He waved his cane, and the other man cringed. “I said I want Volume II, not Volume I. That’s the one containing The Hound of the Baskervilles, you fool.” The small man replaced the book he’d selected and pulled out another. “Frankly, I wonder sometimes why I bother with you, Gerald. Don’t just stand there gaping—pay for the book!”
Gerald scurried away, his head tucked into his chest. His hair was thin, his eyeglasses thick, the bags under his eyes dark, and the lines on his face deep, from age as well as stress. He was in his early sixties, I guessed, and not a happy man.
“Poor guy,” Pat said to me.
“The secretary, I assume,” I said.
“Personal assistant is the modern term. I’d say general dogsbody and all around whipping boy, myself. I hope Nige is paying him well for what he has to put up with. Still, it’s his neck; he can do what he wants with it. As for Nige himself . . .”
“He’s not what you expected.”
“Oh, he’s exactly what I expected. I do my homework. Let’s just say Sir Nigel Bellingham’s best days are behind him. Far, far, far behind him. So far behind him, he can’t see them in his rearview mirror. Rebecca Stanton wanted a big British name to play Holmes. She overrode my objections, so this is what we got. Still, he is a professional, and he’s played the role many times before, so I’ll cheerfully assume he’ll rise to the occasion.”
“Who’s playing Watson?” I asked.
“Ralph Carlyle. Too young, really, to be Watson to Nige’s Sherlock, but he’s a good sort. Solid, respectable, reliable.” Her eyes moved to the corner of the shop where Renee was standing in the bright sunlight pouring through the window of the reading alcove, her back to the room, laughing uproariously into her phone. Pat’s eyes narrowed, and her face darkened.
The director’s lot, I thought, is not a happy one.
“I’ll be helping with the fund-raising tea on Saturday,” I said. “Are all the actors planning to attend?”
With another scowl in the direction of Renee, Pat said, “If they know what’s good for them, they will be.”
“Did someone say tea? That would be just the ticket,” Sir Nigel announced. “Gerald, secure us a table. It would appear that Edward has left. No matter. Pat will join me and Renee. You . . . what’s your name again?”
“You don’t . . . ? I’m Leslie. Leslie Wilson. I was an actress myself once, I used to be Leslie Montgomery?” I caught something in Jayne’s mom’s voice, the uptick at the end turning the statement into a question. She expected Nigel to react to the name. He did not.
“You’re in charge of the volunteer committee, I’ve been told,” he said.
“Yes, that’s right. I’ve loved the theater ever since—”
“In that case, you can be my guest as well. A table for four,” Sir Nigel said. Four meant no room for Gerald. I assumed he was expected to eat in the kitchen. Or in the back alley in the company of any stray dogs who might be passing. He scurried into the tea room to do his master’s bidding.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Maureen said.
Sir Nigel ignored her. “Come along, people. Time we were off. Pay for your purchases, everyone. Renee!”
She glanced up from her phone. Her lips formed a rude word. Nigel noticed, and he bristled.
Pat had also noticed. “I think Renee has a costume fitting, don’t you, dear?”
“Yeah. A fitting,” the actress said. “Sorry about that.” She walked out of the shop, still talking into her phone. “You won’t believe what he said.”
“I’ll pop into the lavatory in the restaurant for a moment,” Sir Nigel said. “And then I’ll join you. Miss Doyle, I haven’t forgotten about signing those recordings. Why don’t you lay them out, and I’ll do that in a moment. Gerald . . . Where is Gerald?”
“You sent him to get the table,” I said.
“How long does that take?” he snapped. “I need my pen. I can’t sign without my pen.”
“I’ll get the CDs,” Ashleigh said.
“Unlike some people, I can’t stand around chatting all day,” Maureen said. “If this store seems too crowded, we’d be happy to serve you at Beach Fine Arts. Did I mention that our address is 221 Baker Street? Isn’t that interesting?” When Uncle Arthur had first arrived in West London, he’d wanted to buy the building across the street, but it had not been for sale, so he’d had to settle on number 222. After giving me a smirk, Maureen left. No one followed her.
“Gerald!” Nigel bellowed. Gerald’s head popped into the Emporium.
“I’ve found a nice table, Sir Nigel.”
