Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (28 page)

“I’m not endorsing vigilantism. I’m saying this isn’t something I necessarily want to stick my neck out for.”

“What would Miss Butterwith do?”

“Call Inspector Appleby.”

He was amused. “Okay. What would Inspector Appleby do?”

I sighed. “Gather all the suspects in a conveniently located drawing room…”

“Will a conveniently located meeting room do?”

I closed my eyes. “I guess it will have to.”

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“I want you to know that I think this is a bad idea,” I called over the sound of the shower. “And, furthermore, I don’t think you should get that bandage wet.”

“You can glue it on for me if it falls off.”

“Funny,” I said around a mouth full of toothpaste. “I faint at the sight of blood.”

“You haven’t fainted so far.”

I spat and bent down to rinse my mouth. When I straightened, J.X. had turned off the taps and was shoving back the grisly shower curtain, stepping out of the tub.

I tried not to stare, but he was…hard to ignore. It was a fairly small bathroom. And talk about a man in his prime. Tall, lean, cleanly defined muscles beneath satiny brown skin. Sable hair bisected his pecs and arrowed down to the straight and unequivocal statement of his returned interest. Forcing my gaze to his face, I said, “I really don’t think we have time for that.”

“You know that, and I know that, but
he
doesn’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” I told
him
.

J.X.’s mouth tugged into one of those heart-stopping smiles. “Maybe you should whisper in his ear.”

And, insanity though it was—and at my age, no less—I got down on my knees in that small and steamy room and took his hard, jutting length in my mouth. Soap and warm, damp skin…the salt-sweet taste of his excitement. Was there a greater aphrodisiac in the entire world?

I steadied him—and myself—hands on his lean hips, thumbs tracing ethereal circles on slick skin.

J.X.’s breath caught raggedly, and he let his head fall back, gasping for air as I sucked him.

His hand brushed my head, fingers twisting in my hair. “Oh God,” he said throatily. “I can’t believe this…”

Me neither. But here I was putting my experience, if not wisdom, to good use, massaging his cock with my tongue while he blinked wetly down at me, bemused as little jerks of lightning shot through his nerves. Nice to be able to do this to him—for him. I lowered one hand to cradle his balls, and he groaned.

I hummed, teasing, and he laughed unsteadily, his fingers twining restlessly in my hair. It didn’t take long and he was coming, sperm slinging from his cock and sliding down my throat, and I was lapping the fountain up like mother’s milk, gasping and swallowing. His knees gave, and he was kneeling with me on the little damp square of rug, holding me tight, kissing my mouth.

Josh Lanyon

~ * ~

“Do you still live in L.A.?” he asked as we trudged once more across the field separating the guest cabins from the main lodge.

“Chatsworth Hills,” I agreed. “Are you still in San Francisco?”

He nodded.

The rain had lessened to a fine mist and for the first time in days, the sun had slunk out from behind the clouds. It had immediately retreated—and I couldn’t blame it—but I thought it was a promising sign that the storm was finally passing. The wind had stopped too.

“Do you get down to Los Angeles much?” I asked casually.

“No.” He glanced at me. “But I didn’t have a reason before.”

I smiled twitchily. Our shoulders and arms brushed as we walked. He was right there in my personal space, and I liked it. But where was this heading? I had failed at one relationship; jumping into another didn’t seem like the smartest move.

“Don’t look so worried,” J.X. said. “We’re just going to talk to them. It’s better to handle these things directly.”

“It is?”

“In this case it is. We don’t want anyone having time to brood and maybe coming down to the cabins with a shotgun.”

My expression must have said it all. He reassured quickly, “That’s not going to happen, but it’s best to keep them together and talking till the sheriffs show up. Better for everyone—and safer.”

I was still fretting over the “safer” comment as we reached the lodge entrance. J.X. banged on the door and after a time, it swung open cautiously. Rita glared out at us.

And maybe the door hadn’t opened cautiously so much as reluctantly, because Rita couldn’t have missed the fact that, whoever the killer was, he was inside the lodge.

