Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (6 page)

“Yes. I found her.” I couldn’t think of anything to add to that. My brain didn’t seem to be working properly. Too much fresh air.

“Was she—?”

“Dead?”

He shook his head. “Murdered,” he said huskily.

So much for J.X.’s hope to keep a lid on it.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“What happened to her?”

Josh Lanyon

“I don’t know.”

“You must know something.”

A lot of things. And none of them pertinent. “I knew where to find her,” I said. “Were you close to her?”

He was silent, considering.

“No one was close to her,” he said.

I wondered if that were true. I recalled Miss Butterwith once pronouncing that murder always indicated a certain degree of intimacy. But people in Miss Butterwith’s world were never killed by maniacs or serial killers, and I had my heart set on Peaches being offed by a passing madman.

“I’m Christopher Holmes,” I said, and shifted suitcases to offer a hand.

“George Lacey.” He chopped the axe into a broad tree stump with casual, unerring aim, and shook my hand. “Where did you find her?”

“I had to walk from the main road after the bridge washed out. I stopped in the woods near a tiny Japanese shrine—and there she was.”

“Wow.”

“My words exactly.” I’m not sure where the thought came from, but I heard myself ask, “How come no one noticed she was missing?”

He gave a funny laugh. “Maybe it was a relief to most of them when she was a no-show.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t exactly
Ms
. Popularity, you know what I mean?” He took my big suitcase with his free hand—jeez, random acts of kindness practiced right before my very eyes. “Come on, we can get back in this way.” He proceeded in the direction opposite of the way I’d come. I gathered my wits and started after him.

“Christopher Holmes, huh? Your name’s familiar. I think I’ve read your books.” He glanced over at me. “You write about that Welsh policeman in the mountain village, don’t you?”

“Er—no. I write the Miss Butterwith series.”

“Oh.” He sounded doubtful. “The syrup-bottle lady?”

“That’s Mrs. Butter
worth
. No relation.”

“Oh.”

“Are you a writer?”

He made the sound that Miss Butterwith would have referred to as a raspberry. “Me? Nah. I’m here with Mindy.”

“Ah ha,” I said. Mindy, Mandy, Buffy, Trixie. They were all interchangeable. Bright young things with enthusiasm and ambition and occasionally talent, eager to discuss topics like Should You Trust Your Computer’s Word Count? Or What Color Did You Paint Your Home Office?

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Somebody Killed His Editor

“You probably know her,” George added.

“I doubt it.”

George and I trekked through the vine-covered arbor and cut back between a vegetable patch and another outlying building, probably a smokehouse from back in the days when smoked meats were still accepted in polite society.

“How many people are trapped here?” I asked.

“You mean guests?”

“What a quaint way to put it. No, I mean literally. Everybody. We’re cut off from the outside, you know.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. There are fifty conference attendees. I’m not sure if that’s counting you or not. And then the lodge staff. It’s off-season, so they don’t have a big crew.”

“Did anyone leave during the night?” Look at me, making like the long lost Hardy Boy. Frank, Joe and now Dick.

“I don’t know.” He didn’t sound particularly interested, and why should he be?

Why should
I
be?

We reached the long front porch where the cowbell chimes clanged on the breeze, and pushed our way through the heavy doors. The front desk was deserted again.

“Hey,” said George, pushing back the hood of his jacket. “Where is everybody? Someone’s supposed to be watching the front entrance.”

I now recognized George as the angelically beautifully guy with the guitar who I’d spotted earlier.

Music and wood-chopping. What more could you ask of a man? Besides fidelity, I mean.

“It sounds like they’re having a meeting,” I said, listening to the sounds from down the hallway. “Or a lynching.”

“Those babes can talk,” George agreed. He set my suitcase down and pulled the heavy bar across the front door.

“I guess you aren’t expecting any more late arrivals,” I said, and no pun intended as I thought of poor old Peaches even now checking into the icehouse.

