Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (5 page)

I automatically reached for the white velvet side chair that was still near the bed, and sat down. “That sounds familiar.” I probably sounded bitter. I probably was bitter.

Anna nodded. “I knew if anyone could understand, it would be you. I know I tease you, but you’re much more sensitive and insightful than people give you credit for, Christopher.”

I did my best to look suitably sensitive and insightful, but the resulting expression probably resembled a case of mild indigestion.

Anna continued, “I don’t know if it was a bad case of burnout or that I loved Todd more than I realized, but after he left, nothing seemed to matter.”

Ah yes. How well I remembered those long, lonely days after David left. How the days had dragged. And the nights. Probably because he took my PA with him. I’d spent a lot more time talking to Dicky than I had David. I really missed Dicky.

With difficulty, I held my tongue, which I was guessing was what a sensitive, insightful person does in that situation.

“Nothing gave me joy. Nothing fueled my passion. But over the last few months, that’s begun to change. I’m writing again, I’m getting a kick out of teaching, and I’ve begun to think that maybe I’m not too old for love. So to have this happen now…this fear that someone I know may hate me so much they want me dead…it’s shattering.”

I could see that. It’s one thing to find out you get on people’s nerves. That’s part of the human condition. The idea that someone actively wanted you dead would be…er, a trifle discomfiting. As Miss Butterwith would put it.

“You don’t have any idea who might want to hurt you?”

“I swear I don’t.”

“Let’s look at it logically. Who has motive?”

Anna gave me a grim look. “It’s not easy to be quite so cold-blooded when it’s your own life at stake.”

“I know. But think about it like a mystery writer. You’re one of the best out there. Who gains by your death?”

“It’s relative, darling. Rival mystery writers? Literary critics?”

I said with my usual tact, “You’re rich. Who’s in your will?”

Anna glared at me. “Lots of people. I’ve left most of my friends small mementos.”

“How small?”

She said dryly, “I’ve left you an antique writing desk.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Was I supposed to reciprocate? My will currently left everything to my parents. That was one thing I’d seen to right away after David’s departure. No way did I want that cheating bastard benefiting by a dime if I happened to be hit by an asteroid. Which had been a real possibility, the way my luck was going then.

“I don’t plan on your collecting for some time.”

“Of course not. Where would I put an antique writing desk anyway? What about the bulk of your estate?”

“The house itself will go to the Mystery Writers of America along with sufficient funds for it to be used as a writing retreat for the next decade. I’ve left financial bequests for all the servants—and before you say anything, yes, I’ve made substantial provision for Sara.”

I hadn’t been about to say anything, but I certainly found that an interesting tidbit.

“How much is substantial provision?”

“None of your goddamned business. A lot.”

“How long has Sara been with you?” I knew the answer, but I was on a roll now being sleuth-like.

“For nearly five years. I sincerely doubt she’s suddenly taken it into her mind to knock me off. I’m not
that
difficult to work for.”

“Does she know about your will?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Anna made a face. “I’m too much of a mystery maven to go around advertising the specifics of my will.”

“Could she have found out?”

Anna shook her head. “It’s not impossible, but once you get to know Sara better, you’ll see how very unlikely that is. It’s simply not the way she thinks.”

“Okay. We’ll put the high-minded Sara to the side for now. Who else did you leave money to?”

“Rudolph. That is to say, I didn’t leave him money per se, but I left him the rights to my literary estate. All my work. Past and future.”

“
Wow
. Nice.”

“He deserves it. But Rudolph is very comfortably off. He might have wished to kill me a number of times over the past years, but it would be for missing deadlines, not financial gain.”

“What exactly
is
your relationship with Rudolph?”

“None of your fucking business.” She said it without heat.

“You asked me to help, Anna. I can’t help if I don’t know who all the players are and what their role is.”

“Take my word for it, Rudolph has absolutely no reason to want me anything but alive and healthy.”

“What it is to be universally beloved. So what about these students of yours? How well do you know them and are any of them in your will?”