“Lay my pen out on the signing table. I’ll be back shortly.”
Sir Nigel might have needed to use the restroom, but that wasn’t the only reason he wanted some privacy. When he returned to the Emporium, the scent of whisky on his breath had been refreshed.
The signing table was nothing but a spot cleared on the games and puzzles table with the comfortable red wingback chair from the reading nook hastily pulled up to it. I’d only bought four copies of the audiobook, and that made an unimpressive pile. But Sir Nigel sat down with great ceremony and extended his hand. With a slight bow, Gerald handed him a gold-plated fountain pen. The CDs came wrapped in plastic, so the best we could do was attach a sticker with the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium logo onto the cover. Sir Nigel signed in large ornate script with a dramatic flourish.
“If those sell, I might get more in,” I said to Gerald. “I’d be happy to bring them around to the theater or your hotel if Sir Nigel would be willing to sign them. Do you have a number where I can contact you?”
He put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small square of stiff white paper. “Be sure you ring first. Don’t presume on Sir Nigel’s time.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I swallowed a retort as I accepted the card. Sir Nigel couldn’t be an easy man to work for, and if some uppity shop owner did “presume” on his time, poor Gerald would probably get the worst of it.
I slipped the card into my pocket, and Gerald hurried away to check if Nigel’s pen was working or something.
“This is so great,” Ashleigh whispered to me.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for a fan,” I said.
“I didn’t recognize him at first, but then someone said his name. My granddad loves Roman Wars. He’s seen it like a hundred times. Do you think it would be okay if I asked Mr. Bellingham for his autograph?”
“Normally, I’d say not, but as he’s already signing, sure.”
When he’d finished, Ashleigh cleared her throat. “Mr. Bellingham . . .”
“Sir Nigel,” Gerald muttered.
“I’d love your autograph. Do you mind?” Ashleigh slid a piece of paper toward him.
“Not in the least, my dear. How do you spell your name?”
“Make it out to John, please. He’s a huge fan of yours.”
“John. Is that fortunate young man your boyfriend?”
“Oh, no. It’s my granddad. Roman Wars Part I is his favorite movie of all time.”
“Your granddad.” Sir Nigel’s smile faded. He hastily scribbled something indecipherable and shoved the paper at Ashleigh without bothering to smile again. I smothered a laugh.
“He’s a lot older than I expected,” she said to me once the theater people had taken their leave.
“Time does that. Roman Wars was made forty years ago.”
“Sad,” she said.
“Life,” I said. “Now let’s get back to work.” Word had spread that actors were in the store and the tea room, and a substantial number of people had arrived to see what the fuss was about. I took one of the festival flyers out of the window and used to it make a display on the center table with Volumes I and II and the signed CDs. We don’t usually sell audiobooks because they’re so expensive, but two of these were snapped up quickly, and I decided to order another ten.
Yes, the West London Theater Festival was looking to be good for business indeed.
* * *
I was in Mrs. Hudson’s getting a takeout cup of tea and a late lunch of roast beef with mustard and arugula on a Jayne-made baguette to eat in my office when Leslie Wilson returned. This time, she was with a woman I recognized from around town, although I didn’t know her name. Fiona showed them to a table. Jayne’s mom spotted me and waved, and I carried my cup and paper bag over to say hello.
“Having Sir Nigel in the shop was good publicity,” I said. “We had a rush after he left.”
“Glad it worked out—for you and Jayne, anyway,” Leslie said. “I offered to bring them into town, as I was hoping to have a chat with Nigel, but we didn’t get a chance.”
“I’m sure you will later,” I said.
“Gemma, this is Rebecca Stanton. Rebecca’s the executive director of the festival. Gemma Doyle owns the bookstore.”
Rebecca was in her late fifties, well put-together in tailored white trousers and matching jacket with a pretty pink silk shell beneath. Her makeup was subdued and perfect, her hair expensively cut and colored, her manicure fresh. The scent of Chanel No. 5, lightly applied, wafted around her. She gave me a warm smile. “Pleased to meet you, Gemma. Thank you in advance for Saturday. Leslie tells me you’ll be working with Jayne.”
