Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (7 page)

In the end I arranged my toiletries around the bathroom cubbyhole, hung the evening’s apparel on the back of the door, with the shower taps blasting out hot water in the hopes the steam would shake out the wrinkles. If only it were as easy to shake out my own wrinkles, I thought, gloomily studying my face in the Halloween glow of the bathroom overhead.

I happened to know from a
Publisher’s Weekly
article that I was only five years older than J.X., but tonight I looked at least a decade or so. Granted today had not been the stuff of beauty treatments. Seeing him so unexpectedly had brought back the past in a vivid and disconcerting rush. I didn’t want to think about the man I had been back then when my career was taking off. I found the memory distracting. Maybe even depressing, although I wasn’t sure why. The best thing was not to think about it.

I flopped down on the calico bedspread and passed out.

Half a second later, it seemed, the alarm on my wristwatch went off. I rose and stumbled into the bath to splash some cold water—very cold water—on my face. I shaved and tried to get my hair to behave in a way that might fool someone into thinking I wanted it to look like that. Studying the bewildering array of grooming products foisted on me by the cosmetic counter consort: scrubs, cleanser, moisturizer, sunscreen (no worries there), and mask (not much of a disguise if you asked me) I wondered what the hell happened to soap, toothpaste and aftershave? One thing I’ve noticed about getting older, it takes twice as much work to get half the results one formerly achieved by falling out of bed. Not that I didn’t enjoy the architectural challenge of pitting hair and gel against the elements, but there was really no contest. All this effort wasn’t going to last three minutes in the wet and windy trek back to the main building.

I dragged on the Kenneth Cole trousers and shrugged into the coordinating classic stripe shirt the sales associate had selected for me. After consideration I decided a tie would look desperate. Pulling my still 40

www.samhainpublishing.com

Somebody Killed His Editor

damp Burberry back on, I shoved my Bruno Magli loafers in my raincoat pockets and stepped into my muddy boots once more.

The nap had slightly refreshed me, but it was nervous energy that propelled me across the wet and lonely stretch back to the lodge. Behind me most of the other cabins were still dark, the majority of guests choosing to hang out at the main house rather than face their lonely cells. I wondered where the icehouse now containing Peaches was located.

Reaching the main house safely, I finger combed my wet hair, changed my muddy boots for my loafers and went to find Rachel in the main dining room.

Down the hallway I nearly ran into “Satan” Krass and his entourage. Even if I hadn’t known him from his photos, I’d have picked him out of the crowd as the man to be reckoned with. I had to admit he had presence. Though he wasn’t as tall as I’d previously thought—in fact he was shorter than me—he was broad-shouldered and powerfully built beneath an Aran-knit sweater and charcoal trousers. Like a fashion magazine’s version of what people wore in ski lodges.

He was surrounded by a fluttering flock of mostly young and mostly pretty women. I wondered if he was married and what Mrs. Satan thought of the harem.

The comely George was also present. He noticed me scrunched to the side as the chickadees crowded past into the bar, and nodded a friendly greeting. I nodded back and happened to catch Steven Krass’s chill gaze. He showed zero recognition as he swept by. I tried not to take that as a bad omen.

Peaches’ death didn’t appear to be hurting anyone’s appetite. The dining room was crowded. Rachel sat at a table near the picture windows, clicking away on her laptop. As I pulled out a chair she looked up and nodded approvingly. “Much improved. Very professional. Gray suits you.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I touched the white collar of my shirt, resisting the urge to tug at it. “Gray doesn’t suit anyone.”

She shook her head as though age could not possibly be a real concern for anyone in these days of plastic surgery and implants. “Let’s order, then we can focus.”

The all-purpose Debbie arrived to take our drink order—which was a huge relief. I had feared this was one of those dry—literally—meeting of minds.

I ordered gin and tonic. Rachel ordered the house merlot, which Debbie earnestly explained was not the house merlot after all. It turned out that Blue Heron grapes were harvested and bottled by a neighboring winery.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Rachel commented. It was clearly rhetorical; but encouraged, Debbie burbled on about metal gondola trucks and crushers and fermentation. My attention wandered. I studied Rachel.

