“Why is it up to you, Gemma, to conclude this case or any other? I know you say you’re curious and that’s fine and well, but can’t you let the police handle it?”

  “A good point. Once I have answers to my questions, I’ll hand everything over to the police and walk away. Here we are.” I pulled into the lane leading to the Harbor Inn.

  “Why are we here?” Jayne asked.

  “Andy’s cousin Audrey has been dancing around the reasons for her interest in Tina’s death. Something happened the other night that caused Audrey to suddenly start—or resume—writing a book. Not to just get an idea for a book, but to pick up pen and paper even as the police were dusting for fingerprints and interviewing witnesses. Madison says she’s so fully into it, she sent Madison to purchase the additional computer equipment she needs. I’ve allowed Audrey to brush me off more than once, believing anything to do with a Hollywood gossip book is of no relevance to events in West London. You reminded me tonight that everything to do with Tina’s death is possibly relevant.”

  “I did? Glad to hear it.”

  “ ‘The little things are infinitely the most important’ or so said Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn’t say always, but such can be the case.”

  “How do you know Audrey’s in?”

  “I don’t. Only one way to find out.” I opened my door and swung my legs out. “Come along, Jayne, don’t dawdle.”

  This time, luck was not on my side. But it didn’t much matter in the grand scheme of things because we found Madison sitting alone in the circle of chairs in front of the fireplace in the bar, a dirty martini and a book in front of her. The Sherlock Files. I was pleased to see she was reading the book she’d bought earlier in my own shop.

  I led the way across the room and stopped in front of her. “Hi,” I said cheerfully.

  She started and looked up. “You again.”

  Not a terribly welcoming greeting, but I took it as an invitation and sat down. “Me again. And Jayne.”

  “Hi.” Jayne perched uncomfortably on the edge of a chair. It was warm in the full blaze of the fireplace. Jayne unbuttoned her coat, unwrapped her scarf, and stuffed her mittens into her pockets.

  “Will Audrey be joining you?” I asked Madison.

  Madison glanced between me and Jayne, then she sighed and put down her book. She picked up her martini. Judging by the scent of tobacco clinging to her, she’d recently been on a cigarette break. “Audrey’s gone to dinner with a bunch of the relatives. I was invited but—” She looked at Jayne. “Sorry, your fiancé’s family’s nice enough and all, but I’ve had enough of hanging around with the plus-sixty set.”

  “Understandable. Are you enjoying that book?”

  “I am. The one nice thing about this incredibly boring vacation is I’m getting lots of reading done. I used to read more but … you know, things happen. Always something else that needs doing.”

  “I know,” Jayne said. “I’ve bought so many books to take on my honeymoon, I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit them all into my suitcase. But I intend to give it a good try.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Not as though you have anything better to do on honeymoon at a gorgeous Caribbean resort.”

  Only when Jayne and Madison burst out laughing, did I realize what I’d said. I felt my cheeks burning, and I knew I was blushing. Goodness, that would never do.

  Time to get the conversation back on track. “What do you know about this book Audrey’s supposedly writing?”

  “Nothing ‘supposedly’ about it. She is writing it. She’s been at it for hours every day. She barely stops for meals and has lunch delivered by room service.” Madison leaned over and touched her book. “Like I said, most boring vacation ever.”

  “Does she talk to you about it? Her writing, I mean.”

  “Yes. She used to talk over her columns with my grandma back in the day. Grandma helped her write some of her pieces, and Audrey freely admits it. My grandma’s not entirely with it these days; she comes and goes. Audrey called her last week, and Grandma didn’t know what she was talking about. She kept telling Audrey she didn’t like the cabin they’ve given her on this cruise.”

  “Sad,” Jayne said.

  “So Audrey turned to me. She likes to talk things over as she’s typing. More to herself than to a listener, but I provide the occasional feedback about words or phrasing. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m interested in Tina Armstrong. What about Tina’s death got Audrey writing so enthusiastically?”

  “She told you that. The tragedy of a young woman’s death makes the book marketable.”

