He turned his head and smiled at me. “Thanks. Not good enough for Tina at one time; she didn’t like my lack of ambition. I didn’t like some of the things she did in an attempt to further her own ambitions. She wanted me to move to L.A. to make my mark in the restaurant scene there. Way too competitive for me, I told her. But once she gave up her own dreams of fame and fortune and came back to West London … I suppose I’d do. So no, I was not happy to see her.”

  “Did she say anything tonight about you ditching Jayne for her?”

  “No. She suggested we have lunch tomorrow, though. Said she had something important to talk to me about. I told her I was busy with pre-wedding plans. I’ve tried to cut her some slack, Gemma. We were close once. I try to remember that. Things haven’t always been easy for her. You know she was in a major car accident less than two years ago?”

  “I noticed the scar on her face, about which she is clearly self-conscious, and she has a slight limp she tries to hide. Result of the accident?”

  “Yeah. She was pretty banged up. Lots of plastic surgery, reconstruction, physiotherapy, the lot. She spent months in the hospital in California. It put an end to her dreams of an acting career. Not only the scar and the limp, but she was out of the frame for a year, and when she tried to get back, her time had passed. She says she was about to sign for a major role in a big TV show when the accident happened, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.” Andy shivered, and I suspected it was from more than uncomfortable thoughts. Despite my frock coat and the car’s heater on full I was shivering too.

  “Get yourself home,” I said. “And into that shower.” I put my hand on the door, but I hesitated. “One other thing. Get rid of Robbie.”

  “Robbie? The waiter? Why?”

  “You must remember he and Jayne dated at one time, a couple of years ago?”

  “Sure, I remember. This is a small town, Gemma. In the off-season anyway. We bump into people we knew from years ago all the time. Friends and enemies. We were just saying the same about me and Tina.”

  “Robbie means you no good, Andy. He’s not full-time at your place, so you don’t need to fire him. Don’t give him a shift again, okay? Good night.”

  I got out of the car, waving Andy off. Then I sent another text.

  Me: 20 starting now.

  Chapter Eleven

  “First things first. Jumping into the sea was darn foolish. For heaven’s sake, Gemma, what were you thinking? Or rather not thinking, as you have been known to do.”

  I’d lit a fire in the fireplace in the den and was curled up on the couch, wrapped in flannel pajamas, a fraying terrycloth robe, and heavy reading socks, with a towel around my hair. I clutched a mug of tea, to which I’d added far more sugar than I’m accustomed to. The portrait of Great-Uncle Arthur’s one true love, a Spanish opera singer who died far too young, watched over me. The dogs, quite unperturbed at being chastised for jumping on the couch, rested at my feet, and my iPad was propped on my knees.

  On the screen, Ryan shook his head. I took a moment to think how handsome he was with his chiseled cheekbones, close-cropped black hair, expressive blue eyes, and strong jaw thick with five o’clock shadow this late in the night. Or rather, this early in the morning.

  “Gemma, are you listening to me?”

  “Most definitely hearing, although not listening in the sense of having the intention of never repeating my mistake. What happened happened, and I will freely admit it might not have been the wisest course of action. Although, I must point out, had I been able to reach Tina in time, it would have been not entirely foolish.” I smiled at him.

  He shook his head and smiled back. “Point taken. I’ll be home tomorrow around noon.”

  “You don’t need to cut your course short for me. I’m fine.”

  “Not cutting it short for you, but because a potential murder happened in my town. Anyway, the last day is usually just a half-day repetition of what we already learned, and then, as you English say, down the pub. I assume you have a theory about what happened. Did you share it with Louise?”

  “She didn’t want to hear. I readily admit one should not theorize in the absence of data, but I believe I have enough data to form a rough theory.”

  “And …?”

  “If the data, meaning the evidence, changes, I will reconsider, but at this time, I have trouble seeing this as a murder.”

  “Why?”