“Let’s get everyone together in the meeting room,” J.X. instructed as we stepped inside the lobby.

“Right away, sir,” Rita snarled. “Lord knows I’ve got nothing else to do today.”

“Are you sure about this?” I asked him in an undertone as we followed Rita down the hallway.

“It always works in your books,” he said innocently.

I shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Well, I can see why you don’t want to try to wrap things up the way you do in
your
stories. It might be hard to explain fifteen people killed in a shoot out.”

He laughed, not in the least offended. But then why should he be with everything he wrote hitting the bestseller charts? I didn’t used to be touchy either.

“How long is this meeting supposed to last?” Rita questioned, leading us into the room. A lot of the conference attendees were already there, killing time chatting at the tables placed around the room.

“Hard to say,” J.X. replied. “Can you make sure everyone is down here? Kitchen staff, everyone.”

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Rita expelled an affronted breath and stalked out of the room.

J.X. and I waited while the room slowly filled. He leaned against the wall, relaxed and alert while I wandered to and from the windows. Outside, the rain had stopped.

I walked back to J.X. and said quietly, “You’re doing this to keep them together, aren’t you? You’re trying to keep someone from making a break for it. That’s what this is about.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t
really
expect me to solve this or anything?”

“Stage fright, Mr. Holmes?”

“No, I don’t have stage fright. I don’t think of this as a play. Or a game.”

“Good, because neither do I.” He added honestly, “And I really am interested in hearing how you figure it all went down. I think
you
think you know what happened.”

By now the room was filled, and everyone was looking our way. Edgar approached and said, “What’s going on, boys?”

“Kit is going to share his theories on the murders,” J.X. said. “I think everyone is going to find them as interesting as I did.”

Edgar looked taken aback, but he nodded and went over to the fireplace, tossing wood into the grate and then taking a seat on the raised hearth.

I looked around the packed room. Rita and Debbie were standing near the doorway with most of the staff. Rachel and Espie were at a table with the remaining Wheaton & Woodhouse contingent including Mindy and George.

A sea of curious and critical faces turned my way.

J.X. said, “Excuse the disruption to the day’s festivities, folks. Christopher Holmes has been sharing some of his theories about the murders with me, and I think some of you will be very surprised to hear what he has to say.” He nodded to me.

I threw him an ungrateful look. Miss Butterwith always had Inspector Appleby and the redoubtable Mr. Pinkerton on hand for these scenes. Not that I wouldn’t take J.X. over Inspector Appleby and Mr.

Pinkerton both, but I was so far out of my comfort zone I could have been lying on a bed of nails.

“Go on, Christopher,” Rachel said. I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes as she envisioned a new direction for my writing career. True crime stories.

I cleared my throat. “I think in order to understand this crime, we need to examine the character of the first victim, Peaches Sadler.”

“The victim is not—and cannot be—placed on trial,” a voice called out stridently. I recognized a new up-and-coming legal thriller writer.

J.X. said, “We’re not holding a trial.”

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Josh Lanyon

“Is it an inquest?” a fresh-faced newbie inquired. She was holding a notebook, under the impression this was now part of the conference’s program.

“Uh…no.” J.X. gave me another of those encouraging nods.

I said, “Okay, so back to Peaches. I never had a chance to meet her, but…” My gaze fell on Debbie’s face, and I changed what I’d been about to say. “I understand that she was the kind of person you either loved or hated.”

“Mostly hated,” Espie put in, and there was an uneasy titter of laughter from the Wheaton & Woodhouse table.

“I don’t know a lot about her background. I know she grew up locally, and that she had a wild reputation. I’m not sure if that was something she later felt she needed to live down, but when she moved to New York and sold her first book, she changed her name to Peaches Sadler.”

The legal thriller writer chipped in, “The use of pen names is well-established and—”

“This wasn’t a pen name, though. According to her former agent, she legally changed her name. I don’t know if that was indicative of other problems, but it seems to me that Peaches—or Patty as she was formerly known—had a chip on her shoulder and the sense that other people owed her. Her professional and personal philosophy seems to have been
Do unto others before they do you
.”

