Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (18 page)

“Involved. I was a participant.”

I admit I was mildly shocked. You don’t expect your significant others to have blood on their hands. Unless they cut themselves shaving.

“It’s one of those things you pray will never happen on your watch. I happened to get called out as backup on a domestic. We had a complaint that an ex-SWAT officer had beat up his wife. Not for the first time either. There was a history of domestic violence at that address.

Anyway, when the first responders went to the door, the guy pulled what they believed to be a rifle. He aimed it at the officers, wouldn’t put it down despite repeated warnings, and…we shot him. It turned out later that he was brandishing an air rifle, but there’s no way anyone could have known that at the time. Somebody’s pointing a rifle at you—someone who knows how to use it—

” J.X. shook his head. “We were all cleared, but I can tell you I thought long and hard about resigning. The officers who first responded both ended up taking early retirement.”

“Jeez.” I had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea J.X. had anything like that in his past. It was a reminder of how much we still had to learn about each other.

“It’s hard to comprehend the way a disturbed mind works. But disturbed people often seem perfectly rational until they finally snap. We all have our methods for coping and they usually happen behind closed doors.”

I recalled a few of my own methods for coping after David had left. “Okay. But Poppy couldn’t have doctored that bottle of wine last night.”

“You won’t know that until you know
how
the wine was doctored—if whatever substance made us sick was even in the wine. But it’s not impossible that a guest in this house could have tampered with a bottle of wine, any bottle, knowing that sooner or later the poisoned bottle would be selected. The more time that passed, the stronger this person’s alibi would appear. Especially if he or she could avoid returning to the house.”

“Great.”

J.X. grinned. “Nobody ever said being a master detective was easy.”

As much as I generally enjoy breakfast, I can’t say I had much appetite for eggs and bacon in a house where a fatal poisoning had occurred a few hours earlier. I wished I could have ordered in pizza, but it was liable to send a negative message.

A more negative message than the cops roaming the stately halls of Murder Manor.

J.X. had even less appetite for breakfast. He sipped tea while I bravely poked hardboiled eggs and nibbled on the corners of bacon.

We had the dining room to ourselves. I don’t know what Tim Gunn’s take is on such situations, but I was relieved to not have to make polite breakfast conversation with people I suspected of trying to bump off my hostess.

“You want some toast?” I inquired. “You should probably eat something.”

He shuddered like a horse trying to rid itself of flies. “No thanks.”

I gave up trying to pretend I was eating either. “I’ve been thinking. Since Poppy is staying with Victoria, maybe we should walk over there.”

I had his full attention. “And do what?”

“Ask her if she’s feeling suicidal?”

He choked on his coffee, but recovered. “If you want. But it would make more sense to drive.”

“Actually, I think I’d like to be outside for a while.”

“Are you sure you’re up to a walk in the snow?”

“I am if you are.”

He shrugged off the idea that he might not be up to anything. His gaze, meeting mine, was thoughtful. I was afraid he understood my reluctance to get in a car again only too well.

Since we practically live in our cars in So Cal, I knew I’d have to get over that, but for now I preferred the idea of walking. It helped that, as battered and bruised as I was, I seemed to have a constant supply of sheer nervous energy that was keeping me on my feet and moving.

Since I’m usually about as big a baby as you can find when it comes to my own physical woes, I was a little surprised at my macho-man impersonation. Though probably not as surprised as J.X., who’d witnessed me canceling one of our three weekends midway through because of a migraine.

Maybe the tough guy thing was catching.

Probably not.

We were finishing up our tea and coffee when a uniformed officer requested J.X.

accompany him to make his statement. He rose at once in a spirit of cooperativeness, although I’m not sure how much of a statement you can get out of the single word
ralph
.

I went upstairs to change into something warm enough to walk across the north forty without developing pneumonia.

As I was checking my wallet I noticed the In Case Of Emergency card had been tucked in with the bills. Probably when the emergency technicians or hospital staff were trying to identify us after Poppy’s car had gone over the side. I stared at the small, Day-Glo green card.