“Jayne’s the one in charge of anything and everything to do with food and drink. I merely do what I’m told.”
“The tickets are almost sold out already,” Leslie said, “and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we made the announcement. I’m absolutely delighted. Some people were worried that we were charging too much, but Rebecca put her foot down. She knows her patrons.”
Rebecca’s smile was strained. “Have faith, Leslie.”
“Right now, you don’t,” I said.
Rebecca gave me a look I’ve seen many times before. I keep telling myself that people don’t like it when I seem to know what they’re thinking, but if they want to keep things private, maybe they shouldn’t have such expressive faces.
“Preopening jitters,” she said. “It’s common enough. In my long-forgotten youth, there were entire days when I couldn’t keep anything I ate down, my nerves were so stretched. But then opening night came, and all would be well. Until next time.”
“You were an actress? Broadway?”
“Oh, no, greasepaint and limelight were not for me. I can’t bear to imagine what actually being on a stage would have done to my nerves. I worked for a production company for many years. Strictly confined to behind the scenes.”
“Where the most important work’s done,” Leslie said. “Without people like Rebecca, there would be no plays being put on.”
“Would you like to see a menu, Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Stanton?” Fiona, the waitress, slipped quietly up to the table.
“I know it by heart by now,” Leslie said. “I’ll have a cream tea, please, with Lapsang Souchong. I was so nervous earlier, having tea with Nigel, I couldn’t eat a bite. Rebecca?”
“The same for me, thank you,” Rebecca said. Fiona left to get the orders. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Won’t you join us, Gemma? If you have the time. I see you have your food already.”
“Thanks.” I dropped into a vacant chair. I didn’t really have the time, but I was curious. “It was good publicity for the festival for Nigel Bellingham and some of the cast to pop into the bookshop. Plenty of people saw them and the buzz began. Good for us too. We’ve been busy ever since.”
“Nothing is spontaneous in this business,” Rebecca said. “They went at my suggestion. The great man in town, we might as well make use of him. I paid for him to make a big show of treating some of the others to tea. I thought it would provide some advertising for the fund-raiser.”
“I took a couple of pictures,” Leslie said. “Before the tea was served, that is. I’d never take pictures of anyone eating. I got Fiona in the background with the tea room logo on her uniform showing, and a couple of Sir Nigel examining the books in your store.”
“Is he up to playing Sherlock?” I asked.
“You get straight to the point, don’t you, Gemma?” Rebecca said.
“The thought crossed my mind. I might as well express it.”
“I have no worries at all.” Her eyes shifted to one side, she patted her hair, and I knew she was lying. “He’s played the role many, many times. He must know it so well, he can recite it in his sleep.” She smiled at me. The fine lines around her eyes deepened. “Why, he’d barely arrived yesterday and immediately insisted on going into rehearsals. He knows most of the lines, of course, but our staging is different, and we have different actors for him to play off, not to mention a director with a fresh interpretation. It’s going to be a marvelous production. Sir Nigel’s age will add to the gravitas of Sherlock Holmes, don’t you agree, Leslie?”
“He is known for his old world charm. Although . . .”
We didn’t get to hear the rest of her thoughts as Fiona arrived bearing the tea things. She placed the pot in the center of the table along with two cups, the milk pitcher, and sugar bowl. The pot wasn’t a Sherlock one but fine bone china in a soft pink dotted with red roses. The teacups matched the pot. Leslie Wilson poured, and Fiona soon returned with a plate containing four thick, warm, fragrant English-style scones and pots of strawberry jam, butter, and clotted cream. The women helped themselves, and I got to my feet. “I’d better get back. Nice meeting you, Rebecca. I’ll see you at the tea on Saturday.”
“It’s going to be the perfect kickoff to a perfect season,” Rebecca said. “I’ve no worries at all.” Once again, she was lying.
I took my own tea, now rapidly cooling, and my sandwich into my office above the shop to work on the accounts while I ate.
