A Study In Murder Read online

  ​“This is Mark Watkins.”

  ​Hypno turned, and a broad smile grew on her face. “Oh, you’re Mark Watkins.” She looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “Glad to meet you.”

  ​I was surprised by the sudden shift in attitude. “Uh, thanks.”

  ​John said, “I’m loaning him the Calabash for his speech.”

  ​Hypno nodded and looked at me solemnly, and without a word, she reached into a bin and brought out the same pipe. “Take this one instead,” she said as she held it out. For some reason, she seemed exceptionally pleased with herself, as I reached out and took it. “But don’t lose it. It is a very expensive pipe.”

  ​“I’ll be careful, thanks,” I acknowledged. I turned it over and noticed a small red “X” on the bottom. I considered pointing this out to Hypno but decided she chose one that was damaged or something.

  ​She returned the other Calabash to the display stand by picking it up with tissue paper.

  ​“Gotta keep it clean,” she noted, and wiped her hands with the tissue. “I’ve been picking up these bins from the loading dock.”

  ​“Oh, of course,” I said.

  ​“Yeah, this is a nice place,” John disclosed, “but the ballroom loading dock is way down a long hallway.”

  ​“Which is not very clean,” Hypno pointed out.

  ​I nodded. “I’ll bring the pipe back after my speech.”

  ​John shook his head. “Sales floor closes when you start. Bring it back tomorrow when you come for the book signing. You’ll be right over there.”

  ​He indicated a booth in the corner. It was empty now, except for a table and chairs. But there was a hanging sign that read: Author Signing.

  ​“Oh, great. Well, nice meeting you, John, and…uh…Hypno.”

  ​She raised an eyebrow and went back to work.

  ​“Yeah, good luck with that speech,” John declared with a wave to me and a sidelong look to the woman.

  ​I wandered up the next aisle past a booth filled with jewelry. There was a display of “Elfin” necklaces, which I guessed were for the phenomenon known as “Cosplay,” though I did wonder what it had to do with a mystery conference.

  ​“See anything you like?” the proprietor asked, as he looked at me through a pair of glasses that made his eyes look huge from the magnification. He was a rotund man with a bushy beard and a waxed mustache that would have made him a terrific Santa Claus, except that his hair was flaming red.

  ​“Just looking for now,” I deflected, and turned my attention to a display case filled with cameos imbued with silhouettes of famous detectives and celebrities crafted by the hand of a skilled jeweler. Next to it was a row of inexpensive ones that appeared to be copies made in China for a much smaller price.

  ​There were a few Holmesian cameos, another I immediately recognized as Alfred Hitchcock, and finally a striking image of Edgar Allen Poe.

  ​“Nice,” I admired, indicating the cameos.

  ​“Yeah, the cheap ones are the biggest sellers at this conference,” the man griped. “Hey, aren’t you Mark Watkins?”

  ​“Yes.”

  ​“Saw your photo in the program. You’re the lecturer tonight,” he said. “I’m Norm Blake.”

  ​He adjusted the fisheye lens on his face and looked at my badge, just as a skinny, long-haired blond man walked up with a plastic bin, which he stuck under the table.

  ​Norm glanced at his younger friend, who was tall and wiry. “Thanks, Cliff.”

  ​Cliff gave a nod and looked at me.

  ​“Hey, you’re that writer guy,” he reported.

  ​“Guilty as charged,” I chuckled.

  ​“You’d know who he is if you’d read his badge,” Norm stated, and gave a hearty laugh. “He’s also going to give a lecture on Sherlock Holmes tonight.”

  ​I pointed at the expertly crafted cameos, which bore price tags starting at about a hundred dollars.

  ​“These are amazing. You can really see the difference between these and the cheaper ones.”

  ​“I hope so,” Norm bragged. “Those are the ones I crafted.”

  ​“Yeah,” Cliff added. “He even does it here at the booth. Which means, I have to be the salesman.”

  ​“Really?”

  ​“It’s more of a hobby, I guess,” Norm expounded. “But doing it here at the booth, people come by just to watch.”

