by Josh Lanyon
“…your decision, but it’s a good offer. I really think we should take it. Either way, we have to tell them something.”
I stopped in the doorway, listening. Rina was right, of course. We did have to tell the buyers something. I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating. But I was, and I continued to hesitate as she finished her message and hung up.
I poured myself a glass of water. As I drank the water I studied the remaining boxes in the kitchen. I’d made more progress than I’d realized the day before. I was all the way down to pot holders, dish towels and oddball kitchen utensils like meat skewers, baster sets and a tenderizer hammer. That final one, now that I thought about it, made a nice little murder weapon.
I was slapping the hammer experimentally against my palm when the doorbell rang.
I charged down the hall, flung open the door—and my mouth—all primed and ready to deliver a blistering, “If you’re not off my property in thirty seconds, I’m going to call the police.” But it was not intrepid girl reporter Sydney Nightingale from Baywatch News, blighting the beauty of the June afternoon.
Jerry Knight stood on the porch. He smiled broadly, held up an enormous picnic basket, and caroled, “Surprise!”
Chapter Five
I don’t like surprises. And I’m not that good at hiding my feelings.
“Uh…” I said. Actually that was me trying to hide my feelings. The inward dialog went more like Are you fucking kidding me?
Jerry’s smile fell. He looked at the dumpster-sized basket. He looked at me. His arms trembled as he tried to unburden himself.
I automatically reached for the basket, then realized what I was doing and tried to press it back on him. He put his hands up as though we were playing a game of Baby, Baby, Who’s Got the Baby?—or Who’s Got the Live Grenade?—taking a step back.
“Really,” I said. “I can’t.” I pushed the bassinet into his arms, which automatically closed around it. He nearly overbalanced but steadied.
“I just thought—I saw you on the news last night and I thought—”
What? That I might be in the mood for a picnic? How long had he been parked on my street waiting for me to come home?
“It’s very kind of you. It’s very thoughtful. But I can’t.”
He looked bewildered. “Why?”
“Because…”
The truth was not an acceptable answer. Unlike Jerry’s gesture, the truth was not kind. That except in cases of flood, fire, famine—and winning raffle tickets—strangers did not bring other strangers picnic baskets.
Jerry wasn’t waiting for my explanation. He was ready with his own. “You had a horrible experience and I thought you probably didn’t have a chance to cook. And I wanted to welcome you to the city but you didn’t have time for coffee. I remember reading in an interview that you liked lemon meringue pie, so there’s a lemon meringue from my favorite bakery. And cold roast beef sandwiches. And dandelion bacon salad like in Dead Weights for Miss Butterwith.” It came out in a jumbled rush. I got the gist of it though. He had done something very nice and generous, and I was being a jerk. So what else was new?
I said weakly, “You went to too much trouble, Jerry. And expense.”
“I wanted to. You’ve given me so many hours of pleasure with your books.”
“But it’s just…that’s my job.”
“And it’s my job as your number one fan to let you know how much we readers appreciate it.” He smiled tentatively.
“Well, thank you. It’s really kind.” I hesitated. Appearances to the contrary, I didn’t want to be unkind. Or ungracious. But I also didn’t want to encourage, well, the wrong thing. You’re not supposed to accept expensive presents from strangers. That’s the rule.
Jerry continued to watch me with those sad-hopeful eyes.
Okay, maybe it’s more of a guideline.
I think what ultimately decided me in Jerry’s favor was the memory of finding the body of Elijah Ladas in the basement. That had been pretty damned unsettling, and even though, if I looked at it logically, I was inadvertently responsible for the body showing up at 321 Cherry Lane, it was going to be a while before I could comfortably walk downstairs. In fact, I kept getting the persistent, uncomfortable feeling that someone was standing in another room listening to us. It was a big, empty house, and, chicken or not, I didn’t want to be here by myself.
I asked, “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
Jerry’s face lit up. “Yes!”
I held the door wide, and Jerry stepped inside. “Wow.” He stared around himself.
“I know. Mostly books,” I said. “Between me and J.X., we could start a used book store.”
“No, I mean the house. Wow. It’s so beautiful. I love old houses!” Jerry tipped his head back, studying the ceiling. “That skylight. Is that original to the house?”
“No. That was put in a couple of renovations back.”
Jerry beamed at me. “It’s exactly the kind of place I pictured you’d live in.”
“It is?”
He nodded eagerly. “It’s you. It’s exactly you.”
Doubtfully, I tried to view the foyer from Jerry’s perspective. I kind of thought “exactly me” was more like a sprawling California ranch style with a leaky bathroom tap and a wasp nest in the tree shading the pool.
“Is that chandelier original?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He was right. All the fixtures were beautiful. All the little details were perfect. As in perfectly suited to the house.
“And hardwood floors. I love hardwood floors.”
“Yes. They’re very nice.”
“You can always tell whether they’re real or laminate.”
“I guess so. True.”
“They take a bit of upkeep though. You do have a lot of boxes, that’s for sure!” Jerry nodded at the tenderizer hammer I still held, and grinned. “Was that for that reporter?”
