Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (15 page)

She was staring at me as though convinced I was insane.

I said clearly, “I left it on the glass shelf in your bathroom. So don’t give me that look.”

She continued to give me that look.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I demanded. “What did I do to you? You want me to write a damned regency demon P.I. thing, I will. I’ll even throw in a werewolf. Just…stop.”

She whipped around and went to the dresser, sifting through the debris of jewelry, bottled water, receipts and assorted cosmetics. “It’s not here!” she exclaimed. She turned around to face me. “I put it up here in this glass so it wouldn’t get lost.”

“Are you sure it’s not there?” I joined her at the dresser and we both sifted through the pile of junk.

There was no water glass—empty or otherwise—and while there were plenty of earrings, none of them was mine.

“It was here,” she insisted. “I did see it in the bathroom on the shelf and I picked it up.”

The fact that she admitted seeing the earring calmed me way down.

“Was your room cleaned today?”

“If you can call it that. They made the bed and brought clean towels.”

“Maybe the maid took it.”

“She must have.” She was eyeing me with speculative amusement. “Did you really think I’d framed you?”

“Hey, you’re not out of the clear yet.” I was thinking rapidly. If Krass had been killed and my earring planted during the night, no maid was responsible for clearing away that glass and stud. “Do you know who cleaned your room?”

“Probably the kid. What’s her name? Donna?”

Somebody Killed His Editor

“Debbie.”

“Right. She did it the morning before.”

I said suspiciously, “If I tell J.X. you had my earring, you’re not going to do something weird like deny it, are you?”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. It happens a lot in old mystery novels.”

“You read too many old mystery novels,” Rachel informed me. “You need to read some Kate White or M.J. Rose.” She thrust a stack of paperbacks at me.

“You just don’t want to have to carry these back on the plane.” I headed for the door. “I’m bringing J.X. back here and I want you to tell him the truth.”

She stared at me and then smiled a slow, evil grin.

“Very funny,” I said and slammed out of the room.

~ * ~

I found J.X. in the lobby. He had the front door open and he was speaking to Rita, who was behind the front desk. At the sound of my footsteps, he glanced around and, if possible, his expression grew even grimmer.

“I thought you said you were going back to your cabin.”

“I was,” I lied. “But then it suddenly occurred to me what I did with that other earring.”

“And what was that?”

“I left it in Rachel’s room. I took it out when I showered after I first arrived here. She remembers seeing it. In fact—” I turned to Rita. “Who cleaned the rooms this morning? Rachel says she left the earring in a glass on her dresser.”

Rita’s hatchet face grew sharp enough to chop wood. “What are you implying, mister?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m wondering if the earring got picked up or thrown out by accident, that’s all.”

“Kit.”

“Nobody picked up any earring by accident or any other way.”

“Well, couldn’t you ask whoever did the rooms?”

“
Kit
.”

I turned impatiently. “What?”

“I need to talk to you.” There must be something to that whole cop mystique because although I was certainly older, at that flat, authoritative tone I suddenly felt like I was being summoned to the principal’s office.

I said, “But don’t you think we should find out what happened to that ear stud?”

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Josh Lanyon

“I’ll look into it for you. Come on.” He held the door to the lodge open.

I couldn’t read his expression at all as I stepped outside, but the very impassivity of his features made me uneasy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ll explain it to you on the way to your cabin.”

We went down the wooden steps and crossed the yard, and I threw a couple of uncertain glances J.X.’s way. His profile looked older, resolute—Ernest Shackleton preparing the
James Caird
for launch.

“What is it?” I asked.

He looked at me then. “You were seen last night.”

“I was…seen?” Recollection hit. I could feel myself changing color. “Oh. I was going to tell you but you brought up the earring and I wanted to settle that before I told you something else that was liable to seem incriminating.”

“For Christ’s sake. You didn’t think the fact that you were trotting around this place about the time Steven bought it was something you needed to mention up front?”

“Yes. I did. But I also knew how it was liable to look.”

