Somebody Killed His Editor

by Josh Lanyon

  Everyone was still talking at once, yet I had the oddest feeling that someone was listening very closely to this conversation. I glanced around. No one seemed to be paying particular attention.

  “If you do know something about Peaches’ death, your best move is to speak up now,” J.X. said.

  Krass laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

  Something flickered in J.X.’s eyes.

  Krass turned his back on him. “Anyway, Chris, continue telling us about this marvelous new idea of yours.”

  A minute earlier the sound level matched Shea Stadium during a Beatles concert; now you could practically hear crickets chirping. I moved back to allow Rita Croft room to gather up the dirty glasses.

  “Uh…it’s about a private eye in an alternate universe very similar to the Regency Period but magical.”

  “So it’s fantasy?”

  “But with that sexy chick-lit sensibility,” Rachel put in.

  “Half mystery, half fantasy, half romantic comedy,” I said.

  “That’s three halves,” J.X. noted, for the record. I ignored him. With those math skills why the hell had he wasted himself on popular literature? He could have been giving Stephen Hawking a run for his money.

  “Tell him about the demons,” Rachel urged over the clink of glassware and bottles.

  But Satan Krass wasn’t having any part of my Regency demons.

  “To tell you the truth, Chris, we already bought a manuscript very similar to this a few weeks ago.”

  “Christopher has several projects,” Rachel started, but again Krass cut her off with a look.

  “I’ll be frank, Chris,” he said. “I pride myself on being honest with my writers. You write with a lot of warmth and…understanding. Understanding of what I have no idea.” He laughed heartily. “Kidding, Chris. Your books are wonderful. Really. Very pleasant. But you’re simply not in sync with what’s happening in publishing right now. We’re looking for edgy, new voices. We’re looking for fresh, for fat.”

  “For what?” Because if he said what I thought he said, I figured I was still in the running—not too much running, obviously.

  “Phat. P.H.A.T. You don’t know what that word means, do you, Chris? And that’s the problem in a nutshell.”

  “Sexy, first-rate, excellent,” supplied Mindy out of the side of her mouth.

  “God knows, I love your stuff, but you don’t fit the new direction of Wheaton & Woodhouse. Try one of the smaller houses; try one of the indies. They’re not under the same pressure to perform.”

  I could feel myself turning red, then white, as anger and embarrassment hit the litmus paper of my nervous system. In a minute he was going to advise me to self-publish. Rachel’s chair scraped as she got to her feet. I was already standing. Everyone at the table seemed to be looking at me. Even J.X.’s dark gaze was sympathetic—that was probably the worst thing of all. He was sorry for me.

  “Now, now,” Krass said, full of sudden good humor. “No need to hurry off. Tonight we have to put aside our differences. Tonight we say good-bye to one of the greats in our industry. Tonight we bid farewell to an old and valued friend…Peaches Sadler. Stay and have that drink.”

  “That might not be a good idea,” I said, almost managing a smile. “I might be tempted to slip poison into yours.”

  He raised his glass in a mock salute.

  Chapter Nine

  “Well, that’s that,” I said as Rachel and I reached the hall outside the bar. I felt like I was in shock. Sort of cold and distant. “I guess I can still have a full and rewarding career writing Diagnosis Murder spin-off novels.”

  Rachel stared at me as though she’d seen an apparition. Maybe we were looking at the same thing—the bloody wreckage of my career.

  I couldn’t resist one last glance back into the bar. Krass, slightly swaying, was on his feet, making a toast to Peaches. From the sound of clinking glasses you’d have thought the bride and groom were about to kiss.

  “The man’s a pig,” Rachel spat out.

  It took all my willpower not to say, I told you so. Her face was dusky with fury. At least, I thought it was fury. Her next words gave me pause.

  “Do you suppose he meant it—about knowing something about Peaches’ death?”

  I tried to process this. No go. The little gray cells seemed to be burning out at an alarming rate.

  She said impatiently, “Krass’s remark about seeing something last night? Do you think it’s true?”

