In Other Words...Murder

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

  “Do you have a minute?” J.X. asked, startling me out of my apprehensive thoughts.

  “Yeah. Of course. What’s up?” I’d been so wrapped up, I hadn’t heard him walking down the hall.

  “I just talked to Izzie. He says they were able to retrieve the security footage from the bakeshop, but get this. Violet Sanderson tried to buy the footage first.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. Apparently she was irate when the shop manager refused to cooperate. Threatened to buy the place itself and fire every employee.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  J.X. nodded grimly. “It is.”

  “Isn’t that tampering with evidence?”

  “Yes, but it’s kind of a gray area.”

  By gray area, I assumed he was referring to John Kestenbaum. I’d looked him up online, and he was known in the Bay Area as the “Gray Fox.” Kestenbaum was the attorney you hired when you were: a) rich, and b) probably guilty.

  “So is that it? Jerry gets tossed back in jail for violating the restraining order?”

  He grimaced. “Maybe. Sanderson’s lawyer is filing a bunch of different motions to try to prevent that. Plus, Jerry’s story—communicated through his lawyer—is he was trying to resolve this situation in a mature, civilized manner by speaking to you directly. He didn’t realize the restraining order was already in effect—”

  “That’s utter bullshit.”

  “I know. He also claims he didn’t understand the restraining order meant no contact at all. He thought it meant no private contact and no physical contact.”

  I rose. “That’s not true. It’s ridiculous. Jerry knows exactly what a restraining order is, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He specifically told me the restraining order was going to be challenged and had in fact probably even been dismissed.”

  “Which kind of supports Jerry’s version of events, if you think about it.” J.X. sounded apologetic.

  “Goddamn it.”

  “Kit.” J.X. left the doorway and came around the desk to wrap his arms around me. For a moment I stood as rigid as a pole; then I gave in and dropped my head on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” he said against my ear.

  “For who? Jerry?”

  He didn’t bother to argue, just held me.

  That’s the problem with an addiction to true-crime TV. Thanks to Obsessed, Stalkers Who Kill, and Stalked: Someone’s Watching, I knew only too well how often restraining orders were not enforced, how often stalkers got off with repeated and ineffectual warnings, how often the system failed victims.

  “It’s not for sure,” he said. “Ignorance of the law is no excuse, and depending on the judge, this might be enough to get him tossed back in the can. I just want you prepared if it doesn’t go our way this time.”

  I nodded wearily.

  “This time. All they can do is try to delay the inevitable. He is going down. If I have to take him down myself.”

  That was the tough, young ex-cop speaking. And while I appreciated the sentiment, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want him even joking about putting himself and our life together at risk. Plus, he wasn’t joking.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Kit.”

  I nodded again. Raised my head. “I know. And I’m okay,” I said gruffly. “It’s just the bullshit is wearing.” No lie. I felt like my nerves were being rubbed raw every time I remembered Jerry was out there somewhere, plotting God knows what.

  “I know. Listen, I was thinking. Why don’t you come with me on this book tour?”

  “Huh?”

  “I think it would do you good to get out of town for a while. You love bookstores. You love hotels. You love me.” He grinned. “I think it would be fun.”

  I eyed him warily. “You think Jerry’s going to try something, don’t you?”

  “No. Well, I mean, yes, we both do. But I don’t have reason to believe he’s planning to escalate. I just think it would be a good idea for you to have a break from worrying about all this. And I would love you to come. I’m going to miss you like hell.”

  I sighed. “Thank you, but no. It’s not necessary.”

  “But why?”

  “For one thing, I’ve got to start work on this holiday novella. It’s already the end of October, and the thing is due next month. I haven’t written in a year. I need warm-up time.”

  “Come on,” J.X. said. “It’ll come back to you. It’s like riding a bike. It’ll be like riding Miss Butterwith’s bike. You’ll be done in a week or two.”

  I freed myself, saying irritably, “What is it with you and Rachel? It’s going to take me more than a week to write a novella. I know you don’t think my work demands the time and attention yours does—”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Just like that my heart was pounding and I was flushed with anger. I glared at J.X., who looked baffled—and a little hurt.

  I opened my mouth to say—I’m not sure what—but in the nick of time it occurred to me I was doing it again. I was picking a fight to avoid having to confront what was really eating at me.

  “No, I know that’s not what you’re saying,” I said, and I saw the relief in his eyes. J.X.’s shoulders relaxed, and I realized with chagrin he had braced for the onslaught. “But I’m out of practice, and it’s going to take me longer than it usually would. I can’t blow this. It’s Miss B.’s last shot. I have to get that proposal in, and then I have to start work on the book ASAP. Going on tour with you would be fun, but I can’t afford to take that time right now.”

  “You can’t write while we’re traveling?”

  “No. I can’t. I never could.”

  He sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Also, I refuse to be driven out of my own home by that asshole Jerry.”

  His smile was wry, “And I knew you’d say that too.”

  I was having my lunch of chicken salad on avocado at my desk when two emails whooshed in. One was from Rina, my former realtor, informing me the Kaynors were currently staying with Mrs. Kaynor’s mother in San Diego. She regretted to tell me they still expressed every intent of suing me—and were now threatening to sue her as well.

