In Other Words...Murder

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

  “‘Good advice is always certain to be ignored, but that’s no reason not to give it?’”

  “No. ‘Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend.’”

  “The house on Hiawatha has been released as a crime scene,” I informed J.X. over our meal. Candlelight, fine china, and my favorite person in the world sitting across from me. That’s romance.

  “That’s good news.”

  “Rina says the Kaynors insist they won’t go back there. They’re still planning to sue.”

  He shrugged, refilling his wineglass. “Let ’em.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not thrilled about wasting all that money on a court case. Even assuming I win, I’m not sure the Kaynors can cover my court costs. I suspect they’re having financial problems, which would be one reason they want to back out of the sale.”

  “Are you thinking of honoring their request to cancel the sale?”

  “Hell no!”

  He smiled faintly. “Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. Right?”

  “I suppose so.” My motto has always been: why wait till tomorrow when you can worry today?

  “I’ve got some news too,” J.X. said. “But I don’t want you to be too disappointed if it doesn’t pan out.”

  “What news?”

  “You asked the other night whether Emmaline had been interviewed after the incident with the clown. And I thought maybe I should double-check. Sometimes people are out, things get missed. It happens. It shouldn’t, but it does.”

  “And?”

  He exhaled a long breath—it always pained him when law enforcement appeared derelict in their duty. “She wasn’t interviewed because she was already on her way out of town when she saw him.”

  I put my fork down. “Him? The clown?”

  J.X. nodded. “She saw him sitting in a van in front of her house. She noticed him because—”

  “There was a clown in a van outside her house.”

  “Well, yes, but also because he was using binoculars to scope out our place. She started to take down the license, but he got out with the balloon and went up to our door—and her taxi arrived. She missed all the excitement. She only got back today.”

  “So she didn’t get the license-plate number?”

  “No. But as she was getting into her cab, she noticed the van’s license-plate frame had an advertisement for Intrepid Car Rentals.”

  “The van was a rental?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “That’s something.”

  “It is. It’s a starting point. It’s more than we had. If we can prove Jerry rented that van, we’ll have him cold.”

  “He’d have to show ID to rent a vehicle. But his ID could have been fake.”

  “That’s possible,” J.X. said. “Which is why you shouldn’t get your hopes up too much. But SFPD is showing photos of Jerry to every Intrepid franchise in the county. They’re also showing photos of the clown.”

  “They’re…”

  J.X. nodded. “It’s possible he went in wearing a costume. I think his visit here was spur-of-the-moment. Izzie had served him with the TRO late morning, and by late afternoon he was on our front porch. I think that restraining order pissed him off big-time, and I’m hoping that means he got careless.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. Jerry had been pretty careful so far.

  Despite my concerns with lawsuits and stalkers and whether I still had what it took to give Miss Butterwith and Mr. Pinkerton the send-off they deserved, it was a good evening and a great meal—the last meal we would share for the next two weeks—and the haunted-house cake was a huge success right down to the last moist, gooey, chocolaty bite.

  “This is terrible.”

  I had borrowed J.X.’s Kindle and downloaded Zag’s latest book: Arsenic and Angel Food. I started reading while J.X. brushed his teeth, but when he left the bathroom, I put down the device.

  “I think I’m going to pack tomorrow,” he said. And then, “What’s terrible?”

  “Zag’s latest book. It doesn’t sound like him at all. I mean, the plot sounds like him, but the writing itself is not Zag.”

  “He had a stroke, after all. There’s bound to be a change in tone. Wouldn’t you think?”

  “True. It does read like it was written by someone with brain damage.”

  J.X., in the process of pulling on a clean T-shirt, made a strangled sound.

  I said, “I’m serious. This thing doesn’t even make sense in parts.”

  “If he’s really putting out thirteen books a year, something’s going to suffer.”

  “Him, for one thing. And here I thought three books a year was a lot. I’m not surprised he had a stroke.”

  J.X. studied me. “Do you think he’s hiring ghost writers?”

  “Maybe. If so, he needs to shell out for better ghosts.” I considered it and shook my head. “No. I don’t. Zag took too much pride in his work. He loved writing.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed and clicked off the device, setting it on the bed stand. I slipped my glasses off, folded them, and set them atop the Kindle.

  J.X. said, “You do realize, even if Zag has lost his mojo, it doesn’t have anything to do with you and your writing.”

  I looked up in surprise. “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Okay.”

  I folded my arms beneath my head, studying the Allan P. Friedlander painting over the fireplace. A Good Year. And so it had been, despite a few bumpy patches. “What were you saying about packing tomorrow?”

  “That. If I have to leave later tomorrow, no big deal. I’d rather spend the evening with you.”

  I smiled. “Good choice.”

  He joined me in bed. “Are you for sure going out there to visit Zag tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ll be back in town tomorrow evening?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ll go by Nina’s for Gage’s Halloween party?”

  I took great pains not to sigh. “Yep. I promise I’ll show up for the Halloween party.”

  “You don’t have to actually take part—” He broke off at my look of consternation.

  “Take part?” I echoed. “In a child’s Halloween party?”

