I reached for my phone and punched buttons.

  “I hope you’re calling to confess,” Louise Estrada said.

  “Sadly for you, no. I have a question. If you don’t mind.”

  She sighed. “Go ahead.”

  “Robbie’s phone. Do you have it?”

  “No. We can’t locate it. Not on him, not in his car, and not in his apartment. We have searched. We’ve called, and it appears to be turned off, perhaps destroyed.”

  “I consider that to be significant, don’t you?”

  “I do. The killer didn’t take the time to pick up the knife, but they did grab the phone.”

  “Which means the killer believes something incriminating is on it.”

  “Or they intend to sell it. We don’t believe this is a robbery gone wrong, but we have not dismissed the idea.”

  “I suppose that could be the case.”

  “You once told me the theory of Occam’s Razor. Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “The simplest solution is usually the most likely.”

  “Is anything significant about the knife?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but as long as you’re on the phone, no. It did not match the other kitchen utensils found at the scene, and there weren’t many. A cooking knife, not particularly expensive, but not dirt cheap either. A type sold in most housewares and hardware stores as well as the online outlets. Not that we had much doubt, but it has been confirmed Ellis was killed by the knife found at the scene. One solid strike to the center of the chest.”

  I’m not one to refuse to admit when I’ve been wrong. I initially believed Tina had not been murdered, despite what the police thought, but if Robbie died because he’d been blackmailing Tina’s killer, then Tina had been murdered.

  Which line of thought took me absolutely nowhere new.

  The person I confronted at Robbie’s apartment last night had been fit enough to pull me off the wall, vault over it, and run. Not an Olympic-class feat of athletic endeavor, but it did exclude a substantial number of people who’d been at Jayne’s party.

  But this still didn’t mean Tina’s killer was the same person who killed Robbie. The first killer might have found a second person to do it, either paid or otherwise.

  Unlikely to be paid, I thought. It had not been a professional hit man. Not if they’d parked face-first on their way to a contract killing.

  Questions. Questions. In searching for answers, I’d found nothing but more questions.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I rolled my shoulders. I glanced out the window, and to my considerable surprise, I saw that the midwinter daylight had come to an end.

  I checked the time. Ten to six. I’d been here for hours. My lovely curry sat on my desk, cold and congealed and forgotten.

  I ran down the stairs. To my surprise, Ashleigh was behind the counter, ringing up a copy of Sherlock Holmes and the Telegram from Hell by Nicholas Meyer for Mrs. Ramsbatten.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Where’s Gale?”

  “She was scheduled to leave at four. Doctor’s appointment. She phoned me, said you were so wrapped up in whatever you were doing, you didn’t hear her calling, and she was afraid to disturb you.” She handed a bag to her customer. “Have a nice evening, Mrs. R.”

  “You too, dear.” Mrs. Ramsbatten turned to me. “You need to give this young lady a raise, Gemma. She’s worth her weight in gold, this one. I can’t believe I forgot my sister’s birthday is next week. If I don’t get this in the mail first thing tomorrow, it will arrive late and I’ll never hear the end of it. I’d love to stop and chat, but I must be off. I’m having dinner at the Harbor Inn with that lovely woman I met at Jayne’s party. Audrey. I’m looking forward to hearing her stories of inside Hollywood. Nothing like a bit of gossip to liven up an old lady’s evening.”

  She left. Ashleigh grinned at me.

  “Thank you for coming in,” I said. “I appreciate it. Mrs. Ramsbatten has a point. Tomorrow we’ll have your regular quarterly performance meeting.”

  “We have a regular quarterly performance meeting?”

  “We do starting tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Even in January, the Emporium stays open until nine on a Friday night. Off-season, we rarely get busy, so I thanked Ashleigh for coming in on the spur of the moment and told her she could leave. “Any plans for tonight?” I asked her.

  “I’m meeting a couple of friends for a drink in town, maybe go for dinner after. Bunny’s seeing George again.” She pulled a face.