  “There must be more to the story. Tina might have had promise in Hollywood, but the promise never came to anything. Her death wouldn’t make the book a success. Barely even worth writing about. Audrey implied that the official account of Tina’s accident wasn’t the real one. Do you know the real story?”

  Madison picked up her martini glass and leaned back against the couch, a soft smile playing across her face.

  I saw the waiter approaching and waved him away. I crossed my ankles, laid my hands in my lap, and waited. Jayne shifted in her chair but said nothing.

  “Yeah,” Madison said at last. “She has a bombshell alright. And the sudden death of the failed actress who supposedly almost killed Julien Best has opened the door to it.”

  “I have no interest whatsoever in the lives of movie stars and failed wannabes. If Audrey’s bombshell directly or indirectly led to Tina’s death, I need to know about it.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t see how it could have anything to do with what happened the night of the party. Not directly. None of the other people involved were at the restaurant. Just Tina. Alone and forgotten. But the minute Audrey heard Tina was dead, she decided the time was right to tell the story … if she was ever going to. You tell me Audrey’s been dithering about this book for years. She can’t just rehash all the old gossip from the old days; she needs something big, something shocking. Something that will get her on the TV shows and her book reviewed in the major papers.”

  “Let Audrey give it a try,” Madison said. “She’s totally committed to the project now. She thinks the consequences will be worth it if this book is as big as she hopes.”

  “Because Tina Armstrong didn’t cause the accident Julien Best was in, did she? He was the one driving.”

  Madison’s eyes flickered. “How do you know that?”

  “You said supposedly Tina almost killed him, meaning she did not, but that’s the story that was put out at the time. Likely to preserve his reputation. That’s the only thing making it newsworthy a couple of years after the fact. Not only was he the one driving, but they’d been at a party. He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

  “Absolutely and totally plastered. It’s no secret he’s a heavy drinker, but as long as he shows up on set when he’s required to and does his best to try to act, no one much cares.”

  “Unless he almost kills someone,” Jayne said.

  “Unless that. It’s a shame really. He’s a handsome man, but I can’t see him aging attractively like Pitt or Clooney. Drink has a way of ravaging the looks, doesn’t it? One of the cooks at Andy’s restaurant looks a bit like Julien. I noticed that, even before Tina died. Do you believe in premonitions?”

  “No. Julien paid off any witnesses, maybe even the police officer who was first on the scene,” I said. “Did he pay off Audrey?”

  “Not Julien, but his wife, Sandra McCaskill. She took care of the finer details. Julien is not only a drunk, he’s stupid. He would never have had the sense to do what needed to be done. What Sandra thought needed to be done. She didn’t pay off Audrey, not in money, but she made subtle enough threats. Audrey got the story from a valet at the restaurant. Julien Best was drunk when he left that night. Tina was supposed to drive him home, but as the valet went to hand her the keys, Julien snatched them, jumped in the car, and threw it into gear. Tina leapt in after him. He took out several plant pots and a section of the bushes on his way out of the parking lot. The valet was one of Audrey’s best sources, and he called her right there and then. She knew about it before anyone got word of the crash. Audrey doesn’t know if Tina even knew she wasn’t the one driving. Short-term memories are often lost in that sort of trauma, and she was in the hospital for months.”

  “How would Sandra get away with pinning the accident on someone else?” Jayne asked.

  “Hollywood, honey. Julien Best is famous. His wife is mega-rich. It was a single car accident—he drove into a tree and they flipped. Neither of them had their seat belts on. We don’t know for sure why not, but the valet said Tina was arguing with Julien as they drove away, so she might not have remembered to put it on. As for Julien, he was too drunk to care. He was only slightly banged up in the crash, and he had the sense to call Sandra immediately. Audrey knows that for sure because a housekeeper at their house was an informant of Audrey’s at the time.”

  “Really?” Jayne said.

  “Some of the rich and famous don’t know the importance of keeping their staff happy. High turnover, high dissatisfaction, no guilt about earning a few extra bucks dropping bits of gossip. The housekeeper couldn’t say exactly what was said between Sandra and Julien, but Sandra flew into a rage. She screamed at Julien, telling him to stay put and say nothing to anyone. She then called her driver. The housekeeper heard no more, but the driver’s the only member of the staff who’s been with Sandra for years, even before she married Julien, and he’s known to be a fixer.”

