I consider myself to be a practical woman. I have no time for fantasies, visions, overactive imaginations, magic potions, ghosts, specters, or similar superstitious nonsense.
Therefore, I said, as firmly yet as politely as possible, “No. Absolutely not. It’s out of the question.”
“But, Gemma,” Donald Morris replied, “as you well know, Sir Arthur was intensely interested in spiritualism. Any thorough academic study of the great man means—”
“I’m not engaging in an academic study of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, thorough or otherwise. I’m not going with you to this thing, and that’s final. You’re welcome to attend if you want, but I suggest you ask yourself if a small-town New England psychic fair is of the order of seriousness Sir Arthur would have been interested in.”
Moriarty perched on the counter between us, his amber eyes focused, his black head turning from one side to the other, his long tail twitching as he followed the conversation. Above his head hung a framed reproduction of the cover of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, December 1887, and next to it was a small shelf holding the ugly glass statue awarded to my great-uncle Arthur Doyle in recognition of his promotion of Sherlock Holmes beyond England’s shores.
“Sir Arthur was interested in a great many things,” Donald said, not knowing when to give up. “I would have thought, Gemma, you would be also with that intense inquiring mind of yours. You don’t have to believe. You simply have to have an open mind.”
I gave my friend a smile. “Nice try, but no luck. You can’t flatter me into agreeing to come with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s opening time.”
It was five minutes early, but I was getting uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking and wanted to put a stop to it. It’s true I have no interest in the sort of fortune-telling and amateur spiritualism one can find at a so-called psychic fair. It wasn’t entirely true that my “inquiring mind” wasn’t interested. I’d had a brief (fortunately, extremely brief) brush with the possibility of the supernatural over the winter. It was not an experience I intended to ever repeat.
That incident was something my “inquiring mind” had firmly locked away, never to be thought of again. So far, I’d managed quite successfully.
Moriarty leaped off the counter and followed me to the entrance to the shop, ready to greet the first of the day’s customers. I unlocked the door and flipped the sign to Open. It was the first Friday in July, the start of what the weather forecast predicted would be a glorious Cape Cod weekend, and I expected the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium would have a busy—and hopefully profitable—day.
I didn’t expect the first person through our doors to be Bunny Leigh, former teenage pop sensation, now middle-aged resident of West London. She wiggled her ring-encrusted fingers at me and gave me a big grin. “Good morning, Gemma. Another lovely day in our fair town.”
“Morning. Ashleigh isn’t scheduled to start work until noon today.”
She waved one hand in the air. “I’m not here to see Ashleigh.” When Bunny first arrived in West London in January of this year, she’d been the talk of the town. The talk of the now-forties age group who’d been her rabid teenage fans in her glory days, anyway. Over the
spring, she’d made herself at home, rented a small apartment close to Baker Street, reunited with her long-lost daughter, and gradually became nothing more (or less) than a regular West London fixture. It had been months since I’d heard her talk about the contract for the major motion picture of her life story, to be signed any day now, or the progress of her comeback album. “Ready to go, Donald?” she asked.
I cocked one eyebrow at Donald. He smiled sheepishly. “Almost ready. I’ve been trying to convince Gemma to come with us, but she says she’s not interested.”
“She says that,” I said, “because she’s not interested. Are you two going together to this … thing?”
Moriarty peered out the door. Seeing no one approaching who might be more inclined to fuss over him, he headed for his bed under the center table and the first of the day’s naps.
Bunny held her arms out and twirled around. She normally dressed in some version of fashionable shredded jeans and sky-high boots in an attempt to add some height to her diminutive frame, but today she was looking very 1960s hippie in a swirling, ankle-length, multicolored skirt; loose, flowery, lace-trimmed blouse; and miles of brightly colored, clattering beads wrapped around her wrists and neck. All she was missing was the flowers in her hair. In contrast, Donald, a keen Sherlockian, wore a long black overcoat, a black waistcoat trimmed with gold embroidery, black trousers, and black shoes polished to a brilliant shine. He even had an imitation gold pocket watch attached by an imitation gold chain tucked into the front of his waistcoat. Donald sometimes forgets that clothes suited for a Victorian gentleman during a rainy London winter might be too warm for a New England summer.
The two of them made quite a study in contrast.
“We are,” Bunny said in answer to my question. “Isn’t it exciting?”
“I suppose you could say that. I wasn’t aware you knew each other.”
“We got to chatting a couple of days ago,” Donald said, “when Miss Leigh came to get Ashleigh at closing. I happened to mention that Sir Arthur had a keen interest in spiritualism.”