  “First, Tina was not expected to attend the dinner. Therefore, it could not have been preplanned.”

  “You didn’t know she’d be there. Doesn’t mean she didn’t tell someone else.”

  “A fair point. Second, the restaurant was busy. Even the deck was being used, as a good number of smokers were at the event. The deck is visible from the boardwalk, although at that time of night in January, not many people were about and those who were would have their heads down and be hurrying about their business. Regardless, it was too public a place to commit murder.”

  “You think it was an accident, then?”

  “Possible, although unlikely. The railing was not dislodged in any way. No adult would climb to the top of the railing for the view. For one thing, the railing is narrow, it was cold, and Tina was not wearing gloves. The gate to the steps leading to the dock was unlocked, so she might have gone down, but why? To have a quiet moment on the dock and she slipped? Possible.”

  “Suicide?” Ryan asked.

  “Perhaps. I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to her earlier—”

  “But you did notice more than anyone else would have.”

  “Thank you for the compliment. She was chatting, smiling, friendly. I thought her false, but put it down to her being uncomfortable knowing she wasn’t entirely welcome. The look on Trish Whitehall’s face—” I stopped. I was warm, inside and out. I was comfortable. I was safe. My dogs snoozed at my feet, the man I love was watching me with an expression full of concern, tinged with love, even though it was through a screen. I was forgetting to watch my mouth.

  “What look?” Ryan said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing you say is ever nothing. What look, Gemma?”

  I avoided answering. “She, Tina, had been in a serious vehicle accident a couple of years ago. That accident ended her dreams of an acting career. By coincidence, a woman, a relative of Andy’s, who used to move in Hollywood circles, was seated at our table. Did talking to her remind Tina of her shattered dreams? Did seeing Andy, in love and happy, remind her she was not happy?”

  “Are you saying she killed herself?”

  “I’m saying the possibility is strong. A sloppy way to go about it to my mind, mostly because of the number of people around. A desperate cry for attention that went wrong? Maybe she didn’t intend it to end as it did. I asked Louise to find out from Tina’s family if she was a good swimmer. I’ll be interested if they can determine if she went in off the deck or the dock, and how much alcohol was in her system. A substantial amount by my estimation; she wasn’t entirely sober when she arrived and didn’t slow down after that.”

  “Why does the dock or deck matter?”

  “Off the dock would indicate an ill-considered swim. Off the deck, which is much higher, more likely with the intent to do damage. Assuming, of course, she was thinking straight, which is not a given.”

  “Louise sent me a few preliminary notes a while ago. More coming in now. Give me a sec.” He disappeared from the screen as he went to get his phone. I was left facing a standard budget hotel chain room. Generic paintings on the beige walls. Drapes pulled shut. Strong desk lamp.

  “Okay. Autopsy still to be done, but the ER doc saw a substantial and very recent bruise on the top of her forehead. Likely caused some internal damage.”

  “If she hit her head on the way in, that might explain why she couldn’t swim to shore.”

  “Or she was hit before being tossed over the railing. Her parents say Tina was an excellent swimmer. She was on the diving team in high school and she took up surfing when she moved to California. She swam in the ocean here regularly right into the fall, and participated in polar swims several years.”

  “She went swimming at the North Pole?” Suddenly, I was cold all over, again.

  “No. Those are charity events swimming clubs organize, usually held on January first. They go for a dip in the lake or ocean. It’s a big thing, usually attracts a considerable crowd of onlookers.”

  “Perish the thought. Otherwise, that’s something worth knowing.”

  “Why?”

  “When I find out why, I’ll tell you. Every piece of data is worth knowing. Didn’t they teach you that at your course?”

  The smile he gave me was as warm as my feet in my reading socks. “Sometimes I think I learn far more from you than any course. Don’t tell Louise I said that. What’s on for tomorrow?”

