And that was the end of that.
Two weeks passed, and I heard nothing more about Sir Nigel Bellingham other than from Emporium customers expressing their shock and dismay at his passing. Advance ticket sales for the theater festival were better than expected, and Leslie informed me that several nights were completely sold out. A good deal of the excitement at being involved in the festival had left both Leslie and Jayne, but they still pitched in when they could.
Jayne continued to see Eddie, and I continued to worry about that. I’d debated telling her that he was sleeping with Renee while beginning a relationship with her, but I decided to hold my tongue. Recently, I’d told a young woman in love that her intended’s only interest in her was for her inheritance: it had not gone well.
I’ve been told people don’t always appreciate the benefit of my observations and conclusions.
Thus I resolved to stay out of it and to hope that, when the run of the play finished, Eddie would be on his way to newer pastures, both professionally and romantically.
I hadn’t seen Renee again, but Jayne told me she’d recovered from a bout of food poisoning (the reason the festival put out for her visit to the hospital) and had thrown herself enthusiastically into rehearsals. Everyone, Jayne said, was thrilled with how it was going.
The chief of police called a press conference, which was well attended. Irene Talbot had told me that media attention around the death of Sir Nigel Bellingham had been intense.
I didn’t bother to go, as earlier Ryan had called to tell me the chief and Louise Estrada had agreed to close the investigation on his suggestion. I read the chief’s statement in the next day’s West London Star. The police had concluded that the man had slipped and fallen to his death “while under the influence.” Ryan told me that forensic investigators had found no sign of anyone “slipping.” The earth at the cliff edge was not scuffed and disturbed enough to indicate a misstep followed by a desperate attempt to keep one’s footing. But with no proof that Nigel had jumped, the police thought it best to be discreet.
Gerald Greene was told he was free to leave. He did not stop by the Emporium to say good-bye.
Wednesday afternoon, I went next door to have my regular daily partners’ meeting with Jayne. I settled in the window alcove, and Fiona brought a pot of tea and a selection of sandwiches. “No brownies today?” I asked. “I feel like a bit of chocolate.”
“Sold out,” she replied.
Jayne dropped onto the window bench. “Another good day. You?”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles opens tomorrow night, and theater patrons are streaming into town. As we’d hoped, many of them are Holmes fans, and the Emporium is high on their list of places to visit.”
Jayne poured the tea, and we toasted each other with delicate china cups.
“Seen much of Eddie?” I asked.
“We had dinner Monday,” she said, “but that’ll probably be the last time for a while. He’s acting every night, and when he finishes, it’s too late for me to be going out.”
“You don’t sound terribly disappointed at that,” I said.
She shrugged. “It’s been fun to be with him, but I don’t see that anything can come of it. To be honest, Gemma, we have nothing in common. Eddie doesn’t seem to be interested in much in life other than Eddie. Not in the difficulties of owning and operating a bakery and tea room. He’s super excited about tomorrow’s opening. He says this performance is his chance at the big time.”
“Summer stock in Cape Cod? Unlikely,” I said.
“Actors have their dreams.” She smiled at me. “I’m happy here at Mrs. Hudson’s and in West London. I’m happy my mother isn’t going to be charged with murder. I’m happy I have a good friend, as exasperating as she might be at times. How about you?”
“All of those things,” I said, returning her smile. “Ambition is highly overrated. Although I have no idea to what friend you might be referring.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said, toasting me once again with her teacup. “What’s Ashleigh supposed to be today, by the way? I can’t imagine where she got that poodle skirt.”
“I fear she’s planning to dress as though she’s in one of the plays for the rest of the summer. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and The Hound are easy, but I don’t know what she can wear that will put people in mind of The Odd Couple.”
“She’ll think of something.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The door opened, and Leslie Wilson bustled in. “I knew I’d find you two here.” She dropped beside Jayne and pulled an envelope out of her purse. “Surprise!”
“What’s that?” Jayne asked.
“Three tickets to tomorrow’s opening of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Rebecca Stanton told me to invite you two, with thanks for your help at the tea and for finding her stolen items. They were precisely where Gemma said they’d be.”
“That’s nice of her,” Jayne said. “I’d love to see the play. Gemma?”
“I want to see how they manage to misinterpret The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“I’m not sitting next to her if she’s going to complain and point out discrepancies all the way through,” Jayne said to her mother. “Is the third ticket for you?”
“Yes. Remember, this is opening night, and dress accordingly. Everyone will be dressed to the nines.”
“What goes for the nines in Cape Cod in summer,” Jayne said.
“More like the sevens,” I said.
* * *
Thursday evening, I made an attempt to dress to the nines.