“I guess,” George replied. “Well, let’s see what’s cooking…”

Speaking of cooking, I was starting to get that low blood-sugar feeling. Not sure if death and disaster were supposed to actually stimulate one’s appetite, but I was close to hallucinating at the thought of stale saltines or a lonely chocolate mint that might even now be waiting in my cabin. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to follow George as he started down the long hallway. I was debating how to wisely use my last milliseconds of energy when I heard my name whispered in a very sinister fashion.

“Christopher,”
the voice hissed again as I looked wildly around the lobby. “Here. Up
here.”

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Josh Lanyon

I looked up. Two stories above me, Rachel leaned at a death-defying angle over the staircase railing.

She beckoned sharply to me.

I gestured to George’s retreating back. Rachel made waving motions like I was out of bounds. I obediently peeled off, dropping my bags at the front desk and hiking up the staircase to where she stood gnawing her long acrylic nails.

“
Well?
”
she demanded as I reached the top step. She sounded as breathless as I felt.

“Well what?”

She was haggard. Hollow-eyed. That’s what comes of these writing conferences. “Was she…?”

“Dead? Yes. Of course.”

“Murdered.”

“That too.” Guiltily I remembered J.X.’s orders. “I mean, I think so.” I dredged up one of Miss Butterwith’s favorite phrases. “We can’t be sure until we see the coroner’s report.”

Did they have coroners up north? Or were they MEs?

“Why would you be looking at the coroner’s report? Are you working with J.X. on this?”

“It’s a figure of speech. No, I have nothing to do with any of this.” Positive affirmation: if I kept saying it, maybe it would be true.

Rachel whispered, “How was she…killed?”

“A tree branch crushed her skull.”

She closed her eyes for an instant. “But that could have been an accident.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Maybe it was.”

Rachel’s lashes lifted. She stared at me, perplexed. “What does J.X. say?”

“Very little and most of it’s pretty damn rude.”

She chewed her lip.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

She stared at me, wide-eyed and wordless. She’s not the wide-eyed wordless type.

“You’re acting very weirdly,” I said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s…shocking.”

True. I studied her doubtfully. “How did you know it was her?” I asked suddenly.

Her gaze zeroed in on mine. “Sorry?”

“When I described what Peaches was wearing, you seemed to recognize her from the description.”

The description of her pajamas and toe ring.

She shook her head. “No. It was simply that no one had seen her all day. We’d all been wondering where she was.”

Maybe that was true. It sort of meshed with what George had said. Besides, if Rachel wanted to lie about it, that was her business.

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Somebody Killed His Editor

Why, then, did my mouth flap open and the words, “When did you last see her?” slip out.

“What?” She seemed confused. “I…yesterday. No. Last night. In the bar. She was with J.X. and Steven Krass. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“A writer’s curiosity. Forget it.” I turned to go downstairs. “I’m heading to my cabin and then I’m going to bed,” I informed her. “Is there any kind of room service around here?”

“No.” She shook off her preoccupation. “Anyway, you can’t go to bed. Your meeting with Steven Krass has been moved up to tonight. We’re going to have drinks in the lounge.”

“You expect me to have drinks and pitch a new series
tonight
?”

“Christopher, he’s booked practically every minute of this retreat. We have to squeeze in where we can. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?”

I met her strained gaze. “Uh…right.”

“So go lie down for an hour or two and then make yourself presentable. You have to make this opportunity count.”

Oh, God. Here it was. The moment of truth.

“The thing is, Rachel,” I said. There was no easy way to put it. “I don’t have an idea for a new series.”

She lost that wild-eyed look and focused on me.

“
What?
What have you been working on for the past weeks?” She sounded almost like her normal obsessive workaholic self.

“All kinds of things, but none of them gelled. I just…can’t…” I took a deep breath and said goodbye to my career, “…write something with a twenty-something female protagonist. I don’t get that thing about the shoes.” I delivered the death blow. “I can’t write chick lit.”

There, it was out.

“Chick lit? Don’t waste time on chick lit. Chick lit is over. Dead.”

Wow. Coincidence. Peaches
and
chick lit in the same week.

