Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (22 page)

“What?”

“Oh. My. God.” She was staring at me in a kind of horror.

“What?
What?
” I yelled, looking around. Expressions like hers usually herald someone getting bitten in half by a giant ant or spider.

She said faintly, “I know what I did with your earring.”

I blinked at her, trying to reconcile this with the unimagined horrors that I had, in fact, been imagining.

Rachel was on her feet, dragging her purse out from the side of the bed and pawing through it like she’d missed her last dose of Dr. Jekyll serum. “Oh my God,” she said again, and pulled her wallet out.

She ripped open the wallet, dug frantically inside, and held up…my earring.

“I put it away for safekeeping,” she said into my stupefied silence. “I remember now. I was afraid the maid wouldn’t notice it in the glass and might accidentally throw it away, and I didn’t want to mix it in with my jewelry.”

I stared at her, then reached out and took the small winking stud. For a time I stared at it.

Rachel was still babbling guiltily. “With everything going on, it utterly skipped my mind. The only thing I remembered was putting it in the glass…”

So if the stud I had been wearing when I reached the lodge was now in my hand…that meant the earring found beneath Steven Krass’s body was the earring I had lost in the woods.

I fastened the stud in my ear, thinking all the while. Once again I remembered J.X. kneeling down to pick something up. He had said it was a key off his chain, but there was nothing to substantiate that. For the first time I seriously contemplated whether there was anything to Edgar’s theory that J.X. had deliberately disappeared.

Actually, from a mystery-writing standpoint, it looked pretty good. The old murderer-pretending-to-be-a-victim ploy. I’d used it successfully twice myself. Once in
Miss Butterwith’s Double Trouble
and once in
Dead Weights for Miss Butterwith
.

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But what possible motive could J.X. have for killing Peaches? Krass, yes, that I could see. His comments at the table that night had seemed to be largely directed at J.X. I hadn’t taken them seriously—I don’t think anyone did—because being an ex-cop J.X. was pretty much above suspicion. Which was ironic considering his own work was full of corrupt and crooked cops.

Okay, to be fair, it wasn’t simply J.X.’s former line of work. He was…nice. A nice guy. Smart, talented, handsome, funny, and…nice. True, he was also married and screwing around which sort of undercut his nice guy standing. Did his screwing around make him vulnerable to blackmail? Because it was sinking in on me that extortion was Peaches’ modus operandi—and had probably gotten her killed.

Although it was kind of hard to picture. Blackmail wasn’t the motive it was back in the Golden Age of mystery. And what was Peaches blackmailing J.X.
for
? From all indications she wasn’t short of cash, and she could hardly pass one of J.X.’s hardboiled cop thrillers off as one of her own.

“What’s the matter?” Rachel asked. “I thought you’d be relieved.”

“We have to find J.X.,” I told her. “Get dressed. I need your help.”

~ * ~

Through the white emptiness we could hear voices distantly calling out to each other while the other searchers slowly and painstakingly worked their way through the outlying cabins and sheds.

Rachel and Espie were stumbling along at my heels, both of them grumbling about their feet hurting before we had gone more than a few yards. Not that I could really blame them, my blisters had blisters following that forced march up from the bridge the afternoon I’d arrived. I ignored the scrape and sting.

“We’re not going to find anything in this fog,” Rachel informed me.

“You’re just giving the murderer a good excuse to be wandering outside,” Espie put in.

I said, “If he hasn’t killed J.X. already, there must be a reason. If we could figure out what that reason is, maybe we can head him off.”

Neither of them answered. Instead I heard some splashing sounds behind me followed by cursing. I decided to let them catch up with me in their own time.

J.X.’s cabin loomed out of the fog. The windows were dark, the door swung silently open when I touched the handle. Not that I had expected to find J.X. sitting inside, but the chill silence that greeted me was depressing. I went to the chair where J.X.’s jacket hung and checked the pockets. They were empty. So what had he done with the notes I’d jotted down yesterday on the legal pad? He’d had them folded in his pocket when we went to dinner.