I left the shop in Ashleigh’s hands at five, dashing out before she could show me the website she’d found about how to set up a mail-order business. I went home, took Violet out, and then hopped into the shower. I washed and blow-dried my hair, fluffed the curls into some semblance of style, and tied the edges off my face with rhinestone clips. I brushed a touch of blush onto my cheeks and put a dab of pink lipstick onto my mouth. I don’t have a lot of fancy clothes—I rarely go anyplace that requires them—but I do have the perfect “little black dress” that’s been with me since I left London. Fortunately, it was a warm night so I could do without the dreaded pantyhose and leave my legs bare. I added the small gold-and-diamond earrings that had been my parents’ wedding gift to me and a long gold chain. Last of all, I slipped into a pair of black high-heeled Ralph Lauren sandals that I’d bought on impulse and never worn.
I then ruined the outfit by tossing my small black leather bag over my shoulder. Although women’s clothing is nothing at all like it was in the Great Detective’s day—thank heavens!—it’s still highly impractical at times. I never carry a clutch bag as I don’t like having my hands occupied, but I need someplace for my phone and keys, a bit of money to buy a drink at intermission, and an emergency tissue. Expensive little black dresses don’t come with pockets.
Violet eyed me. She did not look impressed.
“Don’t wait up,” I said.
My phone beeped, telling me Jayne and Leslie were on their way to pick me up. I went outside and waited for them at the curb.
When we arrived, a long line of cars was pulling into the driveway leading to the theater barn. The building itself was fully lit, a brilliant yellow glow against the encroaching purple darkness of the night sky. Young men and women in safety vests waved flashlights to direct cars to their parking spaces.
Fortunately for the sake of men’s Italian shoes and women’s heels, it hadn’t rained recently. The theater parking lot isn’t paved.
“Don’t you two look great,” I said once we were out of the car.
“I don’t often get a chance to dress up.” Leslie wore a long dress of soft blue, all swirling silk and touches of lace.
“You’re definitely a nine,” I said.
“A nine?”
“As in dressed to the nines. Jayne, I’ll give you nine and a half.” She beamed at me, looking fabulous in a wide knee-length skirt in shades of red and gold, a deeply plunging gold shirt under a tight red jacket, and ruby-red shoes with four-inch heels. Her blonde hair was piled on the top of her head with a few tendrils left loose to curl softly around her face.
“Not too bad yourself.” Jayne slipped her arm through her mother’s, and we headed for the barn.
Rebecca Stanton stood at the main doors, greeting patrons. She wore a designer gown of swirling red satin that probably cost in the thousands; gold and diamonds flashed from her throat, ears, and wrist. She and Leslie exchanged air kisses.
“Looks like it’s going to be quite the night,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Don’t congratulate me until the play’s over,” she said. “The proof is in the pudding.”
“‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating,’” I said.
“Pardon me?” She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“That’s the correct quote. People often get it wrong.”
Jayne stuck an elbow into my ribs.
“Although,” I admitted, “quotations have been known to evolve over time.”
“We’re holding up the line,” Leslie said. “Let’s go in and find our seats.”
I had to remind myself we were in a barn. The press at the bar was heavy, conversation and laughter echoed off the slatted walls, and the soft lighting made everyone look good. A handful of tourists were dressed in everyday wear, but like us, most people had gone to some trouble. Jewelry sparkled, and the scent of perfume mingled with aftershave and freshly laundered men’s dress shirts.
“The play hasn’t even started,” I said, “and the magic of the theater is already all around us.”
Leslie beamed; the light of true love shone in her eyes.
Which, I thought to myself, is perhaps why I am not a big fan of theater. I don’t care for deception, in any form.
I told myself to relax and enjoy the evening.
“I’ll join you two in a minute,” Leslie said. “I see someone I want to talk to. Here’s your tickets, in case I don’t get back before they call us to sit down.” She handed them to us and slipped away.
“Good evening, Gemma, Jayne. May I say you look quite lovely tonight?” Donald Morris stood at my side. He wore a proper nineteenth-century morning suit: stripped trousers, tailcoat, waistcoat, high white collar, and gray tie. Even a gray top hat.
“Good heavens,” Jayne said. “Wherever did you get that outfit?”
“I’ve been saving it for a suitable occasion.” Donald, I thought—and not for the first time—was a man out of his era. He would have been happiest waving a walking stick to hail a hansom cab on the foggy cobblestones of London or the teeming streets of New York City.
That reminded me. “Did you get your ulster back?” I asked.
“I did. It was, I was unhappy to find, in the police evidence locker. The officers were pleased to discover the owner and returned it to me.”
“No harm done then,” I said.
“Are you looking forward to the play, Donald?” Jayne said.
He sniffed. “We will see. I hope they don’t add any of those oh-so-clever modern touches to this interpretation. I’ll be content with nothing less than a faithful rendition.”
“So you’re not a fan of the Benedict Cumberbatch series,” Jayne said.
“On the contrary. I love it. A modern interpretation for our times. Faithful to the original, yet also suitable for the twenty-first century. It doesn’t attempt to be some sort of ham-fisted crossover.”
Grant Thompson joined us. He carried a glass of wine and was dressed in a gray business suit. “Ladies. Donald. Quite the night. Can I get you something to drink, Gemma?”