“In return, I told him about the fair this weekend,” Bunny said. “Ready to go, Donnie?”
Donnie?
“I am,” Donnie said.
“It’s only nine-thirty,” I said. “Jayne hung a poster in the window of the tearoom, and it says the fair doesn’t open until noon today.”
Bunny waved a cheaply printed booklet in my direction. “Donnie and I want to go over the things we’d like to see first. Some of the
better-known palm readers will be booked instantly, so I want to be sure and get my chance.” She clapped her hands together. “I’m so excited!”
“How big is this event anyway?” I asked.
“Huge,” Bunny said. “They’ve taken the entire West London Community Center, both floors, as well as meeting rooms at some of the hotels, where they’ll conduct seminars and the like. People have come from all over the eastern United States and Canada. That’s why I need to get a good idea of what I want to see and do. I can’t leave it to chance.”
“Have you been to several of these things?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Many times. I went to a gypsy fortune teller when I was in high school, just for a lark, with some of my friends. That experience opened a whole new world to me, Gemma.” Her intense green eyes sparkled at the memory. “And I mean that literally. It led directly to my music career. Who knows what would have happened to me without the benefit of that gypsy woman’s wise advice?”
I didn’t bother to tell her that real gypsies preferred to be called Roma people these days. It’s highly unlikely any fortune teller who visited Lincoln, Nebraska, in the late 1990s was a genuine traveler, and even less likely they were a genuine fortune teller.
Not that there is such a thing as a genuine fortune teller.
“I told Donnie all about it,” Bunny said. “The old gypsy woman who read my cards foretold that I had a big career ahead of me, and all I had to do was be bold enough to grab it. Fortune favors the brave, she told me. She said I was wasting my time singing in a high school band and bigger things were waiting for me as soon as I could make my escape from the confines of my life and my family’s expectations for me.” The smile she gave us lit up her face, and I caught a glimpse of the young woman who rose to stardom largely because of sheer personality, as well as good luck. “And she was right! My parents were so skeptical. They outright forbade me to quit school and go to LA in pursuit of my dreams, but I went anyway. And see how it all turned out! How’d she even know I was a singer? Tell me that, I asked my parents, and they couldn’t answer.”
Young Bunny, real name Leigh Saunderson, would have had naked ambition written all over her pretty face. Singer, actress, dancer. Take your pick, and the “fortune teller” had. It was entirely possible Leigh’s band put up posters around town advertising their next
gig at some local bar, and the fortune teller mentally filed the information for future reference if needed.
“I’ve had my cards read many times over the years,” Bunny continued, “particularly since Rupert, who became my manager and got me my big break, died. No one’s told me anything as groundbreaking as she did that first time, but their advice has always been helpful. I was working a job in Atlantic City last year.” Her face tightened at the memory, and I surmised it hadn’t been a job she was particularly happy with. “A palm reader suggested it was time for me to reunite with Ashleigh. And here I am!” The big smile and dancing eyes returned. After initially distrusting her, I decided I liked Bunny Leigh. The end of her glory days had been a crushing disappointment to her, and she openly craved a return to her time in the spotlight, but she was generally a bouncy, cheerful woman. Her reappearance in my shop assistant’s life had made Ashleigh very happy.
“That’s nice,” I said. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“Let’s have a coffee while we go over the outline for the day.” Bunny took Donald’s arm and led him toward the sliding door joining the Emporium to Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room. “Ashleigh said she has to work this weekend, but I’m hoping Gemma will give her time off to come with me tomorrow. Maybe someone can tell Ashleigh how to direct her focus to make the right moves in life. The way it happened to me.”
Ashleigh, I knew, had plans to own a bookstore empire one day. For the moment, she contented herself with being my assistant, but she was always coming up with ideas as to how I could also have a bookstore empire.
Which is something I wanted about as much as I wanted to have my cards read by a “gypsy” fortune teller.
Jayne Wilson is half owner, manager, and head baker at Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, located at 220 Baker Street. Great-uncle Arthur and I own the other half of the restaurant as well as the Emporium, which is at number 222. Every day at 3:40 PM, Jayne and I meet in the tearoom for a cup of tea, what remains of the day’s offerings, and a business meeting. Because she’s my best friend as well as my partner, our meeting is usually more of a girlfriends’ chat and gossip session than a professional consultation. Uncle Arthur is strictly a silent partner in our enterprise. He was currently visiting friends in Peru. Or was it Portugal? Maybe Pennsylvania? One of the P’s, anyway. I tend to lose track of where Great-uncle Arthur is at any given time. No, not Pennsylvania. If he’d gone anywhere on the east coast of North America, he would have driven, but his beloved 1977 Triumph Spitfire was currently parked in our garage. Wouldn’t be Paraguay: no coastline. Uncle Arthur never ventures far from the sea.
