by Josh Lanyon
“I’m pretty sure Jerry is gay,” I said.
“I’m probably thinking of a completely different boy.”
“Probably. But I appreciate the heads-up.” It was easy from there to segue into letting her know I would be out of town and asking her to call the police if anyone suspicious showed up at the house.
Emmaline gave a ladylike sniff. “It seems to me all you have are suspicious people showing up!”
“I think the delivery men would resent that remark. Not to mention the police.” I reached down to pet a giant gray tabby cat winding itself around my shins. It opened its pink mouth and meowed loudly, showing all its pointy teeth.
“Now Pinky,” Emmaline said.
I looked up, startled. “P-Pinky?”
“That’s his name.”
“Pinky? Is that short for anything?”
“Like what?”
“Mr. Pinkerton?”
Emmaline chortled. “What kind of a name is that for a cat?”
“True.” I smiled feebly and straightened. I glanced down at the cat. I could have sworn it winked at me.
I gave her my cell number and the general details of my trip, and then Emmaline saw me to the door. “You must come and see my garden another time. It was also designed by Church. I’ll have you and Mr. Moriarity to dinner one night. How does that sound?”
I said agreeable noncommittal things, she closed the door, and I headed back up the sidewalk to 321.
The warm air was slightly humid, fragrant with flowery scents. Bees hummed and somewhere nearby a radio was playing a Jack Johnson song I recognized: “Better Together.”
A shadow fell across the pavement. I looked up and felt my smile fade.
Speak of the devil. Jerry was walking toward me. He wore sunglasses and a wide smile. He carried a large box wrapped in silver paper with a large white bow.
“Surprise!”
I was getting to hate that word. Among other things.
I rummaged around for a polite smile, but I seemed to be running low. I could only come up with a strained grimace. “Jerry!”
“How’s my favorite mystery writer this beautiful morning?”
I ignored that, eyes trained on the parcel he held. I’m sure my dismay showed. “Is that—?”
“It’s for you, silly!”
“But you already brought me that picnic basket.”
“That was just a welcome to the neighborhood. This is a housewarming gift.”
“Jerry, that’s really nice of you. Really nice. But I…” my voice petered away in the face of his open disappointment. Made more unnerving by the fact that I couldn’t see his eyes. Twin reflections of my own worried expression gazed back at me.
In fairness—or unfairness—Emmaline’s story had predisposed me to view any further overtures from Jerry with dark suspicion. Although, in fairness—and unfairness—I was already headed that way.
“I just don’t think I can accept this,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry.”
At first I thought he didn’t hear me. He stood there, his face immobile behind the mask of his sunglasses. The sunlight glinted off the metallic paper. I couldn’t help thinking of tinfoil hats. Then he frowned. “Christopher, maybe you’re getting the wrong idea,” he said. “It’s not like I’m a celebrity stalker.”
“No. I don’t think that at all,” I said quickly.
“Even if you were a celebrity.”
“I know. But I feel uncomfortable accepting this many presents from…you.”
Jerry was still frowning. “You’re my favorite writer, yes, but I don’t think you’re perfect. Not at all. I’ve written you some really bad reviews.”
“You wrote me bad reviews?”
He shrugged. “You needed to know.”
I stared in wonder. “What did I need to know?”
“That you made a mistake.”
“What mistake?” I wasn’t arguing. Of course I made mistakes. Everyone made mistakes.
His forehead wrinkled as he thought about it. “Well, for one thing, I didn’t like how you ended Miss Butterwith and the Kernel of Truth. Inspector Appleby should have ended up with Robin Cloud. It was fine that he let him get away with killing Ira Pogue. Pogue needed killing. But Robin shouldn’t have had to leave. He was perfect for Inspector Appleby.”
“But Inspector Appleby isn’t gay.”
Jerry laughed very hard at this.
“He’s not gay,” I insisted. “I invented him. I get to say whether he’s gay or not.”
“Who’s he dating? Miss Butterwith?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it.
“Anyway, that was a two-star review. And I also didn’t like the plot of Miss Butterwith Sees Stars. I don’t like anything to do with astrology.”
“It was astronomy.”
“Or astronomy. They’re both boring. That was a one-star because the book was also too short.”
He handed the package to me and I took it automatically. “Okay,” I said. I pushed through the front gate to my yard and started for the porch. I said over my shoulder, “Well. Thank you, Jerry. I’m just going to put this inside. I’m actually on my way to run a few errands.”
“You’re not going to open it?”
“I…”
I should not have looked back. It is always a mistake to look back. Just ask Orpheus. Only in this case Eurydice was still on my heels, looking both stubborn and self-deprecating. “I was kind of hoping to see your face when you opened it.”
“Oh. Well, it’ll look like it does now, only happier.”
Jerry laughed and punched my arm. “You’ve got such a great sense of humor. It’s in all your books.”
I smiled weakly. Jerry wasn’t budging. “I guess I could open it now.”
I was rewarded by a blazing smile.
We went up the steps. I unlocked the doors and held the nearest one for Jerry. He took his sunglasses off and looked around the foyer in amazement. “Wow! This is great. I can’t believe how much you got done in a couple of days.”