The wallet was only a couple of months old, and I hadn’t bothered to fill in the emergency card until after I’d returned from my adventures in Northern California. I’d forgotten all about it, in fact, but right there in the field where it asked who to contact in case of emergency, I’d written J.X.’s name and phone number. There was no mistake. It was my handwriting.

As horrible as that writing-retreat weekend had been, I’d come back from it feeling newly confident and even happy. And a large part of the reason for both those emotions was J.X.

It was later on that I’d got cold feet, that I’d kept trying to stall and delay the relationship from progressing.

Why?

Clearly I’d been feeling confident enough to list J.X. as something pretty darned close to next of kin.

Nor had I been wrong. When I’d needed him, he’d dropped everything to fly across country to my bedside—and this after I’d basically blown him off.

I slipped the card back in my wallet. That was one mystery solved, anyway. Maybe it hadn’t been conscious, but I
had
asked for J.X. after I’d been injured. I had certainly wanted him.

I still did.

Sliding the wallet into my back pocket, I dragged a heavy blue and green tweed pullover over my shirt and headed for the door.

It opened before I reached it. J.X. looked in.

“There you are. Ready?”

“I think maybe I am.”

He blinked as I walked straight up to him, wrapped my arms around his neck and locked my mouth on his.

When we finally, reluctantly broke contact, he said with a hint of unsteadiness, “What was that for?”

As I stared into his eyes I felt like I was seeing right into his heart, seeing the strength tempered by gentleness, the stubbornness balanced by loyalty and integrity, the honesty that didn’t sacrifice kindness. “I missed you.”

“Okay. I missed you too.” He seemed bemused, but agreeable.

My normal self-consciousness reasserted itself. I started to walk past him and J.X. caught my good arm, swinging me back. He scrutinized my face for a long moment, then he kissed me again, quickly, lightly.

“I mean that,” he said softly. I realized that once again he’d read me quite accurately. It was getting to be a habit with him. “I did miss you, Kit. But I won’t push you for more than you can give.”

It was absurdly hard to meet his eyes. I nodded.

It seemed like a very long walk to Victoria’s, but that was probably more about snow than distance.

Or maybe it was more about how out of shape I was. Although, in fairness, I was in better shape than I had been three months ago—or at least I had been before the car accident. Once J.X.

and I had started seeing each other—okay, perhaps “seeing each other” was an overstatement of three visits in three months—I’d made myself start swimming again and half-heartedly working out.

In fact, it occurred to me, as he was helping me over yet another fence stile, that maybe that sense of being unprepared, well,
unfit
, had been a factor in my reluctance to get involved with him. There was going to be a lot of competition for a guy like J.X. I’d already lost one lover to a younger, cuter rival. I didn’t know if I could take having it happen twice. All the biceps curls in the world weren’t going to turn me into Mr. Atlas.

Hell, J.X. was probably too young to even know who Mr. Atlas was.

I continued to brood as we walked down the snow-cleared dirt road past long white stretches of meadow and copses of dark evergreens. The air smelled of snow and pines. It burned in my lungs. My muscles burned too. It was a hike, not a walk, and a harder hike than I’d expected.

“Tell me about Poppy,” J.X. asked, probably to distract me—much like the sheriffs do with their mortally wounded deputies in all those old westerns.

“She’s…different. I couldn’t really get a fix on her. Apparently her husband died in some kind of accident last year and left her a bundle. I don’t think she likes men.”

“You mean—”

“No. I think she’s heterosexual, I think she just dislikes men. I think she’s got a lot of aggressions for whatever reason.” I described the story she’d contributed to the group for him.

“Wow.”

“That was, in varying degrees, kind of the reaction of everyone else in the group. In fact, I think she made Nella sick to her stomach. Literally. The story
is
pretty graphic. Nella’s story had a lot of violence too, but it was all lyrical and symbolic. Poppy’s approach was what you might call cut and dried.”

“Ouch.”