She looked better than she had earlier. She must have taken time for a nap as well. She appeared fresh and carefully made up as she always did. It occurred to me that although I’d known her for over a decade, I really knew very little about her. She had been born in British Hong Kong, wasn’t married, didn’t have www.samhainpublishing.com 41

Josh Lanyon

children and was allergic to dairy. That was the entire extent of my knowledge. Well, and she was a good agent. Yet I felt I knew her well enough to be sure that her reaction to Peaches’ death was not that of a casual acquaintance.

When I tuned back in, Debbie had departed with our drink order, and Rachel was frowning into her laptop screen like a gypsy fortuneteller gazing into her crystal ball.

She muttered, “We’re seeing some success with these mystery hybrids. The chick-lit heroine is a close relation to the contemporary amateur sleuth, you know.”

“Their shoes are too tight, their credit cards are maxed out and all the men they know are jerks,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t they turn to murder?”

“Still…” She got that faraway look in her eyes. “We might be better off taking a completely fresh direction.”

I nodded encouragingly.

Speaking of completely fresh directions, Debbie returned then with our drinks. I gratefully slammed half of my G&T. Rachel took a ladylike sip of wine as Debbie recited our dining options. Rachel went for the herbed chicken filet and I opted for veal medallions. Debbie retreated once more and Rachel resumed clicking and scowling.

“Sexy demons, I believe you said.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Mmmm. Of course once something is openly recognized as hot, it’s already starting to chill. Let’s dig deeper.”

“Sure. Let’s mine for coal.” I ran my hands through my hair, which brought a frown to those tiny features so reminiscent of Japanese hina dolls.

“Christopher, petal, hair sticking on end is truly
not
a good look.”

“But very appropriate for this place.”

She ignored this. “Right. Let’s think back to the late eighties. Vampires, werewolves, sexy historicals—these were all huge then, and we’re seeing their resurgence now, so my instinct is we’re starting to cycle around once more. If we can anticipate what will recrudesce…” She typed away. “What else was selling well in the late eighties?”

I tore my thoughts away from her use of the word “recrudesce”. I mean, who talks like that in real life? “Spinster sleuths were very popular in the late eighties,” I said. “Maybe Miss Butterwith is due for a revival.”

“Oh, Christopher,” she muttered, not even bothering to answer that.

“Regency novels,” I said gloomily.

She flicked me a thoughtful look.

“The Regency is tricky right now. A number of houses have cut the Regency from their roster, but it’s been in decline for so long it might be due to—”

42

www.samhainpublishing.com

Somebody Killed His Editor

“Recrudesce?” I suggested.

She was nodding thoughtfully to herself. “It’s not a bad notion. Time travel is still strong. But think Regency spec fiction. Space captains, vampires, werewolves, ghosts and witches have all been done.

What’s new?”

“Centaurs.”

“Christopher, do
try
to concentrate.”

“Centaurs are sexy,” I argued. “Or maybe satyrs.” Not that I personally have a thing for cloven hooves—or I’d have stayed with David—it was more to make a point.

Raucous laughter from the bar next door. The knots in my stomach pulled tighter still.

I drained my glass and leaned across the table towards her. “This is hopeless. Can’t we postpone even a few hours?”

“We were lucky to get this meeting.” I could tell Rachel instantly regretted the words.

I sat back as though she’d slapped me. “What does
that
mean?”

“Nothing. Steven Krass is a very busy man, that’s all.”

“He didn’t want to meet with me, did he?”

“Of course he wanted to meet with you.” You’d think for a high-powered agent, Rachel would be a better liar. “It’s only that he’s
extremely
busy.”

“This isn’t going to work,” I said. “His mind’s already made up. He isn’t going to be interested in anything I have to offer. I’m going to humiliate myself. More.”

Rachel’s hands fell away from the keyboard. “What are you talking about? That’s not true. Of course he’s interested. He agreed to meet with us, didn’t he? No one bribed him. No one threatened him.”

Why was she looking at me like that? Was she wondering if
I
had bribed or threatened him?