“That’s not true,” Debbie cried. “She was wonderful to me. She was generous and encouraging.”

Rita patted her arm, pacifyingly. Her black gaze drilled into me.

I said, “I think she liked you, Debbie. But generally speaking, she was not very nice to people. She was also not a very good writer, although writing seems to have been her burning ambition. When her first novel didn’t sell, she successfully plagiarized a much more talented author to launch her career.”

Espie’s face was flushed.

“That seems to have been a pattern through her professional life, stealing other people’s work and passing it off as her own. What Peaches was very good at was the personality side of it. She might have been a pill to those closest to her, but she knew how to turn on the charm for readers and booksellers. She was pretty, she could be charming, and she was very smart. Her career flourished. I don’t know about her personal life. Steven Krass obviously knew her pretty well and he seemed genuinely broken up over her.

But there were other people close to her who she betrayed. Betrayed with unnecessary cruelty, which is what I think got her killed.”

J.X. tipped his head to me in that…
keep it rolling
fashion. His eyes were on the room, watching the faces turned and listening.

“For whatever reason, she liked hurting people,” I said. “She went out of her way to hurt people, and the people who she seemed to have the biggest grudge against were the people who knew her when she was transitioning from Patty to Peaches. I don’t know what that was about, but this weekend she found herself sharing airspace with some of her oldest and most bitter enemies. And being Peaches—or Patty—instead of 168

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trying to mend some broken karma, or ignoring those folks, she turned her hand to a little more mischief-making.”

“Meaning what?” George asked warily.

“Well, to start with, trying to seduce you. Seduction was pretty much her default setting, so I don’t think it was about you so much as trying to get at Mindy who probably didn’t try and hide the fact that she thought Peaches was an ignorant and talentless slut.”

“Oh my God,” Mindy exclaimed, looking around. “He’s trying to do the drawing room denouement. I
knew
this felt familiar.” She was chuckling.

George stood. “If you think
I
killed that bitch, you’re out of your mind.”

“Sit down,” J.X. warned, pushing away from the wall.

Mindy tugged his arm. “Sit down, silly. The guilty party is never one of the first people mentioned.”

To me, she said, “Go on, Christopher. This is fascinating. So you
do
know who did it.”

“I don’t think you killed her, George. I think you’re pretty experienced in the ways of the…heart, and you aren’t about to jeopardize your…” at the last instant I substituted
meal ticket
for “…happy relationship with Mindy.” I glanced at Mindy. “And Mindy alibied you, which I believe is true because I don’t think Mindy lets you out of her sight long enough to get into trouble.”

Espie hooted with laughter at that one. “What about Mindy? She could have killed Peaches. I heard them arguing that night.”

Mindy gasped indignantly.

I said, “If George wasn’t having an affair with Peaches, and I don’t think he was, then Mindy doesn’t have a real motive. On top of that, we have the nature of the second crime to consider. Peaches was struck with a piece of firewood—probably in this very room—which indicates rage and impulse. But Steven was killed out back with an axe. I can’t see Mindy using an axe to take someone out. But even if that grandmotherly exterior hides the heart of a Lizzie Borden, we come to the problem of moving Peaches’

body. Whoever killed her had to be strong enough to carry or drag her out to one of the vehicles, probably the truck, and then get her from the truck to the shrine in the woods. If you’ve ever tried to move a dead weight, you’ll understand why that eliminates almost everybody here, including me.”

“Maybe Krass and Peaches weren’t killed by the same person,” Rachel suggested.

“I thought of that.”

Mindy said, “What about the man who was in her bedroom the night she was killed?”

“Ah.” I glanced at J.X. He was watching me curiously. “Yes. We had two accounts of this mysterious man belonging to the pair of boots Mindy saw sitting at the foot of Peaches’ bed.” My gaze lowered instinctively to J.X.’s boots. He crossed his ankles casually.

“Of the remaining men here at the lodge, both Edgar and J.X. are physically strong enough to have carried Peaches down to the garage and into the woods. And I think they’re both strong enough—and www.samhainpublishing.com 169