“Yes. Thanks. I’m keeping busy.”
I started to carry the package into the kitchen, but Jerry said, “Christopher, I don’t want to intrude. But could I take a peek in your office? It would mean a lot to see the place where the magic happens.”
“My office isn’t set up,” I said. “It’s just boxes and furniture. No magic has ever happened in there.” Even I could hear how forbidding my tone was. I tried to put a humorous spin on it. “Seriously. It’s a disaster area.” That came out sounding like I was leading the Hazmat team. Yes, your shoes too! Everything must be burned!
“Right. Right.” Jerry held up his hands. “Genius at work. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s—” I gave up. He wasn’t listening anyway as he peeked around the corner of the first doorway. “Look at this! Your living room looks like you’re all moved in.”
“Technically I think it’s a large parlor. But yeah, we’re…”
Jerry vanished inside the parlor. I followed him, silently berating myself for letting him through the front doors. Never again. What was the matter with me? Next I’d be letting in people selling vacuums and solar panels.
Jerry went straight to the wall of bookcases. As he scanned the shelves, his expression of eagerness changed to shock. “None of your books are here!”
“Not here. I keep copies in my office. Or I will, once it’s set up.”
“You should have them out where people can see them.”
I had no response to that. Or rather, my response would have been Why? Shouldn’t my shelves more accurately represent what I read?
Jerry examined our shelves with the attentiveness of the devoted reader and I uncomfortably shifted the wrapped box. It felt heavy. It felt expensive. It felt like too much. Whatever it was, it was too much.
And yet readers sent J.X. wonderful and amazing gifts—first editions and aged whisky and art prints. He got gift baskets like readers feared he was running out of fo
od stamps. One reader had painted a gorgeous book map of every place in San Francisco where one of J.X.’s stories took place. Another had sent him a quilt made from images of his book covers. And there was nothing peculiar or uncomfortable about any of it. J.X. was happy and appreciative and nobody tried to get a peek at his office or his anything else.
“Your boyfriend reads some weird stuff.” Jerry was holding my 1989 copy of How to Read Faces by Dr. Li Tao. It was a weird book and it probably belonged on my reference shelf, except it was so entertainingly kooky. It had been one of the sources for Miss Butterwith Faces Trouble, but I wasn’t going to share that with Jerry. No more sharing with Jerry. Period.
Jerry finally finished his scrutiny of our books and turned to me. He nodded at the parcel. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Yes. Right.” I sat down in the nearest chair and undid the wide silk ribbon, pulled the paper apart and studied the Levenger box. Of course it was bound to be something nice if it was from Levenger’s and I swallowed. Probably not a pen.
Jerry came over to stand beside me. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to guess.”
“A vase?”
His brows drew together. “From Levenger’s?”
“I don’t know, Jerry. Maybe a bookend?”
His face fell.
“I love their bookends,” I said quickly. “That would be a great gift.” I lifted the lid, and sure enough there were a pair of those whimsical Levenger Reading Bear bookends. “I love them!” I said.
“Are you sure? Because I could get you something different.”
“No. These are perfect. I—we—will cherish them.”
“They could go right on that bookshelf.” He pointed to the nearest one. “Once you get your own books on there.”
“That’s a nice idea.” I set the box aside. “You’re such a thoughtful person and I really appreciate your kindness. I wish we could chat a little longer, but I really do have a bunch of errands to run.”
His smile faded. He said sadly, “Oh, sure.”
But better men than Jerry had tried to guilt me and failed. Including my mom. Ruthlessly, apologizing all the way, I hustled him to the front doors and tried to give him the old heave-ho.
He dug his heels in on the threshold. “Christopher, I was hoping you might be willing to sign some of my books if I brought them by one day.”
“Sure,” I said recklessly. By then I’d have said anything to get him over the doorsill. “I can do that. You can email me through my website and we’ll set something up.”
“It’s okay, I have your phone number.” He smiled kindly, patted my arm, and went out the door.
Chapter Nine
When I returned from running my errands, I found a young woman sitting on the steps of my porch.
I could smell her perfume, something spicy and confusing, from down the walk. She was a tall, gangly girl with a lot of blond hair tied up in one of those misleadingly casual knots. She wore sandals, a denim skirt, short white blouse and primrose sweater—the kind of thing that is meant to look like it was purchased at a thrift store but costs a fortune. I should know. I had a whole wardrobe full of stuff like that, bought at Rachel’s insistence when she’d decided I needed a makeover.
Well, when I say “a wardrobe full of stuff like that,” I don’t actually mean skirts and blouses, but I had an awful lot of ripped jeans and baggy cashmere sweaters and T-shirts with trendy slogans that frankly might just as well have been in hieroglyphics as far as meaning anything to me. I mean, seriously. Fierce? In relation to me? It was like hearing a kitten’s mew coming from the MGM lion.
“Can I help you?” I called.
She rose—she was taller than me—and offered her hand. “Hello. Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Ingrid Edwards.”
