Locked Rooms (Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Series #8)

Locked Rooms (Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Series #8)

4.5 49
by Laurie R. King, Jenny Sterlin

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"After departing Bombay by ship, Mary Russell and her husband Sherlock Holmes are en route to the bustling modern city of San Francisco. There, Mary will settle some legal affairs surrounding the inheritance of her family's old estate. But the closer they get to port, the more Mary finds herself prey to troubling dreams and irrational behavior - a point not lost on… See more details below


"After departing Bombay by ship, Mary Russell and her husband Sherlock Holmes are en route to the bustling modern city of San Francisco. There, Mary will settle some legal affairs surrounding the inheritance of her family's old estate. But the closer they get to port, the more Mary finds herself prey to troubling dreams and irrational behavior - a point not lost on Holmes, much to Russell's annoyance." "In 1906, when Mary was six, San Francisco was devastated by an earthquake and a raging fire that reduced the city to rubble. For years, Mary has denied any memory of the catastrophe that for days turned the fabled streets into hell on earth. But Holmes suspects that some hidden trauma connected with the "unforgettable" catastrophe may be the real culprit responsible for Mary's memory lapse. And no sooner do they begin to familiarize themselves with the particulars of the Russell estate than it becomes apparent that whatever unpleasantness Mary has forgotten, it hasn't forgotten her. Why does her father's will forbid access to the house except in the presence of immediate family? Why did someone break in, then take nothing of any value? And why is Russell herself targeted for assassination?" The more questions they ask of Mary's past, the more people from that past turn out to have died violent, unexplained deaths. Now, with the aid of a hard-boiled young detective and crime writer named Hammett, Russell and Holmes find themselves embroiled in a mystery that leads them through the winding streets of Chinatown to the unspoken secrets of a parent's marriage and the tragic car "accident" that a fourteen-year-old Mary alone survived - an accident that may not have been an accident at all. What Russell is about to discover is that even a forgotten past never dies ... and it can kill again.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

When Devereaux “Dev” Sinclair hosts a cupcake contest at her five-and-dime store, she discovers that someone is just dying to win...

Kizzy Cutler finds it so delicious to be back in her hometown of Shadow Bend, Missouri, that she seems to have forgotten why she fled twenty years ago. For now, she’s excited to kick off her new line of cupcakes with a competition, which Dev has agreed to host in her shop. But before the first yummy cupcake is even baked, Kizzy's assistant Fallon dies from a mysterious ailment.

While the medical examiner attempts to discover what killed Fallon, Kizzy declares that the show must go on. However after Kizzy escapes several near misses, Dev is convinced that someone in Shadow Bend has it in for the Cupcake Queen. Is the secret from her past so dark someone still wants to kill her for it?

With a list of not-so-sweet suspects, Dev’s in a race against the timer to solve the murder before someone else gets iced…

Includes a sneak peak of the next Scumble River Mystery! 

Library Journal
Tormented by recurring nightmares, Mary Russell (The Game) returns to San Francisco after a ten-year absence. She swears to husband Sherlock Holmes that she wasn't in the city during the 1906 fire, but events soon prove her wrong. What memories is she hiding from herself? Holmes suspects they are connected somehow to the terrible car crash that claimed the lives of Russell's father, mother, and younger brother in 1915. With his normally capable wife distracted by her emotions, it is up to Holmes to recruit new Irregulars and uncover the truth behind the "locked rooms" that Russell dreams about. This latest title in King's Russell/Holmes series is steeped in the period feel of 1920s San Francisco. Two points of view (first person from Russell and third person from Holmes) add to the richness of the prose and the complexity of the storyline. Worthy of the highest recommendation and suitable for all public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 3/1/05]-Laurel M. Bliss, Princeton Univ. Lib., NJ Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-Sherlock Holmes and Mary Russell are at it again. Having just traveled to India in The Game (Bantam, 2004), they are stopping in San Francisco, Mary's hometown, before returning to England. It is 1930, 24 years after the great earthquake and 10 years since the death of Mary's brother and parents, and her removal to Anglia. Ostensibly, she is going to wrap up some business interests and sell her parents' house, but she soon becomes aware of strange goings-on there and what seem to be attempts on her life. This is a more character-driven title than many of the previous Russell/Holmes outings, and Mary's emotions and fears are in the forefront. The story is told in alternating sections, by Mary in the first person and from Holmes's point of view in the third. This tale is self-contained, but does explain Mary's origins and probes many secrets she has kept hidden, even from herself. Along with a fascinating story, teens will be introduced on a very personal level not only to the San Francisco of that frightening earthquake, but also to the various social and racial striations so important even into the 1930s. Fans of this series will not be disappointed and newcomers may be intrigued enough to start from the beginning.-Susan H. Woodcock, Fairfax County Public Library, VA Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher


Also by Denise Swanson



Attendance at the Saturday Night Prayer Circle was at an all-time high, and despite our group’s nickname, it wasn’t because any of us had suddenly gotten religion. We met to gripe about our problems, and although an occasional Hail Mary might be muttered under our breath, no one brought rosary beads or dropped to their knees—unless they fell off their stiletto heels.

“Poppy Kincaid.”


“Veronica Ksiazak.”


“Devereaux Sinclair.”

“I’m sitting right in front of you, Winnie,” I grumbled. “What’s with this roll call crap anyway?”

“You’ll see.” She smiled mysteriously. “It’s a surprise.”

I generally found Winnie Todd amusing, but for various reasons, not the least of which was my messed-up love life, I was in a bad mood tonight. I probably should have stayed home, but the chance to avoid my grandmother’s questions along with the lure of alcohol had overcome my better judgment.

The fishbowl-size margaritas and endless bottles of wine that appeared miraculously in front of us whenever our glasses came close to being empty eased a lot of our group’s woes. The prompt service could be due to the large tips we always left, but more likely it was because my best friend and fellow circle member, Poppy Kincaid, owned the joint.

