Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (22 page)

“That asshole.” He growled it with heartwarming promptness. “We lost enough time thanks to him. Don’t let him cost us even another day.”

“Thanks. I’ll try not to obsess.”

“Good luck with
that.
”

I opened my mouth to retaliate when I realized we had passed the scene of the accident a few fleeting seconds before.

It was an unexpected relief. As a matter of fact, bickering companionably with J.X. had taken my mind completely off my anxiety about being in a car. I glanced at his profile. His mouth was curved in a faint smile. I suspected that he’d deliberately been distracting me.

Rowland was trying to close for the night by the time we found Blackbird Books.

It was a small brick shop with ornate scripted windows and an old-fashioned hanging sign. Blackbird Books was located in the heart of Nitchfield. On one side of the shop was a bakery and on the other was a paint supply store—both closed for the evening.

J.X. parked in the tiny empty alley behind the bookshop and we went around to the front.

We hadn’t exactly argued over talking to Rowland, but J.X. was not in favor of it, and as per ever, not afraid to say so.

“This will only take a couple of minutes,” I assured him. Even if Rowland hadn’t been on Victoria’s list for the gift exchange, I felt it would be worth chatting with him. He’d lived in Nitchfield all his life and he’d known Anna longer than anyone else in the Asquith Circle.

J.X. glanced past me, nodded and committed himself to nothing as he held the front door open for me.

It was warm and bright inside, smelling of books and hardwood floors and the bakery next door. Bookmark mobiles hung from the ceiling. Cute banners in primary colors urged people to READ.

I spotted Rowland immediately. He stood openly perspiring behind the counter as he tried to assist a distracted-looking woman with a pyramid of books she was apparently returning. On the floor near her feet, two small children were busily pulling all the books out of lower shelves and stacking them in crooked towers.

“Don’t do that, Patsy,” the woman said automatically. “This man will have to put them all away.”

This was Patsy’s invitation to create more mayhem. She smiled sweetly and shoved over one of the towers. Her curly-haired partner in crime took note and joined in, chubby hands closing on paperback spines with glee.

Rowland winced at the sound of falling books, wearily turning our way as the birdsong doorbell trilled. His face was puffy and pallid, his eyes red. He was either ill or midway through his metamorphosis into undead.

Our eyes met. I saw the confusion as he tried to place me. Recognition dawned. His expression turned stricken.

“Twelve forty-eight,” he said tonelessly to the woman.

She passed over her plastic, he ran her card, and then handed the receipt and a much smaller bag of books to her. She went out calling to the two devil moppets who left a couple of cases worth of books scattered across the polished floor.

“Chris,” Rowland said as the door swung shut again. That was all. I could see the memories swamp him. He had to stop talking or embarrass himself. It was that fresh, that painful.

“We were on our way to dinner when we passed by. I wanted to say goodbye before I left Nitchfield.”

He made a visible effort. “That’s nice of you. Kind.” He wiped his forehead and offered his damp hand.

I shook his hand, guiltily aware that it wasn’t kindness prompting my visit. Rowland spared a curious glance for J.X. who stood at my shoulder. J.X. nodded politely and vouchsafed nothing.

“This is my…friend J.X. Moriarity.” My voice dipped on friend. I’ve never been good at—or comfortable with—expressing emotion in public. Not that admitting J.X. was my boyfriend was exactly blubbering my feelings, and yet it felt…too personal to share. At least for now.

“You look good. I mean, apart from the black eye and…” Rowland gestured to the sling.

“How are you? I meant to stop by the hospital, but…” His voice cut out again and he visibly struggled for control.

I said awkwardly, “I’m okay. Grateful to…” Well, that was more awkward still.

J.X. said, “Great little bookshop you’ve got here. Nice selection of titles. Do you hold many signings?”

“Sometimes.” Rowland turned to him gratefully. “Not as many as we used to. For awhile every author out there was touring and doing signings. I think readers started taking them for granted.” I saw the penny drop, saw recognition dawn, and I sighed inwardly. “J.X. Moriarity.

The
J.X. Moriarity?”

J.X. made self-deprecating noises.