Mentally drawing up a list of costal countries beginning with a P, I headed for the day’s partners’ meeting. The tearoom closes at four o’clock, so it’s normally almost empty when I come in, but today many of
the tables were still occupied with women relaxing over a late lunch or enjoying a full afternoon tea. As part of the tearoom’s name and to match the decor, Jayne serves a proper afternoon tea from one o’clock until closing. Every time I’d glanced through the joining door, I’d seen a full restaurant, with take-out lines winding through the room.
“You’ve been busy today,” I said to Jocelyn, one of Jayne’s assistants.
“Totally run off our feet,” she said with a hearty sigh. “As well as the usual tourist crowds, tons of people are in town for the psychic fair. I’ve seen them consulting their program books.”
“You sound as though being busy isn’t a good thing.”
“Not many people tip less than middle-aged women attending a psychic fair. Unless it’s elderly men also going to the fair but pretending their interest is for research purposes only. What they’re researching, I have no idea. I considered asking if they don’t believe in karma, but Jayne said hinting for better tips might not be a good idea.”
A young woman dressed in the tearoom uniform—black skirt, white blouse, and white apron featuring the Mrs. Hudson’s logo of a steaming cup next to a deerstalker hat—passed us. She gave me a quick, nervous smile before ducking her head and turning her attention to clearing a recently vacated table.
“How’s Miranda working out?” I asked Jocelyn in a low voice.
Jocelyn’s face puckered, which told me a heck of a lot. “I’m glad we have her. We need her. We’ve been so busy.”
“But …”
Jocelyn leaned toward me and whispered. “Miranda’s nice and all, and she does an okay job, but she needs to be not quite so nervous.”
“She’ll get into it,” I said. “Give her time.” Miranda only started working at the tearoom that week. Jayne had needed additional help all through the spring but, ever frugal, she insisted she could manage. This summer turned out to be so busy, she needed to have her other permanent assistant, Fiona, working full-time in the kitchen, and thus she hired Miranda to wait tables alongside Jocelyn. Miranda was quiet and shy, and she always slipped nervously past me as though fearing I’d leap on her and take a bite.
“I’ll tell Jayne you’re here,” Jocelyn said. “Your table’s free.”
Jayne and I like to sit in the window alcove and watch the activity on Baker Street while we have our meeting.
I slipped into the bench seat against the window, facing into the room. A moment later, Jayne dropped into the chair opposite. “You have flour on your nose,” I said.
She groaned and wiped at it. “I’m absolutely beat, Gemma. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of the summer. It’s only the beginning
of July.”
“You need more than one new fresh-faced young waitress. Hire an assistant baker. We can afford it, particularly if we’re going to be as busy as expected.”
She freed her long blond hair from its scraggly ponytail and shook it out. Jayne might protest she was tired, but her blue eyes sparkled, her hair shone, and her face (under the flour) was tinged a healthy pink. “Have someone baking in my kitchen? Never!”
“Suit yourself,” I said. And it did—suit her, I mean. Jayne’s always a bundle of energy, and she loves nothing more than to pour that energy into her baking. That and spending time with her fiancé, Andy Whitehall. Andy’s a chef and owner of his own hugely popular restaurant, the Blue Water Café. He’d be as busy as Jayne, and everyone else in town who catered to the tourist crowd, over the summer. We’d taken advantage of the slow winter season to start making plans for Jayne and Andy’s wedding, which would be held next January. The date had been set, the church booked for the ceremony and the Cape Cod Yacht Club for the reception, but Jayne’s mother, Leslie, was getting impatient that the final details, including the guest list and Jayne’s dress, weren’t being attended to quickly enough. Jayne simply smiled in that so-casual Jayne way and said, “There’s plenty of time, Mom.”
“Moot point,” Jayne said now. “I’d have trouble finding someone available to take the job this far into the tourist season. When poor Lorraine broke her wrist, I was darn lucky to snag Miranda. She was looking for work late in the season because she only just arrived on the Cape to spend the rest of the summer with family.”