I opened my mouth to agree when Jayne jumped in. “No, thanks. We’re fine.”
“Isn’t that Andy Whitehall over there?” I said. “Why, so it is. Oh, look, he’s seen us. He’s waving. He seems to be trapped in conversation with that old couple. Go and rescue him, Jayne.” She hesitated, and I gave her a light shove. “Off you go. Maybe he’d like to go for dinner after the play or something.”
“Sounds like an idea,” Grant said.
“Excellent!” Donald said. “I’d love to join you. Where are you sitting, Gemma?”
I checked my ticket for the first time. “Front row, it looks like.”
His face fell. “Oh. I’m in the back. The sightlines will not be good. Can’t be helped now. I’ll meet you at the main exit after curtain. I see Matthew Berkowitz from the Boston chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars is here. I’ve been meaning to ask him about . . .” Donald hurried away.
“I’m also in the cheap seats,” Grant said.
“Pays to have friends in high places,” I said. “Rebecca gave the tickets to Leslie.”
“Speaking of Rebecca, I read that the police closed their investigation into Nigel’s death, so I didn’t think you’d have any more interest in what I learned about the financial affairs of the festival.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you not to bother.”
He grinned. “Not a problem. I got a nice cup of tea out of it. I ran into Rebecca on Baker Street the afternoon after that trip to the hospital with Renee, and I dropped hints that I was considering investing in the festival next year. She invited me to Mrs. Hudson’s to talk about it. I’m afraid lying isn’t something I’m good at, so I pretty soon confessed that I didn’t have a lot of spare money. She waved that trifle away and said she was more interested in getting volunteers. And”—he blushed ever so slightly—“young single men are hard to find to volunteer for anything. I got the impression she doesn’t much care if the festival makes money or not. She’ll put in whatever she has to to keep it going. It’s the appearance she’s interested in, and the standing in the wider community she gets from being the chief patron of a successful festival. A strong stable of eager volunteers means the festival has respect among the people who matter. Matter to Rebecca, anyway.”
I thought of her standing proudly at the entrance tonight, resplendent in satin and diamonds, greeting guests as though they were visitors to her house.
“I should have known I’d find you here,” said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Ryan Ashburton, also looking very dapper in a business suit.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
“Evening, Detective,” Grant said. “Are you here on business?”
Ryan shook his head. “I’ve come with my mother. She bought two tickets the day they went on sale, but my dad’s hip’s bothering him something bad today, and he didn’t want to go out. Being a lady of a certain age, Mom was prepared stay at home with him rather than come alone, so he asked me to escort her.” He gestured to a steel-haired woman in her early seventies, chattering to a group of her peers. She glanced up, saw me watching, and turned sharply away.
I’d met her when Ryan and I were together. Looks like she still hasn’t forgiven me for our breakup.
People continued to arrive, and the lobby was soon bursting at the seams with excited people and loud chatter. I shifted from one foot to another, hoping we’d be seated soon. I was seriously regretting wearing these shoes. Only now that it was too late to do anything about it, I remembered why I’d never worn them.
My gaze continued to travel across the room, and I saw someone I definitely didn’t expect to see.
Gerald Greene, heading our way.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you’d gone back to England.”
“I did, but I wanted to see how the play turned out, so I flew over for a few days. It was my first ever flight in business class—what a treat! I’m staying at the Harbor Inn, at my own expense.” He read my face and preened. “I’ve come into some money since we last met. Sir Nigel left the majority of his estate to his charitable foundation, but to my considerable surprise, he was kind enough to mention me in his will. His estate turned out, again to my surprise, to be quite extensive. Some properties in Chelsea and Kensington he’d bought in his salad days for rental income. His mother, obviously a wise woman, had insisted he invest every cent he made from Roman Wars into property.”
“Wow!” I said. “That would have appreciated a lot over forty years.”
“He also had a country home in Cornwall, and it, along with a small income, he left to me.”
“Congratulations,” Ryan said.
“Such a great man,” Gerald said. “So thoughtful. I see Mrs. Stanton. I must give her my wishes. Please excuse me.”
The three of us stared at his retreating back.
“If I hadn’t closed this case,” Ryan muttered.
“You’d ask cui bono,” I replied.
“Who benefits?” Grant added. “Gerald appears to have. Do you think he knew he was mentioned in the will?”
“No way of finding out now,” Ryan said. “Gemma?”
I thought back to my conversations with Gerald. “Unless he’s a far better actor than I took him for, I don’t think so. The last time I spoke with him, he was bemoaning the fact that he was penniless and out of a job. Of course, I’ve misjudged people before.”
“That comes as a surprise to me,” Grant said.
“I try not to make a habit of it,” I said.
Bells began to ring, calling us to be seated. A buzz of excitement washed through the barn.
“I’ll see you at intermission,” I said, and we went our separate ways.
