He actually smiled. “Look, I would like to buy you dinner. I would like to apologize, yes, and I would like to talk about this situation with the house and with Dicky. I think there’s plenty to say and we’d be smart to get our stories straight before we’re interviewed by the police again.”
“That’s the first genuinely suspicious thing you’ve said,” I told him. “‘Get our stories straight’?”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, aren’t you at all concerned or even curious about what happened to Dicky? You’ve solved four murders in the past year. Why wouldn’t you want to solve this one?”
“Because this one is too close to home. Literally.”
“All the more reason to try and figure out what happened. I don’t know about you, but I need to know what happened.”
Goody for you.
But I didn’t say it. I was curious. Morbidly curious. Granted, less about Dicky’s fate than about what David wanted to say.
“It’s just dinner,” David coaxed. “We never have to see each other again after tonight if you don’t want to. But surely we’ve reached a place where we can at least be polite.”
“I’ve been polite for nearly twenty minutes,” I said. “This is already a test of my endurance.”
He laughed. He laughed in the old way, a warm appreciative chuckle that brought back way too many memories of happier times. “Come on, Christopher,” he said, as he had said a million times before.
“Fine,” I said ungraciously. “I’m staying at the Radisson. They have a restaurant on site. You can buy me dinner and we can talk.”
His smile broadened. “About six?”
“Make it five-thirty. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“I’ll see you then,” he said, and irritatingly, was the first to turn away.
I like hotels.
Staying in hotels was one of the few things I never minded about book tours. Yes, the art is bad and the pillows are never quite right. And yes, I’ve heard the horror stories about black lights illuminating semen on bedspreads and maids washing glasses with toilet brushes, but I’m good at convincing myself that doesn’t happen at hotels I stay at.
I had just finished unpacking and was settling down to give J.X. a call when Rachel rang.
“Christopher!” she greeted me. “How is the investigation coming?”
“Slowly. They still haven’t identified the body. It could be weeks before they know if it’s Dicky or not.”
“But what about suspects? Suspects are the interesting part. How many suspects are there?”
“It’s hard to narrow the list of suspects when you’re not one hundred percent sure who the victim is. The good news is if the victim is Dicky, the cops suspect David every bit as much as they suspect me.”
She said impatiently, “The cops! Who cares about the bloody coppers? I’m asking about your investigation!”
“My—? Rachel, I’m not investigating this.”
“Of course you are! We’ve already discussed it. I can sell this book. I could sell it tomorrow if we had a proposal ready.”
“When did we discuss it? Wait. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I can’t get involved. Even if I wasn’t a suspect, I can’t get involved.”
“Nonsense! You’ve solved four murders this year alone. It is imperative that you get involved. The fact that you’re also a suspect merely raises the stakes.”
“Getting involved the last time nearly got me killed!”
“I’m not saying get that involved.”
“I don’t want to get involved at all!”
She said sternly, “You are involved. You’re already involved. Why would you be in LA if you aren’t investigating?”
I tried to answer, but the question was clearly rhetorical. Rachel was hitting her stride. “It only makes sense to capitalize on your work on this case.”
“But I haven’t done any work.”
“Exactly!” she shrieked. “That is exactly my point. You’re going to have to write something, Christopher. We can only tread water for so long.”
My heart, apparently weary of treading water, sank. “I know.”
“A hiatus is one thing. A sabbatical is one thing. This is starting to look like dropped out of sight. That’s not good. That is the kiss of death in this business. We cannot drop out of sight. You need a new book.”
“I know.”
“If you’re not going to write a book about how you solved this murder, very well. But I need something from you. I need a proposal.”
“Okay. Yes.” I couldn’t help adding, “You know, I haven’t solved this murder yet.”
Rachel returned with ruthless cheer, “You will, Christopher. You will!”
Chapter Seven
J.X. answered on the second ring.
“Hey. Are you still mad at me?” I asked.
“Of course I’m not mad at you,” he replied. “I’m just…”
“Please don’t say disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed, Kit. But I do think you should have waited to leave town until after filing a restraining order against Knight.”
Surprisingly, J.X. and I did not argue a lot, but we’d had words Saturday night after Rina had phoned. J.X. did not see the urgency in my decision to travel back to SoCal. In fact, he seemed to take it sort of personally. Like I was looking for any excuse to flee back to my home turf.
I said in what I hoped were mollifying tones, “I know, honey.”
“The sooner that’s done, the safer you’ll be. You need to get it on record that you don’t want him anywhere near you. He’s still claiming you invited him to the house the night Beck was killed.”
“I know.”
“Otherwise…”
I sucked in a breath, but let it out quietly, measuredly. “I hear you and I agree.”
“But yet you chose to leave town on Sunday.”
“Because this is also important,” I said. “The Kaynors are threatening to sue me.”
