Somebody Killed His Editor

by Josh Lanyon

  Still observing me in that frank way adolescents do, she asked curiously, “You were good friends?”

  “I don’t know what we were,” I admitted tiredly. “But I’m not going to sit here while…”

  My voice trailed because that’s exactly what I was going to do. I had no idea of how to proceed from here. I was so far out of my depth the sharks were nibbling my toes.

  “Are you crying?” she demanded, shocked.

  I straightened, wiping hastily at my eyes with the back of my hand. “Allergies,” I told her. “Can I ask you a kind of weird question? Can you think of any place around here someone might…try to hide a body?”

  I risked a glance. Debbie looked more sympathetic than shocked. She shook her head. “We searched all the cabins and sheds and the garage.”

  “It’s such a big place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you grow up here?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s kind of lonely, isn’t it?”

  She seemed amused. “It seems that way because we’re cut off now, but I used to go to the local high school. It’s only an hour by bus.”

  “You don’t go anymore?”

  She laughed outright at that. “How old do you think I am? I’m in college now. Or at least I was. I’m taking a semester off.”

  “Oh?”

  She made a little face. “I’m trying to decide what I want to do. College bores me.”

  “Maybe you’re taking the wrong courses.”

  I spoke absently, but she responded immediately, “That’s what I think. Mom and Dad want me to take business and hotel management.”

  “Ah.”

  “But…I mean, I love it here, but…”

  “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life running the Blue Heron Lodge?”

  She nodded sheepishly.

  “What did Peaches think about that?” I inquired. “You said you showed her your work?”

  “I did?”

  “Maybe it was your mom.” I watched her expression. “She said Peaches was very encouraging.”

  “Mom said that?” Debbie gazed at me, puzzled.

  “She did, yeah. Well, maybe that was a mother’s pride talking—”

  “No, Peaches was great,” Debbie said quickly. “She said wonderful things about my writing. She said I should be writing full-time, not standing behind a check-in counter.”

  “Ah.” I began to understand some of Rita’s fury. “Well, you could do both, right?”

  “Not really. Peaches was saying that in order to write, you had to have something to write about. Life experiences.”

  I knew where this was going. “And Peaches didn’t think you could get life experiences here or in college?”

  “She said college is for the people who want to teach, not people who want to do.”

  Peaches was a freaking idiot. I said mildly, “Don’t you need to learn how to do something before you start trying to do it?”

  She shook her head. “The best way is to jump in and start doing it. That was what Peaches said.”

  “Yeah, well, judging by the number of drownings each year, I’m not sure that always works.”

  Debbie frowned disapproval at this heresy. I said, “So did Peaches have a suggestion about how you could get life experiences?”

  “She thought I should move to New York because that’s where the publishing industry is centered, and maybe I could get a job as an editor’s assistant somewhere. She said she’d put in a good word for me.”

  I swallowed. “Did she?”

  Debbie nodded. “That way I’d be able to work with the best writers while I was working on my own book.”

  “Are you working on a book?”

  “Not yet. But I would be once I got to New York.”

  I wondered if my eyes were actually spinning or if it only felt that way. “Well, I can’t blame your mom for killing her,” I said.

  Debbie’s expression never changed, and I was relieved to discover I had only thought the words, not said them—sincere though they were. I wondered if Peaches had planned to use Debbie for creative harvesting or if she’d merely carelessly tossed off the advice never thinking—or worrying—of the ramifications if Debbie followed it.

  “I guess that’s what your mom was upset about that night she argued with Peaches.”

  Debbie nodded unhappily.

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, your mom thinks you’re talented too.”

  “Yeah, but that’s Mom. Peaches knew.” She gave a little gulp, her eyes tearing as she remembered the tragic loss of Peaches.

  “Did J.X. ask you any questions about…anything?”

  “He asked me about the glass in Ms. Ving’s room. The one that was supposed to have an earring in it.” Her eyes met mine. “There was no earring.”