I began to go through his things slowly and methodically. Where was the earring he had found under Krass’s body? Had he hidden it for safekeeping? It didn’t appear to be anywhere.

He was doing quite well for himself judging by the quality of his clothes. Very different from when we had first met and his wardrobe had seemed to consist of Levi’s, white shirts and a leather bomber jacket.

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One thing hadn’t changed. He still packed as neatly as if he had to pass government inspection, but the garments he now packed were…well, actually for the most part he was still packing jeans and white shirts.

The difference was the jeans were now made by Marc Jacobs and the white shirts were by Armani. He’d tossed in a couple of lambswool sweaters and a few silk tee shirts, and there was a gorgeous black wool suit by Carlo Pignatelli hanging in the little closet. If I didn’t know how well his books did, I’d have been highly suspicious.

As it was, his deepest darkest secret appeared to be…shoe trees.

There was also the fact that there did not seem to be any indication of his married life. I’m not sure what I expected. A silver framed photo of the missus and the kid? There was nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said this was the suitcase of a happily single male.

“What are you doing?” Rachel demanded behind me. I managed not to start—but it wasn’t easy clutching J.X.’s Calvins. I unclenched my hands from his snowy boxers and glanced casually over my shoulder.

“I’m searching his things.”

“You can’t do that.”

“He searched mine, I’ll guarantee you.” Although what deductions he could have drawn were beyond me—seeing that I hadn’t even picked most of what I had packed, let alone worn it. I was kind of a jeans and T-shirt guy myself.

“He’s searching J.X.’s things,” she informed Espie as she staggered up to the doorway.

“Tell me he’s got some good blow. A couple of OCs. I’ll even settle for half-smoked leaf.”

“He’s clean,” I said like I was starring in a 1970s cop drama. And he
was
clean. He even folded his dirty laundry.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Rachel demanded. “Clues?”

“Red herrings?” Espie offered. “They’ll be stinking by now, esse.”

“I don’t know. But I can tell you what I’m not finding—and that’s anything to do with the murder.

The branch, log, whatever you want to call it that was used to clobber Peaches came out of the woodpile back behind the lodge, but it went up in smoke last night. My earring is missing. There’s nothing here relating to the murders at all.”

“Why do you think he’d be keeping anything in his cabin?” Espie asked curiously. “Wouldn’t he leave that stuff locked in the lodge safe?”

“He’s an ex-cop. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

In an effort to get the torture over with as soon as possible, Rachel began checking behind the pillows on the bed, feeling between the mattresses. She worked fast and efficiently. I was impressed and left her to it while I went in the bathroom and checked the orderly row of grooming products. John Varvatos www.samhainpublishing.com 131

Josh Lanyon

aftershave, deodorant and fragrance. Baby shampoo. Manual razor and an electric trimmer. Electric toothbrush. Mini floss and cute little bottles of mouthwash.

“I thought we were looking for J.X?” Espie called. “I can tell you right now, he’s not here.”

The bathroom light suddenly came on.

“Oh thank God, the power’s back,” Rachel cried from the other room.

“Halle-fucking-lujah,” Espie said. “Can we go back to the house now and get warm? I’m tired of freezing my ass off so Christopher can paw through J.X.’s underwear.”

I stared unseeingly in the silvered mirror over the sink. He could be anywhere. Tied up in a barn or buried in the vineyard. How the hell were we going to find him?

Gradually my face came into focus. I looked like a stranger. Pale, drawn, blond stubble, bleak, red-rimmed eyes…I looked old. I looked like a guy who had lost everything that mattered.

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I stepped out of the bathroom and said, “I want to try the icehouse.”

Rachel and Espie exchanged looks. “Where’s that?” Espie asked.

“Down the road a little. Behind the trees, I think.”

“You
think
?”

“Look,” I said, “I know you’re tired and your feet hurt, but I don’t believe we should split up, and I want to check the icehouse. I think J.X. might be stashed there.”

Rachel said uncomfortably, “But isn’t that where…?”

“Yes. That’s where they’re storing Peaches and Krass. Which is why I think it’s a great hiding place.

No one is going to go poking around in there.” No one except J.X., who had admitted to investigating the icehouse the night before last.