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I muttered.

  The second email was from Sophie Snow.

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  I’m writing on behalf of my uncle. I remember you very well from the sale of the house on Hiawatha Street, and I know Uncle Zag will be delighted to hear from you. He used to talk about you often and how you both started your publishing careers together. Sadly, he recently suffered another stroke and is once more unable to communicate by typing or speaking, but he’s still very much aware and alert of all that goes on around him. I plan to read your note to him when he wakes up from his nap. It will be the high point of his day.

  Sincerely,

  Pandora Boxleitner

  My heart dropped. Jesus. Another stroke? That was sad. And a disappointment. I’d been so happy to think Zag had made a miraculous recovery. And judging by his expanded backlist, he had, but had eventually succumbed once again?

  I reread the note from his niece.

  Pandora sounded as pleasant as I remembered. Boxleitner would be her married name. Her maiden name had been Pearce. Pandora Pearce. I remembered thinking it sounded like a pen name.

  Zag was lucky to have devoted family willing to look after him. Especially after Felicity had bailed.

  Even so. Poor guy. What kind of a life was that? If a note from me was the high point of his day, not much.

  Dear Pandora,

  I’m so sorry to hear the news about Zag. Is he well enough for visitors? If he’s able, I’d like to make the effort to see him.

  Christopher

  While I was waiting for her reply, David phoned.

  “Now what?” I asked by way of greeting.

  He was not offended. “Did you hear? The police arrested Reggie Chow! I always told you that kid wa
s no good.”

  “Arrested Reggie Chow for what?”

  “For murdering his uncle Van and dumping his body in our backyard.”

  “What? Wait a minute. The police think Reggie Chow is the culprit? Not the Coopersmiths?”

  “Who are the Coopersmiths?”

  “The people who owned the house before Zag.”

  “No. The cops nailed Reggie for it.”

  “But did they even interview the Coopersmiths?”

  “How would I know? What does it matter? Reggie confessed.”

  “But-but why?”

  “Because he did it. I guess he feels guilty about it.”

  “No,” I said impatiently, “why did Reggie choose our backyard? Why would he do that?”

  “He said he had to put the body somewhere fast, and there was a big hole in our yard, so he waited till it was dark and did the deed.”

  “That’s…” Weird. To say the least. Granted, Reggie had been evolving into quite the petty criminal over the years, but murder? I said, “But I thought forensics had determined the body had been buried for twenty years.”

  “That was a ballpark figure. They said it could be less.”

  True. Dean had said something to that effect. Still, the difference between one and twenty years was a lot to be off by.

  “Case closed, I guess,” I said slowly.

  “Yes. I bet you’re relieved.”

  “Yes. Of course. Although it’s still hard to picture Reggie as a murderer. He seemed like a good-humored goof.”

  “Not to me. I always said that kid was a menace.”

  “Yes, you did. Why did he kill his uncle?”

  “That, I don’t know. He’s claiming it was an accident.”

  “They all claim that,” I said with the jaded certainty of the Investigation Discovery addict. “If they don’t claim outright innocence.”

  “I guess so. Anyway—”

  A sense of wrong occurred to me. “Why are Dean and Quigley calling you with this information? Why aren’t they calling me? The house was mine.”

  “They didn’t call me. I called them. I saw it on the news.”

  “Oh.”

  “Although on that note, what the hell did you do to Detective Dean? She talks about you like she thinks you’re the devil. Did you really tell her the Partridge Family were potential suspects?”

  I cleared my throat. “That was a misunderstanding.”

  “She thinks you’re deliberately trying to make fools out of them.”

  I said shortly, “It wouldn’t be hard. But no.”

  I was still trying to wrap my head around the concept of Reggie Chow as a murderer. Maybe it had been an accident. Maybe he’d done something stupid, panicked, and done something more stupid.

  “Speaking of closed cases,” David abruptly changed the subject. “How is your investigation into Dicky’s disappearance going? Have you found his sister yet?”

  “No, I haven’t found his sister. I haven’t looked for her.”

  “You’re ignoring that lead?”

  “I’m not ignoring it. I haven’t got to it yet. How many times do I have to remind you I’m not a full-time detective? I’ve got a book proposal due.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” David said in disgust. “At the rate you’re going, I might as well solve this case myself.”

  “Ha,” I snapped. “If you think you can, do so.”

  “You bet I will!”

  Our phones slammed down in unison.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When J.X. saw the haunted-house cake, he started to laugh.

  We were preparing dinner. Steak, creamy scalloped potatoes (recipe courtesy of our friend and neighbor Emmaline Bloodworth), bacon, avocado Caesar salad, and garlic butter and rosemary steak. J.X. had finished his book forty-five minutes earlier, so we had even more to celebrate.

  “Kit, this is genius. Happy Ever After.” He beamed at me.

  I said offhandedly, “It’s really a Halloween cake. There wasn’t enough time to order—”

  He cut me off by reaching across the cake and hauling me in for a kiss.