Her nightclub, Gossip Central, was the most popular watering hole in Shadow Bend, Missouri—population four thousand twenty-eight. Strictly speaking, Poppy’s place wasn’t inside the city limits; it was a quarter mile across the line. Although I had never asked her about it, my guess was that she had deliberately chosen a location just outside her police chief father’s jurisdiction.

No grown woman wanted her daddy showing up every time the authorities were called to break up a fight at her bar—especially since Poppy wasn’t on speaking terms with her dad. In fact, Poppy’s issues with her father were one of the main reasons she was a member of our little underground society.

My motives for participating went by the names Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Del Vecchio and Dr. Noah Underwood—two smoking-hot guys who claimed to be interested in me, but who tended to disappear from my life at regular intervals. True, I was having a hard time deciding which guy I really loved, and thus was seeing them both. But seriously, if either of them cared for me as much as they said they did, wouldn’t they be spending more time in my company than at their jobs? I mean, I understood long hours and hard work, but it had been weeks since I’d had a date with either man.

I mentally slapped myself. I had vowed not to think about Jake—or Noah—tonight or my dilemma in trying to figure out which one was the right man for me. Instead, I was going to enjoy being with my friends and maybe even figuring out how to keep my dime store in the black for another quarter. Besides wanting to partake in a glass or three of wine, and the chance to dodge my grandmother’s curiosity about my love life, my presence at the Saturday Night Prayer Circle was largely due to the text from Ronni Ksiazak saying that during the gathering, she planned to present an idea of how to bring tourists into Shadow Bend.

Tourists meant cash. And extra cash was something that I was sure that nearly everyone attending the evening’s meeting could use. Ronni needed to fill her huge old Italianate-style Victorian bed-and-breakfast with paying guests if she was going to repay the loan that her family had given her to buy and renovate the place. Poppy had a serious fashion addiction to support, and Winnie was continuously fund-raising for various charities that constantly had their hands out for additional donations.

Although I didn’t know the fifth woman seated across the cocktail table, I was fairly certain she wouldn’t object to making a little spare change on the side, either. Harlee Ames was thirty-seven, eight years older than I was, and had only recently returned to town after spending the last twenty years in the service. She’d moved home a few months ago and opened Forever Used, an upscale consignment shop aimed at Shadow Bend’s affluent new arrivals.

Our community’s population consisted of the locals—mostly farmers, ranchers, and factory workers who had lived in or around the town all their lives—and transplants from Kansas City who had relocated to the area for the fresh air and the cheap land. A huge chasm separated the two groups, and I worried that Harlee’s store would widen the gap between the haves and have-nots all the more. Even secondhand, the designer clothing and accessories her shop specialized in cost more than a lot of the original Shadow Benders earned in a week.

But I couldn’t put my finger on whether that was what bothered me about Harlee, or if it was something else. As I mused about my reaction to our group’s newest member, Ronni brought our gathering to order.

Raising her drink, the B & B owner said, “Here’s to the Saturday Sisterhood. May we all make a lot of moola.” Ronni was nearly as driven and competitive as I was, so I wasn’t surprised when she added, “And may we also leave our male competitors in the dust.”

“Hear, hear!” Winnie Todd clanked her wineglass with mine. “Ronni’s idea will put my cooking school on the map. Especially since she’s arranged media coverage.”

Ah, that was why Winnie was playing teacher. She was opening a cooking school. Considering that she had come of age in the sixties, and was rumored to be growing pot in her basement, I wondered if her specialty would be “magic” brownies. Maybe the weed was for her culinary classes rather than for her personal consumption.

Certainly, Winnie’s wardrobe looked as if she were living in Haight-Ashbury. Tonight she had on a white vinyl minidress with a cutout midriff. The metal chains that fastened the bodice to the skirt rattled every time she took a deep breath. It was like sitting next to the ghost of Psychedelic Christmas Past.

“How many of you know who Kizzy Cutler is?” Ronni asked, breaking into my musings about Winnie’s fashion choice.

The name sounded familiar, but a face didn’t immediately come to my mind. Poppy was silent, and Winnie had a similarly puzzled expression, as if she, too, was trying to dredge up an elusive memory. Harlee was the only one who spoke up.

“Kizzy was in my class in high school. Why?”

“She lives in Chicago now and she owns the übersuccessful Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes,” Ronni explained. “She was a client of the advertising firm I used to work for and I was a part of the team that handled her account. She’s the one who first told me about Shadow Bend.” Ronni took a swallow of her martini. “Kizzy always spoke so fondly of her hometown that when I decided I’d had enough of city life, I took a look at what was available here.”

“I always wondered how you ended up in our little burg,” Poppy commented.

“Me, too,” I said, sipping my wine. I loved Shadow Bend, but was curious why someone without any friends or relatives here had chosen to relocate and open a business in our small community. Ronni didn’t seem the type to have moved for the open spaces or the air quality.

“Seems like a lot of people end up here for various reasons.” Winnie winked at me. “Like your hunky marshal.”

Grrr! I forced a smile. Winnie was harmless, and I didn’t want to snap at her a second time tonight, but I had just started to relax and now that she mentioned Jake, the conversation he and I had had that afternoon popped into my mind. I’d been so happy to see his picture on my cell phone’s screen. Contact with him when he was on the job was sporadic at best, and his current case—tracking down a serial killer in St. Louis called the Doll Maker who had kidnapped Jake’s ex-wife, Meg—was even more intense than his usual assignments. Too bad his news hadn’t been what I was hoping to hear. Instead of reporting that his team was making progress in finding Meg, Jake had said that the Doll Maker was still running him around with promises and threats.

Ronni interrupted my brooding. “Kizzy and I still keep in touch, and when she mentioned that she was starting a new themed cupcake line called the Flavors of Your Life, I suggested that she should kick it off with a contest to find the most original cupcake flavor. I recommended that because she currently distributes in the Midwest and South, the competition should be limited to those regions, and—”

“And Kizzy agreed to hold the final rounds of baking and judging here in Shadow Bend!” Winnie shouted.

