Somebody Killed His Editor

by Josh Lanyon

  I looked up. Two stories above me, Rachel leaned at a death-defying angle over the staircase railing. She beckoned sharply to me.

  I gestured to George’s retreating back. Rachel made waving motions like I was out of bounds. I obediently peeled off, dropping my bags at the front desk and hiking up the staircase to where she stood gnawing her long acrylic nails.

  “Well?” she demanded as I reached the top step. She sounded as breathless as I felt.

  “Well what?”

  She was haggard. Hollow-eyed. That’s what comes of these writing conferences. “Was she…?”

  “Dead? Yes. Of course.”

  “Murdered.”

  “That too.” Guiltily I remembered J.X.’s orders. “I mean, I think so.” I dredged up one of Miss Butterwith’s favorite phrases. “We can’t be sure until we see the coroner’s report.”

  Did they have coroners up north? Or were they MEs?

  “Why would you be looking at the coroner’s report? Are you working with J.X. on this?”

  “It’s a figure of speech. No, I have nothing to do with any of this.” Positive affirmation: if I kept saying it, maybe it would be true.

  Rachel whispered, “How was she…killed?”

  “A tree branch crushed her skull.”

  She closed her eyes for an instant. “But that could have been an accident.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Maybe it was.”

  Rachel’s lashes lifted. She stared at me, perplexed. “What does J.X. say?”

  “Very little and most of it’s pretty damn rude.”

  She chewed her lip.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  She stared at me, wide-eyed and wordless. She’s not the wide-eyed, wordless type.

  “You’re acting very weirdly,” I said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “It’s…shocking.”

  True. I studied her doubtfully. “How did you know it was her?” I asked suddenly.

  Her gaze zeroed in on mine. “Sorry?”

  “When I described what Peaches was wearing, you seemed to recognize her from the description.” The description of her pajamas and toe ring.

  She shook her head. “No. It was simply that no one had seen her all day. We’d all been wondering where she was.”

  Maybe that was true. It sort of meshed with what George had said. Besides, if Rachel wanted to lie about it, that was her business.

  Why, then, did my mouth flap open and the words, “When did you last see her?” slip out?

  “What?” She seemed confused. “I…yesterday. No. Last night. In the bar. She was with J.X. and Steven Krass. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “A writer’s curiosity. Forget it.” I turned to go downstairs. “I’m heading to my cabin, and then I’m going to bed,” I informed her. “Is there any kind of room service around here?”

  “No.” She shook off her preoccupation. “Anyway, you can’t go to bed. Your meeting with Steven Krass has been moved up to tonight. We’re going to have drinks in the lounge.”

  “You expect me to have drinks and pitch a new series tonight?”

  “Christopher, he’s booked practically every minute of this retreat. We have to squeeze in where we can. I mean, that’s why you’re here, right?”

  I met her strained gaze. “Uh…right.”

  “So go lie down for an hour or two and then make yourself presentable. You have to make this opportunity count.”

  Oh, God. Here it was. The moment of truth.

  “The thing is, Rachel,” I said. There was no easy way to put it. “I don’t have an idea for a new series.”

  She lost that wild-eyed look and focused on me.

  “What? What have you been working on for the past weeks?” She sounded almost like her normal obsessive workaholic self.

  “All kinds of things, but none of them gelled. I just…can’t…” I took a deep breath and said good-bye to my career, “…write something with a twentysomething female protagonist. I don’t get that thing about the shoes.” I delivered the death blow. “I can’t write chick lit.”

  There, it was out.

  “Chick lit? Don’t waste time on chick lit. Chick lit is over. Dead.”

  Wow. Coincidence. Peaches and chick lit in the same week.

  “But I thought you said—”

  “That was before. All the data indicates the latest industry trend is veering toward thrillers. Techno thrillers in particular. Erotica is hot. Paranormal is hot. Sexy demons in techno thrillers are very hot.” She waved her hand as though she had burned her fingers on the latest demon-techno-thriller romance.