“Yep. That was my reaction reading it.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed how hard I was breathing. My shoulder was aching like a sonofabitch. Why had I thought making like Scott heading for the South Pole was such a grand scheme? I was beginning to think I’d end this expedition the same way.

“Is there any conjecture her husband’s death wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t come up over the finger sandwiches and tea. She did make a weird comment when Sara was critiquing her story. I forget the exact wording, but Sara said something like the protagonist of Poppy’s story would never have the nerve to commit murder, and Poppy answered to the effect that it went to show how little Sara knew.”

“Hmm.”

I knew what that noncommittal
hmm
meant. I said, “It’s not what she said—well, it is partly what she said—but it was kind of the tone too. Like she let her anger get the better of her.

And Victoria cut in right away, as though she was trying to keep Poppy from saying something damaging.”

“You think Poppy killed her husband and Victoria knows about it?”

“Maybe. I realize Victoria could have merely been trying to keep Poppy from saying something stupid. She does present all the symptoms of terminal open-mouth-insert-foot disease.” I added, “If Poppy did murder her better half, I don’t see her killing herself out of remorse.”

“But there might be other things going on that you’re not aware of. Financial problems, legal problems, health problems.”

“True.”

“Did you want to stop and rest for a few minutes?”

“God
yes
.”

His laugh was not unkind as he brushed snow off a flat-topped rock that provided a natural bench.

After I saw Victoria’s farmhouse I had to revise my idea about possible motives for murder. It was one of those cute, rambling places that provide the domestic centerpiece of films like
Bringing Up Baby
or
Christmas in Connecticut
.
I’d
have killed for a place like that: old stone and dormer windows, Dutch doors and gingerbread trim. Lamps shone in welcome from behind the mullioned windows.

There was no front porch, only a stoop beneath the white-frosted overhang. We—okay,
I
—staggered up the single step and hammered at the wooden surface half-concealed by the enormous evergreen wreath.

The door swung open and Victoria gazed at us in open surprise.

“Chris!”

“Hi there. We were…er, out walking.” As cover stories went, it wasn’t much, but you have to work with the tools you have. In my case, hypothermia and blisters.

“Did you lose your way?”

I heard the small sound J.X. made behind me, but I ignored it. “How’s Poppy? Is she still staying with you?”

“Well, yes. But…” Her gaze veered from me to J.X. and back to me again. Reluctantly, she stepped back, holding the door wide. “Poppy’s feeling much better. Come in, both of you.

You must be freezing.”

The interior of the house lived up to the promise of the exterior: big rooms with open beamed ceilings, built-in bookshelves, old-fashioned wallpaper, comfortable chintz-covered furniture.

Victoria led us straight through to the front room where a fire was burning in the grate.

“I can’t believe that you’re out hiking after just getting out of the hospital.”

“I didn’t realize how far it was.” That, at least, was the gospel truth.

“How are things over at the house? Is Anna feeling any better?”

“She’s better, yes. Still weak, though.”

“Weak?” Victoria sounded puzzled. “Well, of course it was a shock, and Anna was very fond of Nella.”

I stopped walking and J.X. halted short of crashing into me. “Then you don’t know?”

“Know what?” Victoria turned to face me. If she was faking it, she was a better actress than me. Er, than I’d expected.

In the wide room beyond her I could see Poppy. She lay on a long blue chintz sofa, her broken leg propped on pillows. She looked pretty comfy, all things considered. She was staring wide-eyed at us over the top of
Vogue
magazine.

“Sara Mason is dead,” I said. “The whole house was struck with food poisoning last night.

Sara had it the worst.”

The magazine in Poppy’s hand slipped and crashed onto the table, knocking her coffee mug and sandwich plate to the floor.

The two of them stared at us in open horror.

“I thought you knew,” I said. “It didn’t dawn on me that you might not.” If I’d realized, I might have tried to break it more gently, though admittedly this did give us better opportunity to examine their reactions.

Victoria seemed to gather herself. “We’ve had the TV off all day. I don’t listen to the radio and we haven’t used our laptops since…” She cleared her throat. “No one called us.”