Leslie, Jayne, and my seats were in the front row, slightly off to the left side. Leslie sat between Jayne and me. The mayor took the seat to the right of Jayne, her husband on her other side. Farther down the row, I recognized the chief of police between Mrs. Chief and the head of the town’s arts council and none other than one of our state’s senators was at the far end of the row. Rebecca would be thrilled: all the town’s dignitaries had shown up.
A man dropped into the chair on the other side of me. I shifted the bag over my shoulder and turned to greet him. “Mr. Blackstone. Good evening. Are you excited about the play?”
His hair was tied into its habitual man-bun, and he wore tight dark-blue jeans turned up at the ankles, a pink shirt with a red bow tie, suspenders, and the sort of cloth cap with a brim that was once only worn by men of the British working classes. What passes for evening wear in the hipster world, I assumed. “Excited?” he drawled. “I long ago gave up being excited about anything. But I am looking forward to it. I have a lot riding on this production.”
“Investor, are you?” I asked, not really caring.
“You might say that. How much remains to be seen.”
“How are The Odd Couple and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof coming along in rehearsals?” I asked for no reason but to be polite.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
The lights began to dim, and conversation slowly died to a halt. I settled back in my seat. Beside me, Leslie tittered in excitement.
Instead of the curtain rising, Rebecca Stanton came out of the wings. She walked slowly to center stage, her red gown flowing around her slim figure. A single spotlight threw sparkles off her diamonds.
She waited patiently for everyone to give her their full attention and then thanked us for coming and the mayor and the town of West London for its support of the arts. We all clapped enthusiastically. Rebecca then told us that the run of The Hound of the Baskervilles would be dedicated to the memory of Sir Nigel Bellingham. Another round of applause.
Rebecca left the stage and appeared moments later on the floor in front of me, heading for her seat, front row center.
The lights dimmed, and the curtain opened.
221B Baker Street in all its glory. Fireplace and mantle. A “patriotic” VR shot into the red wallpaper. A tattered red rug, two worn leather couches. A table containing a coffeepot and one place setting.
Eddie Barker—I mean, Sherlock Holmes—sat at the table with his back to where Dr. John Watson stood by the mantle, examining a walking stick.
They paused, the audience breathed, and then Sherlock said, in a deep rumbling English voice, “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”
And the play began.
It was, I have to admit, well done. The sets, lighting, and costumes were excellent, and the actors rose to the occasion, although I did think Renee Masters played Miss Stapleton a bit too much like a high school girl desperate for an invitation to the dance.
As Sir Henry Baskerville was exclaiming over his missing boot, I flinched as an elbow got me in my left arm. I glanced at the man beside me. He was holding his hands up in front of his face, as though he were watching the action through a camera.
Curious.
I followed the play closely, but my mind divided itself into two, and I considered Leo Blackstone. I don’t know much about theater, but I’d have thought if he was investing in this production, he’d also be concerned about the other two plays; instead, he expressed no interest in them. I’d had a glance at the program book and read the list of sponsors of the season. I hadn’t seen his name, and no one was listed as anonymous.
A burst of light and noise startled me out of contemplation. The curtain had fallen for the intermission, and people were rising from their seats.
Leo stood up, and I jumped to my feet. I bit back a grimace as my Ralph Lauren heels reminded me not to do that. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.
“Never say no to that,” he replied.
Being at the front of the theater, it took a long time for us to get to the back and the bar. The line was three deep when we arrived.
Ryan spotted me and began to come my way. I gave him a tiny shake of the head, and he turned around abruptly.
“Visiting from California, are you?” I said to my new best friend.
“Yup.”
“I’ve never been to California. I hear it’s lovely.”
“Yup.”
“Is the weather as nice as they say? Two white wines, please.” I handed over my money, and the bartender poured our drinks.
“Sometimes.” Leo couldn’t have sounded more bored with my company if he’d tried.
I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “What brings you to Cape Cod?”
“I’m interested in this play. Thanks for the drink, Ms. . . . uh . . .” He turned and walked off. Other than grab him by the arm and whirl him around, I couldn’t think of a way to get him to talk to me.
Leslie swept down on me. Her eyes glowed. “Isn’t it marvelous? They’ve done a fabulous job, don’t you agree, Gemma?”
“It’s fine.” I wanted to speak to some of the cast and crew members, but I knew they wouldn’t exactly welcome me backstage in the middle of the play. Instead, I sipped my wine. Leslie left in search of more responsive conversation.
“What are you up to?” Ryan asked me.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Who was that guy you were talking to?”
“I’m not entirely sure. But I intend to find out.”
“Gemma, I know that look. All too well.”
“What look?”
Jayne joined us before Ryan could answer. “Eddie sent me a note.” Her blue eyes sparked with the same intensity as her mother’s, and she was almost dancing on her tiptoes with excitement. “Inviting me to join him backstage after the performance for a small party. Isn’t that fun? Do you want to come?”
“Come where?” I asked.
“For a drink backstage. I’m sure Ryan’s welcome too.”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. I put my drink down and wandered off.