“Oh. I forgot.” I held it up. “I’m trying out for Thor.”
Jerry laughed as though that was brilliant. He was a good audience. I had to give him that.
“Is Lois Lane still out there?” I asked.
“No. They drove away while I was ringing the doorbell.”
“Good. Maybe some actual news happened somewhere.” I led the way to the kitchen, and Jerry followed, still toting the giant picnic basket which he dropped with noticeable relief on the kitchen table.
While Jerry continued to admire the appliances and floors and windows, I set about making coffee and unpacking the picnic basket. There was an embarrassment of riches. Or, more exactly, an embarrassment of munchies.
“Those are from Sweet, Sweet Sorrow for Miss Butterwith,” Jerry said as I held up a jar of pralines. “And there’s a jar of maple butter like in Miss Butterwith’s Sticky Wicket.”
“You really have read everything.”
“Every single thing you’ve written. Even the short stories. Miss Butterwith’s Suite Sixteen. Although I don’t usually like short stories.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“I would have put a bottle of wine in, but I read somewhere you’re allergic to it.”
“I don’t think this basket could have contained one more item.”
I divvied up the cold roast beef sandwiches, poured the coffee, and Jerry and I chatted and ate. Or, more exactly, I ate and Jerry chatted. He asked a lot of in-depth questions about the Butterwith books and characters, and eventually I was cornered. I was forced to admit I didn’t really remember a lot of the stories.
That shocked him.
“How could you not remember?” He seemed genuinely bothered by my inability to recall things like the vicar’s name in Miss Butterwith and the Holy Terror or the number of flower girls in Miss Butterwith Takes the Veil.
“I remember the important stuff.” I tried lamely to excuse my failings. “I remember who did it in every book. Go ahead. You can test me. I remember all my
killers.”
“But it’s all important.”
“Not really. I mean, yes. Of course. But a lot of information goes into every single book. A ton of research and imagination and…words. I can’t retain everything. I’m not a computer.”
I could see this greatly disappointed Jerry, and to give him time to recover I went to play the messages on the answering machine. J.X. had not been exaggerating about leaving a number of calls.
“Kit? Are you still there? Can you pick up?”
I hit fast forward.
“Are you okay? Kit? Are you there?”
I gave Jerry an apologetic smile and moved to the next message.
“Kit? Christopher?”
Christopher? He really was mad. By the next message he’d probably started using my middle name. Christopher Andrew Holmes! I’m speaking to you! I sped through the rest of the messages. Poor J.X. He’d been rattled, no question. But in fairness, if anyone should have realized I wouldn’t—couldn’t—still be at the house, it was him. And the complaint about me not answering my cell phone wasn’t accurate either. I’d been trying to use the damn thing more often. And if I could ever get it off vibrate, I’d probably even answer it more often.
Jerry asked, “So you really are living here with J.X. Moriarity?”
“Yes.” I waited to see Jerry’s reaction to this. I was pretty sure he was gay, but you can’t make assumptions about readers. Plenty of straight guys enjoy cozy mysteries about old ladies and their cats.
“I wouldn’t have thought—” He stopped himself.
I asked unwillingly, “What?”
“I just wouldn’t have thought he was really your type. I mean, no offense, but his stuff is pretty unrealistic.”
I relaxed. Different sub-genres? That I could live with. “Well, actually he had a lot of experience as a cop. And he’s pretty thorough about his research. He’s even got a research assistant to help him out.”
Jerry curled his lip. “His work is too obvious. Too much sex. Too much swearing. And the violence is over the top.”
I can’t deny I felt a flash of petty satisfaction at hearing this. J.X. had given me plenty of grief over the Miss Butterwith books, so it was refreshing to hear from someone who actually preferred my stories. But it would have been disloyal to admit. Instead I said, “Have you read his standalone? It’s really good. Brilliant, in fact.”
“I don’t read him anymore,” Jerry said curtly.
I decided to leave that alone and played an earlier call from my realtor.
Same message as before. Were we going to accept the offer on my house or not?
“Do they know who killed that man in your basement?” Jerry asked, interrupting my thoughts. If you could call the endless spinning of a solitary jack, thoughts.
“I think the police have a list of suspects, but they’re not going to confide in me, obviously.”
“They should,” Jerry said. “You have a brilliant criminal mind. Plus you’ve already solved two murders.”
Yeah, well. Not so much. Anyway, what did brilliant criminal mind mean? I was ruminating over that when Jerry asked if I had any idea where my china might have ended up.
“No. That’s a good question.” I decided to find out what garage repaired the moving van and see if they had a lead on my china. Twenty-piece place settings didn’t just vanish into thin air.
“I could help you look for it,” Jerry suggested.
“What? No. No, thank you.”
“But really, it’d be my pleasure.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m not even sure where to start looking yet.”
“If we put our heads together—”
“Honestly, I’ve got so much to do here right now, finding that china is not a big priority.”
He glanced meaningfully around the kitchen. “Okay. How about if I lend you a hand with the house? You sure could use some help unpacking everything.”
This is why you don’t invite strangers in for coffee and sandwiches. Then they feel like they owe you. And you feel like the bad guy for not wanting their help.