  “It’s okay.” I touched my earlobe. “I found it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nothing else? He didn’t ask you about Peaches?”

  “Well…” She looked vague. “Just if I’d seen anything or had any ideas about who might have hurt her.” She darted me a guilty look indicating her suspicions had been focused on me.

  So J.X. had either not included Rita or Edgar in his conjectures, or he had kept those conjectures from Debbie.

  What was I missing? There had to be something I was overlooking.

  Yes, the lodge was a big place, and the grounds were spread out, but the killer would not have limitless time in which to act. The conference guests were jumpy and alert at this point. No one could risk disappearing for hours on end. If J.X. was alive—if he wasn’t buried out behind some shed—he had to be nearby. But where?

  I stared unseeingly at the pale oak paneling, the black and white photos of the lodge…vineyards and wine vats and grape pickers…

  I said slowly, “Is there a wine cellar here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I see it?”

  She stared at me. “Why?”

  I smiled—an effect probably similar to the Grinch trying to reassure Cindy Lou Who that he wasn’t stealing Christmas. “I’m a writer. I’m always looking for settings for my stories.”

  She wasn’t buying it.

  I abandoned all pretense and hit her with the truth. She wanted to experience life? Well, here was a big slice of it: fear and loss. “The truth is, I’m running out of places to look for J.X., and I’m getting desperate. We didn’t search the lodge itself. It’s the only place left I can think of.”

  Debbie bit her lip. “He wouldn’t be here in the lodge.”

  “Did you ever read a story by Poe called ‘The Purloined Letter’?”

  “No.”

  My eyes widened. Maybe this higher education thing was a waste of time. What were they having these kids read?

  “The point of the story is that sometimes the best way to hide something is in plain sight.”

  She considered this. “But guests aren’t supposed to go down to the cellar. It’s part of the original structure, and a lot of it isn’t used anymore. It’s not in good shape.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  The law-abiding tyke disapproved of that suggestion. “We should probably ask Mom or Dad.”

  “Let’s not,” I said quickly. “Your mom doesn’t like me, and your dad already thinks I’m a nut after the thing at the icehouse.”

  I could see by her expression that Edgar had indeed had colorful things to say about me dragging him down to the icehouse.

  “Welllll…”

  “If you do this for me, I’ll look at your manuscript when it’s finished, and I’ll give you all the free advice you want.”

  She looked astonished. “Are you published?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “The door is supposed to stay locked when we have people staying at the lodge,” Debbie whispered to me, “but we all forget.”

  We were standing in a rough-hewn stairwell a few feet from the back door leading to the kitchen. The
wine cellar entrance was down a short flight of outside steps. The stone stairwell hid us from casual observers, but if anyone came hunting us it would be hard to explain what we were doing lurking outside the wine cellar door.

  Debbie clipped the key ring on her belt and pushed the heavy door open, feeling around inside for a light switch. “The cellar runs the full length of the lodge,” she said. “It’s huge. But we only use the racks nearest the door now. That’s plenty of room for us these days.”

  “You don’t use it for general storage?”

  “No. It’s not convenient to have to run outside every time we need a fresh jug of milk. There are two pantries and a small storeroom inside the lodge. We keep the wine and the rest of the booze down here.” Her voice echoed hollowly as she started down the narrow staircase.

  I followed slowly. The drop in temperature was noticeable. Fifty-five degrees for storing red wine, wasn’t it? And less for white. I wasn’t a wine drinker myself, but I’d done quite a bit of research for Last Call for Miss Butterwith.

  The room immediately below us was lined with redwood racks. It was neatly laid out and carefully organized, the red bottles from the ceiling to the floor on one side, the white on the other end of the room. An additional shelf held a quantity of hard alcohol: whiskies, gins, bourbons, etc. A large empty vat sat in the center of the room. An arched doorway led off to a shadowy interior.