“Did you find that a bit strange?” I heard Jayne say to Ryan.
“I find many things Gemma does a bit strange,” he replied. “Which is why,” he might have added in a very low voice, “I love her.”
* * *
The play continued. They’d done a good job of recreating the mood of the moor with dry ice and careful lighting. As Holmes and Watson cried to each other through the mist, on one side of me, I felt Leslie shiver in delight, while on the other, Leo continued framing the stage with his hands. The tormented howl of the great spectral hound needed some work, I thought. It sounded more like Moriarty when his food bowl isn’t filled fast enough. I closed my eyes and thought back over the events of the previous weeks.
“It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when you expect me to solve it,” Sherlock said, pressing tobacco into his pipe and relaxing in his chair once again in 221B Baker Street. “The past and present are within the field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer. Come, Watson, might I trouble you to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini’s for a little dinner.”
The curtain fell, and the audience broke into thunderous applause.
“Bravo!” someone shouted from the back.
The curtain rose, and the company stood before us, bowing deeply. Grinning, the minor actors stepped forward, and then they swept back for Ralph Carlyle, Tanya Morrison, and Harry O’Leary. Eddie took Renee’s hand and led her to the front of the stage. He bowed, and she curtsied.
“You didn’t care for it,” Leo said to me.
“What? Oh, no, I thought it was an excellent production.” I remembered to start clapping. “I was thinking of something else. Would it matter to you if I didn’t like it?”
“It would. But everyone else seems to have enjoyed it. Very much, I’d say.” I glanced down the row. Rebecca Stanton was beaming.
Pat Allworth was “reluctantly” dragged out of the wings. It was the first time I’d seen her this evening. She wore a knee-length black dress under a sequined black jacket, and the shoes with metal stars on the bottom of the heels were on her feet. She bowed, and then Eddie lifted her hand and kissed it. The audience continued applauding. Many people, Leslie and Jayne among them, were on their feet.
Pat’s eyes swept the front row. They passed over me and came to rest on the man beside me. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she broke into a huge smile.
I turned to him. “Are you going to do it?”
He looked startled. “What do you know about it?”
I smiled.
“Guess it won’t be a secret for much longer. I’m convinced.” He got to his feet, and I did also.
I spoke over my shoulder to Leslie. “You and Jayne go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”
At the end of our row, Leo turned right and headed backstage. I turned left. I needed to find Ryan. Jayne and Leslie, followed by Rebecca, slipped past me and also went right.
The crowd poured into the aisle, and I made no progress. I was stuck in a traffic jam. I saw Ryan at the back of the theater. He was standing, but his mother was still seated. She waved her arms about, and he smiled down at her as he listened. I tried to catch his attention, but he didn’t look my way. I pulled out my phone, switched it on, and waited impatiently while it booted up. Then I sent a text: Urgent. I need you backstage ASAP.
Ryan reached into his pocket. We were supposed to turn our phones off during the play, but he had his on vibrate in case he got a call from work.
He read the screen and looked toward the front of the barn, searching for me. I waved my arms over my head until he caught my eye, and I jerked my thumb over my shoulder toward the stage.
Ryan leaned over and said something to his mother.
I turned and fought my way upstream, against the crowd. “Excuse me, excuse me. Forgot something. Pardon me. Hi, Mrs. Herrington. Yes, loved it. Excuse me. Sorry, was that your foot?”
At last I broke free of the elegantly dressed masses and found a small set of steps leading to a door at the side of the stage and slipped through it. I emerged into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. The curtain was down, and the cast and crew and their guests had gathered on the stage. The table on wheels that had earlier held evidence of Holmes’s science experiments had been converted into a bar cart. Champagne flutes, silver ice buckets, and foil-topped bottles. The wine, I couldn’t help but notice, was at the cheaper end of the scale, and the glasses were plastic. Tanya Morrison, still dressed in long skirt and apron as Mrs. Hudson, was pouring drinks.
Everyone was laughing and babbling in excitement. They were obviously pleased at how it had gone.
Eddie had his arm draped around Jayne’s shoulders. On the far side of the stage, next to the mantel, Renee pretended not to notice. Alone of all the company, she was not smiling.
A glass was pressed into my hand. “Congratulations,” I said to Eddie. “It seems to have been quite the success.”
He tossed his head and laughed. He was still dressed and made up as the Great Detective, but that one movement brought him crashing back to twenty-first-century Massachusetts. “It must have been quite something in the old days,” he said in his laid-back California drawl, “when everyone had to wait up all night until the morning papers brought out their reviews. Pat’s checked Twitter, and people are already raving about the play. What did you think of my accent, Gemma? I worked hard on it.”
Jayne edged slightly away. “I’m going to make sure my mom gets a drink.”
“She looks fine to me,” Eddie said, but Jayne left us.
“Your accent? Passable,” I said. “Excuse me.” Ryan hadn’t yet appeared. I sent another text: Stay in the shadows until needed. I slipped my phone into my bag without waiting for a reply. I held onto my glass but did not take a sip.