Espie stared down at her mud-caked shoes and then stared at me. Rachel looked about as woebegone as I’d ever seen her.

She sighed. “Right. Well, I suppose it’s my fault you’re in this jam. If I hadn’t insisted on dragging you up here—”

“That’s right,” I told her. “And don’t think because you’re admitting this now that I’m not going to throw it up at you in future arguments.” I trailed them out into the swirling mist.

“I can’t believe this shit. It’s like we’re in that episode of the
Twilight Zone
,” Espie was grumbling as I shut the door to J.X.’s cabin and took the lead, starting relatively briskly off toward the dirt road—or what I hoped was the direction of the dirt road.

“A regular pea souper,” Rachel agreed.

“Is that what they call it where you come from,
querida?
” Espie asked dryly.

Rachel didn’t respond.

We could still hear our fellow searchers calling out to each other in the cotton wool silence.

“You sure we’re going the right way?” Espie asked after a time.

“Yes,” I lied.

We continued our way down the uneven dirt track—or what I hoped was the dirt track—avoiding the puddles and rain-carved furrows the best we could. The farther we walked, the fainter grew the voices behind us.

“I don’t like this,” Rachel said. “What if we can’t find our way back?”

Josh Lanyon

“There it is,” I said with relief. I could make out the roof through the eddying mists. “Rachel, you stay on the road here. Espie and I will go check the building.”

“How did I get elected action hero?” Espie objected, but she followed as I lengthened my strides.

The building rose in front of us, weathered with time and silvered by the rain. It was a single-story windowless structure built into the hillside behind it. Rain dripped in slow loud plops from the eaves. The double doors were chained and padlocked.

I’d figured on the padlock. I hadn’t figured that there would be no windows or any way to see inside. I walked down the side of the building. No windows. No side entrance. I walked back and explored down the other side. Same story. No windows, no side entrance. I came back to the double doors and contemplated them.

“Bloody hell,” Rachel called. “I can’t see either of you now.”

“We’re right here,” Espie called back. “We got a little problem.” To me, she said, “You ain’t going to break that padlock, esse. It’s got a steel shroud around the hasp to keep people like you and me out.”

She’d read me right, I had been searching the ground for something I could use to smash the lock. She was also right about the padlock. The only way in would be to break the chain, and the links were heavy steel—shiny and new.

“Edgar think he got a pair of zombies in there?” Espie remarked, picking up the heavy links and giving them an experimental tug.

I swore and banged on the splintering face of the door. “J.X.?” I yelled. “Are you in there?”

Espie and I listened tensely. The doors creaked in a phantom breeze, the rain dropped in heavy splashes from the roof.

“If he’s
not
in there, I hope nobody else answers,” Espie whispered.

I pounded on the door. “J.X.?”

I could hear Rachel pacing uneasily a yard or so away.

“J.X.?”

“You’re creeping me out, man,” Espie said. “He’s not in there.”

“He might be unconscious.”

“Then he’s not going to answer you.”

I slammed my hand against the door in frustration one final time. “Okay. I need to get Edgar to open this goddamned building for me.”

“Now you’re talking,” Espie approved. “Let’s go back to the lodge. Maybe there’ll be some good news. Or some hot coffee. I think they waved the pot this morning over a match.”

“What’s going on?” Rachel shouted. “Are you both all right?”

“Yo!” Espie yelled back. “We’re fine.” To me she said almost kindly, “Come on, Christopher. If he is in there, the faster we get back to the lodge, the faster you can get to him.”

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She was right, but I had a horrible feeling as we turned and made our way back to the road. I was convinced that J.X. was in there and that if we left him now, we were leaving him to die.

But there was no way to get inside the damned building…

I stopped walking. “I’m going to wait back at the icehouse. When you get to the lodge, tell Edgar to come down and unlock the doors.”

“You can’t stay down here by yourself,” Rachel shrilled. “What if the killer comes after you?”

“Why should he? He wants me to be blamed for the murders. He can’t very well kill me.”

“He can if you make too much of a nuisance of yourself.”