Ronni shot Winnie an exasperated look, clearly unhappy that the older woman had blurted out the news before she could make the announcement. Then she gave a tiny shrug and said, “I told Kizzy I could provide accommodations for the judges and media at my B and B, and that the contestants can stay at the Cattlemen’s Motel.” Ronni consulted her notes. “We can use Winnie’s cooking school for the actual baking and I thought that Poppy could handle the evening entertainment here at Gossip Central.”

“Sure.” Poppy’s expression turned serious as she grabbed a pen from her pocket and started scribbling on a paper napkin. “How many people and what kinds of events are we talking about?”

“There are ten finalists, three judges, and the Dessert Channel has said they’d be interested in covering the contest, so we’d need to include whatever crew they send. Plus Kizzy, her partner, and her executive assistant.” Ronni ticked the attendees off on her fingers. “And if we get the buzz we hope for, there should be lots of day-trippers here to join in the fun, so we want to keep it family-friendly.”

“Isn’t this the coolest thing you’ve ever heard of?” Winnie did a little go-go dance in her white patent leather knee-high boots. “I just wish my facility was larger. I can accommodate the ten bakers and the television crew, but there won’t be room for observers.” She frowned, then brightened. “Oh, well. The universe must have a reason, which will be revealed at the proper time.”

Ronni turned to me. “Because of the cooking school’s limitations, we need your place, Dev. Kizzy is willing to rent the area above Devereaux’s Dime Store and pay to have it cleaned and decorated so we can display the cupcakes and do the two rounds of judging there.”

“I see,” I said, wondering how intrusive the competition would be on my regulars. The contest people would have to march through the store to get to the flight of stairs leading to the second story. “I’m not sure my top floor will work for what you have in mind. It’s three offices with tiny reception areas—not one big room.” I hadn’t been able to figure out a good retail use of the space, so I’d kept it intact, hoping I could rent it out to an insurance agent or Realtor. So far, there hadn’t been any takers.

“Hmm. We can look into removing the walls.” Ronni took her iPad from her tote bag, brushed her finger over the screen, then said, “Or we could use the offices for the judging and maybe a lounge area. And we could have the big reception and award ceremony in your actual store on Sunday since you’re closed that day anyway.”

“That might work,” I agreed, visions of rent money and new shoppers running through my head. “Removing a couple of the walls would be okay with me, too.” With that area cleared, I could put merchandise up there. Maybe stock a whole new kind of product.

“Good. If we make the second-story space larger, you’ll be able to extend your store’s hours and open up on Sunday to take advantage of last-minute customers.” Ronni turned to Harlee and said, “Since the majority of people interested in a cupcake contest will probably be women, we thought one of the additional activities could be a fashion show. Would you be up for that?”

“Definitely.” Harlee pursed her lips. “I’ll need to find models, but that shouldn’t be too tough. I can put an ad in the local paper.”

“When will the contest take place?” I asked. It was already the beginning of June and I wondered if this would be a fall or winter event.

“The July Fourth weekend.” Ronni didn’t look up from her iPad.

“But that’s not even a month away!” I yelped, then checked my math. Yep. Less than four weeks. “How are we going to be ready in time?”

“No problem.” Ronni grinned. “I’ve got the workers lined up to start on your second floor whenever you give them the go-ahead. The PR campaign is ready, and the preliminary rounds of the competition have already started.”

Ronni tossed a contract into my lap, and as I flipped through the multipage document, I heard a strident voice from the stairs yell, “Devereaux Sinclair, don’t tell me you’re alone on a Saturday night.”

Gossip Central had started out life as a cattle barn, and when Poppy remodeled the building, she’d decorated it to reflect its origins. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, and off to the sides, the stalls formed secluded lounges, each with its own individually themed decor. We were in the Hayloft, the second-story space reserved for private parties, but this didn’t stop my archenemy, Gwen Bourne, from marching uninvited up the steps and zeroing her malevolent gaze on me.

Gwen had quite a crush on Noah, and that he preferred to date me, someone she considered inferior in both looks and social status, drove Gwen bat-shit crazy. I could have told her that even if I was out of the picture, she wouldn’t have a chance in hell with the handsome doctor. The problem wasn’t that she was a few years older than he was; it was that she was too much like his mother—a high-maintenance snob.

“I’m hardly alone.” I swept my arm around the group. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t consider other women people, do you? To you they’re just rivals.”

“Gwen.” Poppy slid from her stool and took the intruder’s arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go back down to the bar. You know the Hayloft is a restricted area.”

“What’s the big secret?” Gwen narrowed her color-contact-lens-enhanced blue eyes. “Are you witches stirring up trouble in your cauldron?”

The witch reference was Gwen’s favorite metaphor when attacking me—although generally, she pronounced the b instead of the w—so going along with her theme, I said, “Yes, we are. We’re brewing up love potions, and from what I hear about your lack of beaux, perhaps you’d like to put in an order.”

“You little—” Gwen interrupted herself, then smiled spitefully. “But of course you really aren’t little, are you? Have you gone up a size . . . or two since the last time I saw you? Not that you were ever exactly slim. What did my cousin tell me they use to call you in high school? Stay Puft Marshmallow Girl, wasn’t it?”

Her cruel words took me back thirteen years to the end of my sophomore year. I’d always been a size 12—and sometimes a 14—in a size 2 world, but until my family went from prosperous and respected to poor and humble, that hadn’t bothered me and no one had teased me about my weight. However, once my family’s circumstances changed, the mean girls had sensed weakness and descended on me like vampires on the last bag of plasma in the blood bank. That was one of the problems with living in the same town you had grown up in—there was no hiding from your past.

Coming back to the present, I gathered my wits and retorted, “You’re right, Gwen.” I ran my hands down my hips. “I’ve always been on the curvy side. Then again, the men in this town seem to prefer rounded to scrawny.” I put a suggestive purr into my voice. “At least Jake and Noah seem to.”

Gwen’s plastic-surgery-smoothed face turned an unbecoming shade of magenta. It was always dangerous to stand up to someone like her, someone who thought she was better than the rest of us. She’d never been one to be able to handle what she dished out, and even as she snatched a half-full bottle of wine from the table and swung it at my head, I knew she was plotting an even worse retaliation.