  “But…”

  “No worries.” Her acrylic talons sank into my arm although her voice was even. “We’ll get together for an early dinner and brainstorm. We can come up with something utterly brill before your meeting with Sata—Steven. Don’t panic.”

  “I’m too tired to panic,” I said. “I’m too tired to care one way or the other.”

  “That’s not the right attitude, Christopher. This is your career we’re talking about. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes to survive. This is your life.”

  I met her fierce gaze. The sad thing was, she was right. My career was my life. And up until now it had been a supremely rewarding one. It had been my pleasure and my passion. It had provided a very comfortable lifestyle, and it had nearly made up for one spectacularly awful relationship—and everything else I might have missed.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll take a shower and a quick nap and meet you back here for dinner at…” I checked my watch, “…six.”

  “Remember what we talked about, Christopher,” Rachel warned. “It’s also about The Look. It’s about the whole package. Platform and presentation.”

  “And all these years I thought it was about the writing,” I said bitterly.

  Chapter Seven

  “They were all jealous of her,” Velma told me as we slogged our way through the obstacle course of puddles and mud holes to the guest cabins located a pasture length from the main house.

  “Really?” I said with polite disbelief. Granted, Peaches had not been at her best during our brief acquaintanceship. “Why do you think so?” Not that I cared. I was making conversation strictly to keep myself from falling asleep on my feet.

  “I know so,” said Velma.

  My back ached. Everything ached. I had never been so tired in all my life. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe even now I lay in a soft warm bed and merely dreamed that the rain was blowing in my face and I was stumbling through weeds and mud to a little sod shanty on the plains.

  “Even Mom…I can’t believe she said those things…”

  I tuned back in. Velma, who was actually named Debbie and turned out to be Edgar and Rita’s daughter, had been designated to guide me to my cabin. Either the kid was the only expendable member of a reduced staff or her parents still clung to the belief that Peaches had died an accidental death.

  “People say things when they’re in shock,” I said. “Don’t take it seriously.”

  “Mom’s not like that. She’s like…a…a…pioneer person. Nothing shocks her.”

  “Well, maybe Peaches wasn’t a very pleasant guest. I don’t know.” And I cared even less. But I heard Debbie catch her breath like she was close to tears, and I said gruffly, “I’m sure your mom is dealing with it the best she can. She’s probably worried about how this will affect business. I know that sounds kind of callous, but—”

  “Last night?”

  “Huh?” I said, stopping in my tracks. Debbie stopped, too, turning to face me.

  “Was she worried about her business last night? Because last night she said…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She swung away, sloshing right through the nearest puddle.

  “You mean your mother and Peaches argued last night?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Uh…probably not. What did they say?”

  “It doesn’t mat
ter.”

  We were now at my cabin, which Debbie unlocked. She pushed the door wide, felt inside, and turned on a light switch.

  “The phones aren’t working now,” she informed me. “There are candles and matches in the bureau drawer, in case the power goes out.”

  “Is that likely?” I looked around uneasily.

  The cabin consisted of one room with a charming print of Indians killing buffalos—or, in one instance, buffalos killing Indians—over the full-size bed. There was a table and a lamp and a metal fireplace and a door leading off to a tiny bathroom with a scary shower curtain straight out of Psycho. No television and no internet access—and seemingly no phone. It was like prison for writers. Even killers get TV.

  “It happens. We start serving dinner at seven in the main dining room.”

  I thanked her. She wasn’t meeting my eyes, perhaps regretting her earlier need to confide. Without further ado, she slipped out, closing the door behind her.

  I wondered if it was worth my while to unpack. The rain couldn’t last forever, and the minute it let up, I was out of here. Murder investigation or no murder investigation.

