Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (24 page)

“No. He doesn’t. Kind of interesting, don’t you think?”

“Aren’t stepmothers universally hated?” I had the only original matched set of parents in my entire social circle, so I couldn’t speak from personal experience.

“It might be that. Anna
is
controlling. And manipulative.”

I said irritably, “You’ve known her all of two days.”

“You disagree?”

It would be hard to disagree with that. I acknowledged with a face. “She can be controlling.”

“Sometimes the solution to the crime lies within the character of the victim. Or in this case, the intended victim.”

“That gets back to motive.”

He nodded in concession.

Ricardo appeared with the check. “Anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?” he asked J.X. “Dessert perhaps?” I don’t know for a fact that he wiggled his eyebrows, but it was in his tone.

J.X. looked at me. I shook my head.

Ricardo sighed regretfully, set the check down at the midway point on the table and sashayed away.

J.X. started to reach for the check.

“I’ve got it.”

He withdrew his hand immediately, and it was like I could see right into his brain. See what a delicate balancing act it was for him. He’d reached for the check to dispel the idea that I, as the older partner, would automatically—in a parental role—be the one picking up the tab, but my response had reminded him that I might be equally or more touchy about the fact that he was the more successful and affluent of the two of us. And that was absolutely right. That had been my instinctive reaction:
I don’t need you paying my way.

God almighty. We had a learning curve ahead of us—and winding roads always made me carsick.

I said gruffly, “The next one’s yours.”

He offered a quick half-smile.

The heater gusted warmly over our legs, the music—Jack Johnson again—played softly in the background, the breezy, beachy sounds of “Better Together” reminding me of home as J.X.

and I started the drive back to the Asquith Estate.

“Warm enough?” he asked.

I smiled though I knew he couldn’t see it in the dark of the car interior. “Yes. I’m fine.”

I was too. Barely a qualm as we hit the open road. I don’t know if it was proof that I really did trust J.X.—certainly his driving skills—or if I was just past the initial unease of being in a car again. As the tires hissed soothingly on the wet road it occurred to me that if we could work things out, this moonlit drive might be typical of many nights and many drives…that perhaps, just perhaps, J.X. and I were heading for a future together.

Maybe.

That was what J.X. wanted—thought he wanted, anyway—and it was what I thought I wanted.

I said, “Anyway, getting back to Poppy. The problem is that while it’s conceivable Poppy might have access to the house and grounds, it would be a lot harder for her to arrange those other accidents. Plus…there’s something sort of guileless about Poppy, don’t you think? This kind of murder plot doesn’t seem like her style. Even her story. You should have read what she submitted to the group. It’s horrible for a lot of reasons, but it’s very straightforward. The heroine—I use the term loosely—finds her ex-husband at her mercy and she cuts his genitals off.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty unpleasant. What it isn’t, is convoluted or clever. And that’s really the problem I have with the idea of Poppy as Lucrezia Borgia. Poppy doesn’t seem like someone who would go to this much trouble to get rid of an enemy. Nor does Victoria make a very convincing enemy because if anything she seems to go out of her way to keep Poppy from saying things that might land her in hot water.”

“That could be because she believes Poppy is innocent of all wrongdoing. It might change if she knew Poppy really
had
offed her spouse.”

“Fair enough. But Victoria strikes me as closemouthed. Someone who would view minding her own business in the light of a personal philosophy. No, I can more easily see Poppy trying to hire someone—probably a cop, given her luck—to kill her enemies for her.”

“Agreed. But that’s one theory, right? She hired this guy Arthur to kill her soon-to-be ex?”

“Yeah.” I thought that over. The real problem I had with that particular theory was the unlikelihood of Arthur going along with any scheme of Poppy’s. Granted, we’re not always what we write, but our storytelling does reveal things about the way our brain works. Arthur’s writing was smart, blunt and violent. Whereas, if her storytelling was an indication, any scheme Poppy cooked up was going to be convoluted and rely heavily on the cooperation of the victim.

I said, “Poppy’s reaction when she heard the news about Sara wasn’t in keeping with the reaction you’d expect if she was behind poisoning the wine. For one thing, I don’t think she’d have kept pushing Victoria to reveal where she got the wine. She seemed genuinely and totally floored.”

