Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (24 page)

“Did you recognize the boots?”

Mindy made a tsking sound that reminded me strongly of Miss Butterwith. “I don’t look at men’s
feet
.” She made it sound slightly lurid.

“What kind of boots were they? Cowboy boots?”

“I don’t…I don’t remember. I didn’t really notice. I only glimpsed them.”

Wouldn’t cowboy boots stick in her memory? They were pretty visual. “What night was this?”

“Thursday.” Her eyes were narrowed, thinking back. “It wasn’t Georgie, obviously. And it wasn’t Steven because he was still in the bar.”

“What time was it?”

“Late. After eleven.”

Only here in Westworld would eleven be considered
late
. I had to admit that this was an interesting development. There was no proof that the man with Peaches had killed her, but at the same time no one had rushed forward with the information he’d been boinking the deceased the night of her death.

“So you see,” Mindy said. “Everything indicates J.X.”

“Or Edgar.” For that matter, Rita wore rugged work boots. Not that I thought for one instant that Rita and Peaches had put aside their differences for some sizzling sheet time. And frankly I wasn’t discounting Gorgeous George merely because Mindy alibied him.

“Edgar!” Mindy chuckled. “Edgar was the one man here absolutely impervious to that slut’s charms. I don’t think he even knew she existed.”

I said, “I thought George was absolutely impervious to her charms?”

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Mindy’s smile faded. Her eyes were cold. “I was not including George, naturally.” She looked at the pink rhinestone watch on her wrist. “Look at the time. I wanted to get my seven pages in this morning.”

She bustled up the staircase and I headed for the main meeting room. The conference was now officially over, but since we were all stuck for the time being, the room was crowded with small groups of chatting women. I didn’t see anyone I wanted to talk to, and I backed out again.

I tried the dining room next but it was empty except for the couple of staff members setting up for lunch. I had better luck in the bar where I found Rachel and Espie drowning their sorrows over glasses of wine that looked large enough to be water tumblers.

“Hoo boy, Christopher, you have got to hear this,” Espie greeted me when I poked my head through the doorway. She beckoned me over, and I slid into the booth beside Rachel.

She nodded cordially to me and said on a little gust of wine breath, “Don’t give up, Christopher.

Don’t ever give up.”

Being the amazing master detective that I am, it took me about two seconds to deduce they were both drunk off their butts. At eleven thirty in the morning, no less. And people said
I
drank too much.

“Go get a drink,” Espie commanded. “You gotta hear this.”

“And it’ll go down better if I’m drunk?”

They both giggled maniacally at that, and I slid out of the booth and went over to the bar where Rita was wiping glasses. She gave me a dry look—the only dry thing in the room at that point.

Ordering a brandy, I carried it back to the table.

They both watched solemnly as I took a swallow. Then Espie said to Rachel, “Tell him.”

“You tell him,” Rachel said, recalcitrant all at once. In all the years of our association I’d never known her to be remotely tipsy. The weekend’s fallout had resulted in some stimulating moments.

Espie leaned across the table and whispered, “There is a rumor going around…” She started laughing, unable to finish. Fascinated, I studied the crinkling tattoo tear by her eye as she soundlessly giggled.

“Holmes and Moriarty,” Rachel said, losing patience. “Christopher Holmes and Julian Xavier Moriarity. Someone finally noticed your last names, and the rumor going round is that this is all some kind of battle of wits between you and J.X.” She met Espie’s eyes and they practically fell across the tabletop laughing.

When I had recovered enough to respond, I said, “Can’t these morons spell? His name is M-o-r-i-a-r-i-t-y not M-o-r-i-a-r-t-y.”

For some reason that struck them as even funnier.

“Holmes and Moriarity sitting in a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G,” sing-songed Espie. Rachel bent over the table, her nose just missing the fogged surface as her head bounced with giggles.

“Dear God,” I murmured.

“Elementary, my dear Holmes,” gulped Espie.

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I swallowed the rest of my brandy and rose. “Is there any word from the sheriff’s department? When are they sending help? We’ve been cut off for three days.”