  Halfway down the steps, Debbie halted. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  She stood frozen in alarm.

  I heard it too—Rita bellowing for her daughter from the kitchen like Demeter trying to recall Persephone from the Underworld.

  “Shit,” Debbie exclaimed. She started up the stairs again, edging past me. “I’ll be right back.” She flew up the steps and out the door, easing it shut behind her.

  I could hear her muffled yell in response to Rita.

  I waited, but there were no further developments, so Debbie must have successfully diverted Rita. Good. Diverting Rita was exactly what I wanted to have happen.

  I went the rest of the way down the stairs and looked around. As prisons went, I could think of worse places to be locked up. There was a nice selection of liqueurs too, everything from Campari to X-Rated Fusion. If J.X. was here, he would not be in this part of the cellar, though. He’d be held in one of the unused sections.

  “J.X.?” I called.

  I didn’t really expect an answer, so when I heard an indefinable rustling sound from one of the next rooms, I stopped dead. My heart, however, kept going like the Energizer bunny…going and going and going…

  Over the rushing in my ears, I listened feverishly, trying to pinpoint the sound.

  “J.X.?” I called more softly. Switching on my flashlight, I started through the arched doorway. Light from the main room spilled into the adjoining room, casting severe drunken shadows over more shelving units half-filled with glinting bottles. Another arched doorway led to yet another room.

  Something shone near the doorway. I picked it up. A key. One of those thick, patented Schlage keys. I recognized it because I’d had the house rekeyed after David had exited stage left with Dicky.

  I remembered J.X. saying he had dropped a key next to Peaches’ body. Of course, it could be anyone’s key.

  Tucking the key in my pocket, I went through the next arched doorway. The light from the main room did not reach this far, and the darkness was nearly complete. My flashlight beam played over still more shelving units—these were empty. A large wrought iron gate leaned against one wall. There was a quantity of empty fiberglass urns.

  I shone my flashlight around. This was not a contained room like the two previous spaces. A long unfinished open stretch was broken only by ugly pillars and open beams. Several yards down I could make out more empty shelving units, old wooden crates, and a pyramid of old-fashioned casks. Cobwebs trailed gracefully from the open beams like gauzy draperies.

  I directed my flashlight beam to the stone floor, and time seemed to stand still. There, like fresh tracks in new-fallen snow, was the perfect outline of footprints in the thick velvety dust. Footprints coming and footprints going. More going than coming.

  Boot prints, unless I missed my guess. I’d opened my mouth to call out, but now I shut it.

  I followed the path of the footprints in the dust straight down the length of the cellar, my heart thudding in a mixture of dread and hope. The only sound was the scrape of my own boots on the stone floor. I paced the rough length of several large rooms, about one hundred and sixty feet.

  That odd stirring noise caught my ears once more, and I aimed the beam across from me. The bright white ray caught the gleam of eyes and teeth, and I nearly dropped the light.

  I managed to hang on to it, but I think my heart literally stopped while my brain fought to make sense of what it was seeing…

  A bear.

  A grizzly bear.

  A stuffed grizzly bear, maybe eight feet tall—taller than me even without the stand it was mounted on. The paws alone were the size of my head. The stained, outstretched claws were bigger than my fingers. The snarling muzzle displayed ferocious yellow teeth; the black eyes seemed to be staring right at me.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I said faintly, and the echo of my voice rolled softly down the empty vault.

  Lowering the flashlight beam to the floor, I saw that the footprints turned off to the left and vanished behind another stack of barrels. As I started forward again, I heard the distinct whisper of footsteps. I wheeled, my flashlight playing over the rough coat of the bear and catching movement. I swung the light.

  Nothing moved.

  I waited, listening over the thunder in my ears.

  It could have been a mouse. A rat. But no rat or mouse made those footprints in the dust. Or dropped his house key. I waited more endless seconds.