  He swallowed a laugh. “But if you could just…kind of throw yourself into it. Be in the moment—”

  I continued to gaze at him with horror.

  “At least try to enjoy yourself,” he finished, starting to laugh for real.

  I shook my head. “Yes, I’ll try to enjoy myself. Hopefully your ex will serve adult beverages in addition to the popcorn balls and caramel apples.”

  “She’s not my ex.”

  “Oh, but she is,” I said with an evil smile. He opened his mouth to protest, but I overrode him, “And I promise to take lots and lots of photos of Gage and the rest of his gang—and I do not use the word gang lightly. If ever a tyke was destined for a future as a criminal mastermind, it’s that one.”

  J.X. ignored that. “It isn’t about the photos, though. It’s about—”

  “Bonding with my soon-to-be nephew,” I finished for him.

  “I know you don’t see it, but you’re winning him over. I know Gage. He’s secretly fond of you.”

  “That is one well-kept secret!”

  J.X. looped an arm around my shoulders, hauling me over. “And you’re more fond of him than you let on.” He said it with the cheerful confidence of the totally deluded.

  “Sure I am.”

  J.X. cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

  I laughed. “Okay, he’s maybe not as bad as I thought. And yes, on my honor, I will go by Nina’s tomorrow night and do my best to do my duty to Gage and my country and obey the Scout Law.”

  “Were you a boy scout?” J.X. asked in surprise.

  “For about a month. Until it was time to go camping.”

  He chuckled, drew me in, and a few very pleasant
minutes passed in each other’s arms.

  “The thing about the wedding,” J.X. said suddenly, interrupting the natural flow of events.

  I groaned. I’d had a feeling he wasn’t going to give up so easily. “It’s one day out of the rest of our lives. If a big wedding really matters to you—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “No, it doesn’t. I wanted a big wedding, an unforgettable wedding because—”

  I turned my head to study him. “Any circumstances that involve us getting hitched would be unforgettable.”

  He said sheepishly, “I know. The thing is…I was feeling sort of…competitive. Because of David. I guess because of his coming back into your life.”

  You have to sit up to goggle appropriately. Lying down, you just look like you were run over by a cattle stampede, which is how I felt. I sat up—and goggled. “David’s not back in my life. Not even close.”

  “Well, he kind of is. You’re working together to find the Dickison kid.”

  “I wouldn’t call that work. And I wouldn’t call that together.”

  “Yeah. Well.” He scratched his nose. “I just sort of…”

  I stared at him.

  “You are jealous,” I said slowly.

  At last I had discovered my superpower. I had the ability to turn hitherto cool, confident, clearheaded men into insecure, anxious paranoiacs.

  He made a face. “Is it really a surprise? I lost the last contest between him and me.”

  “We had this conversation, right? I didn’t dream that. We had this out. Going back to David was the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but I’m not likely to.”

  He flicked his lashes up, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

  “Honey,” I said. “The idea of you jealous of David is…it’s comical. You’re worth ten of him. You’re ten times the man he was. You’re ten times the man he could ever hope to be.”

  J.X. smiled. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “I am trying to make you feel better. Because I love you. And part of why I love you is that’s all true, every word of it. He doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

  J.X. laughed, looking more like his normal self. “A candle?”

  “Or a flashlight. Or an LED emergency light. Pick your favorite light fixture. David is a dim bulb by comparison.”

  He snorted, but after a moment he smiled. “And you claim you’re not romantic.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pandora Boxleitner’s home looked like the domicile on the haunted-house cake.

  True, the cake house had been made of dark chocolate, and this structure was the color of dirty linen. But the wide eaves and turrets, the decorative spindles, corbels, and brackets were straight from the same Psycho blueprint.

  Nor was that due to any Halloween decor. No effort had been made at decorating the classic Victorian farmhouse for the holiday. The Boxleitners lived too far out in the countryside to be plagued by trick-or-treaters.

  I parked beneath the shady trees and walked across the whispering yellow grass and up the squeaking steps to the wraparound porch.

  I pressed the doorbell, but I couldn’t hear any ring. The buzzer felt loose.

  I rapped briskly on the wooden frame screen.

  I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  That was odd. I’d verified the details of my visit with Pandora only the day before. But no, it wasn’t odd. The old house was huge. If she wasn’t in one of the front rooms, there was a good chance she hadn’t heard me.

  I knocked again more loudly.

  Nothing.

  Unease prickled the hair on the back of my neck. It was so quiet. Even the birds were silent on this hot, still afternoon. The heavy air had a buzzy feeling; you could feel the crackle of static electricity.

  To my relief, I heard a bolt slide. The front door opened on squeaky hinges. A woman peered out of the gloomy interior.

  “Mr. Holmes?” her voice was small and sweet. She blinked out at me through large, round glasses.

  “Hi. Yes. Pandora?”

  “Yes.” She unlatched the screen and pushed it open. “Come in. I’m so glad you made it.”