  ​“Yeah, he’s really good,” Cliff praised.

  ​Norm shrugged. “I just really like making ‘em.”

  ​“Your workmanship is outstanding,” I complimented, and bent forward to take a closer look at the display.

  ​“Thanks. Please let other people know.” He gave a knowing smile. “You know, the paying customers.”

  ​He again gave his hearty laugh, and Cliff smiled as well. Then Cliff reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out a business card, and offered it to me.

  ​I smiled and took it.

  ​Then I peered down at an open bin by his feet. To my surprise, on the top of several display cases lay a Calabash pipe, very similar to the one in my pocket.

  ​“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to it.

  ​“What?” Norm said and looked to the bin, adjusting his glasses as he did.

  ​I picked up the Calabash, at the same time I pulled my recent acquisition from my pocket.

  ​“That doesn’t look like the sort of thing you’d carry,” I said, as I held a pipe in each hand and turned them over. They appeared identical.

  ​“My idea,” Cliff said. “I keep telling him you gotta expand.”

  ​“I figured why not try it?” Norm shrugged.

  ​“How much does it run?”

  ​“About two hundred,” Cliff said.

  ​A lot cheaper than John Stewart, I thought to myself.

  ​“Good to know,” I said, and replaced the pipe, making sure I took the one with the red “X” on the bottom, which I slipped back into my jacket pocket.

  ​“Well, we only have a few,” Cliff stressed.

  ​“He’s right. Let me know if you’re interested in owning a second one—I mean, since you already got that one.”

  ​“I‘ve got your card,” I claimed as I held it up.

  ​“And you know where I’ll be,” he said and gave a wave as I continued along my way. Cliff got back to unloading display cases from the bins.

  ​The marketplace only had a few people milling about as it was the first day. My speech would actually be the real “kick off.”

  ​Of the people there, most were dressed in casual attire, some in fantasy costumes that went from the interesting to absurd. This explained why Norm had brought the elfin jewelry with him.

  ​A man pushed past me in impressive makeup and armor. I paused to wonder what a Star Trek Klingon warrior had to do with mysteries, but I just shrugged and kept walking.

  ​Another fellow went past me in a Holmesian Inverness cape with the traditional deerstalker hat. He, at least, seemed to belong at this conference.

  ​I couldn’t help the creeping feeling that maybe I was the one who didn’t belong here.

  6. Imprint

  Sheryl Homes

  ​I watched some TV, showered, and dressed in my good green silk one piece jumpsuit, I chose it because the silk hung on my body luxuriously. But, my legs and arms were covered, yet the sleeves and pants flared at my wrists and ankles. This created an ensemble that looked dressy, yet casual at the same time. I munched a few whole-grain bars in lieu of dinner, then headed to the auditorium. I just couldn’t face eating dinner with others, and worrying about who might spot me like Allen had.

  ​I took the elevator down and walked into the auditorium through a side door. It was completely dark, except for a couple of stage lights. Apparently, I had arrived far too early. But the set-up looked good with a large screen and a podium. The screen had the logo of the conference projected upon it.

  ​Then I heard something.

/>   ​Voices.

  ​I stayed in the shadows and approached the stage carefully. If it was Watkins having a pre-show tête-à-tête with Candy, I didn’t want to interrupt, but I was curious about who, besides myself, had shown up so early.

  ​I crept silently down the far right aisle until I could peek between the curtain and screen. There were two shadowy figures backstage who appeared to be in an animated conversation.

  ​“I have to pick it up where?” I heard the taller silhouette complain.

  ​“I explained it. It’s not that difficult,” cooed the shorter shadow.

  ​I pricked up my ears. Was that Candy I heard?

  ​“It’s ridiculous that I have to jump through these hoops. I’ve paid you. You were supposed to bring it to me—”

  ​“Keep your voice down,” the female ordered.

  ​“Well, I don’t like it,” I heard the taller silhouette say.

  ​“It’s what we agreed to,” cooed the shorter shadow.

