The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (2 page)

He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice. The clock was ticking. Somewhere. In a box we couldn’t find.

J.X. pounded up the stairs and I veered left and went out the carved walnut and glass double doors to the Corinthian porch.

The beauty of the front yard caught me by surprise. I’d been too tired to notice more than shadows and shapes when I’d arrived late the night before. Red brick walkways and short walls—not counting the twelve-foot vine-covered structure dividing our property from the house on the right—coiled their way through low hedges and sculptured ornamental trees. The weathered stone and elegant greenery created a lush and pristine setting for the Victorian-Italianate house set discreetly back from the street.

A nice neighborhood to have bad habits in,
as Chandler would have said.

Emmaline came around the corner of the house. “The main water shutoff valve is on the right over here, by the little cherry tree.”

“Hell. Heck. I don’t have a wat—” I broke off as she held up a long, steel valve control key. “Oh. Great.”

“This way. Come along, Christopher.” She bustled away down the brick path. I obediently followed in her wake. A butterfly swooped languidly past my nose, as though hired by the homeowner association to add ambiance. Did we have a homeowner association? I didn’t know. J.X. had pretty much been the driving force behind all this.

We found the water main, I pried up the metal lid, and Emmaline handed me the key like a good scrub nurse delivering the scalpel to the surgeon. I turned the meter valve counterclockwise. “I’ll pick up a couple of replacement sprinkler heads this morning.”

“It’s going to be nice having young people in the neighborhood again,” Emmaline said as I finished turning off the water.

At forty, I didn’t exactly think of myself as “young people,” but everything is relative I guess. I handed Emmaline the valve key back, and replaced the metal plate. I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood up.

Emmaline was filling me in on the other residents of Chestnut Lane. The Tunnys—“twin brothers and old codgers,” according to our neighbor lady—lived to the right of us behind that formidable wall. Codgers they might be, but the wall almost certainly predated them. The Salvatierras lived across the street to the left of the walk-down parking lot. The house to their left was currently empty, but not for sale. The house to the right of the parking level was owned by Mr. Lemon. Mr. Lemon was a retired history professor.

“Ah,” I said. I knew I should probably be paying closer attention to the
Who’s Who
. These people were going to be my neighbors for the next however long I—we—lived here, but somehow I felt more like a house-sitter than a new homeowner.

“Now don’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything,” Emmaline said, walking briskly toward the ornate iron gate at the front of the yard. “I hope you’ll be very happy here.”

I bade her adieu and headed for the black front steps of the stately porch. Sunlight gilded the sage-green balustrade and pillars, tipped the leaves of the hedges and flowering vines in gold. Honeysuckle grew in profusion everywhere, the sweet scent perfuming the warm morning.

Emmaline called something I couldn’t make out. I smiled, waved, and went through my new front doors.

Strangely, the house smelled both new and empty. Strangely because the place had been built in 1904 and was currently stacked to its skylight in boxes and two households’ worth of furnishings. From upstairs, I could hear footsteps walking back and forth. I listened for a moment then crossed the dark hardwood floor of the foyer and poked my head in the living room.

This was a large room painted a satiny, cheerful yellow with creamy decorative crown molding and corner pieces. The marble fireplace, one of four, was original to the house, as were the intricate etched glass and brass chandeliers. The house had lots of these beautiful little touches, from the tall pocket doors to the hand painted tiles in the bath and kitchen. And for three million dollars, there ought to be some beautiful little touches. I studied the stacks of boxes and furniture that had yet to be assigned their place in the new world order. I stared at the mattress before the fireplace. It was a mess of blankets and sheets. The blankets and blue and white striped sheets were J.X.’s. The mattress was mine. It was destined for the guest room upstairs. We had agreed—or rather, I had agreed to J.X.’s suggestion that we start off fresh with a new bed and a new mattress. Metaphor? You decide. They were supposed to be delivered that afternoon—another reason why someone had to stay here. We couldn’t both go gallivanting off to parts unknown.

Or even parts known.