“What the fuck were you doing outside at three in the morning?”

The harshness in his voice took me aback. “What I wasn’t doing was taking my little axe and giving my editor forty whacks.” There was no softening, no understanding in his face. He looked…stony. I realized I was in serious trouble, and the fight drained out of me.

“I woke up and…oh hell. I felt like shit. I needed Tylenol and ice and…company.”

“
Company?
”

“What the shit is so strange about that? It’s a writing conference, for God’s sake. If you ask me, the strange behavior belongs to these so-called writers who went to bed at midnight. I thought the bar would still be open. I was…nervous out here on my own.”

Zero comprehension on his face.

I stumbled on, “But when I got to the lodge the lights were all out and the doors were locked.

So…you have to understand. I’d had a lot to drink after you left.”

There at last was a flash of acknowledgment.

“You drink too much.”

“I know.” I made a face. “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I thought maybe I could get in the back way. I didn’t realize they locked the place down at night.”

He snapped out, one word at a time, “There is a killer on the loose here, Christopher. Of course they locked the goddamn place down. Are you telling me you don’t remember I told you to lock yourself in last night and not open the door to anyone? What did you think I meant? Don’t open to Girl Scouts selling cookies? Don’t open to the Jehovah Witnesses? Don’t open to trick-or-treaters?”

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Somebody Killed His Editor

“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

I watched him courageously struggle to overcome the desire to say,
I told you so!
“Go on,” he managed between clenched teeth.

“Before I got to the back patio I heard…maybe a chair being dragged or a table being dragged across the cement. Anyway, it was weird enough that I stopped to listen.” I swallowed dryly, remembering the sour taste of my fear. “I…something about it…I can’t explain it, but I suddenly lost my nerve.”

He was watching me closely, his eyes narrowed as though trying to determine if I was telling the truth or not.

“I ducked into the arbor. I waited there and then I heard footsteps. Someone—I couldn’t see who—

came to the mouth of the arbor and stood there waiting and listening. Then he went away. When I was sure he really was gone, I ran back to my cabin.”

Whatever he saw in my face must have convinced him I wasn’t fabricating this.

He said quietly, “Jesus. Do you realize how close you came to dying last night?”

I nodded sheepishly.

We were nearly to my cabin now. J.X. sighed.

I tried to read his expression, but it was a closed-casket viewing.

At last he said, “Look, I believe you. I don’t think you killed Peaches or Steven, but…”

“But what?”

“That’s my own personal belief. There’s enough circumstantial evidence to arrest you right now.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” He looked serious, true enough. “And a number of people are already asking that you be locked up until the sheriffs can get through.”

I stopped walking.

“What? Who?
Whom?
”

“It doesn’t matter. People are scared and right now you look like the most obvious suspect.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.” He met my gaze and repeated steadily, “No, it’s not. You had history with both victims, you discovered both bodies, you were heard threatening one of the victims, you were observed on the scene at the time of the murder, and your earring was found at one of the crime scenes.”

I regret to say that I lost all semblance of dignity. I quavered, “Am I going to be arrested?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I think there’s a good chance of it. In the meantime, I’ve promised to lock you in your cabin.”

I couldn’t even get my mouth under control to form the words. I stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” J.X. said. “I meant what I said. I don’t believe you killed anyone, but I have to do what’s best for everyone, and if isolating you out here makes everyone feel safer, that’s what I need to do.”

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Josh Lanyon

For one frightening instant I thought I might start crying. Thankfully, anger kicked in and saved the shredded tatters of my pride. “Wait a minute. First of all, who the heck is this witness who supposedly saw me running around last night? Maybe
that
person is the murderer?”

“I don’t think it’s very likely, but I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Him. Him who?”

He hesitated.

I said with great, if wobbly, dignity, “You’re locking me up on this person’s say-so. You at least owe me the courtesy of telling me his name. I mean, what happened to my legal right to face my accuser?”

“I’m not shipping you to Alcatraz, Kit,” he said patiently. “It’s just till the storm clears tomorrow.