  In the end I arranged my toiletries around the bathroom cubbyhole, hung the evening’s apparel on the back of the door, with the shower taps blasting out hot water in the hopes the steam would shake out the wrinkles. If only it were as easy to shake out my own wrinkles, I thought, gloomily studying my face in the Halloween glow of the bathroom overhead.

  I happened to know from a Publisher’s Weekly article that I was only five years older than J.X., but tonight I looked at least a decade or so. Granted, today had not been the stuff of beauty treatments. Seeing him so unexpectedly had brought back the past in a vivid and disconcerting rush. I didn’t want to think about the man I had been back then when my career was taking off. I found the memory distracting. Maybe even depressing, although I wasn’t sure why. The best thing was not to think about it.

  I flopped down on the calico bedspread and passed out.

  Half a second later, it seemed, the alarm on my wristwatch went off. I rose and stumbled into the bath to splash some cold water—very cold water—on my face. I shaved and tried to get my hair to behave in a way that might fool someone into thinking I wanted it to look like that. Studying the bewildering array of grooming products foisted on me by the cosmetic counter consort: scrubs, cleanser, moisturizer, sunscreen (no worries there), and mask (not much of a disguise if you asked me), I wondered what the hell happened to soap, toothpaste, and aftershave? One thing I’ve noticed about getting older, it takes twice as much work to get half the results one formerly achieved by falling out of bed. Not that I didn’t enjoy the architectural challenge of pitting hair and gel against the elements, but there was really no contest. All this effort wasn’t going to last three minutes in the wet and windy trek back to the main building.

  I dragged on the Kenneth Cole trousers and shrugged into the coordinating classic stripe shirt the sales associate had selected for me. After consideration I decided a tie would look desperate. Pulling my still damp Burberry back on, I shoved my Bruno Magli loafers in my raincoat pockets and stepped into my muddy boots once more.

  The nap had slightly refreshed me, but it was nervous energy that propelled me across the wet and lonely stretch back to the lodge. Behind me most of the other cabins were still dark, the majority of guests choosing to hang out at the main house rather than face their lonely cells. I wondered where the icehouse now containing Peaches was located.

  Reaching the main house safely, I finger-combed my wet hair, changed my muddy boots for my loafers, and went to find Rachel in the main dining room.

  Down the hallway I nearly ran into “Satan” Krass and his entourage. Even if I hadn’t known him from his photos, I’d have picked him out of the crowd as the man to be reckoned with. I had to admit he had presence. Though he wasn’t as tall as I’d previously thought—in fact, he was shorter than me—he was broad-shouldered and powerfully built beneath an Aran-knit sweater and charcoal trousers. Like a fashion magazine’s version of what people wore in ski lodges.

  He was surrounded by a fluttering flock of mostly young and mostly pretty women. I wondered if he was married and what Mrs. Satan thought of the harem.

  The comely George was also present. He noticed me scrunched to the side as the chickadees crowded past into the bar, and nodded a friendly greeting. I nodded back and happened to catch Steven Krass’s chill gaze. He showed zero recognition as he swept by. I tried not to take that as a bad omen.

  Peaches’ death didn’t appear to be hurting anyone’s appetite. The dining room was crowded. Rachel sat at a table near the picture windows, clicking away on her laptop. As I pulled out a chair she looked up and nodded approvingly. “Much improved. Very professional. Gray suits you.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I touched the white collar of my shirt, resisting the urge to tug at it. “Gray doesn’t suit anyone.”

  She shook her head as though age could not possibly be a real concern for anyone in these days of plastic surgery and implants. “Let’s order; then we can focus.”

  The all-purpose Debbie arrived to take our drink order—which was a huge relief. I had feared this was one of those dry—literally—meeting of minds.

  I ordered gin and tonic. Rachel ordered the house merlot, which Debbie earnestly explained was not the house merlot after all. It turned out that Blue Heron grapes were harvested and bottled by a neighboring winery.