Her face softened. For an instant she almost looked maternal. Only for an instant, because she was about as maternal as Hulk Hogan. “There’s a bequest for Nella. The money is to be used for a topnotch MFA program. All expenses paid. And no, she doesn’t know about it. And in any case, I’m going to give her the money next fall.”

Very generous. Maybe a bit controlling too. That was the other thing about Anna. She liked to manage. Not that Nella would likely object to having to enroll in a nice MFA program.

“What about the others?”

Her brow creased as she considered the other members of this year’s Asquith Circle. “I know them. I don’t know them well.”

“You’ve known Rowland for a few years, haven’t you?”

“Rowland.” She smiled dismissingly. “Yes. He was a clerk at the real-estate office when I bought my house. Now he works in a bookstore in Nitchfield. Blackbird Books. I’ve known him for about ten years, I think. I probably know him the best of any of them, barring Nella, of course.”

“Who do you know the least?”

“Arthur. He’s…a very interesting man. Much more intelligent than you might think.”

A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one. “And how did he break into the sacred circle?”

Anna looked vague. “He’s got a certain flair—and an original voice. Plus, I try to make sure we always have a balance of male and female students. You know what these writing weekends can be like otherwise.”

Only too well. Like a slumber party on steroids.

“What about Poppy Whatshername and Victoria?”

“I met Poppy through Victoria. They were members of a local women’s writing group.

Defunct now. I spoke at one of their luncheons, which Victoria organized.” She shrugged.

“Have you ever had problems with any of them?”

“Nothing that would lead me to believe one of them wants me dead. Rowland was a little disappointed when I declined to write him a letter of introduction to my agent. Arthur doesn’t take kindly to writing advice. Probably any advice. Poppy and I have occasionally had our difference of opinion. Victoria’s a sweetheart. She rents a cottage on the back portion of the estate. She’s a lovely tenant and I’ve never had a single difficulty with her.”

“
Guilty
,” I pronounced. “I can pack my magnifying glass and go home now. Beneath that mild exterior, Victoria is a raging, homicidal maniac.”

Anna laughed, though it sounded strained. “I’m probably jumping at shadows. The more I think about this, the more ridiculous it seems.”

I stood up and slid the velvet chair to the side. “Let’s hope. We’ll approach this as preventative medicine, how’s that?”

She smiled faintly.

“You should probably sleep. I should probably sleep. I’ve got that mountain of manuscripts you left for me. Maybe it’ll help me sleep.”

Her chuckle was wicked. “Don’t worry. I’ve already read through them and made notes, but yes, you should at least glance over the first and last few chapters. It’ll be an experience for you.”

“I am nothing if not a man of experience.” I moved toward the door.

“Good luck tomorrow, darling,” Anna called sweetly.

Back in my room I made myself comfy on my funeral bier and settled down to do my homework.

The hefty stack of manuscripts before me represented the final drafts—as if there could be such a thing—of the five student members of this year’s Asquith Circle. Anna had printed everything out for me because, throwback that I was, I preferred to read the old-fashioned way.

Okay, not hieroglyphics on walls, but close.

If only Anna’s guestrooms came stocked with minibars. But they didn’t. I would have to face the task before me stone-cold sober. It had been a very long time since I’d read anything straight from the flames of inspiration that weren’t part of my own barbecue, and I was nervous.

I was prepared for anything. Entire novels in present tense. Entire novels without dialog tags. Entire novels in second-person POV.
You are reading this book. You are not happy about it.

You are not happy about much these days.

Because it was the shortest in the stack, I started with Rowland Bride’s
Came Tumbling
After.
It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great.

Damon was trying to ignore the voice in his head….

Oh boy. Keeping in mind that these stories were by Anna’s handpicked favorites, her top students, I had to wonder if Anna was less choosy now days or if the pool of talent was shrinking.

Then four pages in, my attention was caught by the fact that the narrator was killed in a fall down some icy stairs.