We’ll bring you meals and I see you’ve got books to read.”

We both stared at my armload of pink and red book covers. I looked away, clenched my jaw hard, sniffed harder.

“Hell,” J.X. muttered. “George Lacey saw you.”

“What was he doing up at that time of night?”

“He and Mindy have one of the front bedrooms. He said he heard you pounding on the door with a poker, but by the time he got downstairs you had gone.”

“So for all he knows I went back to my cabin.”

Still patient, J.X. said, “He didn’t say he saw you kill Steven. He said he saw you running around at what was the approximate time of the murder.”

“Well, for that matter,” I said tartly, “you were running around at the approximate time of the murder too.”

He went very still. “What are you talking about?”

“After I left the arbor, I went to your cabin, where I whaled away with my trusty poker—to no avail.”

To my unease, he couldn’t seem to come up with an answer. I hadn’t really suspected him of killing Krass or anyone else, but the way he stood there looking sort of blank and discomfited threw me.

“Where were you?” I asked.

He seemed to snap out of whatever was mesmerizing him. “I did leave my cabin,” he admitted. “I went down to the icehouse to check on Peaches.”

“Why?”
It seemed like such a gruesome thing to do. Brave, but gruesome. And rather unnecessary because it wasn’t like Peaches was trying to escape.

“I don’t know.” It was his turn to look sheepish. “I had an uneasy feeling. This is a weird setup.”

“Again, the keen eye of the Master Detective,” I said bitterly, and I marched on to my cabin.

As we reached my door, he said, “May I have your key?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

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Somebody Killed His Editor

“It’s in my back pocket.”

He slid his hand in my back pocket and felt around for the key.

“Other pocket,” I said tightly.

“Sorry.”

He retrieved the key with a minimum of caressing my ass, and unlocked the door. I went past him and threw the stack of paperbacks on the neatly made bed, turning to face him.

“When are my mealtimes, or do I rattle my water glass against the prison bars when I’m hungry?”

He sighed. “Your meals are the regular mealtimes. Look, I’m not enjoying this any more than you are.”

“That’s very easy to say on the other side of the bars.”

“You know, you really are a bit of a drama queen, Kit.”

“And you really are a bit of an insensitive, unimaginative, arrogant, fascist prick.”

His mouth compressed, his eyes darkened.

I added, “And I hope I broke your heart all those years ago.”

“You did,” he said evenly. And with that he stepped outside the cabin and shut the door.

I was still standing there with my mouth open as I heard the key turn in the lock.

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The funny part was I had been on my way back to my cabin when I discovered Steven Krass’s body, so why was I now prowling the interior of the log cabin, muttering to myself, and returning to the front window every few steps to gaze across the empty field at the rooftop of the lodge?

It was all about freedom of choice. And I currently had none. Also no TV, internet or telephone. What was I supposed to do to amuse myself for the rest of my stay here at Bates Motel? Wait for the power and heat to go off? Wait for the lynch mob to show up?

When I had worn myself out pacing—which didn’t take long given how out of shape I was—I flung myself on the bed and picked up one of the candy-coated novels Rachel had thrust upon me. A short time later I wondered if it was reasonable to consider suicide half an hour after incarceration.

Oh, the books weren’t that bad. Really. But once again it was borne in on me why my beloved Miss Butterwith was getting so severely dissed by the handful of mystery fans still reading print. There were no elderly botanists in this pastel selection of crime fiction. No, the sleuths were wedding planners, fashion reporters, hair dressers, yoga instructors and chicks with no visible means of support at all. They were young and mouthy and inordinately concerned with fashion and their love lives. You’ve come a long way, baby? Full circle in fact.

I could only take so much of it before I decided I’d prefer to read the instructions on the back of my multitude of grooming products. And, in fact, I was figuring out how to use something called “Shea Butter Ultra Rich Hair Cream” when someone scared me out of a week’s worth of growth by rapping sharply on the cabin window.