“Two and a half,” Rita said from behind the bar.

All at once I was very tired—and fresh out of ideas. I left Rachel and Espie cackling to themselves and wandered down to the reading room. The kid, Debbie, was in one of the overstuffed chairs reading furtively. She sat bolt upright when I walked in, and I saw the title of the paperback she held.
Some Like it
Haute
by Peaches Sadler.

She moved to make her escape. I said, “Can you not run away? I swear to you I had nothing to do with anyone’s death. I’m as scared as you are.”

She sank back in her chair, eyeing me warily. “Then why does everyone think you did it?”

“They don’t. Now they think J.X. did it.”

I could see by her expression that she had heard that rumor. She scoffed. “No way. He’s not the type.”

“Ouch. But you think I am?”

She smiled reluctantly, although her gaze was still doubtful. “He got along with everyone. He was nice.”

“Yeah, he was.” My throat closed up and I had to look away. It had to be the lack of sleep, but for a second I couldn’t say anything.

Still observing me in that frank way adolescents do, she asked curiously, “You were good friends?”

“I don’t know what we were,” I admitted tiredly. “But I’m not going to sit here while…”

My voice trailed because that’s exactly what I was going to do. I had no idea of how to proceed from here. I was so far out of my depth the sharks were nibbling my toes.

“Are you crying?” she demanded, shocked.

I straightened, wiping hastily at my eyes with the back of my hand. “Allergies,” I told her. “Can I ask you a kind of weird question? Can you think of any place around here someone might…try to hide a body?”

I risked a glance. Debbie looked more sympathetic than shocked. She shook her head. “We searched all the cabins and sheds and the garage.”

“It’s such a big place.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you grow up here?”

She nodded.

“It’s kind of lonely, isn’t it?”

She seemed amused. “It seems that way because we’re cut off now, but I used to go to the local high school. It’s only an hour by bus.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

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She laughed outright at that. “How old do you think I am? I’m in college now. Or at least I was. I’m taking a semester off.”

“Oh?”

She made a little face. “I’m trying to decide what I want to do. College bores me.”

“Maybe you’re taking the wrong courses.”

I spoke absently, but she responded immediately, “That’s what I think. Mom and Dad want me to take business and hotel management.”

“Ah.”

“But…I mean, I love it here, but…”

“You don’t want to spend the rest of your life running the Blue Heron Lodge?”

She nodded sheepishly.

“What did Peaches think about that?” I inquired. “You said you showed her your work?”

“I
did
?”

“Maybe it was your mom.” I watched her expression. “She said Peaches was very encouraging.”

“Mom said
that
?” Debbie gazed at me, puzzled.

“She did, yeah. Well, maybe that was a mother’s pride talking—”

“No, Peaches was great,” Debbie said quickly. “She said wonderful things about my writing. She said I should be writing full-time, not standing behind a check-in counter.”

“Ah.” I began to understand some of Rita’s fury. “Well, you could do both, right?”

“Not really. Peaches was saying that in order to write, you had to have something to write about. Life experiences.”

I knew where this was going. “And Peaches didn’t think you could get life experiences here or in college?”

“She said college is for the people who want to teach, not people who want to
do
.”

Peaches was a freaking idiot. I said mildly, “Don’t you need to learn
how
to do something before you start trying to do it?”

She shook her head. “The best way is to jump in and start doing it. That was what Peaches said.”

“Yeah, well judging by the number of drownings each year, I’m not sure that always works.”

Debbie frowned disapproval at this heresy. I said, “So did Peaches have a suggestion about how you could get life experiences?”

“She thought I should move to New York because that’s where the publishing industry is centered, and maybe I could get a job as an editor’s assistant somewhere. She said she’d put in a good word for me.”

I swallowed. “Did she?”

Debbie nodded. “That way I’d be able to work with the best writers while I was working on my own book.”

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“Are you working on a book?”

“Not yet. But I would be once I got to New York.”

I wondered if my eyes were actually spinning or if it only felt that way. “Well, I can’t blame your mom for killing her,” I said.