  “I’d love to have a fixer,” Jayne said. “Whatever that is.”

  “So Audrey had the story. But when she tried to follow up, the valet suddenly wasn’t sure Julien was driving; maybe it was Tina after all. The housekeeper quit abruptly and left town without a trace. Audrey was told she’d be sued for everything she had if she kept digging.”

  “I don’t see how Tina’s death would change what happened,” Jayne asked. “Unless you think Julien Best came after her and killed her.”

  “If Julien Best came to West London, everyone would know about it,” I said. “If he or his wife hired someone to kill Tina, how would that person have secured admittance to a private party?”

  “You don’t think … Robbie?” Jayne said.

  “No, I do not. Would you trust Robbie with a contract killing? I wouldn’t have hired him to take out my trash.” I thought of Keith, with his mob connections. Keith might have known where to find a hit man, but why would he care? “Julien had no reason to get rid of Tina, and certainly not more than a year later. She was seriously injured. Even if she did eventually remember the events leading up to the crash and told someone, it would be easy enough to say she’s confused and remembering wrong after all this time.”

  “Julien Best is still a big star,” Madison said. “But his wife is in serious financial trouble, and that’s no secret. She invested in a couple of big-budget movies that either flopped or went straight to the streaming services. Rumor has it the couple are on the verge of splitting. He’s been seen a great deal in the company of his most recent costar. Audrey thinks Sandra will have more on her mind these days than trying to protect Julien from scandal and possible charges. If he’s about to leave her for another woman, she might not even want to protect him. To be on the safe side, Audrey will finger the driver but not say Sandra instructed him as to what to do. That includes, not un-incidentally, bribing a police officer to fabricate evidence and lie on his report. The cop, the one who was first on the accident scene, took early retirement about six months after. Bought himself a nice ranch in Montana.”

  “As retired L.A. cops can afford to do,” I said.

  “I told you Audrey has contacts.” Madison grinned. “If this book is the hit she hopes, she’s talking about her and me working together. She still has plenty of friends and some of her old network, while I have the social media savvy to get her heard again.”

  “Tina’s death worked out well for both of you, then,” I said.

  Madison’s smile was wicked. “I see where your mind is going, but don’t look at me. I didn’t know any of this until Audrey started writing about it. And that was after Tina’s death. As for Audrey, she was popping out to the deck for a smoke all night long, but you can’t possibly imagine her lifting up a far younger woman and tossing her over the railing, can you?”

  “The gate was unlocked. Steps lead down to the dock below and the water below that.”

  Madison shook her head. “Not Audrey’s style. I’m not saying the idea wouldn’t have crossed her mind, but she would have tried to talk to Tina first. Find out if she remembered anything Audrey could use. If not,” the grin widened, “then she’d consider bumping her off.”

  I stood up. Jayne scrambled to follow. “You’ve been surprisingly candid.”

  Madison toasted me with her empty martini glass. “When I get my name established as the online source for celebrity gossip, I could use someone like you. You know what questions to ask and you’re able to find things out. The other night, the cops never even asked if Audrey and I had a previous connection to Tina.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But I’m not looking for a job.”

  As Jayne and I left the bar, she said, “Do you believe her?”

  “About killing Tina? I believe Madison didn’t do it, yes. Tina meant nothing to her until Audrey told her the story and what she could do with it. As for Audrey? Hard to see. It’s possible she’d somehow been able to get Tina to stand at the top of the stairs and pushed her down, but that method of killing was hardly guaranteed to succeed. And that’s what’s been bothering me about this all along. A big risk. Not to mention killing Robbie. If the two cases are connected—and I refuse to believe they are not—I’m absolutely positive I did not chase Audrey Whitehall from Robbie’s apartment.”

  “You could have chased Madison, though?”

  “The possibility exists, yes. But my take on Audrey and Madison is they are not close enough to plan and execute a killing together. For Madison, this idea she has of becoming a gossip queen is still nothing but a daydream, a lark.”