“Victoria on the other hand—”

“Seemed guilty as hell.”

“Apparently with good reason.”

J.X. was nodding. “It’s natural she’d feel that way. She knew she was the one who’d delivered the wine.”

“It would be pretty dumb to poison a bottle of wine you were giving someone as a gift. It would bound to be traced right back.”

“But then she has the cover story of receiving it as an anonymous gift.”

“Yes. True. But in that case she wouldn’t first try to pretend she’d bought the wine, would she? Besides, unless she’s an idiot she has to know she’d
have
to hand over these two Secret Santa lists to the police and they’d track down each and every person and then do some crosschecking and figure out who gave what gift to whom. She’d
have
to know that eventually it would all point back to her.”

“Yep. That’s the way it works.”

I watched the white moon over the tops of the trees lighting the whole night sky in a platinum haze.

I said, “With Victoria we have means and opportunity. She’s in walking distance of the house and apparently visits frequently. She admits to being there when Anna fell down the stairs.

What we don’t have is motive.”

“She’s in Anna’s will?”

“Yes, but…I don’t know. I know we only have part of the facts here, but what would the hurry be in getting rid of Anna? Victoria seems to have a perfectly comfortable setup living in that farmhouse. I didn’t get the impression that Anna planned on changing things anytime soon.

Victoria doesn’t strike me as much of a material girl. She seems…comfortable, relaxed with her life, with who she is. The only hint I got of anything unsettled was my impression that she cares for Rowland.”

“Rowland? Blackbird Bookstore Rowland?”

“Him. Yeah. The chick magnet. So maybe there was some remote reason for Victoria wanting Nella out of the way, but I can’t see how she would have brought about that car accident—and she’d be risking killing herself, which really doesn’t make sense if the motive is to ultimately win Rowland’s hand in marriage.”

J.X. commented, “She brought the wine to the house before Nella was killed.”

“That’s true. Maybe Nella had some health issues that might have made her more susceptible than the rest of us. Something Victoria knew about? Nella was a big girl. That puts a strain on the heart right there. But again, what would be the rush? It’s not like Rowland and Nella were planning to run away together. Nella had one thing on her mind and that was making it as a writer.”

Once again I had that inkling that I was missing something obvious.

J.X. said, “She’s an interesting type.”

“Who? Victoria? What do you mean?”

“Well, you commented on how relaxed and comfortable she seems, but I’ve known a couple of murderers who displayed the same personality traits. One was a serial killer.”

“Oh.”

“We really don’t know much about Victoria at all.”

I said in my best seductive tone, “Ah, but you could change all that with a word in the right ear.”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

I made my voice deeper still. “I could make it worth your while.”

J.X. spared me a glance. “Look at you, Mata Holmsi. Keep talking. I’m three-quarters convinced now.”

The house was deathly quiet when the bathrobed housekeeper let us inside. She assured us that everyone was in bed, wished us a good night, and departed for the nether regions, turning off lights as she went.

J.X. and I crept quietly up the stairs past the snooty portraits, painted faces looking even more dour after the events of the past days.

Reaching the sanctuary of our bedroom, J.X. locked the door and turned to face me.

“Alone at last.” I used my good hand to unbuckle my belt. I had no doubt we were going to fuck, and right there showed a change in our status. If we’d reached the stage of taking sex for granted, we were well on our way to becoming a couple.

J.X.’s face was flushed and a little self-conscious, his eyes, hungry and admiring. “It was practically all I could think about at dinner. Having you again.”

My heart gave a little jerk. Just what the old ego needed, but still a little overwhelming. I said feebly, “Maybe we should…try it the other way.”

“That would be nice too. I’d like that.” J.X. was practically purring as he put his arms around me. “But right now, Kit, I want to bury myself up to my balls in your body and fuck you.”

He drew the words out. “Fuck you slow and sweet.”

Playfully, he humped against me. I could feel the hard outline of his cock through the soft denim of my jeans and his own. My buttocks clenched tight at the idea, clenched in instinctive rejection. And yet at the same instant that tight opening to my body burned to be touched. Burned for that illicit finger on the entrance buzzer of that most private of all private clubs. My heart was jumping around my rib cage like a frightened bird.