Not that a murderous fall down stairs wasn’t a time-honored tradition in mystery fiction—
it was right there with the voices in the head—but this did seem a wee bit coincidental. I continued to read. The story was about one of those spinster ladies Poppy Seed looked so disapprovingly on. The spinster was named Bess and she lived with her elderly invalid mother with whom she liked to share her observations and speculations about their small-town neighbors. Bess was too curious about her neighbors, as a matter of fact, and one of them didn’t like it. He began to harass our heroine. What this big bully didn’t realize was that Bess was a serial killer.

That wasn’t bad, as far as it went, but Bess was the most boring serial killer in the literary history of serial killers. Well before the crucial fifty-page cut-off point, I was longing for Bess to meet a bigger, badder serial killer who would put us both out of our misery. My attention wandered to the night-blackened window and its view of starless sky.

Friday night. I sighed.
Friday night’s alright for fighting
. If I hadn’t agreed to help Anna out, J.X. and I would be having dinner right now. Or maybe we’d be back at my place and I’d be checking how he looked out of professional context. As I recalled, he looked pretty damn good.

I glanced automatically at the bedstand. An ornate globe lamp, a small plate of chocolate truffles I was earnestly doing my best to ignore, and a couple of books I’d brought including
Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance
and Adrien English’s latest. No phone. It wasn’t a hotel. Anna didn’t furnish every bedroom with phones any more than minibars.

I didn’t carry a cell phone. What would be the point? I never went anywhere. If someone needed me, I could generally be found without expending much effort—the real test was getting through my call screening.

Still, it wouldn’t be hard to locate a phone around here. I could call J.X. just to say…hey.

We were still friends, after all.

Not that we had ever exactly been
friends
, but surely he wasn’t cutting me entirely out of his life.

I climbed out of the bed and threw on my robe. It was a snazzy red wool affair with my initials monogrammed on the pocket. It looked like the kind of thing gentlemen wore in 1930s films, and I confess it gave me a kick although it really wasn’t practical for my normal Southern California work routine which basically consisted of me sitting around in jeans and flannel shirt or jeans and tee shirt for eight hours a day. Often the same jeans and shirt day after day after day until I moulted. The writing life isn’t how it looks from the outside. Hemingway and Fitzgerald set up some very unrealistic expectations.

I opened my bedroom door, double-checked that the coast was clear, and made my way down the long hallway. I crept down the marble staircase beneath the disapproving painted faces of all those adopted ancestors of Anna’s and an assortment of weaponry that could have equipped a small standing army. As I crossed the shining parquet floors I could hear screams and shrill bird cries drifting from the home theater. Things were going downhill fast in Bodega Bay.

Memory had served me correctly. There was a phone in the library. I sat down behind the grand desk with its burl wood inlays and decorative brass hardware. Picking up the handset, I began to dial.

On the other side of the country the phone rang with brisk efficiency.

Once.

Twice.

I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Nearly eleven. J.X. should still be awake.

He rarely went to bed before midnight. Wait. He was in California. Eight o’clock on his side of the continent. He would definitely be up and about.

Thrice…

Of course he might not be home.

It was Friday night and he was footloose and fancy free. I’d slipped the halter off him myself. Given that gorgeous rump a slap and said,
Be free
.

So what was I doing now?

Abruptly, I grasped how this was going to look. I didn’t want to advance our relationship, but I didn’t want to let go either. That wasn’t fair to J.X., which he could hardly fail to notice and being J.X., hardly fail to mention in that direct ego-bruising way he had. I wasn’t sure my ego could take a lot of bruising tonight. I missed him.

Very gently, very quietly, I replaced the handset.

It seemed a much longer trip back to my room.

An eerie silence issued from the home theater as I slunk back across the vast, slippery expanse of enough parquetry to make the Boston Celtics feel at home. Past the suit of armor guarding the marble staircase, up, up, up to the uncanny silence of the second floor, and back into my lonely bedchamber. And if there was ever a bedroom that deserved the title “chamber”, it was this one.