“But I thought you said—?”

“That was before. All the data indicates the latest industry trend is veering toward thrillers. Techno thrillers in particular. Erotica is hot. Paranormal is hot. Sexy demons in techno thrillers are
very
hot.” She waved her hand as though she had burned her fingers on the latest demon techno-thriller romance.

“But…”

“No worries.” Her acrylic talons sank into my arm although her voice was even. “We’ll get together for an early dinner and brainstorm. We can come up with something utterly brill before your meeting with Sata—Steven. Don’t panic.”

“I’m too tired to panic,” I said. “I’m too tired to care one way or the other.”

“That’s not the right attitude, Christopher. This is your career we’re talking about. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to survive. This is your
life
.”

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Josh Lanyon

I met her fierce gaze. The sad thing was, she was right. My career
was
my life. And up until now it had been a supremely rewarding one. It had been my pleasure and my passion. It had provided a very comfortable lifestyle and it had nearly made up for one spectacularly awful relationship—and everything else I might have missed.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll take a shower and a quick nap and meet you back here for dinner at…” I checked my watch, “…six.”

“Remember what we talked about, Christopher,” Rachel warned. “It’s also about The Look. It’s about the whole package. Platform
and
presentation.”

“And all these years I thought it was about the writing,” I said bitterly.

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“They were all jealous of her,” Velma told me as we slogged our way through the obstacle course of puddles and mud holes to the guest cabins located a pasture length from the main house.

“Really?” I said with polite disbelief. Granted, Peaches had not been at her best during our brief acquaintanceship. “Why do you think so?” Not that I cared. I was making conversation strictly to keep myself from falling asleep on my feet.

“I
know
so,” said Velma.

My back ached. Everything ached. I had never been so tired in all my life. Maybe I was dreaming.

Maybe even now I lay in a soft warm bed and merely dreamed that the rain was blowing in my face and I was stumbling through weeds and mud to a little sod shanty on the plains.

“Even Mom…I can’t believe she said those things…”

I tuned back in. Velma, who was actually named Debbie and turned out to be Edgar and Rita’s daughter, had been designated to guide me to my cabin. Either the kid was the only expendable member of a reduced staff or her parents still clung to the belief that Peaches had died an accidental death.

“People say things when they’re in shock,” I said. “Don’t take it seriously.”

“Mom’s not like that. She’s like…a…a…pioneer person. Nothing shocks her.”

“Well, maybe Peaches wasn’t a very pleasant guest. I don’t know.” And I cared even less. But I heard Debbie catch her breath like she was close to tears, and I said gruffly, “I’m sure your mom is dealing with it the best she can. She’s probably worried about how this will affect business. I know that sounds kind of callous, but—”

“Last night?”

“Huh?” I said, stopping in my tracks. Debbie stopped, too, turning to face me.

“Was she worried about her business last night? Because last night she said…” She shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter.” She swung away, sloshing right through the nearest puddle.

“You mean your mother and Peaches argued last night?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Uh…probably not. What did they say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

We were now at my cabin, which Debbie unlocked. She pushed the door wide, felt inside and turned on a light switch.

Josh Lanyon

“The phones aren’t working now,” she informed me. “There are candles and matches in the bureau drawer, in case the power goes out.”

“Is that likely?” I looked around uneasily.

The cabin consisted of one room with a charming print of Indians killing buffalos—or, in one instance, buffalos killing Indians—over the full-sized bed. There was a table and a lamp and a metal fireplace and a door leading off to a tiny bathroom with a scary shower curtain straight out of
Psycho
. No television and no internet access—and seemingly no phone. It was like prison for writers. Even killers get TV.

“It happens. We start serving dinner at seven in the main dining room.”

I thanked her. She wasn’t meeting my eyes, perhaps regretting her earlier need to confide. Without further adieu, she slipped out, closing the door behind her.

I wondered if it was worth my while to unpack. The rain couldn’t last forever, and the minute it let up, I was out of here. Murder investigation or no murder investigation.