  “What’s next, then?”

  “I have one thin line of inquiry remaining. If that leads nowhere, I’ll let it go.”

  “Are you going to tell me what that thin line of inquiry is?”

  “You know my methods, Jayne. I need to mull over my approach before confiding in anyone.”

  “Or as your sister once told me, you won’t say in case you’re wrong.”

  “That too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As I drove Jayne home from the Harbor Inn, I asked her if she was planning to come to work the following morning.

  She gave me a funny look and said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Maybe because it’s the day before your wedding? Do they call that Wedding Eve?”

  “No, but it’s all the more reason for me to go in. We’re closed on Monday, as is the Emporium, and then I’m off on my honeymoon where I hope I’m not so totally bored I spend all my time reading. Never mind that now. I still have stuff to get done. I mean Mikey is good and all that, and I totally trust her to take care of my business while I’m away, but my scones are my scones. And my macarons are my macarons. I have to get enough of those things in the freezer to last a week. And then there’s—”

  “I get the point, Jayne.”

  “I told Mikey she’s not to contact me unless the place literally burns down.” Mikey was Jayne’s retired baker friend, who’d temporarily taken over other times Jayne had been away for more than a day or two.

  “I’ll be on hand to handle any emergencies.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  * * *

  Several lines of inquiry had opened for me today. When I got home, I made myself a pot of tea and settled in the den with my computer. Madison first. She called herself an influencer, so she was easy to find. Among other prominent social media sites, she had an Instagram page with a substantial number of followers, if not the hundred thousand she claimed at Jayne’s party. Her most recent posts concerned her visit to West London in the company of her “beloved adoptive grandmother,” and all were surprisingly positive. Nothing about what a “backwater” our town was. Instead, selfies of her shopping on Baker Street—even one of her posing outside my shop with the sign over the door prominently displayed; having drinks in the bar of the Harbor Inn; dinner at McGillivray’s. In every picture, she wore something different, and she mentioned where she’d bought her clothes, shoes, and jewelry. A couple of references to Jayne’s party (spelling Jayne’s name as Jane) and the Blue Water Café, with pictures of Madison posing with the birthday girl or Andy. All of these had been taken inside. One photo showed the harbor as seen from the Café at night, looking across the dark water to the public pier and the fish market beyond. Seals! the text squealed. I enlarged the image and peered closer, but couldn’t see anything, seals or otherwise, in the water. I continued flicking, but soon got bored. Nothing was said about Tina or her death. Probably not a good look when you’re pushing clothes and jewelry.

  I left Madison’s public pages and dug deeper but came up with nothing of importance. She’d gone to law school but never graduated. Her mother was a lawyer, her father a bank executive. Madison had worked in some exclusive women’s clothing shops but didn’t appear to be gainfully employed at the moment.

  I left Madison and turned my focus to Martin, Andy’s sous-chef. Martin wasn’t happy working for Andy, and Andy wasn’t happy with Martin as an employee. I couldn’t see how that could have anything to do with the death of Tina, but forewarned is forearmed, so I decided to see what I could find. I didn’t have a last name for him, but food service people in West London are connected and Martin is not a common name among his age group.

  Martin Eagerton was originally from the Cape Cod town of Sandwich. He’d gone to culinary school in New York City, then came back to the Cape where he moved from job to job before ending up at the Blue Water Café. He’d had a series of girlfriends over the years, but no one I recognized. I flicked idly through pictures on his social media pages. All dreadfully boring. I landed on a photograph of him with a large family group, likely at a wedding, and spent some time studying the faces. No one I recognized. Seated in pride of place at the front of the formal photo was an extravagantly bejeweled lady dressed much like Violet, Dowager Countess of Grantham. All silk and lace with ropes of pearls around her neck, bracelets up her arms, chunky rings with ostentatious gems on her fingers, most of which looked old enough to be family heirlooms. I didn’t examine the jewelry too closely. The lady’s jewelry collection didn’t have any relevance to what Martin was up to these days.