  “They must have had a good date the other night then.”

  “He had to cancel, supposedly some press of business, but he rescheduled so she was okay with that. She’s all bubbly and giggly about it. Nothing serious, she says, but he’s good company. She loved his restaurant. The staff fussed over them, and he bought a really expensive bottle of wine and all that stuff. He even sent flowers this morning. A big bouquet of red roses, of all the stereotypical rubbish.” The face pulled down even more.

  “Some gestures are stereotypical because they have a history of working. Why are you upset about this? Doesn’t Bunny deserve to enjoy herself?”

  Ashleigh shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Has he said anything to her about investing in his restaurants or using her contacts, assuming she has any left, to promote his businesses?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Discreetly?”

  Ashleigh winced. “No. Not that she’s told me.”

  “I’m your employer, not your mother or your spiritual advisor, Ashleigh, but I suggest you let it go until and if he does express any ulterior motives.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Gemma.”

  “As I usually am.”

  She cracked a grin. “Not always. Maybe I’m just … I’ve found my mom after so long. I don’t want to lose her again.”

  “Judging by what I’ve observed of your and Bunny’s relationship, you are not going to lose each other again. She’s thrilled you’re in her life. Nothing’s going to change that. But at the same time, time is not going to stop. For either of you. Life continues.”

  “Okay, Gemma. You win. For now.” She touched her index fingers to her cheeks and pulled her mouth up into a hideous grin. “See, me being happy for her.”

  “I see.”

  Ashleigh left, and I passed the time by tidying the shelves. Keith, with the assistance of Donald, had made a substantial dent in my stock. A few people walked by, but no one stopped or even slowed down to admire the display in the windows. Which reminded me I’d forgotten to take down the advertising for the visit of the bestselling writer. I plucked the glass stand with her picture off the main display table and stuffed it under the counter.

  Chimes tinkled and Madison came in. She carried a bag from a woman’s wear shop further up Baker Street. “This town,” she proclaimed, “is a massive bore.”

  As if to prove her right, Moriarty didn’t bother to rouse himself from his bed under the center table to greet her.

  “Nice to see you, Madison,” I said cheerily. “Are you looking for a good book to pass the long, lonely hours? If so, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “I was doing some shopping—” she held up the bag in evidence—“and saw this store. Audrey said you own it.” She glanced around. “Never been all that crazy about Sherlock Holmes myself. Although Cumberbatch is cute. Is that—”

  A life-sized cardboard cutout of Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes and Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson occupies a corner of the shop next to the games, puzzles, socks, scarves, and other assorted merchandise (just about anything and everything) to do with the Great Detective. Madison stepped forward and peered at the image. She gasped. “It’s signed. Goodness, where did you get this?”

  “Benedict dropped in one day, just a casual hi, and he kindly signed it for me.” I put on my very poshest English accent, and I made it sound as though the actor and I are fast friends. In truth, it took some string-pulling and calling up of old acquaintances on the part of Great-Uncle Arthur to arrange the visit as a way of placating me for the near-disasters that struck the Emporium on his watch.

  “You know him? Cumberbatch? Wow, that’s so cool.”

  “If you’re a fan, we have some books on the making of the Sherlock TV show.”

  “Great!”

  I led the way to the movie and TV tie-in section and produced a hardcover copy of The Sherlock Files: The Official Companion to the Hit Television Series. Madison grabbed it and eagerly flipped through the pages. “Could you have him sign this for me?”

  I put on my sorry-to-disappoint-you face. “I can’t promise. I don’t know when we’ll next have the opportunity to get together.” As if.

  “Yeah, I guess. Him being so busy and all.”

  Obviously, I had risen considerably in Madison’s estimation, even if it was only because of one movie star. Maybe I’d get her started on a lifelong love of Sherlock.

  Unlikely.

