In Other Words...Murder

by In Other Words. . . Murder [MM] (retail) (epub)

  “There’s a difference between not finding them funny and…what I experience when I see a group of clowns.”

  I regret to say I laughed. I did manage to turn it into a cough at the last moment, so it came out sounding like I’d swallowed my gum. Not that I chew gum, and not that I’m completely insensitive—I hope—but compared to seeing the guy who tried to kill you loose on the street, J.X.’s fear of clowns seemed kind of…frivolous.

  I mean, it’s one thing to see a lone clown standing by the road in the middle of nowhere. That’s creepy. But this was a street fair with the theme Carnivals and Clowns. J.X. had to have known what to expect when he dragged us here.

  I tried, though. I tried to find something sympathetic to say. “Sure. Of course. And all these weird clown sightings we hear about on the news can’t have helped.”

  He muttered something and stared bleakly into the distance.

  I said, “I…guess it must have made your career in law enforcement challenging.”

  J.X. swung his head back in my direction and looked at me like I was crazy. “Uh…how many crimes do you imagine are circus-centric?”

  I opened my mouth, but Gage interrupted with exhortations to photograph him stabbing toilet-paper heads. J.X. seemed only too relieved at this change of subject, and I was able to return to watching the crowd for the moment Jerry might leap out at me.

  Which, for the record, did not happen.

  If Jerry was at the street fair, he was watching us from afar. Afar enough that I couldn’t spot him, and I spent a lot of time looking and worrying about it. In fact, I’d have preferred that we left the fair immediately, but since I’d been pushing for that from the moment we arrived, my wishes were not taken seriously.

  We strolled around some more. Gage tried his prowess at knocking down a variety of inanimate objects, and J.X. coaxed me into having our “portrait” live-sketched by one of the street artists. It turned out all right. I looked a little wild-eyed, but J.X., as ever, looked handsome and stoic. He vowed to frame the thing and hang it in his office.

  Finally, finally the delights of the Halloween Hootenanny were exhausted for the year, and we departed to catch a matinee showing of Smallfoot.

  I don’t remember much of the film. I believe it was cute and probably amusing. Gage laughed a lot. J.X. occasionally chuckled. He was holding my hand throughout the film—something David and I had never done: hold hands at the movies—and though he was not saying anything, I could feel his silent reassurance. It’s okay. It’s okay…

  And if it were up to J.X., it would be okay. But it was not up to him.

  If Jerry really was out on bail, I couldn’t help feeling that it would not be okay.

  After the movie we continued on to Rosario’s Pizzeria, which was Gage’s second favorite place to dine.

  His first favorite place was the home of Ronald McDonald, the Hamburger-Happy Clown, and I now felt I had insight into J.X.’s antipathy toward that relatively harmless establishment. But maybe tonight it had nothing to do with clowns. Maybe it had everything to do with me being along for the ride.

  One thing I like about J.X.—well, there are many, many things I like about him—but one thing I especially like is the fact that he understands some of us need adult beverages with our kiddie meals. And by adult beverage I don’t mean wine or beer. I mean G&T and keep ’em coming.

  Okay, two G&Ts. And maybe an after-dinner coffee drink.

  We were having our after-dinner coffee, and Gage was putting his final touches on his placemat-in-Crayola masterpiece (which would doubtless find its way to our refrigerator door), when Izzie finally returned J.X.’s earlier phone call.

  I could tell by J.X.’s expression the news was not good.

  “When was he released?” J.X. asked. This was followed by what felt on my end like a lengthy explanation. “Jesus Christ,” J.X. muttered.

  His eyes, dark with anger and apology—not that he had anything to apologize for—met mine.

  I grimaced and considered ordering another drink.

  J.X. restrained himself to a few terse comments, thanked Izzie and apologized for interrupting his weekend, before he finally ended the call.

  “So he is out,” I said.

  J.X. nodded. “He’s been out since the fifteenth.”

  I was trying to match his straightforward tone, but that got me. “That’s almost two weeks!”

  “I know.”

  “For God’s sake.”

  His eyes grew still darker and more apologetic. “There’s no excuse. We should have been notified. It’s just sometimes things fall through the cracks.”

  “Crack? This is kind of a fissure. This is more like that two-mile-long, thirty feet deep crack in Pinal County, Arizona.”

  “I know, Kit. It’s troubling.”

  “Troubling? Yes. It is troubling. It is fu—” My gaze fell on Gage, tip of his tongue poking from between his teeth as he concentrated on getting every layer of his rainbow solid black. “—reaking terrifying.”

  “His being there today could have been a coincidence.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know it seems unlikely, but he’d have to be—”

  “Crazy?” I suggested. “Check. Obsessed? Check. Homicidal? Check.”

  “Yes. Kit—”

  “How did he get out, anyway? He couldn’t make bail. How is it he’s walking around the streets of San Francisco?”

  “He’s apparently formed a relationship with some woman who began writing him while he was incarcerated. She came up with the money.”

  “She came up with a million dollars in bail money?”

  “She came up with the required ten grand.”

  “He shouldn’t even be eligible for bail, given that the facts are evident and the presumption great.”