I nearly said,
No, the other one
, but caught myself in time. I felt a real wave of self-contempt. Was I that insecure, that jealous? Because that was the kiss of death to any budding relationship right there.

Instead I pointed to the glossy black and red covers on the bestseller rack next to the counter and said, “Yep, that’s the guy.”

“Oh
wow
,” Rowland said. It was so genuine, so heartfelt—and so was J.X.’s half-pleased, half-self-conscious smile—that I couldn’t resent it. In fact, I managed a self-mocking grin when J.X. threw me an apologetic look.

“Why don’t you sign stock while you’re here?” I suggested.

“Yes!” Rowland said. “God, yes. That would be fantastic.”

J.X. said all the appropriately modest, gracious things and Rowland scooped up the pile of returned books and scurried away. He was back in seconds with stacks of books for J.X. to sign.

They seemed to be carrying his entire backlist. I was thrilled for him. Really.

“I think we have a couple of your books too in the mystery section,” Rowland offered in afterthought as J.X., borrowed pen in hand, patiently started through the high-rise of literary real estate. “Would you—?”

“Sure. Of course.”

Rowland fetched the three hardcover copies of the latest Miss Butterwith, and I signed them quickly. He peeled the star-shaped gold labels indicating a signed copy off a long sheet and stuck them firmly on the covers right over Miss B’s beaming face.

“I heard what happened at the house last night. Everyone’s talking about it. About Sara dying. It’s unbelievable.”

“Yes.”

“They’re saying it’s murder. That the wine at dinner was poisoned.”

That was the only logical conclusion. No way did corncockle seeds accidentally wind up in a bottle of Sutter Home or whatever that wine had been.

I asked, “What else are people saying?”

“That the poison was meant for Anna.”

“I guess that makes sense. I know Sara wasn’t Miss Congeniality, but I can’t imagine anyone disliking her enough to poison her.”

“Not at the risk of killing everyone else,” Rowland agreed.

It seemed an interesting comment. I glanced at J.X. He appeared to be entirely focused on dashing off that distinctive signature of his.

I said, “The interesting thing is apparently that bottle was a gift from Victoria.”

“Victoria?” Rowland sounded stunned.

“Something she’d got in a Santa exchange program.”

J.X. looked up at that. “Secret Santa.”

Rowland’s expression of confusion cleared. “You’re kidding. You mean Victoria is a suspect?”

He seemed to have missed the significance of Victoria having received poisoned wine—

or maybe I hadn’t made it clear enough. But then it wasn’t clear in my mind either. As hard as it was to believe, I kept coming back to the conviction that if Victoria wasn’t the killer, she had to be the true intended victim.

“Can you think of any reason Victoria might have a grudge against Anna?”

“No. None. It’s crazy to even suggest such a thing.”

I found it curious that he was so adamant. “I don’t know. She kind of reminds me of the main character in your story. What was her name? Gretchen? The mousy woman who—”

“Victoria isn’t mousy. Victoria is
nothing
like Gretchen.” Maybe Victoria was nothing like Gretchen, but I didn’t see how he could argue that she was mousy. Then again, maybe I was being swayed by outward appearances. I had to assume these people knew each other fairly well.

“Still, Anna can be pretty—well, she’s Anna. I could see Victoria might—”

“No.” Rowland shook his head. His tight black curls bounced with his insistence. “It’s not in Victoria’s nature. She would never hurt anyone. Besides, she’s perfectly happy living in Anna’s farmhouse.”

“What if Anna wanted her to move?”

“But she doesn’t, does she?”

“I’m theorizing.”

“
Why
?”

“Good question,” J.X. remarked, still doing his impression of a printing press.

I shot him a deadly look, but bullets seemed to bounce right off his manly chest. Or, in this case, manly profile.

“Even if Anna did want Victoria to move from the farmhouse, she wouldn’t
kill
her.

That’s…that’s like out of a book.”

J.X. made a muffled sound that could have been a cough but was more likely a laugh.

If he’d been closer, I’d have accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. As it was, I had to settle for ignoring him. Pointedly.

“True, but nearly everyone involved in this case
is
a writer. Or involved in publishing somehow.”

As I said it, I had a flash of awareness that I’d hit on something. Something significant.