  ​They continued in hushed tones, and I couldn’t follow what they said. My impression was that the man sounded cross and Candy vehement.

  ​It was then I heard the door at the top of the room creak open.

  ​Backing out the way I came was not an option, so I rushed forward. The concrete walls were covered with a black curtain meant to dampen sound. There was about a foot between the wall and the drapery, so I slipped behind it and peeked through the gap in the curtains.

  ​“Who’s there?” Candy shouted.

  ​“Hello,” a voice announced, entering the room. “It’s me, Mark!”

  ​“Mark!” Candy responded with delight. “You’re early.”

  ​I peered through the gap carefully as Mark reached the stage and climbed up a short staircase to meet Candy as she came out from backstage to meet him on the podium.

  ​The man she’d been speaking to was nowhere to be seen.

  ​“Wanted to make sure I was on time,” Mark said. “Is the sound technician here?”

  ​“Not yet, but any minute now,” she told him and brought a finger under his chin in another possessive move. God, that woman was using every trick!

  ​“I like your suit,” she breathed.

  ​Crap! Watkins was falling for it. Are all men so easy? I guess I like it when I can get a man’s attention with a few well-timed maneuvers, but I sure hated how easily she was doing it.

  ​“My wife picked it…I mean…thanks,” Mark said, suddenly tongue-tied.

  ​I guess he hadn’t meant to say his wife picked his suit. I knew she’d passed away a couple of years ago, but did Candy? Maybe she would back off?

  ​“I thought I heard voices when I came in,” Mark told her, and he glanced backstage.

  ​“Just me,” Candy assured, and her fingers moved through his hair, twining it, then releasing it. She took a deep breath, as if touching him had excited her.

  ​“I…uh…took your advice and went into the Marketplace,” Mark went on.

  ​“Find anything good?”

  ​“A guy loaned me a fancy pipe for the speech tonight.”

  ​She seemed thrilled by this, and a big smile grew on her face. “That’s really nice. So what are you doing after?”

  ​“After?” Mark asked.

  ​“Your speech, silly,” Candy told him, and moved closer so that she was pressing her chest against him. “I’m free for the evening.”

  ​Mom had been right. Candy was a slut.

  ​“I was going to get dinner,” Mark fumbled, then finally got the not-at-all-subtle hint. “Uh…would you care to—”

  ​“Join you? I’d love to. I heard there’s a great Italian place up the street,” she prattled as her index finger traced a line around his ear.

  ​“Oh…uh…you mean Patsy’s? Hard to get a reservation,” Mark hemmed and hawed.

  ​I felt a bit like a voyeur, annoyed that she was leading him on. Then the thought struck me: why was she leading him on? Last I knew the bimbo was banging my ex. Had they broken up? Had Randall finally gotten his tiny brain working and given the blonde bitch the heave-ho?

  ​“Ho” being the appropriate word choice.

  ​“I’ll take care of that.” She gave him her best smile. “Since I know you’re already here, I’ll go make a call.”

  ​She jiggled down the stairs, and with a wave headed up the aisle and out. He watched her pert little rear end as she left.

  ​I tried to calm my annoyance that a man whose work I respected could be turned into a quivering mass of hormones by a pretty face. Okay, maybe it was my personal animus against that specific face.

  ​I wonder how pretty she’d be once I ripped her eyes out.

  ​I really needed to get a handle on this violent streak that had blossomed lately.

  ​“You Watson?” a voice grumbled on the stage, and I turned back to peer up at Mark.

  ​A large man stood at the edge of the screen. Had this been the man Candy spoke with in the shadows?

  ​“Uh…Wat-KINS, yeah,” Mark told him.

  ​The heavy man walked into the light. He was dressed all in black and carried a small black box connected to a wire and tiny microphone.

  ​“Nice to see one of the speakers gettin’ someplace early,” he grunted. “I’m Joe. I’m your sound man.”

  ​“Mark.”

  ​“You know how to snake this under your clothes?”

  ​“Sure.”

  ​I watched him hand Mark the microphone body pack.

  ​The sound man went on. “I’ll take you to the green room.”