  “This isn’t a boring town,” I said as I rang up the purchase. “Not at all. It’s busy in the summer, always plenty happening. Concerts, boat races, food festivals, art and craft shows, whale-watching. Life on the water or down at the beach. Something for almost anyone. It gets to be too much sometimes. A few months of downtime does us all some good. You should come back during the summer.”

  “If you say so. But for now, booooring! I’m here in a tourist town in the off-season with my grandmother’s best friend for the wedding of two people I’d never even heard of before. It’s cold, everything’s closed, no swimming, no sailing.” She pretend- shuddered.

  I was finished with Madison. I’d tried to make nice, but she couldn’t be bothered to hide her distain.

  “What’s a good place for dinner?” she asked. “Someplace with a well-stocked bar where a woman on her own isn’t looked upon as a freak. And please, don’t say the Blue Water Café. Everyone I ask suggests I go there, but when I tried to make a reservation, it says they’re closed. Big surprise—not. Not after what happened there the other night.”

  “What about the Harbor Inn where you’re staying?”

  “Pleeeze. Audrey and some lady even older than her who she met at the party are having dinner there tonight. If I go in, she’ll call me over, insist I join them, and I’ll be stuck listening to them talk about the best arthritis medicine and the latest in hip replacement procedures. Not to mention cataract surgery.” This time her shiver was real.

  Mrs. Ramsbatten had lived a fascinating life, a true pioneer in the most important technological development in her lifetime. Audrey had listened in on the gossip of the rich and famous. I doubted they’d spend the night talking about their medication routines. I handed Madison the bag containing her book and was about to send her on her way when one word of my thought process lit itself up in lights.

  Gossip.

  Two more words: Rich. Famous.

  Had Audrey herself not been above a touch of blackmail?

  “I hope the death at Jayne’s party didn’t upset Audrey too much.”

  Madison laughed. “Anything but. She’s spent almost all the time since in her room writing up a storm. She brought her iPad with her on this trip, but the next morning, she woke me up real early, like, to order me to go out and buy her an extendable keyboard. It’s too hard for her, she said, to write more than a sentence or two poking on the iPad screen itself.”

  At the party, after the police and ambulance had been called, Audrey was writing so intently in her notebook, she barely paid any attention to the activity happening around her. “Do you know what she’s working on?”

  “The book she’s been talking about for years. Talking is all she’s ever done, according to my mom anyway. Until now. All of a sudden, right there in that restaurant, Audrey began scribbling away. It’d be okay, I guess, if she was a mystery writer and suddenly had an inspiration ’cause of what happened to that girl. But her book, a memoir about a lifetime listening to gossip? Weird.”

  “McGillivray’s Pub’s a nice place. Good food, friendly atmosphere. They often have live music on a Friday night. Even in winter.” I gave her directions and wished her a good evening.

  I followed Madison to the door and put up the “Back in 10 minutes” sign.

  I’d be a lot longer than ten minutes, but I didn’t expect many more customers tonight anyway.

  “Guard the shop,” I told Moriarty. He yawned in response.

  * * *

  I drove to the Harbor Inn. I decided not to pretend to be here for dinner and to “accidentally” run into Mrs. Ramsbatten and Audrey. Sometimes the best thing to do is simply say what one wants to say.

  I spotted my quarry the moment I walked into the restaurant. The place wasn’t busy, and they’d been given a table for four in front of the fireplace. Fake logs burned cheerfully. A bottle of wine rested in a cooler next to them, and they’d been served their appetizers. Caesar salad for Mrs. Ramsbatten and tiny crab cakes with spicy dip for Audrey. Seeing those crab cakes reminded me I hadn’t had dinner. I hadn’t even had lunch as I never did get back to Andy’s curry.

  “Hi,” I said.

  They both turned to me and smiled.

  “Gemma, dear,” Mrs. Ramsbatten said. “How nice to see you. You know Audrey, of course, Andy’s aunt.”

  “Cousin, actually,” Audrey said, “but a relation nonetheless.”