I was careful not to let my impatience creep in. I had not been careful Saturday night. In fact, I had used one of the words you never want to use in a romantic relationship. Well, really, in any relationship. Nag.
J.X. had been hurt, and when he was hurt, he closed down.
He had barely been speaking to me when I left on Sunday.
“Let them,” he said. “They’ll lose in court.”
“I’d rather it didn’t get that far.”
“Sure, but I don’t see how you’re going to stop it. If they’re determined to sue you—”
“I can’t afford a lawsuit!”
“Honey, it’s just money.”
“It’s my money, and I’m not working right now!” I was trying, trying not to use exclamation points, but they were creeping in against my best effort.
J.X. said with maddening reasonableness, “But I am. We’re fine. If worse comes to worse, I’ll do an extra book this year.”
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I put my hand to my throat and physically held in place the words—and punctuation—I would regret. He wasn’t speaking out of anything but the desire to reassure and comfort. The last thing he intended was to rub my nose in the fact that my career was at a standstill—dropped out of sight!—while his was booming. Literally booming, if we took into account the sort of thing he wrote.
Anyway.
When I could speak without screeching à la Gage’s favorite YouTube vid—the one where cartoon characters do nothing but scream for four very long minutes and thirteen seconds—I said mildly, “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But I would still prefer to head off a lawsuit, if possible.”
He said grudgingly, “Okay. Were you able to talk to them today?”
“Yes. And no, I did not manage to change their minds. So far.”
“Are you coming home tomorrow?”
“Probably. That’s the plan.”
“Probably?”
Why had I said probably? Because the plan was that I w
ould return home on Tuesday. I guess I was more freaked out about Jerry being loose again than I wanted to admit. But also, Rachel had made her point. Getting involved, even peripherally, in several homicides within the space of a year was kind of a lot. Maybe there was a book in that.
I said, “The police are still excavating the backyard at the house.”
“Yeah? So? What does that have to do with you not coming home?”
“I didn’t say I’m not coming home.” I heard the testiness of my tone. God almighty. Were we about to get into another argument? “I’d like to take one more crack at the Kaynors. That’s all.”
But that wasn’t all. And I realized I was about to step into a very big, very deep hole.
“By the way—and by the way, this segue has nothing to do with me staying longer in LA, which I don’t plan to do—David is here.”
I winced at the tiny but resounding silence that followed my words.
J.X. said, “David? Wait. He’s there with you now?”
“What? No. Of course not. I mean, he was at the house today.”
Just like that, and despite my best intentions, I was teetering on the brink of a lie. Because I could see—hear—that the truth was going to upset him. Because, bewilderingly, it seemed J.X. had some completely unexpected and unfounded doubt where David was concerned.
No way was I going to risk what we had, however awkward the truth—and it was awkward as hell—so I just said what needed to be said.
“We’re having dinner tonight.”
It came out more bluntly than I’d anticipated.
There was another of those fractional pauses that made me want to go back to chewing my nails as I had when I was seventeen. J.X. repeated in the dazed tone of someone picking himself up after being hit by a runaway trolley, “You’re having dinner with David?”
“It wasn’t my idea, but yes. He wants to talk about Dicky. He thinks if we put our heads together, we might be able to come up with something useful.”
“You do realize if Dicky’s dead, David killed him.”
“You’re the one who said Dicky wasn’t dead.”
“How the hell do I know if Dicky’s dead?” he cried. “Someone is dead. For all either of us know, it is Dicky. And your goddamned ex killed him.”
For someone normally even-tempered, he was getting pretty worked up. “Wait. What? What’s going on here? You told me you didn’t think Dicky was dead.”
“Kit, I was trying to reassure you by showing you there were other possibilities. I don’t know what happened to Dicky, but if something did happen to him, David did it. That much I’ll guarantee.”
“That’s quite a guarantee, given you never met either of them.”
“I don’t believe this,” J.X. said. “After everything that asshole did to you, you’re having dinner with him?”
“What the hell, J.X.”
I mean, on the one hand, I did sort of get it. On the other hand, I put up daily—weekly, at the very least—with J.X.’s convoluted familial relationships, which included tolerating the regular demands for his time and attention by his ex-wife-quasi-sister-in-law-yeah-don’t-ask Nina.
He said, “What the hell is right!”
“Why are you being like this? It’s just dinner. You have dinner with old friends all the time. Do I come unhinged?”
“Since when is David your friend?”
I’ll be damned. We really were fighting again. Just like that.
“This is ridiculous,” I said coldly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“If you can find the time,” J.X. retorted.
The bastard hung up before I could.
“To absent friends,” David said, and clinked his glass against mine.
“Hear, hear,” I said. “Although obviously they aren’t.”
David chuckled.
It was 5:35, and we were in the mostly empty dining room of the Radisson’s Caprese Restaurant. Having placed our orders with the waitress, we were making awkward small talk, and I was deeply regretting arguing with J.X.