I found my way to the kitchen—remodeled but still retaining vintage charm with the black-and-white parquet floors, beadboard cabinets, and hand painted ceramic tile backsplash. I saw that J.X. had found and plugged in his coffee maker. I made coffee and idly opened a few boxes, looked inside, and let the flaps fall closed again. Between the two of us there was a hell of a lot of junk here. And somehow when viewed inside a cardboard box, all my worldly possessions
did
look like junk.

More heavy footsteps overhead. What the hell was he doing up there? Pacing the floor?

I went over to the fridge—J.X.’s was newer and bigger (some things never changed) so mine had been relegated to the basement—and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or not to see he hadn’t had time to do much more than pick up a carton of milk and a container of eggs.

He’d ordered Chinese takeout the night before, but I’d arrived too late and too tired for food. I was hungry now, but there wasn’t time to fix something before J.X. left, and somehow it seemed rude to start cooking breakfast he couldn’t eat.

How long before I stopped second-guessing my every impulse? Before I stopped feeling like a guest? Before I stopped—

No. Don’t go there
.

I wasn’t regretting anything.

Anyway, it was too soon to know if I had anything to regret.

Preceded by a blast of John Varvatos fragrance, J.X. pounded down the staircase and breezed into the kitchen. He wore jeans, one of his ubiquitous white tailored shirts and a tweed blazer, but no amount of tweed or elbow patches could make him look like a professor or a teacher. He wore stylish boots and a gold stud glinted in one ear. Spotting the percolating coffee, he fell upon it like the wolf upon the fold. Or the wolf upon the barista. “Thank. God.” He found his mug in the sink, turned on the taps to rinse it, and of course there was a choking sound from the faucet which spit out a trickle of water.

“Here.” I unwrapped a mug from the half-unpacked box on the counter and handed it across.

“Thanks.” He poured in coffee and glanced at me. “It doesn’t feel right leaving you to deal with all this.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to exploring everything on m—”

“On your own?” he asked wryly.

I laughed. “It would be more fun with you.”

“It’s just a couple of days. I’ll be home Monday night.”

The phone rang, forestalling my reply.

“Well, something works anyway,” J.X. said as I went to answer it.

“You want me to drive you to the airport?”

He shook his head. “I’ll take my car.”

I picked the phone up. “Hello?”

“Christopher,” came the not-so-dulcet, semi-British tones of my agent, Rachel. “You made it!”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

“Ha.” I winked at J.X. I’m not really much of a winker, so it had the reverse intended effect of making him pay closer attention. He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of the earthenware mug.

“Have you changed your mind about the convention?”

“What in our previous acquaintanceship would lead you to believe I’d change my mind about that?”

“The fact that you’re speaking to me from San Francisco.”

“Aside from that.”

“Christopher, your career is in a delicately-balanced position right now.”

I couldn’t hide my weariness. It leaked out in a long sigh. “When is it not?”

“You can’t afford to go off the grid again. We have to talk,
really talk
about your future, and it makes sense to do it at the convention.”

“Probably not. Since I won’t be there.”

She made an exasperated sound. I get that a lot from the women in my life. Not that there are a lot of women in my life.

“This is no time for a midlife crisis.”

“I agree. That was so last year.”

“Christopher! I’ve had an idea…” she burbled on, but half my attention was on J.X. who set his coffee cup in the sink and came over to me.

He said quietly, “Honey, I’ve got to go.”

I nodded politely, which was not the right response, as I could tell from the way his brows drew together. He leaned in, and I leaned in, and somehow the phone was in the way—where did all that cord come from?—our mouths latched on—mostly. It was a fleeting kiss, tasting of coffee and toothpaste on his end, and coffee and exasperation on mine.

“I’ll call you when I get to the hotel,” he whispered.

“…dragon tattoo,” Rachel said.

“I am
not
getting a tattoo,” I said. “Thanks to you, I already have two piercings in my ear and a wardrobe that looks like the Hollywood version of what writers wear—which, incidentally, I still haven’t finished paying for.” I nodded enthusiastically to J.X. so he could see I was listening to him.