  “Would you like to—” Mrs. Ramsbatten began.

  “Thanks.” I sat.

  Audrey blinked, but good manners won out and she said, “Would you like a glass of wine? This is an excellent California chardonnay. One of my favorites, so I was delighted to see it on the menu here.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll get straight to the point. I hear you’re writing a book about your days in Hollywood.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she studied my face. Mrs. Ramsbatten looked at each of us in turn, curious as to what I was getting at.

  “I am,” Audrey said. “It’s been on my mind for a long time, and this little sojourn gave me the time and space to get my ideas down.”

  “How interesting it will be,” Mrs. Ramsbatten said. “Do you have a publisher yet?”

  “Not yet, but I have an agent. She’s been after me for years to get the book finished. She’s thrilled I’m working on it again. I never dared tell her I hadn’t even started.”

  “Something happened Tuesday night to inspire you,” I said. “Not just inspired enough to start thinking but to start writing. Right there in a public place while the medics tended to a drowning victim and the cops asked questions.”

  Audrey lifted her glass of wine. She took a sip and studied me through lashes thick with mascara. Her makeup was heavy but expertly applied. Her gray hair, liberally highlighted with lighter streaks, was tied into a chignon. The glistening red polish on her left thumb was badly chipped. She had been busy, I thought: a woman like Audrey wouldn’t normally allow that to remain unattended to. “You own a bookstore. When my book comes out, would you like me to do a signing?”

  “Great idea. Your book won’t fall within the mandate of my shop, but I love to make exceptions for local authors, and as you’re related to Andy, we’ll consider you to be local. We can discuss the details closer to the time. At the moment, I’m asking what happened regarding the death of Tina Armstrong that got you so inspired.”

  Audrey twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers and turned to Mrs. Ramsbatten. “Is this young lady always this impertinent?”

  As Audrey and I talked, Mrs. Ramsbatten had sipped her wine, nibbled on her salad, and listened to every word. She put on her best Bronx accent. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, doll.”

  “I see.” Audrey took a long drink and then put her glass down. “I’d never met Tina Armstrong before Tuesday, but I knew of her. As I believe I said the other night, I am largely retired, more because the world of gossip has moved on and left me behind than because I wanted to. Never mind that now. I maintain my circle of contacts and keep my ear to the ground. Tina was a minor actress trying to get herself known, as so many of them were and still are. For her, time was quickly passing. She had to have known if she was going to make it, it had to be soon. She was talented and attractive in that all-American girl-next-door way, but no more talented and no more attractive than hundreds, thousands, of girls who wash up on the shores of Hollywood with their dreams and ambitions. What she did have, which many of them do not, was a way of getting to know people. The people who matter.” She smiled. “It’s unfortunate I didn’t meet her sooner. Reminds me of myself in many ways. Talent and ambition help, but when it comes down to it, Hollywood and Broadway are all about who you know. Tina got herself invited to some of the best parties, and there she met people.”

  “People like Julien Best. Way out of her league, professionally speaking.”

  “And so you get straight to the point.”

  “She has a way of doing that.” Mrs. Ramsbatten’s eyes danced.

  “I have what used to be known in the newspaper business as a scoop,” Audrey said. “I am not about to let my scoop slip, not in front of people I barely know, and in a public place. Let us simply say the true details of the accident involving Julien Best and Tina Armstrong are not entirely how they were presented to the public.”

  “Presented to the public by the police? I’ve read the reports.”

  “You are thorough. Even the police can sometimes be circumspect. And if not circumspect, influenced.”

  “If you knew something, shall we say, gossip-worthy, why didn’t you write about it at the time?”

  “I also can be influenced.”

  “You mean blackmailed.”

  The waiter popped up out of nowhere and lifted the bottle out of the cooler. Audrey nodded to him; he added a few drops to her glass and the rest to Mrs. Ramsbatten’s. “Another, I think. Thank you,” Audrey said.

  “Madam?” he said to me.