As I tried to scramble out of Gwen’s reach, Harlee leaped from the couch, and before I could blink, she had the Botoxed brunette flat on the floor. I’d never seen anyone move so fast—at least outside of an action movie.

How on earth had Harlee done that? She’d been a blur. To top it off, not a hair of her calico-colored spikes was out of place and there wasn’t a drop of perspiration on her impassive face. Still waters may run deep, but clearly, consignment shopkeepers ran even deeper. What exactly had she done in the service? Were women allowed in the Special Forces? Maybe she’d been a Green Beret.

I glanced down at Gwen, who was threatening to have Harlee arrested for assault, and I shivered, remembering that Noah’s previous girlfriend had been murdered. It seemed that a lot of women wanted to be Mrs. Dr. Underwood, and didn’t hesitate to get violent in pursuit of the position.

At that moment, Gwen glared at me with such venom that I wondered if I might become the next victim in the battle to walk down the aisle with Noah. Which would really suck since I hadn’t even decided if I wanted to marry him yet.


A loud thump from overhead rattled the glasses lined up on the shelf behind the soda fountain. I cringed, then smiled apologetically at the two older ladies who were seated on stools in front of me. They were trying to enjoy their hot fudge sundaes, but the transformation of my second story for the cupcake contest was interfering with their Tuesday afternoon treat.

Slightly more than three weeks had passed since I’d agreed to the remodeling, and the noise level seemed to increase with every passing day, as did my worry that I had made a bad decision. The deposit that Kizzy Cutler’s Cupcakes had given me for the rent was substantial, and the terms of their leasing contract were generous, but I didn’t want to lose my regulars.

That morning, both the Quilting Queens and the Scrapbooking Scalawags had cut their weekly meetings short, complaining about the racket. I had an agreement with several of the local craft groups that in exchange for my providing them with a meeting space, they bought the materials for their projects from me and contracted for refreshments. As a bonus, the members often also picked up other bits and pieces that caught their eye while walking through the shop to get to their alcove. Upsetting valuable customers like my hobbyists was not a smart business move.

Ronni had promised me that the renovations were almost finished, and I hoped she was right. I couldn’t afford to have any of the clubs that met at my store decide to find a new location.

After another thunderous bang from above, the elderly women abandoned their remaining ice cream and nearly ran out the front door. Sighing, I cleaned up the soda fountain and headed over to the old kitchen table I used as a workbench. It was located in the space behind the register, and from that vantage point, I could see the entrance. Not that I was expecting any shoppers. The hours after lunch were usually slow. Often, I didn’t see a single customer from one to three, which made it the perfect time to work on my sideline—custom-made, personalized gift baskets.

When I bought the dime store, I’d known I would need something besides the sale of merchandise in order to stay profitable, so I’d added the baskets. That part of my enterprise was extremely lucrative since I was selling my creativity more than the actual items included in the basket, and I wished I had even more time to devote to promoting it.

I had one steady customer, Oakley Panigrahi, who bought upwards of twenty thank-you gifts a month. Noah had introduced me to the Kansas City real estate tycoon a few months ago and I’d been providing him with premium baskets ever since. Oakley sold luxury properties and was a demanding client, but he paid top dollar, and I wanted to complete his contract before the cupcake contest started.

I also had a request for one of my special creations that I needed to finish before the late-afternoon crowd showed up. I usually made that kind of basket before the store opened, but this client hadn’t placed his order until nine that morning and was paying extra to have it ready for him to pick up at six p.m.

Swallowing the last bite of my lunch—a ham and cheese sandwich on Gran’s homemade bread—I put the final touch on the basket in front of me. Each design included my trademark—the perfect book for both the occasion and the person receiving the gift. This thank-you present was intended for a municipal judge, and I carefully positioned a beautiful copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in the exact center of the basket. Months ago, I had found a first book club edition at an estate sale for fifty dollars, and I’d been saving it for just the right recipient.

I took a quick picture of the finished product for my store’s Web site and Facebook page, then moved on to the anniversary basket, which was my next project. The guy who had ordered the rush job had forgotten that he and his bride had walked down the aisle five years ago today. And when his wife had handed him a beautiful package at breakfast, he’d panicked and said her gift was a big surprise that she’d receive that evening. His problem was that his wife was the kind of person who went out and bought something if she wanted it, so he was stumped as to what to get her.

Looking over his questionnaire—half of which he’d been in too much of a hurry to complete—I frowned. He was fortunate that I had an extensive stock of items that would please any woman or he’d be out of luck, because he hadn’t left me any time to order additional products.

As I gathered the supplies, “Torn Between Two Lovers” started to play from somewhere beneath the mountain of stuff on my worktable. I dug hastily through the piles until I located my cell phone. Then I touched the speaker icon and said, “Hello.”

“Are you busy?” Jake’s sensual baritone sent a delightful shiver down my spine.

“Nope.” I could picture his deep blue eyes smiling into mine, his silky black hair against my fingertips, and the feel of his muscled arms holding me close.

The chemistry between Jake and me was so strong that I could feel the pull through the telephone. Which should have been enough to make me choose him as the man I wanted in my life. But Noah was more the steady good guy that I could depend on to be home every night rather than off chasing criminals. In short, Noah was someone I could actually see myself marrying, while it was difficult to picture Jake waiting for me as I walked toward him in a wedding dress.

The irony was that before Jake had entered my life and Noah had reentered it, I’d seldom dated, and the thought of settling down rarely crossed my mind. Now it was always lurking in the back of my head. Which guy could I visualize in a tuxedo at the front of the church waiting for me?

“I have some news,” Jake said, breaking into my inner debate.

“You’re coming home?” Technically Shadow Bend wasn’t Jake’s home. He had an apartment in St. Louis. But I hoped his permanent residence was about to change, because just before his ex-wife was abducted, he’d submitted his resignation to the marshal service and taken his great-uncle’s offer to manage the family cattle ranch just outside of town.