  “You mean today.” The clock on my iPad told me it was two a.m. “Work for me. Jayne’s taking the day off, but I suspect that won’t last much past the breakfast rush.”

  “Good night, Gemma.”

  “Good night, Ryan.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Jayne in?” I asked Fiona as I placed my usual order for a large tea, with a splash of milk, no sugar, and a blueberry muffin.

  “Not physically. She’s phoned a few times. Just checking in, she says. My money’s on her arriving before two. Jocelyn’s betting on noon. Want to get a wager in? It’s ten bucks.”

  “Sure. It’s quarter after nine now. I’m in for her showing her face before ten.”

  Jocelyn opened the sliding door between the Emporium and Mrs. Hudson’s, and I carried my breakfast through. The door slid shut behind me, to be opened again in fifteen minutes when the shop was ready for business.

  Moriarty emerged from his bed under the center table, yawning and stretching. “I trust you had a better night than I did,” I said to him.

  The edge of his mouth curled in a sneer, and he headed for the stairs, tail held high. I put my drink and muffin on the counter and climbed the seventeen steps to the first floor, what Americans call the second floor, after him. My first task of the day, like my last, is to check his food and water dishes and clean out the litter box.

  For which I get absolutely no thanks.

  Activity in the shop was slow, which can be expected on a Wednesday morning in January. At ten to ten, Jayne walked through the tearoom, and I spent some valuable time wondering how to best spend my winnings.

  A short while later, she came into the Emporium, hair wrapped in a net, apron over jeans and a T-shirt. “All okay?” she asked.

  “All okay. You look ready to work. I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “Not much point. I intended to enjoy a nice long lie-in the morning after my party, but I slept badly, woke up early, and couldn’t settle again.” Her pretty face crunched. “Terrible about what happened.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Andy was up even before me, and he sent me a text to say he’d gone in to clean up. If the cops will let him. If the restaurant has to stay closed for long, that won’t be good. Did Louise have much to say after I left?”

  “Not much. I don’t know for sure, but they should allow him to open before much longer. They don’t have a lot to do inside; all the action, so to speak, happened on the deck, and he’s not using that now anyway.”

  “I can only hope. Police attention is never good at a restaurant. Word’s all over town about what happened last night.”

  I knew that. I’d checked the online sources as soon as I was up. Irene Talbot had filed a report with the paper, but she couldn’t say much other than what I already knew: what happened and where. She didn’t even mention Tina’s name, so likely she hadn’t spoken to the family yet. Without having any further information, she chose her words carefully and simply called the death a “drowning,” which the police were “investigating.” As for the police themselves, they hadn’t issued a statement, other than to say what Irene already said. As could have been expected, gossip on the social media pages was rampant. And mostly inaccurate.

  “A clerk from the police station called earlier and asked me to present myself later today to make a formal statement,” Jayne said. “Did you hear from them?”

  “Not yet. Ryan cut his trip short, and he’ll be back soon. When you’re talking to the police, it’s probably best not to mention Andy and his mum weren’t all that welcoming to Tina.”

  “They weren’t?”

  “She gate-crashed, right?”

  “Yes, I know,” Jayne said. “That might have been awkward, but they had room for her, and she was a longtime friend of Andy and his family.”

  “Forget what I said. If you didn’t notice their coolness, you won’t need to mention it, right?”

  “Except you’ve put the idea in my head.”

  “Forget me. The police wouldn’t let you take your gifts with you last night. Opening them will be something to look forward to.”

  “Hard to get in the present-opening mood after what happened. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” She turned to go and then swung back. “Not because I can’t leave my business in the highly capable hands of my assistants, but because a kitchen is my happy place. I can forget all the problems of the world when I’m up to my elbows in cake batter or rolling out scones or thumping yeasted dough. Gemma?”

  “Yes?”

  “This won’t affect my wedding, will it? We have less than one week to go.”