* * *
Lunch over, and as much of the accounts done as I could bear (it’s not my favorite task), I went down to the shop floor to give Ashleigh a hand. As is my custom whenever I’ve been out of the store, I surveyed the room and did a quick inventory as I came in. One copy of each of the latest two Laurie R. Kings were gone, as was Bending the Willow: Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes and The Sherlockian by Graham Moore, three copies of the hottest new short story anthology, several of the mugs from the BBC series Sherlock, a DVD of The Classic Sherlock Holmes Collection (starring Basil Rathbone), and two of The Abominable Bride. Plus another one of the signed audiobooks, one jigsaw puzzle, and one Sherlock: The Mind Palace coloring book. We’d apparently had a rush on Hudson House, the third in the enormously successful Hudson and Holmes series by Renalta Van Markoff. The late Renalta Van Markoff, that was, as that lady unfortunately died recently not more than a few feet from where I was standing.
The store was busy as people browsed. Yes, I know browsing is a good thing, but I do wish they’d put things back where they found them. How am I supposed to keep track if the stock keeps moving about?
I was arranging the stack of puzzles, putting the tallest at the back where they belonged, when a woman approached me. “Excuse me. I saw the poster in the window for the theater festival. Are you selling tickets?”
“No,” I said, “we’re not. Sorry.” I made a mental note to see about doing so.
“I’m so looking forward to The Hound of the Baskervilles,” she said. “I love everything to do with Sherlock Holmes. When will tickets be on sale?”
I seemed to recall someone mentioning something about that, but I had to admit, I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought it a detail I needed to remember. Clearly, an oversight on my part. The theater poster contained a phone number for advance ticket sales. I ripped one down off the wall and handed it to her. She said thanks, picked up a Mind Place coloring book to add to her copy of Hudson House, and took it to the cash counter.
“I’m surprised at how well those coloring books are doing,” I said to Ashleigh as we waved good-bye to another satisfied customer. “Who would have thought? Coloring books for adults. That’s the second one bought this afternoon.”
“I don’t think so,” Ashleigh said. “I’ve only sold one all day, that one just now.”
“I sold one this morning before you arrived, and that left five on the rack. When I came back from lunch, I noticed one more had been taken, meaning four remained. There are now three. I hope someone didn’t move it. I hate that.”
“Do you always know what’s on the shelves all the time?” Ashleigh said.
“Of course.” I almost added, “Don’t you?” but Jayne had once told me people didn’t like that. If I was the only one working in the store, I also knew the contents of the cash drawer and the amount of the debit and credit card slips to the penny at any given time. When the business began to grow and I needed to hire an assistant, I hadn’t liked losing control, but I’d decided that having something approaching spare time would be worth it. “Are you sure you didn’t sell a coloring book from the time you arrived this morning until I came back after my lunch?”
“Positive.” Ashleigh pushed buttons on the computer, “but I’ll check anyway.” She read the screen quickly and shook her head. “Nope. Only that one just now and the one from this morning.”
“I don’t see it misplaced anywhere. It’s been stolen.” I glared at Ashleigh.
She threw up her hands. “Hey, don’t accuse me. I didn’t take it. You can search my bag if you want.”
“I’m not accusing you.” Although I was accusing her of being careless, in which case I needed to blame myself as well. I’d been so distracted, first by the theater people and then by the crowd pouring in after them, I’d taken my eyes off the shop. Shoplifting wasn’t much of a problem in the Emporium. Either the type of people who came into a bookstore weren’t the sort inclined toward a life of petty crime or the steely-eyed glares of Benedict Cumberbatch and Robert Downey Jr. as the Great Detective put anyone off any inclination to engage in criminal activities.
“Maybe it’ll turn up,” Ashleigh said. “I’ll keep an eye out for it.”
“Thanks.” The coloring book wasn’t big, and it was soft-covered, meaning it could be rolled up. I thought back over the people who’d been in and out of the store this afternoon. It was a hot day, so no one had been wearing a coat, although a few had light jackets. Sir Nigel had been dressed in his Harris Tweed, suitable for a rainy autumn morning hunting grouse in the Scottish Highlands, but far too warm for a Cape Cod summer. Most people carried the usual assortment of handbags, a few beach bags, or shopping bags from other stores. A couple of the men had worn baggy shorts or loose pants with plenty of pocket room. And then there had been Gerald’s leather man-bag.
I gave a mental shrug and put the loss down to the cost of doing business.
From the top of the gaslight shelf, Moriarty smirked.