Fortunately, no one seemed in a hurry to leave. The cast and crew were delighted with their evening’s work and spent a lot of time congratulating each other. The wine might have been of lesser quality, but it was free, so they were happy. The wardrobe mistress approached Renee, now laughing with excessive enthusiasm at something Ralph had said, and pulled a needle and thread out of her shirt. She ordered Renee to stand still and then dropped to her knees and began stitching a ragged hem.
The side curtain moved and Ryan stepped onto the stage, followed by Grant, Donald, Gerald, and Andy. I hadn’t asked Ryan to bring an entourage.
Ryan stayed in the wings as I’d asked, but the other men headed toward me. “What’s up, Gemma?” Grant asked. “Donald saw Ryan heading this way, and he told me to come along.”
“I don’t want us to get scattered,” Donald said. “I thought we were all going to dinner. Are we having drinks here first?”
Andy saw Jayne standing next to her mother. A smile crossed his face, and he went to join them.
“No one invited me to this party,” Gerald said, “but I thought I’d come anyway. Someone has to remind everyone that this was Sir Nigel’s night, and he is sorely missed.”
“The drama’s not over yet.” I marched across the stage, my heels echoing off the boards. When I reached Rebecca, Pat, Leo, and the group around them, I lifted my glass in a toast. “A triumph.”
“A triumph!” voices called.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Rebecca said. “It was good, I’ll admit, but Sir Nigel would have provided the gravitas we needed.”
“I don’t think everyone agrees. You don’t, do you, sir?” I asked Leo.
“Nigel was a . . . competent actor in his day. But unfortunately, his day was long past.”
“Now, see here,” Gerald protested. As if, before receiving his inheritance, he wouldn’t have said, and probably had, the same thing.
“Drunken old letch,” Renee said. “We’re better off without him.”
“Don’t move,” the wardrobe mistress warned her, “or I’ll sew your dress to your leg.”
“With Nigel in the role, the movie wouldn’t have gone ahead, would it?” I was talking to the small circle of Pat, Rebecca, and Leo, but I projected my voice to the far reaches of the stage. If there is one thing a stage is good for, it’s acoustics.
“What movie?” Rebecca said.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Leo answered. “Who are you, and what do you know about that anyway? Has someone been talking?”
“Everyone’s been talking,” I said. “Rumor travels, and it travels fast. As for who I am, consider me an interested party. The police closed the investigation into Nigel’s death, assuming that he had taken his own life . . .”
A murmur spread across the stage. People exchanged curious glances. “The police said it was an accident,” Harry said.
“Because they weren’t positive it wasn’t suicide, although that’s what they believed, and out of respect for the man’s memory,” I said. “But I’m increasingly becoming aware that neither accident nor suicide was the case.”
“Suicide,” Harry said. “That’s news to me, but I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”
“Of course it was, Gemma,” Leslie said. “We all agreed. I told Detective Ashburton . . . I told him Nigel was upset when we talked after the tea. I left him alone at the cliff edge, drunk and sad and lost.”
“You left him there, Leslie,” I said, “but he wasn’t alone for long.” I looked around the space making sure I had everyone’s attention.
I did. “Mr. Blackstone here wants to make a movie out of this production.”
Notably Pat, Renee, and Eddie didn’t look at all surprised. Ralph Carlyle, who’d played Dr. Watson, clapped his hands; the stage crew shrugged; the wardrobe mistress struggled to her feet with a grunt; and Tanya Morrison said, “Count me out. My film days are long over.” Rebecca said, “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Nothing, as it happens. Except that Leo and his backers aren’t about to pour money into a production featuring a washed-up old actor, no matter what his past fame. Therefore, I have to ask who knew about the movie deal and who had the most to benefit from it.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting,” Eddie said, “that I killed Nigel to get his role. I don’t know anything about this movie you’re talking about. No one takes a second-rate summer stock play, no matter how good, and turns it into a movie. And as much as we might all want to pretend it isn’t, this festival is second-rate.”
Rebecca glared at him, but she said nothing.
“There’s not much in the world of popular entertainment hotter these days than Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Movies, TV. Books and more books, as no one knows better than I. Even coloring books, tea sets, and embroidery thimbles.”
“What of it?” Eddie said. “It’s all been done before.”
“So it has. Therefore, a fresh interpretation is needed. Tell us about your vision, Leo.”
“Might as well,” he said. “I was going to make the announcement tonight anyway. I and my partners intend to bring a stage version of The Hound of the Baskervilles to the big screen. Not any version, but this version. Staged as it is, in front of an audience, only slightly adapted for the camera.”
Renee squealed. Eddie said, “That’s fabulous.”
“As Ms. . . . uh . . .”
“Doyle,” I said.