  Not so much as a shadow flickered. A growing unease was creepy-crawling up and down my spine, but I was not turning back until I’d seen what lay behind that stack of barrels.

  Illogically, the longer I waited and nothing happened, the more convinced I became that someone was in the cellar with me…standing a few yards away, hiding in the shadows behind the broken shelving. I could feel that I was being watched.

  I nearly popped a blood vessel at the muffled and eerie moan behind me. I swung the light, the white circle jittering its way over barrels and wall. Out of the corner of my eye I spied movement to my right, but I could only deal with one threat at a time, and the sound to the left indicated the more immediate danger.

  It also gave me hope.

  I darted a quick look around the wall of barrels. Was there a stirring in the darkness? A pool of shade on the floor still darker than the surrounding shadows?

  I shone the light. A pile of tumbled clothes…that resolved itself into dusty boots, rope, filthy jeans, a formerly white shirt…a ghostly face with silver duct tape across the mouth.

  “Oh God,” someone cried—and dimly I knew it was me. I threw myself down beside J.X., dropping the flashlight as I checked him over with frantic hands. He was warm—he was breathing—he was still alive. But his eyes were closed; he wasn’t conscious. I felt gently over his skull and found a sticky patch on the back of his head.

  I propped the flashlight on a box so I could see what I was doing, and eased the tape from over J.X.’s mouth, trying not to take too much of his beard or skin with it. And then—God knows what gripped me—I covered his mouth with my own. His lips were dry and chapped, and he tasted terrible. No kiss was ever as sweet. He was breathing, alive, and that was all that mattered then.

  His eyelashes stirred and lifted. He blinked at me dazedly.

  “You’re okay,” I said, working the knots at the ropes around his wrists. “You’re going to be fine. I just have to get you out of here.”

  His mouth worked. “Light’s…in…my eyes…” he managed huskily.

  I rolled the flashlight away, still clumsily plucking at the knotted rope.
“God damn it. Who the hell tied this?”

  “Kit…”

  “Don’t talk. It’s okay. I’ve almost got it.” I was babbling. I don’t think I could have shut up to save my life. “I hope to hell you’ve had your tetanus shots because you’ve been lying here with an open wound in a pile of dust for—for the longest fucking day of my life.” I jumped up and started yelling, “Help! Help!”

  I never said I was the hero of this story. If there was a hero, he was lying at my feet trying to get a word in between my shouts.

  “Kit…calm…the hell…down,” J.X. said faintly, finally managing to make himself heard.

  I dropped down beside him again and finished untying his arms. The rope fell away, and he rolled onto his knees, groaning and swearing as circulation returned. I rubbed his arms, yelling frantically all the while.

  “Where are you?” Debbie’s voice reached me.

  “Here,” I cried. “I found him. Go get help.”

  “Do you mind…not yelling in my ear?” J.X. creaked. He gave up trying to get to his feet and rolled back on his side, ineffectually chafing his wrists.

  I crawled down to untie the rope around his legs. “Did you see who hit you?”

  He moved his head slightly in the negative. His eyes were closed again. I got the rope off his legs as a dozen flashlight beams stabbed into the darkness and the cellar was flooded with people calling out to me.

  “Good God Almighty,” Edgar exclaimed, reaching us. Debbie was with him, and the skeleton kitchen staff was right behind, followed by George and an assortment of pink ladies.

  “He’s alive,” I told them—unnecessarily since J.X. was feebly trying to push himself upright again. I got hold of him. “Lie still, will you?”

  He subsided against me, his face dropping against my shoulder. He swore indistinctly.

  “Well, I guess you were right,” Edgar told me, grimly. “I should have thought of this place myself.” He cleared his throat. “I have to admit I thought…”

  “Yeah.” I bent my head to J.X.’s ear. “You’ll be interested to hear that you’re now everyone’s favorite murder suspect.”

  His eyes, which had been closed—giving him a misleadingly defenseless look—popped open.