“Not yet.” Jake sighed. “However, we finally have a lead on the Doll Maker.”

“That’s great,” I said, my breath catching at the discouragement I heard in his voice.

I couldn’t blame him for feeling disheartened. More than six weeks had passed since his ex-wife was kidnapped, and as hard as it was for any of us to acknowledge, odds were she was dead. I knew how horrible this whole situation was for Jake. While Meg had divorced him when he was injured in the line of duty, Jake was the kind of guy who would never turn his back on someone who needed him.

Despite Meg’s callous treatment of him when it looked as if he’d never walk again, Jake would feel as though it was his duty to save her from the Doll Maker’s ghastly clutches. Which meant that Jake was pretty much trapped in St. Louis at the beck and call of a madman, because every three or four days, the Doll Maker demanded that unless Jake showed up at a specific spot, he’d receive pieces of Meg in the next mail delivery.

Nope. I couldn’t blame Jake for trying to rescue her. He was a true hero. Someone who did what had to be done regardless of the consequences to himself. But it was his sense of duty that made me question whether he and I could ever have a life together in Shadow Bend. The kind of life that I could have with Noah.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed, bringing me back to the conversation. “He’s been communicating with me via burner phones, but our forensic team thinks they’ve figured out the general area where he’s been buying them. We’ve got eyes on the three most likely stores where we think he’ll get the next one.”

“So you just have to wait.” I tried to keep the impatience out of my tone. “Any idea when he’ll get in touch with you again?”

“If he keeps true to his pattern, it’ll be tomorrow or the next day.” Jake blew out a frustrated breath. “He never goes more than five days between calls and always seems to know exactly where I am and how long it will take me to get to his chosen location.”

“Do you think he’s watching you?” I wanted to tell him to be careful, but that was just plain silly. I knew he’d be as careful as he could, but if it came to giving his life to save that of an innocent bystander, he’d sacrifice his own. That was what a U.S. Marshal did, and nothing I said would change his instinct to serve and protect. So I bit my tongue and tried to inject encouragement into my tone as I said, “I’m sure you guys will nail him.”

“So, what’s happening in Shadow Bend?” Jake said, ignoring both my question and my attempt to play cheerleader. “How are the cupcake contest preparations going?”

Before I could answer, a deafening boom came from upstairs. Startled, I knocked the phone off the table. As I searched the cluttered tabletop for my cell, the string of curses cascading down from above made me glad there weren’t any kids sitting at the soda fountain.

By the time I retrieved my phone, there was a thread of anxiety running through Jake’s voice when he demanded, “What happened?”

“The crew working on my second floor must have dropped something,” I said. “Either that or the ceiling is about to fall down on my head.”

“Are you sorry you agreed to the remodeling and rental?” Jake asked.

“I guess not.” I continued to work on the basket, placing a tube of strawberry-flavored Skin Honey against the folds of a red satin kimono. According to the package, the gel was an edible personal lubricant that would soften your skin and liven up your libido. The instructions said to smooth it on wherever you wanted to be kissed. Picturing Jake next to me, I could think of several locations where his lips would be welcome.

“So you’re not having second thoughts?” Jake asked, clearly detecting the hesitation in my tone. “It must be distracting having the construction guys there.”

“A little.” I kept working on my special order. In twenty minutes, when summer school was dismissed for the day, a swarm of starving teenagers would take over the store, and I wouldn’t have time to do anything but serve them ice cream, candy, and sodas. “But with the construction crew removing several walls, I now have a nice open area where I can put shelves and display cases. And they left one office suite intact so I can still rent it to someone.”

“Then you’re good?” Jake didn’t sound convinced.

“Ronni says they’ll be done today, tomorrow at the latest.” That didn’t exactly answer his question, but it was as close as I was willing to admit that I might have made a bad decision. “Kizzy and her entourage arrive Thursday afternoon and the contest activities start bright and early Friday morning.”

“That means a lot of strangers are about to pour into Shadow Bend,” Jake said. “Did the cupcake company hire any security?”

“I doubt it.” Chuckling, I added, “Seriously, what do you think will happen? A food fight?”

“Just be careful,” Jake ordered. “Make sure you aren’t alone with anyone you don’t know.”

“Okay.” I stretched the word out. Why was Jake being so paranoid? Oh. Yeah. He was a marshal. Most law enforcement officers tended to think that in any given situation, the worst would happen.

After a long pause, Jake asked, “How’s your father adjusting?”

My father had recently been released from a long prison sentence. Although he had committed the crime of which he’d been convicted, it wasn’t his fault. At the time, someone who had been attempting to frame him for embezzlement roofied him. Only recently had that person admitted to having drugged my father. After the other guy’s confession, Dad had been paroled rather than pardoned, because despite the fact that he hadn’t willingly taken the Rohypnol, he had run over and accidently killed a woman while under the drug’s influence. He might have been able to get the conviction overturned, but taking parole had been cheaper and quicker than a new trial.

“It’s hard to say.” I considered adding a pair of Turn Me On vibrating panties to the basket, but since I didn’t know what size the guy’s wife wore, I reluctantly put them aside. It was a shame since the bikinis contained a secret pocket that held a wireless vibrating bullet operated by remote control—an item I thought might be just the right anniversary gift for the woman who had everything.

“Oh?” Jake’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Haven’t you two been talking?”

“Of course we talk.” Since I couldn’t include the panties, I nestled a pink Lipstick Vibe next to a Good Girl Bad Girl blindfold. “Dad decided against taking back his old position at the bank, but he does have a job.”


“Here.” I stepped back to admire my creation and chewed my thumbnail. Something was missing. “He’s taking Xylia’s shifts.” I’d recently lost my weekend clerk and hadn’t had a chance to hire a permanent replacement.

“How’s that working out?” Jake’s tone was wary.

“I’m treading delicately.” I rummaged through my “naughty” box and found the perfect touch for the anniversary basket, a pink-and-black feather spanker. One end was adorned with marabou and the other with a small leather paddle. I briefly wondered which spouse would be wielding the plaything and I suspected it wouldn’t be the husband. “It’s not as if I can give my dad orders or yell at him if he does something wrong, so I have to be a lot more diplomatic than I prefer to be in an employer/employee relationship.”