  I had never actually met Pandora in person. All our communication had been over the phone and through email. She didn’t look like I expected—not that I could see her clearly after the brilliant sunlight. I’d been picturing someone younger and more…sturdy. Caring for an invalid took energy and strength. This woman looked frail—and not a lot younger than me.

  She was medium height, slight, despite the baggy clothing, with lank mouse-brown hair, those hideous glasses, and a very pale complexion.

  Granted, maybe caring for her ailing relative had drained a lot of the vim and vigor out of Pandora.

  We shook hands. Her grip was firm. She had long, coral square-tipped acrylic nails. The nails seemed out of character for this woman, though they matched the idea of her I’d formed fourteen years earlier.

  “Uncle Zag has been looking forward to this so much.”

  “Me too. I was so sorry to hear he’d had another stroke.”

  Her smile was a white blur in the dark entrance hall. “This way. We have a hospital bed set up for him in the front parlor.” She wore a loose white smock, blue leggings, and rubber-soled tennis shoes with a floral pattern. Her footsteps were almost soundless.

  I could see framed photographs hanging on the wall, but the light was too dim to make out any faces.

  I asked, “When did he have the stroke?”

  “Hmm,” she mused. “I think it’s been just over three weeks now. She smiled at me sadly.

  “Oh? So recently?”

  “Yes. Yes, it was very recent. He’d been doing so well too. We sort of forgot he’d ever been ill.”

  “Well, yeah. I saw his backlist on Amazon. That was some staggering productivity.”

  She threw a look over her shoulder. “So that’s how you tracked us down to Sunol? Through the Amazon site?”

  “Yeah, it’s right there on Zag’s bio that he now lives in Sunol.”

  She sounded startled. “Is it?”

  “Well, Sophie Snow’s bio.”

  “Oh. Sophie. Right.” She laughed. It was a light and girlish sound. The pastel laugh didn’t quite match the orange fingernails. “You must be one of the few people around who remember Uncle Zag was Sophie Snow.”

  Was?

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I said.

  She laughed again. “I’m sure it is. Publishing has changed a lot in fourteen years, as you must know. So many new faces, so many new books.”

  “True. I was surprised Zag decided to go into self-publishing. He was always so loyal to his agent and the people at Millbrook.”

  “Well, he really didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t able to write for so long. When he was finally able to come back, no one remembered him. No one cared about Sweetie MacFarland.”

  “Huh,” I said noncommittally.

  We had reached a double doorway leading into another room with pulled shades and drawn drapes. Pandora put her hand on my arm.

  She said softly, “Try not to be shocked at the change in him. You won’t be able to understand him, but he can definitely understand you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stay as long as you like. You’re the only visitor he’s had in ages.”

  I studied her face. Despite the spectacles, the lank hair, the almost ghostly pallor, I couldn’t get over the feeling that I’d met her before. Older, and a little heavier—the hair was completely different—but yet she was somehow familiar. Except, of course, I’d never met Pandora in person.

  Maybe at some point I’d seen a photo of her?

  “I will. Thank you.”

  She nodded brightly and led the way into the room, almost instantly vanishing in the shadows. I followed cautiously, resisting the temptation to put my hands out in front of me. It wasn’t quite that dark, but it was close. And why was it so dark? All I could f
igure was Zag’s eyes must be very sensitive to the light. But, Jesus, what a depressing atmosphere.

  I could see there was a fireplace across from the doorway. A large clock hung on the chimney breast. I couldn’t see the face, but I could hear its slow, solemn tick. Weirdly unrestful. Most of the furniture had been moved against the wall to make way for the hospital bed in the middle of the room. The bed was slightly raised, and the man under the blankets was facing our way, but it was hard to tell if his eyes were open. His head was swathed in bandages.

  “Here’s Christopher Holmes, Uncle Zag,” Pandora fluted in her high, sweet voice.

  He made an inarticulate sound and moved his right arm a fraction.

  “Hey, Zag,” I said in what was probably too cheerful a voice, but I can’t pretend I wasn’t shocked silly by all the bandages. Even with Pandora’s warning ahead of time. It wasn’t just his head; his left arm was in a sling, and his chest was swaddled too.

  What the hell?

  I went to Zag’s bedside and took his hand, gazing down at what I could see of his face.

  It certainly looked like Zag under all the gauze and surgical tape. Older, more grizzled, but pretty much as I remembered him. His eyes were green, which was right, and remarkably bright and alert.

  He feebly squeezed my hand and mumbled something.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Pandora said from right behind me, and I barely managed not to jump.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Just yell if you need anything.”

  Zag grunted in what seemed to be approval.

  Pandora left the room on her little silent-cat feet.

  “I’m really sorry to hear you’ve been ill again,” I said. “I wish I’d known you were living nearby. I’d have been to see you sooner.”

  He nodded and gave my hand another squeeze.

  I drew a breath. “And I wanted to say how sorry I am that I never got around to seeing you the last time. I wish I had a good excuse. I always meant to, but things kept coming up, and then I…didn’t.”

  He made a murmuring sound, kind of like, Hey, don’t worry about it.

  “I read your new book. I enjoyed it a lot.”

  That time he sounded like he was in pain, and I didn’t blame him.