  “How would I know? Rachel…” Was there a tactful way to put this? Did I really want to know? Could I take one more piece of bad news tonight without coming apart at the seams? “Uh…you didn’t…have anything to do…anything against Peaches, right?”

  Her elegant features hardened into old ivory. “What are you suggesting?”

  “It’s not really a suggestion.” More like craven beseeching for reassurance. Naturally I didn’t say that, and she wasn’t listening anyway, her gaze riveted once more on Krass. It was like he had brought his own laugh track with him. Shrill hilarity echoed off the hardwood floors and open beams.

  It’s over, I thought. My career is over. Done. Dead. He killed it. Without a second thought.

  From a distance I heard Rachel’s bitter voice. “All that sorry-dear-what-was-your-name bullshit. Do you know how many times he’s pulled that? I represent three—two—of his bestselling writers. I spoke to him this morning. Pig. Chauvinist pig.”

  Krass struck me as an equal-opportunity swine, but perhaps she knew him better. Somehow it didn’t seem important. Standing numb amidst the carnage of my career, I was having trouble focusing on her words, let alone forming a polite response.

  She fumed, “What a pity no one thought to cosh him over the head.”

  “You go, girl,” called a voice behind us.

  We turned. A small Hispanic woman with cropped black hair was seated at one of the conversational groupings of chairs and small tables. She looked a few years younger than me, which was how everyone looked these days. She wore red Audrey Hepburn capris that matched the scarlet slash of her laughing mouth.

  Rachel swept toward the empty chairs like the last empress washing her hands of the Forbidden City once and for all. I followed on wobbly legs, collapsing onto the nearest seat. If Krass thought I’d looked like I needed a lot of drinks before, he should see me now.

  “Espie Real.” The woman reached across the table, and we shook hands. “I’m another of Rachel’s clients.” To Rachel, she said, “You look like shit.”

  Rachel glanced at her, unspeaking.

  Espie said to me, “I guess it didn’t go well?”

  “That would be putting a positive spin on it.” She had to be about the only person at the conference who hadn’t been an eyewitness to my humiliation, and even she, it seemed, knew why I was visiting this particular ring of Hell. Maybe it was actually listed on the schedule of events—right there between Morning Mixer and Brainstorming for Beginners.

  “Join the crowd. We’re all on the endangered species list these days.”

  “The cop bought you two a drink.” Rita materialized at our table and set glasses down in front of Rachel and me. I guess there was something to be said for sensitive men. I reached for mine like I was trying out for a role in Lost Weekend.

  “You need another one?” Rita asked Espie.

  “Yep.” Espie drained her glass. I noticed she had a tiny teardrop tattooed beneath her left eye. Wasn’t that a prison tattoo?

  Espie caught me staring at her and winked. I felt myself redden. She grinned.

  “You folks are missing the wake,” Rita informed us.

  “It’s enough to know the bitch is dead,” Espie remarked. “I don’t need balloons and streamers. Maybe if there was cake…” She shrugged.

  Rita gave that harsh bark of a laugh and walked away with the tray of dirty glasses.

  I came up for air. “I take it you weren’t a fan of Peaches Sadler?”

  Espie’s tone was cool. �
�You take it wrong. We had a mutual admiration society going. She was a big fan of my work, and I was a big fan of hers.”

  I didn’t follow the intended insult. Did she mean, I was a big fan of her work, and so was she?

  Rachel said sharply, “Espie.”

  “Oh, please.” But she fell silent.

  I glanced at Rachel, did a double take. Her wineglass was empty. Focus on someone else’s problems for a change, I instructed myself. You need the practice. From now on you’ll have to live in a world you didn’t make up. Horrible thought.

  “I never met her,” I said, “but she sounds like the kind of person you either loved or hated.” Mostly hated.

  “She could be very charming,” Rachel said flatly. She rubbed her temples.

  Espie hooted with laughter. “She charm the pants off you last night, querida? Maybe not literally. Not this time, anyway.”