I said, “The thing is, Jerry, I’m a complete control freak. You really do not want to be around me when I’m in the midst of organizing everything. Or anything.”
Jerry said earnestly, “But I really do. I would really, really like to help you.” He smiled. “The faster it’s done, the faster you can get back to writing, right?”
I said forbiddingly, “I’m on sabbatical.”
“Oh. But still. You want to be moved in and comfy ASAP, right? Let me help.”
“Thank you. No.”
“But there’s so much stuff here. It’ll take you forever.”
I opened my mouth, but Jerry was saved by the bell. Or, to be precise, the ring of the kitchen phone.
I answered and immediately recognized the din of background noise. Was J.X. spending every spare minute in the bar? Couldn’t he ever call me from the privacy of his hotel room, some place where we could truly talk?
“Kit, Nina called.” J.X.’s voice was considerably warmer than the last couple of times we’d spoken. “That was a really nice thing you did this morning. Thank you.”
“It’s okay.” I felt compelled to add, “She needs to get that ring resized.”
“I think sometimes she gets lonely and needs a little attention. She misses Alex. She’s just a kid herself, really.”
I sighed.
“Anyway, how are you doing?”
“Making headway.”
“Izzie told me they’d finished with the house. You’re sure you’re okay staying there on your own?”
I thought longingly of the Fairmont’s masseuse and minibar. “Of course.”
“Because it’s only Friday and you could be here by this evening. The conference has barely started. Tomorrow night is the awards banquet.”
“I thought this was settled.”
“It is. But it feels weird to be here without you.” He said softly, “I miss you.”
Aware of Jerry’s alert silence, I cleared my throat. “Me too. But that’s not practical.”
J.X.’s voice resumed its normal level. “I guess. I just know it would be nice to sit through one of these dinners with you sometime.”
“Misery loves company. Especially where rubber chicken is involved.” I felt a stab of guilt though. J.X. was up for a Mean Streets award this year. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that he might want someone to hold his hand. Or, in his case, his program while he went up and accepted the award. Which was the most likely outcome.
Not one to hold a grudge, he had already moved on to other news. “Also, I don’t want to upset you, but I’m hearing a lot of talk about Anna. Her death was a shock obviously, and…” His tone became careful. “The fact that you declined to speak at a fan convention tribute is causing some speculation.”
“I’m not there. Did they want to do it via speaker phone? Anyway, authors were lining up to speak at that thing. They didn’t need me.”
“True. But you’re you. You’re Anna’s most famous protégé.”
I said bitterly, “You can tell anyone who asks that Anna had no doubt of my feelings for her when she died.”
“That’s pretty much the line I’m taking.”
“It’s nobody’s goddamned business.”
“I know. I know, honey. People talk. That’s all. They’ve got to have their little gossip.”
“Is Rudolph speaking at the memorial? Or tribute? Whatever.” Roast might be appropriate, given the circumstances. Especially if it was being held in Hell.
“He’s not here. He cancelled.”
“Exactly!”
J.X. probably couldn’t help his irritating tendency to view both sides objectively. “But he did write a very nice obit for Publisher’s Weekly.”
“Just tell anybody who asks that I don’t go to conferences anymore. Tell ‘em I’m a recluse now.”
I’d forgotten about Jerry until I heard the gasp of dismay behind me. I g
lanced around, covered the handset mouthpiece and said, “I’m just mouthing off, don’t take it seriously.”
“Oh.” Jerry smiled uncertainly.
“Who’s there?” J.X. asked. “Who are you talking to?”
“Uh, Jerry Knight. I met him yesterday at Lowe’s.”
I could hear the frown in J.X.’s voice. You could take the boy out of the police force, but you could not take the police force out of the boy. “Who’s Jerry Knight?”
“A reader, actually.” It was kind of hard to explain with Jerry sitting right there. “He brought us a very nice picnic basket as a welcome to the neighborhood gesture.”
Jerry smiled broadly and said, “I brought it for you.”
“Oh, so he’s a neighbor?” J.X.’s voice changed. “Damn. I’ve got to go. My panel is about to start. I’ll call you again tonight.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
“I know, Kit. There are other reasons for calling, right? I like to talk to you.”
My face warmed. “Oh, right. I like to talk to you too.” I said in my best British accent, “I shall inform the exchange that your trunk call is to be put through immedjetly.”
J.X. laughed. “Lunatic.” He disconnected.
I was still smiling as I replaced the handset. Jerry said, “That was him? J.X. Moriarity?”
“Yes.”
He raised his eyebrows. It was an irritating expression. The expression of someone who knows something you don’t, but is holding their tongue out of respect. “You’ve been together a long time.”
“Well, we’ve known each other a long time.”
“Yep. Since that DC Murder in Midtown ten years ago.”
“Yes.” I studied him in surprise. “That’s right, you were there too.”
Jerry gave a sheepish smile. “Yep. I was there too, and I could see there was a-a spark. He was like a puppy following you around all the time. He was nobody then.”
He was never nobody. Not to me.
But I didn’t say it. You don’t say those kinds of things to strangers.
“That really was a long time ago.”