“As Ms. Doyle pointed out,” Leo said, “people can’t get enough of Sherlock. There’s no point in trying to make another modernized version, not to compete with the likes of Robert Downey Jr. or Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“I prefer Elementary, myself,” the wardrobe mistress said. “I suppose you’ll be needing adjustments to the costumes for close-ups. I hope you’re planning to compensate me for my extra work.”
“That discussion can be held for another time,” Leo said. “The Hound is probably the best known Holmes story—”
“Best known, arguably, but definitely not the best,” Donald said. “Nothing can compare with the drama of the climactic scene of The Speckled Band when Holmes—”
“Thank you, Donald,” I said. “Another discussion for another time. Please continue, Leo.”
“Therefore, my partners and I thought we’d simply return to the source. A fully authentic rendition of the original story, in the intimate and unusual setting of live theater. When I heard that Pat Allworth was putting on such a production, I told her what we were considering. All in confidence, of course.” He turned to Pat. “I assume you broke that confidence and spoke to Ms. . . . uh . . .”
“Doyle,” I said. “Pat never said a word to me.”
“How did you find out then?”
“As I heard Sherlock Holmes himself say this very evening, ‘The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.’ I observed.” I looked around the room. Everyone was staring at me. From the shadows, Ryan made a circle in the air with his right hand in a hurry-it-up gesture. “Which brings us to the main point. Nigel Bellingham would not have suited this movie, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Totally,” Leo said.
“Therefore, he had to be gotten rid of. One way or another.”
Everyone began talking at once.
Gerald’s voice rose above the clamor. “Are you saying, Gemma, that someone killed . . . murdered . . . Sir Nigel?”
“I am.”
More clamor.
“That’s preposterous,” Pat said.
“Who do you think you are to make an accusation like that?” Rebecca said. “The police closed the case. It was an accident. A tragic accident.”
“I don’t want to hear this.” Leo took off his cap and rubbed at the thinning hair on the top of his head. “I don’t need these sort of rumors before we’ve even signed the contracts.”
Renee headed for the bar cart.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “hear it you will. Rebecca, it was important to you that Nigel be in the play, wasn’t it?”
“As I keep telling everyone, yes, it was. I saw him perform in The Hound ten or fifteen years ago in London, and he was simply amazing. He was a great actor. A legend. I’d met him many years ago, when I was working in New York and took the liberty of writing to him and asking if he’d grace our little festival. He would have made us the talk of Massachusetts, if not the entire east coast.”
“Ten or fifteen years ago, he was a lot younger in more than years. You must have been disappointed when you saw what he’d become.”
Rebecca’s back stiffened. “I’ll admit he hadn’t aged well. But I instructed him to buckle up and rise to the challenge.”
“I’m afraid you can’t simply instruct an alcoholic not to be so. I assume you were paying him out of your own pocket.”
She glanced around the stage. “What of it?”
“It’s your money to spend, but others in the company didn’t agree with your casting decisions. Pat hired Eddie to play Sherlock, not Nigel.”
“Eddie was the understudy,” Rebecca said. “Pat knew I intended Nigel to have the role. I’ll admit that she objected at first, but she came around. For the good of the festival.”
“For the good of your image, Rebecca, but that’s beside the point. Look at Ralph there,” I pointed. The actor glanced around himself in confusion. “He’s far too young to be Watson to Nigel’s Sherlock. No, Pat might have made agreeable noises, but she never intended for Nigel to take the part.”
“The festival is important to me, I have to admit,” Rebecca said. “There’s so much competition with so many other theater companies, it’s hard to stand out. I needed something—someone—to set us apart from all the rest. To my delight, Sir Nigel tentatively accepted my offer to appear in The Hound, pending his recovery from an illness.”
“From a stint in rehab, more like it,” Harry said.
She stared him down. “I didn’t know that, now did I?”
Harry shrugged.
“Perhaps not,” I said, “but you quickly realized he wouldn’t do your production any good. As you pointed out, competition is tough. A couple of bad reviews—even worse, mocking reviews—would be a disaster.”
Rebecca’s eyes blazed enough fire to match the light off her diamonds. “I’ll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I met Nigel. But I can survive. My livelihood doesn’t depend on this theater.”
“No, but your reputation, as you see it, does.”
She sputtered, but I turned my attention to Pat. “You weren’t happy with him in the role right from the beginning.”
“That’s also not exactly a secret. I knew no one would cast him anymore and why. He’d be a disaster, as you said, movie or stage. Yes, I wanted Eddie all along, but Rebecca insisted. She’s the boss, after all, the one with the deep pockets.”
Eddie grinned and lifted his glass in a salute.
I studied the stage. Some of the actors looked delighted at the news that they were about to become film stars. A few didn’t appear to much care. Most of the crew were grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of union-scale wages.
“You,” I said to Eddie, “knew about this proposed movie deal, didn’t you?”
“Me?” His big smile faded. “I had no idea until now.”
“That’s not what you told my friend Jayne. You said this was your chance at the big time.”
“I was trying to impress her.” He glanced around the stage. “Don’t tell me none of you have ever tried to make things sound more important than they are to impress a date?”