The next instant it was gone.

Rowland was saying, “Maybe so, but if someone in our group was a murderer, it wouldn’t be Victoria. I’d look at Poppy. Or Arthur. Or both of them. Yes, both of them.”

Arthur Gohring. The biker writer. I’d forgotten all about him.

“Why’s that?” J.X. asked, reentering the conversation.

“Because the rumor is Poppy murdered her husband.”

“Murdered as in…”

“Murdered,” Rowland agreed. “Nothing was ever proven, but—”

“How is she supposed to have killed him?” J.X. asked. He was all business now. He slid the final stack of signed books across the counter and thrust his hands in his pockets. He looked casually, devastatingly tough and capable. Like those hip young television cops—only genuinely smart and competent.

“She supposedly hired someone to do it for her.” Rowland’s button-black eyes met mine.

“Arthur.”

“Arthur? The rumor is Poppy hired Arthur to kill her husband?”

“They were friendly for a time and Arthur had a boat. Now they’re not friendly—and Arthur sold his boat.”

“That’s it? That’s the extent of the case against Poppy?”

“She and Phil were headed for divorce. That’s common knowledge. And he left her a big insurance policy. That’s common knowledge too.”

I looked at J.X. His upper lip had that quirk that indicated his particular blend of sardonic amusement.

“What would her motive be for wanting to get rid of Victoria?” I questioned.

“None. Victoria’s the only person I know of who can even stand Poppy. But…she probably knows the truth about Poppy having Phil knocked off.”

He said it so casually. Like it was fact. It was kind of frightening. In such ways are outlandish rumors started—and accepted as truth.

I said slowly, “Do you think Poppy might have had that car accident deliberately?”

His eyes filled with tears. I was sorry I had asked, but…

After a struggle, Rowland said, “I think Poppy loves Poppy too much to risk killing herself.”

No fan of Poppy’s, he.

“We should get going,” J.X. said. I was grateful for the interruption. I didn’t want to see Rowland break down and I couldn’t seem to think of anything else to ask him, although I knew I was missing some obvious points. The sleuth thing isn’t as easy to do as it is to write.

Rowland had just supplied Poppy with motive for murder, but not Anna’s murder.

“Right.” I offered my hand to him. “Good luck with everything.”

He hung on to my hand. “Are you coming to Nella’s funeral?”

“No, I—when is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.” I looked to J.X. for help.

He hesitated.

“We haven’t decided,” I said. I gave Rowland’s hand a parting squeeze. “If I don’t see you again, take care of yourself.”

“Yes.” He released me, turned away to scrub at his eyes.

As J.X. and I reached the door he said suddenly, urgently, “Chris!”

I turned back. Rowland had followed us up the front aisle. He was staring at me with painful intensity.

“Did she say anything?”

“Who?”

“Nella. Did she…you were one of the last people to talk to her, you were with her when she…I wondered if she…said anything.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed anything quite that excruciatingly naked. He was in such pain I was briefly tempted to make up some conversation between me and Nella where Rowland had somehow heroically figured in.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember much of the afternoon very clearly. Concussion, you know?”

He nodded reluctantly. “If you do remember something, could you—”

“Yes. Sure.”

J.X. shoved open the door, hooked his hand around my good arm and towed me out of the bookstore.

The smell of dirty snow and car exhaust was weirdly bracing as we walked around the building.

“That was awful,” I said at last. The weight of J.X.’s hand on the middle of my back was reassuring. Not quite a hug, but not far from it.

“Yes.”

“He was completely in love with her. With Nella.”

“What was she, nineteen?”

“Something like that. Too young for him. At least…”

“Too young for him.” J.X. was uncompromising. “She was a kid. That’s the difference there.”

“I have no idea what she thought of him. If she thought of him at all. She was obsessed with her writing, with her career.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Hey, I wasn’t always stodgy and middle-aged.”

“I know.”

“I got around plenty in college.”

“I don’t doubt it. You’d have been one cute twink.”

I sniffed disapprovingly. “I was never a twink.”

“No?”

I glanced at him. He was smiling. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Deliberately distracting me.”

He gave me a sideways look. “Is it working?”