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Rachel commented. It was clearly rhetorical; but encouraged, Debbie burbled on about metal gondola trucks and crushers and fermentation. My attention wandered. I studied Rachel. She looked better than she had earlier. She must have taken time for a nap as well. She appeared fresh and carefully made up as she always did. It occurred to me that although I’d known her for nearly a decade, I really knew very little about her. She had been born in British Hong Kong, wasn’t married, didn’t have children, and was allergic to dairy. That was the entire extent of my knowledge. Well, and she was a good agent. Yet I felt I knew her well enough to be sure that her reaction to Peaches’ death was not that of a casual acquaintance.

  When I tuned back in, Debbie had departed with our drink order, and Rachel was frowning into her laptop screen like a gypsy fortune-teller gazing into her crystal ball.

  She muttered, “We’re seeing some success with these mystery hybrids. The chick-lit heroine is a close relation to the contemporary amateur sleuth, you know.”

  “Their shoes are too tight, their credit cards are maxed out, and all the men they know are jerks,” I replied. “Why wouldn’t they turn to murder?”

  “Still…” She got that faraway look in her eyes. “We might be better off taking a completely fresh direction.”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  Speaking of completely fresh directions, Debbie returned then with our drinks. I gratefully slammed half of my G&T. Rachel took a ladylike sip of wine as Debbie recited our dining options. Rachel went for the herbed chicken fillet, and I opted for veal medallions. Debbie retreated once more, and Rachel resumed clicking and scowling.

  “Sexy demons, I believe you said.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Mmmm. Of course once something is openly recognized as hot, it’s already starting to chill. Let’s dig deeper.”

  “Sure. Let’s mine for coal.” I ran my hands through my hair, which brought a frown to those tiny features so reminiscent of Japanese hina dolls.

  “Christopher, petal, hair sticking on end is truly not a good look.”

  “But very appropriate for this place.”

  She ignored this. “Right. Let’s think back to the late eighties. Vampires, werewolves, sexy historicals—these were all huge then, and we’re seeing their resurgence now, so my instinct is we’re starting to cycle around once more. If we can anticipate what will recrudesce…” She typed away. “What else was selling well in the late eighties?”

  I tore my thoughts away from her use of t
he word “recrudesce.” I mean, who talks like that in real life? “Spinster sleuths were very popular in the late eighties,” I said. “Maybe Miss Butterwith is due for a revival.”

  “Oh, Christopher,” she muttered, not even bothering to answer that.

  “Regency novels,” I said gloomily.

  She flicked me a thoughtful look.

  “The Regency is tricky right now. A number of houses have cut the Regency from their roster, but it’s been in decline for so long it might be due to—”

  “Recrudesce?” I suggested.

  She was nodding thoughtfully to herself. “It’s not a bad notion. Time travel is still strong. But think Regency spec fiction. Space captains, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and witches have all been done. What’s new?”

  “Centaurs.”

  “Christopher, do try to concentrate.”

  “Centaurs are sexy,” I argued. “Or maybe satyrs.” Not that I personally have a thing for cloven hooves—or I’d have stayed with David—it was more to make a point.

  Raucous laughter from the bar next door. The knots in my stomach pulled tighter still.

  I drained my glass and leaned across the table toward her. “This is hopeless. Can’t we postpone even a few hours?”

  “We were lucky to get this meeting.” I could tell Rachel instantly regretted the words.

  I sat back as though she’d slapped me. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Steven Krass is a very busy man, that’s all.”

  “He didn’t want to meet with me, did he?”

  “Of course he wanted to meet with you.” You’d think for a high-powered agent, Rachel would be a better liar. “It’s only that he’s extremely busy.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said. “His mind’s already made up. He isn’t going to be interested in anything I have to offer. I’m going to humiliate myself. More.”

  Rachel’s hands fell away from the keyboard. “What are you talking about? That’s not true. Of course he’s interested. He agreed to meet with us, didn’t he? No one bribed him. No one threatened him.”

  Why was she looking at me like that? Was she wondering if I had bribed or threatened him?