  “I don’t see how it should. I’ve been thinking it over, and I consider it possible Tina’s death was either an accident or a suicide. If so, the police will soon come to the same conclusion.”

  At that moment, the chimes over the door tinkled and the first of the day’s customers came in.

  * * *

  Ashleigh arrived for work shortly before noon. I was not impressed to see her dressed in a gray wool suit with a skirt that fell below her knees, high-necked blouse, shoes of the sort that were once called sensible, and a hat with a small gray feather perched on one side of her head.

  “Please, please, tell me you are not Miss Marple,” I said.

  “Harriett Vane. Miss Marple is older. This is the best I could do on the spur of the moment. Like it?”

  “I hope you’re not planning to play detective.”

  “Nah. I leave that stuff up to you. That guy Donald cornered yesterday, Keith something, is coming in later. I wanted to make an impression, that’s all, particularly as he met me in my persona of waitress, and that is not who I am.”

  I refrained from mentioning that she wasn’t Harriet Vane either.

  * * *

  I ate lunch at my desk, working on the accounts, while Ashleigh minded the shop. I was rolling up my sandwich wrappings and cursing at the email that came in moments before from a prominent gaslight fiction author, canceling next week’s scheduled appearance at the store for unstated reasons. I’d ordered a substantial number of her books, and boxes of them were stacked in my office and the storage room, ready to be signed. We’d put up a big flashy display in the shop. Signs advertising the event were in the windows and notices on the website. Several readers told me they were excited about meeting her.

  I was heading downstairs to let Ashleigh have her break when a car pulled into the no-parking zone on the street and stayed there. A few minutes later, Detectives Estrada and Ashburton came in.

  Moriarty leapt down from his perch at the top of the gaslight shelf and rubbed himself enthusiastically against Estrada’s legs, purring loudly. She tried not to look too pleased. Ryan he ignored, as he usually did.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” Estrada said to Ashleigh when she tore her attention away from the affections of the cat.

  My assistant struck a pose. “Harriet Vane. Like it?”

  “I don’t want to know, but curiosity compels me to ask. Who is Harriet Vane?”

  “Harriet Wimsey née Vane. From the Lord Peter books by Dorothy L. Sayers. A classic of crime fiction. Gemma, when Harriet marries Lord Peter does she become Lady Harriet?”

  “No. She would only be Lady First Name if her father was titled. As she married into the title, she would be known as Lady Husband’s Name.”

  “Her personal identity erased,” Ashleigh said. “Seems unfair.”

  “The hierarchy of the British aristocracy is highly unfair. To women in particular, not to mention younger sons.”

  “Sorry I asked,” Estrada said.

  Ryan grinned and gave me a private smile before saying, “Gemma, we need to ask you further questions about the events of last night.” The store was empty of customers at the moment, but Estrada added, “Can we use your office?”

  “Of course.”

  Preceded by Moriarty, we climbed the steps. I sat behind my desk and waved my visitors to chairs. When they were reasonably comfortable, and Moriarty was watching from the comfort of the top of a box of now-unneeded gaslight fiction books, I said, “Has the autopsy on Tina Armstrong been done yet?”

  “They were able to squeeze us in,” Ryan said.

  “And?”

  “No doubt about cause of death—drowning in sea water. She had a substantial amount of alcohol in her system. By what they could determine, and what time we were told she arrived at the restaurant, she’d been drinking earlier. Not enough to completely incapacitate her, but enough to seriously impair her judgment and her reflexes, in the opinion of the pathologist. She appears to have suffered a blow high on her forehead, probably sufficient to render her unconscious, but it didn’t kill her.”

  “Any indication of how the blow was delivered?”

  “The pathologist is unable to say if she was struck by someone she was facing or if her head connected with the edge of the dock on the way down.”

  “Have you—?”

  “Hey,” Estrada said. “We’re the police. We ask the questions here.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  Ryan suppressed a chuckle. He didn’t suppress it well enough because his partner threw him a stern look.