“Oh God.” I shivered helplessly. “I want it too.”

J.X. pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it in the general direction of the chair. His T-shirt followed. I’ve seen fireman drills that took longer than it took him to strip. Naked, he was beautiful to behold. Flushed, aroused, golden. Part of that beauty, though, was the longing in his eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that. As though I mattered more than anything else. It was salve to my wounded ego, but it was a weight on my heart too. How did anyone live up to that?

Eventually J.X. was going to see that I was just…me. And that everything he disliked about me was still there no matter how good the sex was.

Naturally I was smart enough not to endanger getting laid by expressing any of those thoughts as he helped me undress—which, incidentally took a lot longer than his disrobing because J.X. found it necessary to touch and taste as we went along. He nipped my earlobe, blew on the back of my neck, scratched my nipples, and it was all I could do to keep on my feet beneath that tender onslaught. My legs were shaking by the time we fell into bed.

J.X. bent over me and I stared past his shoulder at the wildly twining grapevine and folds of green velvet. The globe lamp on the dresser threw half his face in shadow, gilded the other half. I gasped as he eased a slick finger into me.

“You’re tensing up,” he said softly, watching my face.

I bit my lip. He worked his finger deeper, touching the sweet spot, making me writhe. He gave me a couple of seconds’ respite then pressed again and again. I jumped as though I’d received an electric shock. It was pleasure, but it was so intense it was alarming. Partly it was sheer physical response, but partly it was the emotional and psychological reaction to letting him in. Literally letting him in—with all that the action seemed to represent.

Some of it must have shown on my face.

“Do you think being older and wiser you shouldn’t like this?” I could hear his curiosity, but I could hear his gentleness too.

“I don’t like it. I mean, I never have before.”

“You do now.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Jesus. Your face is wonderful to watch. It’s intense, isn’t it?”

I nodded helplessly, closing my eyes, biting my lip as those clever, clever fingers twisted again.

J.X. said in that rough velvet voice, “It’s like this massive turn-on because it’s
you
and you’re letting me do this to you, and you like it so much—even though you think you shouldn’t.”

I moaned. He had the dynamic down cold, his and mine both. And the funniest thing was for all David and I had wrestled with the power dynamics of sex, for the first time in my life I was willingly and completely submitting—and discovering it had little to do with my body and everything to do with my mind.

Jesus. It felt fucking unbelievable to just accept unquestioningly what J.X. was doing, to simply respond when asked, and to allow myself to feel. Really
feel
.

He withdrew his fingers with a final caress and replaced them slowly, slowly with the silky push of his cock. Jesus, he was
big
.

“Don’t tighten up. You can take me, Kit. Just keep breathing.”

I keened again and forced my muscles to relax. J.X. continued to shove his way in, slower than molasses and just as sweet in a dark, peculiar way.

“Oh
God
,” he groaned, a shuddery groan. “Oh God…” His hands, warm and caressing, guided me into position, and then he began to move in those slow, deep strokes. “Okay…?”

I nodded urgently, pushing back to meet him, wanting it now, wanting to feel him deeper, to feel him pulsing right there under my heart.

A hoarse voice begged, “Harder,” and it was
me
. Me shoving my ass into the cradle of his hips, trying to impale myself on that thick, rigid burn, needing more and more.

“You’re wonderful, Kit.
Jesus
.”

I felt him tremble, transfixed, and there it was. White heat running through the network of nerves and muscles, flooding my bloodstream. I threw my head back as though in a high fever, arching up from the blankets and sheets in a kind of convulsion of pleasure at the wet, hot burst of life pouring into me, spilling through the cracks and filling up the empty places.

I woke to one of those rare moments of perfect mental clarity. I’ve no idea what I dreamed. In fact, I’d slept so deeply, I’m not sure I dreamed at all, but as I lay blinking at the first pearly flush of light filtering through the velvet draperies, my relaxed mind drifted over the events of the last days and it dawned on me why I kept feeling like I was missing something obvious. Everything that had happened since Anna had first phoned to tell me of her plight had been exactly like something out of a mystery novel.