“Have you heard a word I said?” Rachel demanded.

“I love you,” J.X. said.

“I heard you,” I said shortly.

Rachel’s silence and J.X.’s expression seemed equally taken aback.

“Love you too,” I said hastily to J.X.

He smiled uncertainly. My smile was equally doubtful.

“Christopher?” Rachel inquired. “Are you still there?
Christopher
?”

“I’m here,” I said automatically, as J.X. raised his hand in a final farewell and disappeared into the hall.

A few moments later, and from what felt like a long way away, I heard the front door close. This was followed by the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock.

So much for milestones and relationship markers.
Love you too
.

Love. You. Too.

Somehow I had intended the first time I managed to say the words to J.X. to be a little more…meaningful.

Chapter Two

I
n New York publishing circles Rachel Ving is known as Ving the Merciless.

With reason. She’s a good agent and we’ve been through a few things together—including a murder investigation. There’s nothing like a little unplanned homicide to show you who your real friends are. I liked Rachel and I respected her—and I didn’t blame my currently floundering writing career on anything she had or hadn’t done for me—up to and including dragging me into that previously mentioned murder investigation. That said, not all her ideas are good ones.

“Scandinavian crime fiction,” she was still jabbering as J.X. walked out of our new house. “I keep waiting for someone to send me another boy in the suitcase.”

I tuned back in with difficulty. “Huh?”

“
The Boy in the Suitcase
by Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis. We should have thought of it before. Have you read Jo Nesbø? You must have. Harry Hole?”

“Hairy… What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about saving your career.”

“Yeah, well I’m not sure I—” I stopped cold. What?
What?

If Rachel heard that revealing start and stop, she didn’t acknowledge it. “This isn’t just about you, you know. You’re my biggest client. When you don’t earn money,
we
don’t earn money.”

“I understand that, Rachel. But.”

But what? I stared, frowning, at the glass-enclosed breakfast nook and the pretty garden outside. More weathered brick, more topiaries. Rococo patio furniture? In robin’s egg blue, no less. Did people really sit on those uncomfortable-looking chairs? It did not look like the garden of anywhere I had ever lived. Or would live. There was a pool at least. Somewhere. Somewhere behind the tiny terraces and low hedges was a small, secluded, kidney-shaped pool. That had been one of my stipulations for the house hunting. Must have pool. And separate offices. And a fireplace in the master bedroom. And gardens, front and back. And a skylight. An older home in a quiet neighborhood. But with a fully modern kitchen. In case I ever wanted to cook something.

Somehow I had expected it to take J.X. longer to find such a place. Let alone shove it through escrow at light speed. But no. Four months after our trip to Connecticut, here we were, setting up house together.

Rachel was still delivering her pep talk in a tone eerily reminiscent of Margaret Thatcher readying the troops to take back the Falklands. “I know what I’m talking about. The only way to shake off this writer’s block is to go in a completely different direction.”

“Painting, maybe? Look, I don’t have writer’s block. I just don’t feel like working at the moment. There’s a lot going on in my life.”

“Christopher, you have to get back on that horse.”

Only this horse was looking more and more like a Shetland pony.

“What horse? I’m not Scandinavian, if that’s where you’re headed. The answer is no.” The only boy with a suitcase I cared about was on his way to San Francisco International Airport. Why did he have to throw the words out like that? And why had I not answered with more…attention to detail? Not that it was the first time J.X. had used the L-word. But it was the first time in our new home, in our new situation, in our new life together, and I had wanted to… What? I was probably overthinking this.

Rachel said patiently, “Of course you are. Your mother is Swedish, right?”

“Swiss. Not. She’s American. My grandmother was Swiss. That doesn’t qualify me to write Scandinavian crime fiction.”

“You don’t have to be Scandinavian to write Scandinavian crime fiction.”

“You have to have read some of it though. I’ve never read a word. I saw
Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
. Okay, the version with subtitles. But that’s the closest I got.”