  I choked on my drink.

  Rachel looked at me sideways. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Probably not, since I haven’t had a coherent thought in hours.”

  “We…go back. The three of us.”

  “The Three Mesquiteers,” Espie put in. “That’s us.”

  “I used to represent her,” Rachel explained.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid,” said Rachel, which was the truth.

  Not that Rachel wasn’t a great agent, but Peaches Sadler had dwelt in the rarified stratosphere of authors who get the thumbs-up from Oprah and options for cable TV miniseries. “So what happened?”

  “Nothing.” She ignored Espie’s sardonic laughter. “She moved to another agency. It happens.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” Espie said. “I guess you two were renegotiating last night. At the top of your lungs.”

  Rachel glared at her. “Yes, we argued. What of it?”

  Espie opened her mouth but bit off whatever she was going to say as Rita arrived with her drink—and Mindy Newburgh in tow.

  Mindy pulled out the last empty chair without being invited. “You three are missing the canonization of Saint Peaches.” She was slurring the teeniest bit as she gave her drink request to Rita. Rita said something under her breath and returned to the bar. I wondered where Gorgeous George was.

  “Krass seems to have been genuinely fond of her,” I remarked.

  “Why not? They were two of a kind.” Espie smiled at me.

  “Oh, I think he truly loved her,” Mindy muttered. She rooted around in her purse until she found a pack of peppermint Life Savers, which she offered around.

  “You used to write romance novels, what do you know?” Espie reached for a Life Saver.

  Mindy offered me a Life Saver. I took it and crunched morosely. “What do you write?” I asked Espie. I didn’t care, really, but if I didn’t keep talking I was liable to start crying.

  “The Marcie Marquez series. She’s a part-time flamenco dancer and bounty hunter,” Espie informed me. “I’ve got something else going, though. Something big.”

  “Chica lit is hot right now,” Rachel recited, without pausing in massaging her temples. “The Hispanic market is about to crack wide open.” Along with poor Rachel’s head, it appeared.

  “Marginalization is always a danger,” Mindy remarked knowledgeably. Her glassy eyes studied me behind the glittering rhinestone specs. “I must say, Christopher…” And then she seemed to lose track of what she must say.

  Rachel stopped rubbing her temples. “Look, Christopher, try not to worry. Your idea was wonderful. Truly. I’m proud of you. I know we can sell this next book somewhere.”

  She couldn’t be serious. Never in a million years was I going to write a book about a Regency P.I. and her demon lover. “Hey,” I said. “Do I look worried?”

  “Yes,” all three of them responded unequivocally.

  “Wrong. This is my game face,” I informed them. “I look like this to disarm my enemies.”

  Espie grinned. “You have a lot of enemies, Christopher?”

  But she was the only one paying attention. I had the feeling Espie missed very little.

  Anyway, who was I kidding? The only reason I wasn’t worried right then was because I was exhausted and probably in shock. I thought longingly of my warm bed—if only I didn’t have to journey cross the plains to get to it. I didn’t fancy that long lonely walk across the muddy pasture—especially on my own.

  Mindy pawed through the contents of her bag again. This time she was after one of those old-fashioned compacts that my granny used to use. I didn’t think they even made those anymore. Fascinated, we watched her rub rouge into the apples of her cheeks without the benefit of a mirror. “How’s that?” she inquired of the world at large.

  “Uh…” Perfect for this circus was probably not what she wanted to hear.

  Espie gave her the thumbs-up, black eyes dancing with unkind amusement.

  Rita returned with Mindy’s drink. “Anybody else want anything?” She seemed to be daring us.

  I said, “I want a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a large bottle of tonic water, a couple of limes, a bucket of ice, a tray, and a clean glass. Name your price.”

  She studied me with her gimlet eyes and then smiled a smile that warned of serious damage to my American Express card.

  “That can be arranged, mister.”

  She departed once more. There was a volley of raucous laughter from the bar. Rachel straightened and said wearily, “My head is killing me. I’m going up to bed.”

