The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (7 page)

“Couldn’t you have it resized?”

“That’s how J.X. bought it.”

Was there sentimental value in having a ring in the wrong size? Wasn’t it more likely that a ring that wouldn’t stay on your finger was a bad omen?

Nina said, “J.X. usually just takes the sink apart. I know to turn the water off now.”

Now.
J.X. really was up for sainthood. Me, I’d have summoned a plumber on her behalf. There are some things worth paying for. But Laura and Nina continued to watch me with those intent, unreadable expressions, so maybe this was some kind of a test? It seemed to be a test as far as J.X. was concerned.

I said, “Well, if it’s just a matter of removing the P-trap, I can do that. I mean, assuming you’ve got a wrench or a pair of pliers.”

“J.X. leaves his tools here.” There was a hint of a challenge in the way Nina said that, so yes, this was probably some kind of territorial thing. And maybe me demonstrating acceptance of her boundaries would help? Or would I look weak? The zebra with the bad limp?

I was just glad she hadn’t dropped her ring down the bath drain because clearly nothing less than shifting the tub would do, and with my bad back, I’d probably have ended up writhing on the floor beneath their pitiless gaze while they drew straws on who would put me out of their misery.

“Lead on, Mac-er-Ma’am,” I said.

Nina did the honors, leading the way to the garage where a plastic bucket sat with a wrench and a pair of rubber gloves inside. So yes, apparently this was not an uncommon occurrence. What did she have against drain guards? Or was I missing the point of this exercise?

I picked the bucket up and Nina said, “The bathroom’s this way.”

We returned inside, Nina pointed out the bathroom, and withdrew a safe distance to the den.

It had been twenty years since I’d had to dismantle a drain pipe. The last time, my mother had dropped a diamond earring down the kitchen sink. It was one of a pair my father had bought her on their tenth wedding anniversary, and though my father was out of favor, she still loved the earrings.

Anyway, I had been successful that time, and hopefully I would triumph here too. I needed a little triumph this morning.

Laura and Nina spoke quietly, in Spanish, in the front room. It would be childish to let that bother me, right? They were probably not talking about me. They were probably discussing the Giants’ scores or what to do about the Middle East.

I placed the bucket directly beneath the P-trap to capture whatever lovely goop fell out after I removed the trap. I sat down on the bathroom floor and used the wrench to loosen the P-trap’s slip nuts.

A floorboard squeaked. I glanced around and the kid, Gage, poked his head around the door frame. He had been four at Christmas, and I had the vague idea there had been a birthday since then, so he was a brown and skinny five-year-old with eyes like Bambi and a perpetual frown. Or maybe the frown was only perpetual around me. Judging by appearances, he’d been playing outside. Or possibly mud wrestling.

“Hi,” I said.

He ducked away, but a couple of minutes later he was back. This time he stuck his tongue out.

I ignored him.

He departed once more, only to return in a minute or so, stepping boldly into the doorway. He put his hands on his non-existent hips and stuck his tongue out again.

“You know, I see you,” I said. The slip nuts were loose enough that I could now unscrew them the rest of the way by hand.

Gage stuck his tongue out again.

“That’s not very nice.”

“You’re not my friend,” he said.

“I’d like to be.”

This was trespassing. He scowled, looking uncomfortably like J.X. in his less charming moments. The dirt on his little face even suggested the shadow of a beard. “I don’t like you.”

I don’t like you either, you little shit
. But to my surprise I heard myself say calmly, “That makes me sad. And I know it makes your uncle sad.”

His brows drew together. He opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Nina yelled from the other room, “Gage! Come in here now. Stop bothering Mr. Holmes.”

“He’s fine,” I called. Maybe they didn’t hear. There was no response.

Gage scampered away on muddy, soundless feet.

My phone vibrated suddenly and I jumped, nearly braining myself on the underside of the sink basin. I got to my knees, fumbled my cell out of my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number. But I had learned my lesson. I answered. It was Inspector Izzie Jones telling me I could go back home anytime I chose.

I reached over and swung the bathroom door shut. “Was there any identification on the body?”

“No, but we know who he is.”

“You do?”