  “Hey, hey,” I protested when I could breathe again. “You’ll squash the roof.”

  J.X. grinned. “Anyway, what were you saying about visiting this old friend?”

  “It turns out he’s actually living in Sunol, which isn’t that far from here.”

  “Alameda County,” J.X. agreed. “Sunol is about an hour’s drive. Depending on traffic.”

  “Right. I thought I’d head out there and spend a couple of hours, er, brightening his day.”

  “That’s a really kind thing to do. Who is this guy again?”

  “Zag Samuels. We started out together. He wrote the Sweetie MacFarland series.”

  “No clue,” J.X. returned. “Are those cozy mysteries?”

  “Yes. It’s a series about a homicide detective who turns in his badge to run a specialty cupcake bakery.”

  J.X. snorted.

  “It was very popular.”

  “Sure. Who doesn’t like cupcakes?”

  “We know you’re a fan.”

  “I am.” He went back to seasoning the steak, unperturbed.

  I put my hands on my hips, said, “You know, cozy mysteries are not actually any more unreal than noir or thrillers or—”

  He was grinning at me again. “I know. I’ve heard you debate this before. Remember?”

  Oh, right. The Murder at Midtown conference where J.X. and I had first met.

  I made a face. “Right.”

  “I don’t think cozies are—” J.X. broke off, and his expression changed. “Waaait a minute. Isn’t Zag Samuels the guy you bought your old house from? The guy suspected of murder?”

  I sighed. “I just told you five minutes ago that they’ve arrested a neighbor kid—well, he’s not a kid anymore—but they’ve made their arrest in the case.”

  “You also told me you had trouble believing Reggie Chow was guilty.”

  One of J.X.’s more annoying traits is his ability to remember…too much.

  “What does that have to do with anything? Reggie confessed. The police are satisfied. What do I know?”

  J.X. cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

  “What’s that look for?”

  “Suddenly, out of the blue, you think you should go visit your old friend who just happens to be a murder suspect in a case you privately believe has been effed up by the police.”

  I gaped at him. Not because he was wrong. Because he was dead right. How did he do that?

  My expression was obviously a giveaway because J.X.’s own expression grew wry. “I thought so.”

  “Now here’s where you’re wrong,” I said heatedly, because I felt he was wronging me in one aspect. “No way in hell did Zag kill anyone. I knew him, and yes, I know no one can ever really know another person blah, blah, blah, but there was no capacity for violence in that man.”

  “He wrote murder mysteries. He had some capacity for violence. He had the ability to visualize committing violence.”

  “His detective turned to baking cupcakes because he couldn’t take all the bloodshed of his job.”

  “We can debate this all you want, but—”

  “But I shouldn’t visit an old friend because he was a suspect in an investigation that is now officially closed? I was a suspect too.”

  “Kit—”

  “Would I like to talk to Zag about everything that’s happened in the last week? Yes. But since he can’t speak, it’s moot. That’s not what this is about. The truth is I feel terrible that I didn’t go visit him when he had his first stroke. I should have made the effort, given that we were friends and I was buying his house. All these years, I figured he was dead, which is kind of an awful admission because he wasn’t. He was alive the whole time. So, since I have another chance, I’m going to go see him.”

  “Okay,” J.X. said.

  “He’s only an hour away. What’s the excuse this time?”

  J.X. sa
id soothingly, “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “I mean, how much of a threat can he be at this point?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry I suspected you of amateur sleuthing when you’re trying to do something very kind.”

  His mild tone diffused a lot of my agitation. I grimaced.

  “Well, it’s not like I wouldn’t like to do a bit of sleuthing. But the opportunity is unlikely to arise. Plus, I’m serious. Zag is the least likely murder suspect on the planet.”

  That said, the more I’d thought about it, the more sure I had become that the landscape company I’d hired had not laid that concrete foundation. I vaguely recollected getting some kind of price break because the slab was already in place.

  Except I couldn’t think of any reason Reggie Chow would lie about such a thing.

  But also, it seemed to me that the garden shed on the hillside had only been built after I’d made an offer on the house. I couldn’t trust my memory on that because I’d only been in Zag’s backyard once or twice. It was something I’d wanted to verify with him before I brought it up with the police.

  I meant what I’d said to J.X.—Zag was no murderer. I didn’t believe for one minute he’d killed anyone. Not deliberately. Not intentionally. Not in cold blood. But I’m a mystery writer—as well as a true-crime TV devotee. I know that terrible things happen. I could imagine a scenario where Zag inadvertently got mixed up in a crime while trying to cover for someone else. I even suspected who that someone else might be.

  And if that was the case, I wanted to help my old friend find a way out. Especially now that he was so ill.

  J.X. opened his mouth, and I said, “I know, but this is real life. If he were going to kill anyone, it would have been that girlfriend of his. But no. He took her back every single time. And then she dumped him when he needed her most. No. I’m telling you. Zag was the kind of guy who lovingly carried spiders out of his house because he didn’t want to squash them.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” J.X. said. “But keep in mind what your beloved Agatha Christie said.”