I shook hands with her. Her fingers were ice cold, which I figured was either extreme nervousness or she’d planted an empty Frappuccino cup in my begonias. “How can I help you?”
“This is going to sound very strange.”
“You don’t know the day I’ve had,” I told her. “But take your best shot.”
“I’m Alan Lorenson’s granddaughter.” Her wide blue eyes studied me, waiting for my reaction.
Lorenson. Where had I heard that name before? “I see,” I said, though it was probably obvious I didn’t.
“My grandfather is a rare coin collector. Well known in numismatical circles.” She paused to give me another chance to say Ah ha! But I wasn’t having an ah ha moment. I was having a hmmm moment.
I nodded encouragingly. Not that I wanted to encourage her. I just wanted to get this encounter over with so I could hit the road.
“Grandpa loaned his entire coin collection to Quercus Gallery. The dead man that you found in your basement two days ago was suspected of stealing that same collection from the gallery.”
That was my Ah ha! moment, but I kept it to myself. “The police mentioned something about it. The gallery owner was murdered during the robbery?”
Ingrid bit her lip. “Mr. Cantrell, yes. That was terrible. He was an old friend of my grandfather’s.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Although the man who robbed the gallery is dead, the coins are still missing. There were over a thousand individual pieces.”
“Right. Elijah Ladas,” I said. That much was now public knowledge. “He had a partner. I’m guessing his brother.”
She looked flabbergasted. “Mr. Holmes, how do you know that?”
It was so tempting to pull an Elementary, my deah lady! moment. But I refrained. “I saw the videotape of the break-in online. There were two men.”
“Oh. Of course. I didn’t realize you were following the case.”
“I’m not. But the police think Ladas’ brother showed up here the other night.”
“Showed up here?” Ingrid’s eyes went still wider. She glanced past me as though expecting to see Beck charging around the corner of the house even as we spoke. “Then maybe my idea isn’t so strange.”
I asked uneasily, “What’s your idea?”
The words seemed to burst out of her. “What if Ladas hid the coins somewhere in the moving van before he was murdered? What if the coins are in one of your boxes?”
I stared at her. I wasn’t positive how much information the police had released about the crime, but I sure as hell did not want anyone hanging onto the mistaken idea that ten million dollars worth of rare coins were somewhere in this house.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “A thousand coins? However small the coins are, put them together and they’re going to take up some serious space. For another thing, the ME believes Ladas was dead before he was placed in the moving van. Probably for several hours.”
“They can’t be sure.”
Clearly not a fan of mysteries, Ingrid. “Actually, they can,” I said. “There are all kinds of things that happen to the body once you die, and those things help determine how long you’ve been dead—as well as where you died and how.”
She shivered. “But there must be room for error.”
“There is, but even so. Besides, the police went through everything in the moving van.”
That wasn’t exactly true. The police had looked through a number of containers while searching for the murder weapon, but they hadn’t been through every single crate and box. Which didn’t change the fact that there was no way anyone could have hidden a thousand coins without me having found them by now. With the exception of the boxes in the basement and J.X.’s office stuff and my own, I had been through every container.
“They might have missed something though.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t trying to be defeatist or obstructionist, let alone unkind. But what she was suggesting wasn’t feasible. A thousand coins hidden…where?
To my horror, tears filled her eyes. She whispered, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well
, but Ladas is dead and the police will be—I’m guessing, I’m not in their confidence—investigating every part of his life. I’m sure the coins will show up. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“Unless,” I was thinking aloud—always a mistake, “he’d already sold them before he was killed.”
“Or hid them.” She continued to stare at me with those big, mournful eyes. Big, mournful and stubborn eyes.
“Ingrid…”
A lone tear trickled down her cheek.
I sighed. Maybe it would help if she could see what I meant. “All right.”
Her smile blazed through her tears. “Oh, thank you! I knew from your books you must be a kind person.”
“You’ve read my books?” I unbent, despite myself.
“Er, no. But my grandpa is your biggest fan. You write about the old lady gardener and her cat, right?”
“High-octane-edge-of-your-seat-roller-coaster thrillers about old ladies and their cats, yep. That’s me.”
“And I know from those cute covers, you’d have to be nice.”
Hadn’t she ever heard the one about not judging an author by his covers? Anyway, resistance was futile. I knew that.
“Come on,” I said. “Let me show you what you’re up against.”
I won’t deny that it was kind of a comfort to have someone with me the first time I unsealed the basement door post police investigation. It wasn’t logical—there was nothing left in the basement but a bad memory and, more faintly, a bad smell. Mostly, the bad smell had to do with the chemicals used to process a crime scene.
Ingrid’s blue gaze fixed on the crate marked CHINA. Her throat moved. Her voice was barely more than a whisper as she said, “Do you think he…suffered?”
“Probably. Depending on the type of knife, the depth of penetration and where he was hit in the heart. It could have taken a minute or a few hours. He’d likely have long enough to know what happened and that would be the suffering part, I think.”
I glanced at her face and wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I cleared my throat. “But on the bright side, wherever it happened, he was already dead when they put him in the crate. So at least…” Yeah. I shut up.