“I recognized him the minute I saw him,” Jones said cheerfully.

I thought over our two conversations the day before. He sure as hell hadn’t given any indication at the time he knew who the victim was. So the inspector hadn’t been quite as blasé and trusting as he’d seemed. Cynicism. I liked that in a man.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Elijah Ladas. We’ve been looking for him in connection with a robbery homicide at a gallery in Sausalito.”

“A gallery? You mean an art gallery?”

“Arts and antiques.”

“What would an art thief be doing in my moving van?” Come to think of it, what would an art thief be doing in Barstow, assuming Barstow was where he’d joined the safari? Was there any art worth stealing in Barstow? Was there any art in Barstow at all? Not counting Paint-by-Number kits.

“That’s something we’d certainly like to know.”

I said, “Unless someone is after my Dell mapbacks or my Criterion DVD collection, there was no reason to target me.”

“Yeah, well, we think it wasn’t targeting so much as innocent-bystandering.”

That was a relief. “Do you have any suspects?”

“The usual,” Jones said, and I wasn’t sure if he was pulling my leg or not. He promised to keep us posted and bade me adieu.

I undid the final nuts, freed the trap, and a dank-smelling watery sludge slopped into the bucket.

Nice.

I tugged the plastic gloves on and began sifting through the muck, wondering if I was still in bed at the Fairmont having some weird, psychologically significant dream about searching for J.X.’s ex-wife’s wedding ring? Because it was hard to believe I was doing this in real life.

A gleam of gold shot through a hairy green lump. I dug out the ring—a plain gold band—wiped it off with a handful of toilet paper, and squinted at the engraving inside the band. It was just a date, which was sort of a relief. An expensive wedding ring or a tender inscription would have bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

I dumped the dirty water down the toilet, replaced the P-trap, fastened it, turned the valves back on, rinsed the ring and carried it out to Nina, who was still talking quietly with Laura. Nina looked up, her eyes red as though she had been crying.

I said awkwardly, “Here you go. Good as new.”

“Thank you,” she said huskily, taking the ring and not looking at me. She slipped it on her left hand.

Laura rose. “I’ll see you out,” she said.

I’ll. See. You. Out.
Wow. Didn’t they have a footman for that? But maybe it was just the uncomfortableness of the situation because at the front door she unbent enough to say, “Thank you for coming over here this morning. It was very kind of you…Christopher.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

Gage, who had been playing with a couple of Tonka Gear Jammer Big Rigs in the front hall, joined Laura at the door to give me one final view of his—in my opinion, unnaturally elongated—tongue. I raised a hand in farewell.

Back on Chestnut Lane, everything looked pretty much as usual, not counting the news van from independent television station KAKE parked out front. A slim, dark-haired woman in a pale pink trench coat jumped out of the passenger side as I approached the gate. The driver was slowed down by his camera.

“Mr. Holmes? Sydney Nightingale,
Baywatch News
. I just have a few questions.”

I snorted at the idea of “Baywatch News,” put my head down and kept walking. Nightingale trotted alongside me, her tan kitten heels making a clippity-clop sound on the bricks.

“Is it true you found the body of notorious art thief Elijah Ladas buried beneath your basement?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?” She sounded startled, so her source at Police HQ must have been generally infallible. “Whose body did you find?”

“This is private property,” I said.

She wore her dark hair in a stylish flip. Her blue eyes were made up to give them a cat’s eye tilt. She had a cute spattering of freckles across her nose. “Was there or was there not a body in your basement, Mr. Holmes?”

I reached the front porch, got my key in the lock. The wrong key as it turned out.

“Can you confirm your relationship to crime writer J.X. Moriarity?”

I found the right key, turned the lock and opened the door.

“Any comment? Any comment at all, Mr. Holmes?”

I stepped inside and closed the door in Nightingale’s pretty face.

A woman was speaking loudly from the kitchen. More cops? More reporters? I charged down the box-strewn hall to do battle, but realized I was listening to Rina, my Southern California realtor, leaving a message.

“…your decision, but it’s a good offer. I really think we should take it. Either way, we have to tell them
something
.”