  I glanced at my watch. Only ten o’clock. It felt much later.

  “Sweet dreams,” Mindy chirped as Rachel pushed to her feet.

  Espie spoke in Spanish, and Rachel answered. That surprised me, although there was no reason that Rachel shouldn’t speak Spanish. She was one of those overeducated, cosmopolitan types. She probably spoke eleven languages and had read all the classics. What really caught my interest was their tone of voice. I had only seen them bickering with each other, but Espie’s tone was tender and Rachel’s reassuring. The tone of old friends, sisters.

  “See you in the morning,” Rachel said to me.

  “Night.”

  She turned and almost walked into George. He steadied her, apologized, and slipped into her seat. He, at least, appeared to be having a good time. His boyish face was relaxed and happy. Rachel walked away toward the lobby.

  “There you are.” Alcohol blurred the sharpness of Mindy’s voice, but I could still hear the edge.

  “I was going to go get my guitar,” said George. “You want anything from the cabin?”

  “It’s getting late. I was thinking we should go to bed.”

  “It’s not even midnight, Min.”

  “It’s late for me,” she said sweetly. “I have a long day tomorrow. This isn’t a vacation for me.”

  The light went out of his face. He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”

  No one said anything as we watched Mindy gather her belongings. George stood silently by, his expression glum. “Good night, all,” she caroled.

  As we watched them heading for the lobby, Espie remarked, “Chico and the Mom.”

  My chuckle died as she mused, “I wonder if she did Peaches…”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Well, someone did her, right? That’s what everyone’s saying. Old Granny Goose was mad enough to kill last night.” She seemed amused at the idea.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Peaches never met a man she didn’t like—or want.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  There didn’t seem much to say after that. I was suddenly so tired I could hardly focus. I realized I should have asked Mindy and George to wait for me so that I didn’t have to walk to the cabins on my own. Too late now.

  “Looks like there may be room at the bar,” Espie said.

  I shuddered. If I never saw any of those people again, it would be too soon.

  “Here you go,” Rita announced, setting a tray with an unopened bottle of Bombay
Sapphire, tonic water, and a couple of limes on the table in front of me. “There’s an ice machine in the lobby.”

  “Thanks,” I said, dragging myself to my feet. The tray looked like it weighed a ton.

  “We’ll see if you’re still thanking me in the morning.”

  “All things in moderation,” I informed her loftily. “See you both in the a.m.”

  “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” drawled Rita.

  “If we’re still alive,” Espie added cheerfully.

  * * * * *

  I let myself quietly out the back, deciding it would be faster to cut behind the lodge. This or the front path, either way I’d be all by my lonesome. It was like they had planned the layout of this place after watching horror movies for a week.

  It seemed years ago that I had crossed the wet-slick deck with J.X. and Edgar Croft.

  I walked briskly down the cement path. The rain had stopped. The silence seemed absolute.

  Somewhere to the left, an owl hooted, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, the bottles on the tray I carried rattling in alarm.

  I walked on, less briskly. The sound of my footsteps on the path had a hollow sound—which matched the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  As I reached the end of the walkway, I heard a noise. I looked around, trying to identify the source.

  There it was again. Small and furtive. Followed by the sound of a rolling log.

  The woodpile.

  I froze, my heart pounding hard.

  Kneeling, I carefully lowered the tray with the ice bucket and bottles to the cement. As quiet as I tried to be, they sounded like alarm bells going off. I crouched there, breathing hard, waiting…

  Nothing happened.

  I didn’t hear anything now. Could I have imagined it? Maybe it was a squirrel or a lizard with a taste for the nightlife.

  I stood up, stepped past the tray, and sidled along the hedge until I reached the end. Cautiously I poked my head around, twigs pulling at my hair.

  I had a quick view of the woodpile silvered in moonlight. There was no one there.

  The next instant I was grabbed by the lapels of my Burberry, yanked out of my hiding space, and thrown to the ground.