I mean, I’d regretted it three minutes after we hung up, but I especially regretted it sitting here with David and being forcibly reminded of how lucky I was to have found J.X. again.
David was almost painfully unchanged—other than his now silver hair, which made him look unfairly sagacious and sophisticated—and it brought back a lot of not-so-good memories of other times and other meals when I’d spot that same predatory gleam in his eyes and know he was once more on the prowl.
Even his aftershave was the same. Grey Flannel. I did not like that fragrance, never had, but it was weird the way scent evoked memory.
Granted, the only reason my aftershave was different was because of last year’s makeover, which I’d had to endure when Rachel decided I needed to reinvent myself. Take it from me, you need more than new aftershave and a couple of additional and unnecessary piercings to kick up your book sales.
“Were you able to contact the new owners again?” David asked.
“No. They’ve moved to a hotel. Rina is trying to hunt them down for me.”
“I’m sure once the house is released as a crime scene they’ll feel differently. It’s no wonder they’re upset with all these strangers trooping through the house and yard.”
I nodded and sipped my drink.
“So J.X. Moriarity, huh?” He winked. “Holmes and Moriarity.”
“Yep.”
“You’ve heard that one before.”
“Yep.”
“I have to admit, I’m surprised.” He met my look. “Not that you ended up with J.X. Moriarity. That you ended up with anyone. All that time I was thinking it was you. Maybe it was me.”
“Maybe it was both of us,” I said.
“Maybe.” He raised his glass, and we clinked again. I foresaw a long night ahead and mentally apologized to J.X. Again.
The silence that followed was unexpectedly somber. We drank for a few moments, and David said, “I noticed there haven’t been any more Miss Butterwiths. Are you working on something new?”
“I’m taking a little break.”
“After sixteen years, you deserve a break. Too bad…”
He didn’t finish it. At my look of inquiry, he said, “How’s it work with two writers in one house?”
“So far, so good. How are things going for you?”
He flashed me a big, white, toothsome smile. “I finally got that regional sales manager position.”
“That’s great.” That was a prize David had been after for practically as long as I’d known him.
“Yep. The corner office, the company BMW, and that 300K bonus are all mine. Now if I just had someone to share my success with.”
I managed not to choke on my drink.
As though reading my mind, he said, “Sure, I have plenty of company when I want it. It’s not the same as having someone to share the bad times as well as the good times.”
“True words.”
We had both downed our drinks—there was an area of compatibility that remained unchanged—and I signaled to the waitress for another round.
“When was the last time you saw Dicky?” David asked abruptly.
“The Monday after you and he took off. He came for his final paycheck.”
“He did?” David’s surprise seemed genuine. “What happened?”
I scowled. “What do you think happened? I paid him and he left.”
“I didn’t mean— I’m just surprised he went back to the house. He was afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me?”
I had to stop there because the waitress returned with another round. I fumed as she set our drinks down, collected our empties, and then finally departed.
Before I could continue, David said, “I don’t mean afraid for his life. I mean he was…intimidated.” He grimaced. “He was embarrassed, truth be told. Maybe even kind of ashamed. He thought a lot of you. Really admired you.”
“He had a funny way of showing it.” D
icky had not been contrite that final meeting. He had been rude and defiant. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“That same Monday. I left for work that morning, and everything seemed fine. He didn’t say anything about planning to see you. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t like it.” David’s blue gaze met mine. “Hey, I might not be the most sensitive guy in the world, but even I can see that was too much like rubbing salt in the wound. That’s what I would have told him.”
“He cashed the check,” I said. “So for the record, he survived our encounter.”
David rolled his eyes. “Christopher, I’m sorry for what I said on the phone. I don’t really think you had anything to do with Dicky’s death, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now. And I did not tell the police I thought you killed Dicky. They jumped to that conclusion on their own when I told them you wrote mysteries.”
I grunted, only partly appeased.
He asked, “Were you able to give them the contact info they needed?”
“No. I’m not sure I still have his contact info. I’m not sure I ever had any background info on him.”
“He was kind of secretive about his past,” David said thoughtfully. “I remember that.”
I couldn’t remember if I’d thought Dicky was secretive or just wounded about the way his family had reacted to his coming out. In fact—uncomfortable to admit this even to myself—I couldn’t remember much about Dicky that did not relate to me and our own interactions. I had been at my most unhappy during the years Dicky had worked for me, which meant I had been at my most self-absorbed.
“You must have met his friends,” I said.
“Are you serious? Even if I wasn’t supposed to be mar— Dicky was twenty years younger than me. What would I have had in common with his friends?”
That time I did choke on my drink.
“Okay, okay,” David was saying when I stopped coughing. “But Dicky was very mature for his age. We did have a lot in common.”
“Like what? Me?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Honest to God, I don’t even care anymore.” I pushed my chair back. “Thanks for the drinks. I’m not in the mood for—”
In Other Words...Murder Page 6