I stopped in the doorway, listening. Rina was right, of course. We did have to tell the buyers something. I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating. But I was, and I continued to hesitate as she finished her message and hung up.

I poured myself a glass of water. As I drank the water I studied the remaining boxes in the kitchen. I’d made more progress than I’d realized the day before. I was all the way down to pot holders, dish towels and oddball kitchen utensils like meat skewers, baster sets and a tenderizer hammer. That final one, now that I thought about it, made a nice little murder weapon.

I was slapping the hammer experimentally against my palm when the doorbell rang.

I charged down the hall, flung open the door—and my mouth—all primed and ready to deliver a blistering, “If you’re not off my property in thirty seconds, I’m going to call the police.” But it was not intrepid girl reporter Sydney Nightingale from
Baywatch News
, blighting the beauty of the June afternoon.

Jerry Knight stood on the porch. He smiled broadly, held up an enormous picnic basket, and caroled, “Surprise!”

Chapter Five

I
don’t like surprises. And I’m not that good at hiding my feelings.

“Uh…” I said. Actually that
was
me trying to hide my feelings. The inward dialog went more like
Are you fucking kidding me?

Jerry’s smile fell. He looked at the dumpster-sized basket. He looked at me. His arms trembled as he tried to unburden himself.

I automatically reached for the basket, then realized what I was doing and tried to press it back on him. He put his hands up as though we were playing a game of Baby, Baby, Who’s Got the Baby?—or Who’s Got the Live Grenade?—taking a step back.

“Really,” I said. “I can’t.” I pushed the bassinet into his arms, which automatically closed around it. He nearly overbalanced but steadied.

“I just thought—I saw you on the news last night and I thought—”

What? That I might be in the mood for a picnic? How long had he been parked on my street waiting for me to come home?

“It’s very kind of you. It’s very thoughtful. But I can’t.”

He looked bewildered. “Why?”

“Because…”

The truth was not an acceptable answer. Unlike Jerry’s gesture, the truth was not kind. That except in cases of flood, fire, famine—and winning raffle tickets—strangers did not bring other strangers picnic baskets.

Jerry wasn’t waiting for my explanation. He was ready with his own. “You had a horrible experience and I thought you probably didn’t have a chance to cook. And I wanted to welcome you to the city but you didn’t have time for coffee. I remember reading in an interview that you liked lemon meringue pie, so there’s a lemon meringue from my favorite bakery. And cold roast beef sandwiches. And dandelion bacon salad like in
Dead Weights for Miss Butterwith
.” It came out in a jumbled rush. I got the gist of it though. He had done something very nice and generous, and I was being a jerk. So what else was new?

I said weakly, “You went to too much trouble, Jerry. And expense.”

“I wanted to. You’ve given me so many hours of pleasure with your books.”

“But it’s just…that’s my job.”

“And it’s my job as your number one fan to let you know how much we readers appreciate it.” He smiled tentatively.

“Well, thank you. It’s really kind.” I hesitated. Appearances to the contrary, I didn’t
want
to be unkind. Or ungracious. But I also didn’t want to encourage, well, the wrong thing. You’re not supposed to accept expensive presents from strangers. That’s the rule.

Jerry continued to watch me with those sad-hopeful eyes.

Okay, maybe it’s more of a guideline.

I think what ultimately decided me in Jerry’s favor was the memory of finding the body of Elijah Ladas in the basement. That had been pretty damned unsettling, and even though, if I looked at it logically,
I
was inadvertently responsible for the body showing up at 321 Chestnut Lane, it was going to be a while before I could comfortably walk downstairs. In fact, I kept getting the persistent, uncomfortable feeling that someone was standing in another room listening to us. It was a big, empty house, and, chicken or not, I didn’t want to be here by myself.

I asked, “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Jerry’s face lit up. “Yes!”

I held the door wide, and Jerry stepped inside.
“Wow.”
He stared around himself.

“I know. Mostly books,” I said. “Between me and J.X., we could start a used book store.”

“No, I mean the house.
Wow
. It’s so beautiful. I love old houses!” Jerry tipped his head back, studying the ceiling. “That skylight. Is that original to the house?”