On the far side of the room, Jocelyn whispered to Miranda and pointed toward our table. Miranda wiped her hands on her apron and approached, a frozen smile fixed on her face, her cheeks so red I feared she was about to burst into flames. She was not long out of her teens. Taller than my five foot eight, slim without being skinny, with thick black hair cut very short, large dark eyes, a long neck, and the sort of clear skin and perfect teeth that indicates she, or her family, has money to spend. “Tea?” she said.
“I feel like Darjeeling today,” I said. “Jayne?”
“Fine for me too. I put aside a plate of sandwiches and some tarts. Can you bring us that also, please?”
Miranda’s head bobbed once, and she almost dropped into a curtsy before she fled.
“You scare her,” Jayne
said.
“Me? What does that mean? I’ve scarcely ever spoken to her. Come to think of it, I’ve never spoken to her other than to order tea.”
“You’re getting a reputation around town, Gemma. Some people think you can read their minds.”
“Perish the thought. Even if I could do such a thing, I have not the slightest interest in what goes on in anyone’s mind.”
“Speaking of mind reading, that psychic fair this weekend is looking to be a bigger deal than I expected. Jocelyn said almost everyone who came in for lunch today was talking about it.”
The door opened, and a man and a woman walked in. They were in their midforties, well-groomed, expensively dressed for their seaside vacation. He wore blue trousers and a white cap trimmed with gold braid. She was in white capris with a loose-fitting blue silk shirt. The tip of her nose was tinged pink where the big sun hat with a wide ribbon in the same shade as her blouse had failed to protect it. They both wore boat shoes. Straight off a sailboat was my guess. Although I insist I never guess.
“Good afternoon,” Jocelyn said. “We’re about to close, so table service is finished for the day, but you’re welcome to order something to take with you.”
“Thanks,” the man said. They approached the counter.
Miranda came out of the back carrying a tray with the tea for Jayne and me. She froze. All but her hands, which shook so much I feared she’d drop the tray. I started to stand, and Jayne, catching the direction of my gaze, half-turned.
Then, like a dog coming out of the ocean, Miranda shook herself off, tightened her grip on the tray, and rapidly crossed the room. Her face, which moments before had been pink with shyness, had turned pure white.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Her hands continued to shake as she put the china teapot on the table.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Do you know those people?”
“Nothing’s the matter.” Miranda dropped a plate of sandwiches and lemon squares in front of us.
“I—”
“Gemma.” Jayne tightened her lips and threw me a look. “Miranda said nothing’s the matter.”
“But—”
“They … those people … reminded me of someone, that’s all.” Miranda hurried back to the kitchen as fast as she could go without breaking into a sprint. At the counter, the couple paid Jocelyn and waited while she made their lattes. They didn’t spare a glance for Miranda as she scurried past them, head down.
“That’s odd,” I said.
“Nothing odd about it.” Jayne picked up the teapot and poured for us both. “You’re looking for mysteries where none exist, Gemma.”
“I suppose you’re
right. Is Miranda working out okay?”
“I wish she had a bit more confidence in herself. She’s always apologizing to everyone, even when she’s done nothing wrong. Still, early days yet. She only started on Wednesday, so she hasn’t experienced a weekend yet, and this is her first restaurant job.”
“Was it wise to hire someone with no experience?” I added a splash of milk and took a sip of tea. Hot and fragrant and delicious. I then helped myself to a perfect little circle of a sandwich: cucumber with the slightest hint of curry powder arranged on thinly sliced white bread.
“Wise? Probably not, but you know what it’s like around here in the summer, Gemma. Everyone’s desperate for seasonal staff. Miranda had a good reference from the store she worked at last summer. They closed, so she couldn’t go back this year.”
“Last summer? Is she in university?”
“Yes,” Jayne took a salmon sandwich cut into a triangle. She’s a business major at Harvard.”
“That must be incredibly boring. Perhaps that explains the aura of sadness surrounding her.”
“Sadness? What do you mean by that? I haven’t noticed her being sad.”
“She’s not expressing her feelings, certainly not to people she works with and hardly knows. Her nails are bitten to the quick, leaving a few ragged hangnails, and considering how well-groomed she is otherwise, I suspect that’s a recent development. There’s a tightness to her smile that’s covering up a deeper sadness and fresh lines appearing under her eyes. She did badly on her exams this year, I suspect, and she’s worrying about her future. That would explain why she didn’t look for a summer job until July—she had to do extra classes.”
“Good thing you’re not interested in reading minds,” Jayne said as she helped herself to a second sandwich.
Back at the Emporium, Ashleigh was helping customers find what they wanted (or what they didn’t know they wanted until she told them) while Gale, ...
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