“Never!” Andy said, sneaking a sideways peek at Jayne.
“Impress is one thing,” I said, “but no one would logically conclude that a role in a play in a barn, as successful as it might be, would lead to great things. Yes, you knew. You also would have known that understudies don’t get a chance at the brass ring, as long as they’re trapped in the role of understudy.”
“I . . .”
“Renee, you knew, didn’t you?”
The actress tossed back her glass of wine. “So what if I did? I wasn’t ever going to get the starring role, now was I?”
“No, but you wouldn’t have a movie role at all if there was no movie because Leo wouldn’t do it with Nigel in the role of Sherlock.”
“Leo has Hollywood written all over him,” Harry said. “I had an inkling something was up. I didn’t expect it would have anything to do with me. I figured he was here looking to cast someone in a movie.”
“Any idea who that someone might be?” I asked.
“Eddie, of course.”
“Hey!” Eddie said. “Don’t start accusing me.”
“He could have been interested in me, you know,” Renee said. “I’m not chopped liver here.”
“You can count me out,” Tanya said. “I’m finished with the movies, and I don’t want any part of it. I agreed to this to give me something to do. You’ll have to cast someone else in my roles.”
“As far as I’ve determined,” I said, “prior to this evening, three people knew for sure why Leo was here, apart from Leo himself. Eddie, Renee, and Pat. But . . . only one of them knew about it on the day of the tea. The day Sir Nigel died.”
“Hey!” Eddie said.
“You’re off your rocker, lady,” Renee said.
“Do tell,” Harry said.
“I’ve had enough of this,” Pat said. “In case you’ve all forgotten, we have a performance to put on tomorrow. Someone close those bottles and get rid of the glasses. This party is over.”
“Pat told Renee when she was in the hospital after her . . . food poisoning incident. Presumably as way of encouraging her to get over her blues. Renee then told Eddie, in what was probably an attempt to distract him from his amorous pursuit of Jayne Wilson. Only after Renee’s bout of food poisoning did Eddie start talking about this play being his big chance.”
“As if I care what he gets up to.” Renee couldn’t help glaring in the direction of my friend.
“Pat spent a lot of time at the tea with Leo,” I said. “Fussing over him, even.”
“I was attempting to be a good hostess,” the director replied. A light layer of sweat was beginning to appear on her face. She shifted uncomfortably on her heels, and her eyes darted nervously around the stage, doing everything they could to avoid mine.
“Most commendable, I’m sure. At what point, Leo, did you tell Pat you were not going forward with the deal?”
“When the drunken fool couldn’t even finish one line. I had my doubts about him anyway. I wanted a fresh face.” A glance at Eddie. “My backers want Holmes to be a young athletic man, not an old codger past his time. I came here intending to suggest that Nigel be given a lesser role. Barrymore, perhaps.”
“He never would have agreed,” Gerald protested. “He would have regarded that as an enormous insult.”
“So he would,” I said. “I think we can agree with Gerald that Sir Nigel would have refused.”
“Pat told me Rebecca was adamant that Nigel have the role,” Leo said. “She suggested we put on a special performance for the filming with Eddie playing Holmes. Without seeing Nigel’s contract, I couldn’t agree to that. My backers were having cold feet as it was. I told Pat I was going to have to withdraw the offer.”
He paused. No one said a word. Pat’s face had gone completely white.
I turned to the director. “Rebecca realized Nigel wasn’t going to work out. If you’d waited a little longer, she would have agreed to replace him.”
Pat wiped her hands on the side of her dress and glanced around the room. We were a strange assortment: actors in nineteenth-century costumes, the crew in jeans and T-shirts, Rebecca in satin and diamonds, Jayne and her mother and I in our best clothes, the men with their suits and ties. But we all had one thing in common: everyone watched Pat Allworth.
“All I’ve worked for,” Pat said at last, “all I’ve ever wanted was to direct a film that played to a larger audience than a backwater film festival. And it was going to be ruined by some aging actor who should have died years ago, and no doubt would soon enough.”
“So you did something about that,” I said.
The look she gave me was one of pure hatred. Then she faced the watching crowd. “Things may have worked out to my satisfaction, but I guess I was just lucky. Let’s get out of here. We have a performance to put on tomorrow, people.”
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d lost. I’d been so sure of myself, so confident in my reasoning, I’d played all my cards, expecting Pat to simply confess. As if life was a classic English crime novel and I was Sherlock Holmes or Lord Peter Wimsey.
Pat Allworth smirked at me.
Ryan Ashburton stepped out of the shadows. “I’ve been noticing your shoes, Ms. Allworth.”
What the heck?
All the blood drained from Pat’s face. I looked at Ryan, his face set into determined lines. I looked at Pat’s feet. At the black mesh shoes with gold stars fastened to the stiletto points.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, Ms. Allworth,” Ryan said. “I’ve been wondering what created that unusual star pattern I saw at the crime scene.”