  ​The pair of them wandered out through the backstage. I listened for a moment, and then moved silently from my hiding place and headed for the side door where I came in. I needed a drink before I could sit through this lecture because I was already in a sour mood.

  ​Seeing another woman go into full-out seduction mode as Candy had, and seeing Mark’s reaction and the heat in his eyes had been disconcerting. It had been a long time since I felt that heat, and now I had to admit a part of me missed it.

  ​I went to the bar on the mezzanine level and ordered a double.

  7. Query

  Mark Watkins

  ​I waited in the small meeting room down the hall that acted as the “green room” as they say in show-business vernacular.

  ​Joe watched me put the mic on under my suit and checked the connections once it was in my pocket.

  ​After I was ready, Joe left, and I sat at the large table in a comfortable chair and found a bottle of water in a small refrigerator.

  ​ I reviewed my notes, rereading a couple phrases out loud to make sure I didn’t fumble over the words.

  ​Joe came in again, pulled the microphone box from out of my back pocket, and flipped a switch.

  ​“You’re on!” he said. I followed him out of the room and through a door to the stage wings.

  ​In front of the podium stood Jon Kane, who was speaking into a wired microphone on a stand. “It gives me great pleasure to introduce our opening-night speaker, a man whose best seller, Death In The Borley Rectory, is still considered one of the finest Sherlock Holmes stories, Mark Watkins.”

  ​He turned to me and gestured. I stepped forward and pulled the impressive pipe out of my pocket as I reached the podium.

  ​The room was packed. In fact, some people stood along the curtained side walls, as all the chairs were full. The crowd applauded loudly, and I felt a bit overwhelmed. After months of hardly venturing out of my apartment, here was a room crammed with people who wanted to hear me speak.

  ​The clapping faded, and I held the pipe aloft.

  ​“If all you saw were Hollywood films,” I began, “you might think that a pipe like this and a few props were what made Sherlock Holmes the greatest detective of all time.”

  ​I went on with my prepared speech. The audience was electrified. I’d made sure that my presentation was filled with jokes, and I was pleased most of them got laughs. I threw in
one that I knew would get a groan. It did, but it only put the audience on my side even more.

  ​I spun a great tale that tied Holmes to his modern equivalent: the forensic departments of the police that used partial fingerprints and DNA to help catch criminals.

  ​For a finale, I hammered home the point that evidence, logic, and deduction was what made Holmes a great sleuth. I finished by saying how the techniques Conan Doyle envisioned, so revolutionary in their day, were now the standard by which all detectives pursued solutions.

  ​The crowd exploded into fresh applause and rose to their feet as one man, clapping their hands together enthusiastically.

  ​In the back I saw Candy clap and yell her approval, and felt a flush as an imagined picture of her without the red dress—or anything else—flashed through my mind.

  ​I held up my hands for silence. The crowd grew quiet and returned to their seats.

  ​“I will be happy to take a few questions,” I offered, relieved that the hard part was over and I could relax.

  ​A male voice rang out first.

  ​“So, where do you get your ideas?”

  ​I didn’t need to see his face to know it was Allen Alexander.

  ​I knew him well—a nut who thought I’d stolen his stories. I swallowed my annoyance and went on. “Inspiration comes in many forms. You have one idea that connects with another, and then another, until a tapestry begins to appear. Sometimes, it is through hard work, and other times an idea hits the writer like a bolt of lightning.”

  ​I smiled, as he didn’t have a comeback.

  ​“Holmes’ inimitable mind and logic also is a great inspiration,” I continued. “It allows the writer to get in that ‘space’ where a combination of unique circumstances can be seen in an entirely new light.”

  ​“Is it your assertion,” a female voice rang out, “that Holmes’ logic was his only ability? Don’t you consider his intuition as part of the mix?”

  ​I turned and gazed into the darkness where I thought the voice originated.

  ​“I think we’d all agree,” I said, unable to see who asked the question, “Holmes himself would disregard anything that reeked of emotionalism or sentiment. He often told Watson that he was a brain and nothing more.”