Jake’s husky laugh made me reconsider giving the sex toy away. Maybe I had a better use for it. Before I could ask Jake’s opinion of the matter, I heard a phone ring on his end and he put me on hold. While I waited for him to return, I completed the basket with a copy of Sylvia Day’s naughty novel Bared to You, the first in her popular Crossfire series.

When Jake got back on the line a few seconds later, his voice was tense as he said, “That was the Doll Maker. He gave me ten minutes to make it to Busch Stadium and I’m at least nine minutes away. I’ll call when I have a chance.”

He hung up as I struggled for something to say, and I stared at my cell, wondering if I would ever get used to dating a man with such a dangerous and all-consuming occupation. I’d never know if our “so long” was really “good-bye forever.” With his job always coming first, he’d never be completely mine.

Jake and Noah had agreed I could date them both until I decided which one I loved. But Jake had been gone almost since the instant that arrangement went into effect. Of course, Noah hadn’t been around much, either. His mother’s fake illnesses were keeping him occupied, and any of his time that she didn’t claim, his medical practice did. The whole situation with both guys was as messed up as a pile of clothes hangers. Maybe I needed to forget about Jake and Noah and find someone with a nine-to-five job and a less complicated life.


Thursday morning, I savored the silence of a completely empty building. No hammering. No swearing. And best of all, no boots stomping back and forth over my head. For the next few hours, Devereaux’s Dime Store was back to being mine and mine alone.

As promised, the workmen had finished up Tuesday night and the decorator had descended with her team on Wednesday to perform their magic. Both crews had done a good job. Removing the partition between two of the office suites had produced a large, open area that would be perfect for viewing and judging the cupcakes that the finalists produced at Winnie’s cooking school.

The interior designer had chosen a soft teal for the walls with brown curlicue accents stenciled near the ceiling. A raised dais in the front of the room contained two metal stands to exhibit the cupcakes—a five-foot-tall pink Ferris wheel and an equally large yellow roller coaster. Wrought-iron bistro tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the space.

Although I typically wasn’t happy when the store was deserted, today I knew it was the lull before the storm and I was thrilled to have the place to myself while I got ready for the baking competition. During the chaos of renovation, I hadn’t been able to concentrate, so now, hoping for impulse buys, I arranged cupcake-themed merchandise on all the end-cap displays and on the shelves near the cash register. While I fussed with the layout, I thought about the coming weekend.

Anticipating big crowds, I had arranged for my part-time clerk, Hannah Freeman, and my father to work all three days of the contest. Hannah’s previous schedule—a part of her vocational ed program at the high school—had been four mornings and one afternoon a week. However, she’d graduated last month and was leaving for college in the fall, so I needed to start interviewing for her position.

I also had to find out if my father planned to continue working weekends for me or if I should be looking for two new employees instead of one. How to put the question to him tactfully, so he didn’t feel I was pushing him away, was the tricky part. Like my mother, who had run off to California the minute Dad was sentenced, I hadn’t trusted his innocence when he was falsely accused of embezzlement. And during the twelve years he was in jail, I’d gone to see him only once.

I had no excuse for the former, and my reason for the latter wasn’t much better since he probably didn’t truly believe that I had developed a sort of claustrophobia after my first trip to the prison. Strangely enough, the phobia was because I had loved him so much, not because I didn’t care about him. I’d always been a daddy’s girl, and when he’d been convicted, I was shattered by both what I perceived as his betrayal of our family and his absence from my life. I missed him like crazy, but seeing him handcuffed and behind a steel-reinforced window made me feel as if I couldn’t breathe. I had actually fainted the one and only time I’d visited.

Now that he was out of jail, I had a chance to try to make up for my lack of faith and, worse, my lack of visits. But I hadn’t quite figured out how yet. Shoving that problem out of my mind, I continued to fuss with a display that contained flip-flops, rubber clogs, slippers, and tennis shoes—all imprinted with brightly colored cupcakes. As I was finishing up, I heard the sound of sleigh bells jingling. I hurriedly shoved the last pink sneaker into place and glanced toward the front of the store.

Noah was standing in the entrance, scanning the shop. When he spotted me, he waved and let the door close behind him. I waved back and hurried toward him. It had been several weeks since we were able to coordinate our schedules to spend more than a few minutes together, and at least ten days since we’d been face-to-face. I had missed him and my heart sped up at the sight of him.

As I got closer, I saw that he looked exhausted. Although his dark blond hair was flawlessly styled, I noticed that instead of tapering neatly to the collar of his crisp Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt, it curled over the starched white cotton. He’d obviously had to skip his biweekly trim. The deep lines of fatigue bracketing his mouth and the dark circles under his gray eyes gave the impression of too little sleep and too much responsibility.

“Hi.” Noah drew me into his arms and rested his forehead against mine. “I have an hour between appointments and figure this might be the last time this weekend you have a minute to call your own.”

“You’re probably right about that.” As I caressed his cheek, a sense of peace I felt with no one else stole over me. “Any luck finding your mother a home health aide that she’ll accept?”

“Cross your fingers.” Noah took my hand and stroked his thumb against my palm. “I finally took your advice, and on Monday, I hired a young, attractive male aide.” Noah wrinkled his brow. “I should have done it when you first suggested it, but the idea was so unnerving that I couldn’t make myself consider it.”

“I told you that he’d just be eye candy.” I tapped Noah’s perfect nose. “You know darn well Nadine wouldn’t dream of having an affair with the hired help, but with the right guy, she’ll enjoy some harmless flirtation and keep him around for the attention.”

“So far, so good.” Noah smiled ruefully. “It’s been three days and she hasn’t fired him yet. The previous record was twelve hours.”

“That sounds hopeful.” I slipped my arms around his neck, enjoying the strength of his embrace. “Maybe Monday, once this cupcake contest is over, we can actually spend some time together.”