  This was an old rant—er, topic—and J.X. sighed. “I know Knight’s conviction seems inevitable to you, and I think he will be convicted, but he’s still permitted due process.”

  “Whatever! Who is this woman who bailed him out?”

  “Her name’s Violet Sanderson.”

  “Violet Sanderson,” I repeated. “Why is that name familiar to me?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t familiar to me.”

  “Violet Sanderson sounds like a turn of the last century lady sleuth.”

  J.X. shook his head. “All I know is she’s been writing him letters almost daily and eventually came up with the bail money.”

  “Hybristophilia,” I said glumly. It seemed to be our day for bandying phobias about.

  “Gesundheit.”

  “You know. Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome. Seemingly normal people who are sexually or romantically attracted to criminals. There are all kinds of reasons behind the attraction, but the bottom line is, some women really do like bad boys. Very bad boys.”

  “It seems Ms. Sanderson is one of them. Listen, we’ll file a restraining order against Knight first thing Monday morning.”

  Gage piped up in a clear, carrying voice. “What’s a restraining order?”

  That earned a few interested looks from our fellow diners.

  I said, “It’s what happens to kids who talk with their mouths full.”

  Gage opened wide to demonstrate exactly how full his mouth was.

  J.X. frowned. “That’s disgusting.”

  And, of course, both Gage and I laughed, because as much as I hated to encourage the little hooligan, there was something entertaining about J.X.’s occasional attempts at severity.

  Gage and I exchanged looks of smug fellowship, and I did my best to put aside all thoughts of my impending doom for the duration of our evening out.

  It was not quite seven when we returned home to Cherry Lane.

  J.X. unlocked the front door, Gage darted inside, and we followed, turning lights on as we went.

  “…to spoil your weekend with this…”

  I tensed at the sound of a woman speaking in the kitchen, but then realized the voice was leaving a message
on our answering machine.

  “…Legally, I don’t think they have a leg to stand on, but a lawsuit is a lawsuit. Maybe if you could talk to them…”

  I recognized the voice as belonging to Rina, the realtor who had handled the sale of my Chatsworth home, and I squeezed through the kitchen doorway ahead of Gage and J.X. and picked up the phone.

  “Hey, Rina. It’s Christopher.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” The relief in her tone carried up the length of the state. “Thank goodness you’re there. I can’t tell you what a shock this whole thing has been. A dead body!”

  “I know. I’m a little shocked too.”

  “But then you write mysteries.”

  “I don’t usually…” I was going to say live them, but the fact of the matter was, over the past year, life had sometimes been alarmingly meta.

  “I’ve been selling real estate for twenty years, but this is a new one on me. And on the Kaynors, of course, which is why they’re trying to claim the sale of the Hiawatha property is invalid.”

  “What? Why?”

  She said cautiously, “Because of the, er, body in the backyard.”

  “But I mean…it’s not like I knew there was a body in the backyard when I put the house on the market.”

  “I realize that. They’re upset, of course. And being kicked out of the house while the police investigate isn’t helping.”

  “Right. Of course. But…” I recalled the second part of her message. “If you think my talking to them would help, I’m more than willing—”

  “Yes!” She leaped on this immediately. “I do think it might help. They were so impressed when they met you. Mrs. Kaynor’s mother being such a fan sealed the deal, I think.”

  “I remember.” That had been one of the nicest parts of the transaction, frankly. The nine hundred grand the house had gone for had been another nice part. That money allowed me financial freedom and independence during this lull in my career. I did not want to waste so much as a dime of it in a dumbass lawsuit.

  “Honestly, I don’t believe they would win any such suit—unless you did have something to do with the body being there.”

  “I course I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

  “No, of course not!” She seemed to relax ever so slightly at my offended tone. “But regardless of the eventual outcome, a legal battle is so expensive, and the publicity wouldn’t do any of us any good.”

  Rachel would have disagreed, but I said nothing.

  “And the fact that the house would be standing empty all that time would just make it harder to sell down the line. So, if you could see your way to speaking with them, it might be possible to resolve the situation without further action.”

  “I agree. I’ll make arrangements tomorrow.”

  Rina said, “Just a thought. The element of surprise might be useful.”

  I glanced at J.X., who was listening in with a less than delighted expression.

  “Really? Well, there’s a lot of that going around right now,” I said.

  Chapter Five

  I had been happy in that house.

  It was just an ordinary 1970s single story in an ordinary neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley, but it had been home. In some ways it still looked like home. In some ways it didn’t. The black plastic bats hanging from trees were new and added a grimly festive touch—as did the grinning skeleton hanging in the front window. Now there was irony for you.

  Otherwise the house was mostly as I remembered it. The fountain in the front yard was adorned with what appeared to be a large, lone trout—but was presumably supposed to be a dolphin—the double entryway doors were dark oak with leaded glass, but the formerly lush-green lawn, like a couple of others on the street, had been allowed to go to seed whether out of cheapness or in a nod to the ongoing drought.

  Really, the only not ordinary thing about the house was the fleet of crime-scene vehicles and squad cars parked out front and taking up every available bit of parking on the street.