Debbie’s expression never changed, and I was relieved to discover I had only thought the words, not said them—sincere though they were. I wondered if Peaches had planned to use Debbie for creative harvesting or if she’d merely carelessly tossed off the advice never thinking—or worrying—of the ramifications if Debbie followed it.

“I guess that’s what your mom was upset about that night she argued with Peaches.”

Debbie nodded unhappily.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, your mom thinks you’re talented too.”

“Yeah, but that’s Mom. Peaches
knew
.” She gave a little gulp, her eyes tearing as she remembered the tragic loss of Peaches.

“Did J.X. ask you any questions about…anything?”

“He asked me about the glass in Ms. Ving’s room. The one that was supposed to have an earring in it.” Her eyes met mine. “There was no earring.”

“It’s okay.” I touched my earlobe. “I found it.”

“
Oh
.”

“Nothing else? He didn’t ask you about Peaches?”

“Well…” She looked vague. “Just if I’d seen anything or had any ideas about who might have hurt her.” She darted me a guilty look indicating her suspicions had been focused on me.

So J.X. had either not included Rita or Edgar in his conjectures, or he had kept those conjectures from Debbie.

What was I missing? There had to be something I was overlooking.

Yes, the lodge was a big place and the grounds were spread out, but the killer would not have limitless time in which to act. The conference guests were jumpy and alert at this point. No one could risk disappearing for hours on end. If J.X. was alive—if he wasn’t buried out behind some shed—he had to be nearby. But where?

I stared unseeingly at the pale oak paneling, the black and white photos of the lodge…vineyards and wine vats and grape pickers…

I said slowly, “Is there a wine cellar here?”

“Sure.”

“Could I see it?”

She stared at me. “Why?”

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I smiled—an effect probably similar to the Grinch trying to reassure Cindy Lou Who that he wasn’t stealing Christmas. “I’m a writer. I’m always looking for settings for my stories.”

She wasn’t buying it.

I abandoned all pretense and hit her with the truth. She wanted to experience life? Well, here was a big slice of it: fear and loss. “The truth is, I’m running out of places to look for J.X., and I’m getting desperate. We didn’t search the lodge itself. It’s the only place left I can think of.”

Debbie bit her lip. “He wouldn’t be here in the lodge.”

“Did you ever read a story by Poe called ‘The Purloined Letter’?”

“No.”

My eyes widened. Maybe this higher education thing was a waste of time. What
were
they having these kids read?

“The point of the story is that sometimes the best way to hide something is in plain sight.”

She considered this. “But guests aren’t supposed to go down to the cellar. It’s part of the original structure and a lot of it isn’t used anymore. It’s not in good shape.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The law-abiding tyke disapproved of that suggestion. “We should probably ask Mom or Dad.”

“Let’s not,” I said quickly. “Your mom doesn’t like me and your dad already thinks I’m a nut after the thing at the icehouse.”

I could see by her expression that Edgar had indeed had colorful things to say about me dragging him down to the icehouse.

“Welllll…”

“If you do this for me, I’ll look at your manuscript when it’s finished, and I’ll give you all the free advice you want.”

She looked astonished. “Are
you
published?”

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“The door is supposed to stay locked when we have people staying at the lodge,” Debbie whispered to me, “but we all forget.”

We were standing in a rough-hewn stairwell a few feet from the back door leading to the kitchen. The wine cellar entrance was down a short flight of outside steps. The stone stairwell hid us from casual observers, but if anyone came hunting us it would be hard to explain what we were doing lurking outside the wine cellar door.

Debbie clipped the key ring on her belt and pushed the heavy door open, feeling around inside for a light switch. “The cellar runs the full length of the lodge,” she said. “It’s huge. But we only use the racks nearest the door now. That’s plenty of room for us these days.”

“You don’t use it for general storage?”

“No. It’s not convenient to have to run outside every time we need a fresh jug of milk. There are two pantries and a small storeroom inside the lodge. We keep the wine and the rest of the booze down here.”