“I wish I could, but . . .” He trailed off, refusing to meet my eyes.

“But what?” Stepping back from him, I tilted my head. “I thought you texted me that Dr. Rodriguez was starting full-time this week.”

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Product Details

Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:
Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Series, #8
Edition description:
Unabridged, 12 CD's
Product dimensions:
5.30(w) x 5.74(h) x 1.55(d)

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Chapter One

Japan had been freezing, the wind that sliced through its famous cherry trees scattering flakes of ice in place of spring blossoms. We had set down there for nearly three weeks, after a peremptory telegram from its emperor had reached us in Hong Kong; people kept insisting that the countryside would be lovely in May.

The greatest benefit of those three weeks had been the cessation of the dreams that had plagued me on the voyage from Bombay. I slept well--warily at first, then with the slow relaxation of defences. Whatever their cause, the dreams had gone.

But twelve hours after raising anchor in Tokyo, I was jerked from a deep sleep by flying objects in my mind.

Three days out from the island nation, the rain stopped and a weak sun broke intermittently through the grey. The cold meant that most of the passengers, after venturing out for a brief turn on the decks, settled in along the windows on the ship's exposed side like so many somnolent cats. I, however, begged a travelling-rug from the purser and found a deck-chair out of the wind. There, wrapped to my chin with a hat tugged down over my close-cropped hair, I dozed.

Halfway through the afternoon, Holmes appeared with a cup of hot coffee. Actually, it was little more than tepid and half the liquid resided in the saucer; nonetheless, I sat up and disentangled one arm to receive it, then freed the other arm so that I could pour the saucer's contents back into the cup. Holmes perched on a nearby chair, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch.

"The Captain tells me that we are making good time," he commented.

"I'm glad the storm blew itself out," I replied. "I might actually be able to face the dinner table tonight." Something about the angle of the wind the past days had made the perpetual pitch and toss of the boat even more quease-inducing than usual.

"You haven't eaten anything in three days." Holmes disapproved of my weak stomach.

"Rice," I objected. "And tea."

"Or slept," he added, snapping his wind-proof lighter into life and holding it over the bowl of his pipe.

That accusation I did not answer. After a moment, as if to acknowledge that his comment had not required a response, he went on.

"Had you thought any more about pausing in Hawaii?"

I stifled a yawn and put my empty cup onto the chair's wide arm, nestling back into the warmth of the rug. "It's up to you, Holmes. I'm happy to stop there if you like. How many days would it be before the next ship?"

"Normally three, but it seems that the following ship has turned back to Tokyo for repairs, which means we could be marooned there for a week."

I opened one eye, unable to tell from his voice, still less his smoke-girt expression, which way his desires leant. "A week is quite a long diversion," I ventured.

"Particularly if Hawaii has embraced the austerities of Prohibition."

"A half-day would mean a long walk and sit at a table where I don't have to aim a moving soup spoon at my mouth. Both would be quite nice."

"Then another four days to San Francisco." The pointless, unnecessary observation was unlike Holmes. Indeed, this entire conversation was unlike him, I reflected, squinting at him against the glare. He had his pipe between his teeth, and was concentrating on rolling up the pouch, so I shut my eyes again.

"Terra firma," I said. "A week in California, tying up business, and then we can turn for home. By train." I don't get seasick on trains.

"A week will be sufficient, you believe?"

"To draw up the papers for selling the house and business? More than enough."

"And that is what you have decided to do."

This noncommittal, pseudo-Socratic dialogue was beginning to annoy. "What are you getting at, Holmes?"

"Your dreams."

"What about them?" I snapped. I should never have told him about them, although it would have been difficult not to, considering the closeness of the quarters.

"I should say they indicate a certain degree of anxiety."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Holmes, you sound like Freud. The man had sex on the brain. 'Rooms in dreams are generally women,' he declares. 'A dream of going through a series of rooms indicates a brothel, or a marriage'--I can't imagine what his own marriage could have been like to equate the two so readily. And the key--God, you can imagine the fraught symbolism of playing with a key that lies warm in my pocket! 'Innocent dreams can embody crudely erotic desires.' The faceless man he'd no doubt equate with the male organ, and as for the objects that spurt wildly into the air--well, I'm clearly a sick woman. What does it say about my 'erotic desires' that reading the man's book made me need a hot bath? Or perhaps a cold shower-bath."

"You sound as if you've researched this rather thoroughly."

"Yes, well, I found a copy of his Interpretation of Dreams in the ship's library," I admitted, then realised that I was also admitting to a greater degree of preoccupation than I thought sensible. To lead him away from the admission, I said, "I wouldn't have thought that you of all people would fall for the Freud craze, Holmes."

His face darkened as he came close to responding to my diversion, then he caught himself, and counterattacked with a deceptively mild, "A knowledge of psycho-logical jargon is hardly necessary when confronted with such an unambiguous statement such as that contained in those dreams of yours."

"What do you mean, unambiguous?" I protested furiously, and too late realised that I had stepped into his own diversion with both feet.

"San Francisco's earthquake, which sent things flying about, is clearly the paradigm for the first dream. And the locked rooms may represent your family's house, which has stood empty for ten years while you pretended it wasn't there."

"A house is more often symbolic of the self," I told him, although I did not know why I wanted to argue.

"True, although a house may also be simply a house."

I threw off the rug so as to face him unencumbered. "Holmes, you're mad. I've only owned the place for three years, since I turned twenty-one, and I've been rather too busy to travel halfway across the world to take care of things. As for your earthquake fantasy, I wasn't even here in 1906. And what about the faceless man dream, anyway?"

"There is as yet insufficient data to identify him," he said, not in the least troubled by my words.

I drew breath to argue with him, but in the event, I couldn't be bothered. I rose with dignity, and said merely, "If you imagine we shall have time to uncover the relevant data in San Francisco, you are mistaken. We will be there only long enough for me to sign papers, then catch the train for New York."

Tucking the rug under my arm, I left him to his pipe.

Earthquakes. Ridiculous.