  As I strode up the sidewalk, I saw crime-scene technicians in coveralls milling in the doorway of the residence. A middle-aged couple were in the process of lugging suitcases across the white stone gravel garden and down the driveway.

  “George,” I called. “Gina. May I have a word?”

  They stopped walking, turning warily to face me. I could see they didn’t recognize me. I barely recognized me. I didn’t often wear a suit, and this one was a little large through the midsection now. But as I drew nearer I saw realization dawn.

  They glanced at each other. Gina raised her chin. George straightened his shoulders.

  “Mr. Holmes,” Gina said in frosty accents. She was a roly-poly blonde, usually amiable-looking, with bright blue eyes and short, spiky hair. She wore magenta Fabletics and pale-pink acrylic nails; she did not look amiable today. George was also fair, round, and not looking amiable.

  He said, “I’m surprised you’d show your face around here, Holmes.”

  “Christopher, please,” I said, exuding charm—or whatever scrapings of charm I had left after yesterday’s long-ass drive from the Bay Area. It would have been easier to fly, except I hate flying even more than long-ass drives. “Of course I’m here. I’m as anxious as anyone to know what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on is you sold us a house with an attached graveyard,” Gina said.

  “So I’ve heard. I certainly didn’t do it knowingly.”

  They both looked openly skeptical. I don’t think I’m unduly touchy, but it’s hard not to take offense at people acting like nothing you say can be trusted.

  “They’re spraying the house with Luminol,” George said.

  “Ah. I see. I don’t think it stains, so that’s the good news.”

  “That’s your idea of good news?”

  “I think it’s probably standard procedure,” I replied. “Spraying for—er, with Luminol.”

  Gina said, “Not for us!”

  “No, I realize that. And I realize it’s very inconvenient and that you’re upset. But I wanted to give you my personal assurance that I had no knowledge of the body they’ve discovered, and certainly nothing to do with whatever befell him.”

  “We can’t stay at the house until they’ve signed off on the crime scene—whatever that means.”

  “You wouldn’t want to stay here, believe me.”

  “That’s not the point! No, we wouldn’t want to stay here. We’ll never stay here again. But we also don’t want to go stay in a hotel for who knows how long.”

  George thrust his chin out pugnaciously and said, “We’re canceling the sale on the house.”

  “See, that’s the thing,” I said. “Escrow closed forty-five days ago. You’ve been living here for over a month. You’ve started making changes to the property.” I nodded at the dead lawn. “As much as I want you to love the house the way I did, it’s a bit late for second thoughts.”

  “The property was misrepresented to us,” George said.

  “It wasn’t misrepresented. It turned out to have features I was unaware of, but that’s not—”

  “Features!” exclaimed Gina.

  “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

  “You can keep your features, and you can keep this house you loved so much. We want our money back.”

  George nodded agreement.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not possible. And even if it were, once all this”—I gestured broadly to the crime-scene personnel and cop cars and crowd of gawkers—a number of whom I recognized as former neighbors—gathered behind the yellow and black crime-scene tape—“is over and done, everything is going to be back to normal.”

  Gina began, “Maybe that’s your idea of normal. You write mysteries. The rest of us—”

  I interrupted, “It’s the same house it was last week, same neighborhood, same everything. This is inconvenient and uncomfortable, but I don’t feel there are legitimate grounds for canceling the sale.”

  “It’s not up to you,�
�� George returned.

  “It’s not up to you either. It’ll be up to the courts.”

  George shrugged. “So be it.”

  “And that’s going to be expensive and time-consuming. Are you sure you want to go that route?”

  “It won’t be expensive for us because you’ll be paying our legal fees.” He glanced at his wife. “Come on, Gina.”

  They marched away without another glance in my direction. I watched them go, lumbering down the sidewalk with their bulging bags.

  Hell. That could have gone better. I let out a long, exasperated breath. Now what? Having had a couple of days to cool down, I really hadn’t expected the Kaynors to be quite so unreasonable. Clearly, it would take more than a few minutes’ schmoozing and gifting copies of my latest book—not that I had a latest book—to change their minds.

  Some of the crowd gathered behind the yellow and black tape were now looking my way and whispering. One or two people pointed. I couldn’t help a twinge of unease. If J.X. was correct, someone on this street—maybe someone in that very crowd—had dumped a body in my yard when my back was turned.

  Someone on this street was very possibly guilty of murder.

  It was like being on the set of Fear Thy Neighbor.

  No wonder Gina and George were having second thoughts. I’d be having second thoughts too.

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Detectives Dean and Quigley picking their way across what was left of my former lawn. They ducked under the crime-scene tape and came to meet me.

  I said, “Before you say it, this isn’t me returning to the scene of my crime. This is me trying to keep my buyers from returning the scene of the crime.”

  Quigley chuckled. “They do seem to believe you’re somehow involved.”

  “They choose to believe that because they want to back out of the sale.”

  Detective Dean, wearing a body-hugging dark suit that made her look like a sexy undertaker, said, “Is there some reason you chose not to approach the Kaynors over the phone?”

  “Yes. For one thing, I’m more charming in person.”

  And for a second thing, the knowledge that Jerry Knight was loose in San Francisco provided strong incentive for me to leave town.