I glanced away from her tense face and caught sight of J.X. weaving his way through the crowded tables. He seemed to be making straight for us. I couldn’t help noticing—and being unreasonably irritated by—the interest he stirred as he made his way across the sea of herbed chicken and veal medallions and veggie plates, but then attractive single guys are always at a premium at writing conferences.

He pulled out one of the extra chairs and sat down, barely returning Rachel’s startled greeting before leaning across to me. “I thought I asked you to keep a lid on any possible homicide investigation,” he said shortly.

“Speaking of lids,” I returned equally terse, “you’ve flipped yours. I haven’t said a word to anyone.”

“Really? Then how is it everyone in the damn place seems to know Peaches was murdered?”

Rachel’s breath caught.

I said, “Newsflash. Everybody in the damn place was speculating that before we ever left to go find her.”

www.samhainpublishing.com 43

Josh Lanyon

“That’s true, J.X.,” Rachel said. As mad as I was, her flat tone caught my attention. She repeated slowly, “It’s true. So…it
is
true then?”

He glanced at her briefly, as though he’d forgotten she was sitting there. “We won’t know for sure till we get the autopsy results.”

“We?”

“Edgar set up a makeshift radio and I managed to talk briefly to the sheriff’s department. They’ve asked me to…hold the fort till they can get through. Hopefully sometime tomorrow evening.”

“Hold the fort. What a piquant term.” Rachel’s tone was light but her expression was distracted. The bleak look was back in her eyes.

“It reminds me of that movie,
Beau Geste
,” I said. “You know, the one where the Foreign Legion mans the fort with dead bodies to fool the Arabs. You don’t foresee that happening here, do you?”

If possible, J.X. looked even more unamused.

“I credited you with more sense,” he said. “Do me a favor and don’t speculate on this in public anymore. It could be…dangerous.”

I couldn’t help noticing that Rachel’s hand shook as she put her wineglass down. She asked, “What do you mean?”

I said to her, “He means it’s safer for all of us if the murderer believes that he or she is getting away with it—at least until the police arrive and can give the rest of us some protection.”

J.X. stared at me for a long moment. His long-lashed brown eyes were rather pretty for a man—the expression in them was anything but pretty.

I nodded toward him, adding, “Unless
he’s
the murderer. In which case, it’s to
his
advantage that we don’t—”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Kit.” J.X. rose. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

And with that he was gone. I picked up my empty glass, shook the ice in it, doing my best not to watch him threading his way through the tables. “Maybe that
was
a threat,” I joked.

Rachel gave a strained laugh. “After all, I suppose he does have a line on this. He used to work for…SFPD, wasn’t it? Some law enforcement agency.”

“The Gestapo?”

Debbie appeared at my elbow with a tray of fresh drinks. I took mine gratefully.

Rachel sipped her wine like she badly needed it, then said, sounding more like herself, “What is it between you two? I’d no idea you even knew each other. Let alone that there was bad blood.”

“Ancient history,” I said. “We had a five-minute thing way back when.”

Not that I wasn’t delighted to help take her mind off her troubles, but her astonishment seemed out of proportion. “When?”

44

www.samhainpublishing.com

Somebody Killed His Editor

“Years ago. Before David and I were…committed.” About a week before we were committed. And committed was pretty much the right word—as in, I should have been for even thinking of it considering what I’d already known then about David. “Maybe J.X. is still carrying a torch,” I added lightly, my ego still smarting.

She giggled. She is not a woman given to giggling.

“Or maybe he just wants to burn me at the stake.”

She burst out laughing.

“Hey, it’s not
that
funny.”

“It is actually,” Rachel retorted. “My God, Christopher, didn’t you know that he’s
straight?
”

www.samhainpublishing.com 45

A lesser man would have sprayed gin and tonic across the table. I managed to choke mine down and demand, “Since
when?”

Rachel raised her elegant eyebrows. “Since…forever, I suppose. It’s not a secret. He’s married.”

“He’s not wearing a ring.” I blushed as soon as the words were out, but yes, I
had
noticed. But that’s because I’m a mystery writer and we…notice things.

“Not everyone wears wedding rings. He’s straight. He’s married.” Rachel delivered it like an official pronouncement. Like she was one of the fairies gifting Sleeping Beauty’s christening: Beauty. Intelligence.