He did not bring it up again, and neither did I, although over the following days I often felt his eyes upon me, and knew that at night he too lay awake, waiting for me to speak. But I did not, and he did not, and thus we traversed the Pacific. Between the dreams themselves and lying awake in dread, I scarcely slept, and began to feel as if I was walking in a wrap of cotton gauze.

Hawaii was a pleasant interlude, although the wind blew and the wide beaches were nearly deserted. We walked for hours, and I even managed to eat something, but that night I slept no better.

The following evening I wandered about the ship, up and down the various decks (trying to ignore the Freudian overtones of entering enclosed stairways) until I found myself at the furthest point of the ship, after which there was only water. The wind had stopped that morning, leaving the smoke from the stacks to trail straight back along the various layers of deck, which created a series of solitary if insalubrious places for meditation. I was on the last of those decks, with only a railing between me and the Pacific.

And there I meditated, about the dreams and what Holmes had said.

Clearly, I thought, the damage we had seen in Japan, with Tokyo still recovering from the previous year's devastating earthquake, had set the literalist idea of shaken objects into his mind. I was not worried about the possibility he had suggested; no, despite my words, it was the niggling fear that Freud might be right.

Since leaving England in January, we had marked the ten-year anniversary of our meeting and the third year of marriage. I was content in ways I had not thought possible, well matched mentally and--despite the difference in our ages, despite the regular clash of our personalities, and despite the leering innuendo of Sigmund Freud--well suited physically, to a man who interested my intellect, challenged my spirit, and roused my passions.

So, no: Psychology be damned--the dreams weren't about my marriage.

Yet there they were, keeping me exhausted and irritable and searching out a piece of quiet if smoke-covered deck where I could stand by myself and stare down at the endless sea.

The water stretched out as far as the eye could see in an expanse of gentle grey-blue swells broken only by the occasional white-capped wavelet and the line of the ship's passage, unrolling die-straight behind us until it faded into the glare of sun on the western horizon. Directly below where I stood, dominating my vision if I leant my upper body over the rail, the churn of the great screws dug an indentation in the surface, followed by a rise just behind. Like the earth from a farmer's plough, I thought dreamily, cutting a straight furrow across three thousand miles of sea. And when the ship reached the end of its watery field, it would turn and begin the next furrow, heading east; and after reaching that far shore it would shift again, ploughing west. Back and forth, to and fro, and all the while, beneath the surface the marine equivalents of earthworms and moles would be going busily about their work, oblivious of the other world above their heads. The farmer, the ship, above; the insect, the fish, below. So peaceful. Peacefully sleeping, while occasionally a seed would fall and take root in the freshly split furrow . . .

"Russell!" Holmes exclaimed, and the sharp voice and his sudden hand on my arm snatched me awake and sent my hat flying. I grabbed at it, but too late; the scrap of felt sailed out behind the ship, floating on the air for a long time until eventually it planted itself into the brine furrow. I turned to my husband.

"Why did you have to startle me like that?" I complained. "That was my last warm hat."

"Easier to purchase another hat than to fish you out of the sea," he said. "You were on the edge of going over."

"Don't be ridiculous, Holmes, I was just watching the patterns made by the propellers. What did you want, anyway?"

"The first bell for dinner went a bit ago. When you didn't come to dress I thought perhaps you hadn't heard it. And when I came down the stairs, it appeared as though you were trying to throw yourself over."

His laconic words bore just the slightest edge of true concern, as if a question lay behind them. I reached up to adjust my hair-pins, only to find them gone--weeks after chopping off my thick, waist-length hair (a necessary element of disguising myself as a British officer) my hand was still startled to find the weight of it missing from my head. Spreading my fingers instead to run them through the brief crop, I glanced back at the straight path laid out behind us, and felt a shudder play up my spine. Perhaps I shouldn't lean over any more rails while I was as tired as this, I told myself, and allowed Holmes to thread my hand through his arm and lead me back towards our cabins.

I picked at my meal, making no more response to the conversations around me than would a stone statue. Afterwards we listened to the ship's string quartet render a competent selection of Beethoven, and took a turn around the decks, Holmes chatting, me unresponsive. Eventually we took ourselves to bed, for another night's broken sleep.

The next morning the mirror showed a woman with stains beneath her eyes. Holmes had already risen, and I dressed slowly, drank several cups of strong coffee, and took a book up onto the sun-drenched deck. The pages, however, made no more sense than the conversations of the night before, and eventually I merely sat, staring at the almost imperceptible horizon of sky and sea.

After some time I became aware that Holmes had settled into the adjoining chair. My gaze came reluctantly back from the distance and settled onto the bit of brightness he held in his hand. It was, I decided, the silken scarf he had purchased in a bazaar on the first leg of our voyage out from England, a garish item perhaps useful for one of his gipsy disguises. He held it in his hands as if its bright dye bore a hidden message; it was his focussed concentration that finally caught my attention.

"What is that, Holmes?"

"The length of silk we bought in Aden. I thought to use it as an aide-memoire, to bring back the details of that curious afternoon. The whole affair puzzles me still."

Recalling the events of Aden was something of a wrench, since so much had taken place in the intervening months--weeks in India tracking down a missing spy and jousting with a mad maharaja, followed by the better part of a month in Japan with all the complexity of events there, interspersed by the dream-plagued weeks at sea. Granted, we had nearly been killed in the Aden bazaar by a balcony falling on our heads, but near-death experiences were no rarity in my life with Holmes. I had in the end dismissed it as a curious series of events that might have had tragic consequences, and fortunately had not. Clearly, Holmes was not of the same mind.

"It had to have been an accident, Holmes," I objected. "The balcony fell because the bolts were old, not because someone tried to pull it down on our heads."

"So I tell myself."

"But yourself will not listen."

"A lifetime's habit of self-preservation leaves one disinclined to accept the idea of coincidence."

"Holmes, one event does not a coincidence make."

"But two oddities catch at the mind."


"The fallen balcony, and the ship's passenger who enquired about us, then disembarked. In Aden." He raised an eyebrow at me to underscore the importance of that last.

From the Hardcover edition.

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