So This is Christmas: The Adrien English Mysteries

by Josh Lanyon

  “He hasn’t been missing that long,” Jake agreed.

  “You think he’s dead.”

  He seemed to be looking inward as he said, “I think this can be a tough time of year for people.”

  I remembered the Christmas he’d told me he was going to marry Kate. The Christmas all hell had broken loose. Literally. Yeah, I’d had some dark moments. No question.

  As had Jake.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment, and the sunlit kitchen was silent but for the sound of the puppy gobbling down his kibble.

  * * * * *

  Judging by his Facebook page, Ivor Arbuckle was an ordinary guy living an ordinary life.

  He did not look like the kind of person who winds up as a crime statistic on the front page of a newspaper—but that could be said of most of the people who wind up as crime statistics on the front page of newspapers. Me included.

  As a matter of fact, he kind of looked like me. Slim, average height, dark hair. His eyes were brown, and he wore scholarly, but face-flattering, glasses. He had a nice grin, and he shared it often, judging by the photos of work parties and couple-pics of him and Kevin. He also shared his political opinions, archeology jokes, pictures of his dog, and pictures of various meals.

  Kevin’s Facebook page complemented Ivor’s. More scenes from what looked like a happy domestic setup. Photos of himself and Ivor, photos of himself and Ivor and their dog, photos of himself and Ivor and their friends, photos of himself and Ivor and Kevin’s family. His page offered more calls for petition sign-ups, scenic shots, and less snaps of meals.

  Knowing the people—or at least one of the people—I was “investigating” gave the peeking at social media pages a whole new stalker vibe I’d never experienced when checking out strangers. In fact, this felt a lot more like spying than sleuthing.

  And it especially felt like spying when, on a whim, I clicked over to Terrill Arbuckle’s page. Terrill’s page had last been updated six months earlier. But even an out-of-date page contained a surprising amount of information. Terrill was a VP for Arbuckle Industries, was divorced, had two kids in private middle-school, and enjoyed tennis, golf, and sharing retroactive socio-political opinions with like-minded cronies. There but for the grace of Gay.

  I didn’t have a Facebook page, so I was not going to judge. Cloak and Dagger had a Facebook page—created and maintained by Natalie—and now and then I appeared in the corner of a photo, looking startled or harassed.

  And on the topic of Natalie, she was still not speaking to me.

  On matters related to commerce and business, she was communicating through Angus, who looked increasingly nervous and anxious as the day wore on.

  I probably looked the same. Fortunately, being out of town for a week had given me plenty of work to catch up on, and it was easy to hide out in the back without having it look like I was, in fact, hiding out.

  When Jake was working in his office, we usually had lunch together, but today he was out doing what real detectives did, and I was lunching on ramen soup and a can of Tab at my desk when Lisa phoned.

  I knew she had to be seriously worried because for once the first words out of her mouth did not have to do with me or the state of my health. “Adrien, is your sister there?”

  “Natalie?”

  I must have sounded blank—dealing with the Franchise Tax Board for most of the morning will do that to you, but also it’s an excellent stall tactic I’ve perfected over three decades.

  “Darling, the other two are here. Yes. Natalie. Her father’s very concerned. He’s tried phoning her at the house for the past three nights, and she hasn’t answered.”

  “Hasn’t she?” I was afraid she’d hear the guilt in my tone. “Yep, she’s here. She’s fine. Has Bill tried her cell phone?”

  “No. You know how he is about cell phones.” Lisa sighed. “Is she upset about something? It was her choice not to come on this holiday.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything like that.”

  “What is it, then? Bill’s very hurt. She still hasn’t wished him a Merry Christmas.”

  “I think she’s just…” Even I can recognize a life preserver when it hits me in the face. “Busy. We are really busy right now.”

  “Too busy to wish her father Merry Christmas?”

  “So busy. Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll remind her to call Bill.”

  “Well, darling, couldn’t you simply hand her the phone, and I’ll get Bill—”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, we’ve got lines out the door. I’ll tell her to call. That would be best.”

  She made a small sound of exasperation and turned her sights on easier prey.

  “And what about you, darling? How was the flight?”

  “Fine. Long. I slept through a lot of it.”

  “That’s good. I’m sure you needed it.”

  “Thanks again for inviting us. It was great. A once in a lifetime experience.”

  “I knew you’d have a lovely time. And it doesn’t have to be once in a lifetime. What about Jake?”

  “Jake? He had a great time too.”

  “I’m glad. It’s not easy to tell with him. Are you sure you should be back at work so soon?”

  “Lisa.”

  She gave another of those put-out-sounding exhalations. “I know. At least Jake is there to keep an eye on you.”

  “At least— You make me sound like a recalcitrant toddler.”

  She laughed her silvery laugh. “Oh, darling. By the way, Bill likes your Jake very much.”

  “He must, if you’ve started calling him ‘my Jake.’”

  More tinkling laughter, like razor blades falling onto piano keys. She filled me in on the wonderful time they were having in the land of my ancestors without us, took me gently to task for bailing on the long-anticipated family vacation, remonstrated with me about not “overdoing”—by now these warnings were so much a part of our interaction I don’t think she could have stopped herself if I’d been named Mr. Universe—and finally rang off, after reminding me to get Natalie on the blower to her pop tout de suite.

  “Bloody hell,” I muttered, reaching for the can of Tab.

  “Adrien, what do you think you’re doing?” shrieked Natalie from the doorway.

  Speak of the devil.

  Or the de Vil.

  I sprang to my feet, dropping the can, and the fizzy brown contents spilled across my desk, soaking the phone messages and tax papers.

  “What the fuh—lip?” I yanked the drawer open, grabbing for tissues, and mopped frantically at the soggy mess, throwing her alarmed looks. “What is the matter with you?”

  She was looking more like a Disney villainess by the moment. Or maybe I was thinking of one of the vampire chorus girls in a Hammer Dracula film. Because there was a lot of action on the sibilants as she hissed, “You know you aren’t sssupposed to eat that. Or drink that. Why don’t you jussst empty the sssalt ssshaker down your throat?”

  “It’s not as filling!” Which, admittedly, was not the most helpful comment, but honest to God.

  Oh, but she had not yet begun to fight. “What’s the point of having heart surgery if you’re just going to waste it all and kill yourself anyway?”

  “If you’re so worried about my heart, don’t creep up behind me and scream in my ear.”

  “That stuff is poison. Poison.”

  “Jesus. Do I come unglued when you have a donut? Even after you tell me not to let you have a donut? What the hell.” I did more pulling tissues and mopping. After a minute or two, the ill-boding silence behind me registered. I threw an uneasy look over my shoulder.

  She was in tears. Like…dissolving into tears. Had she in fact been made of the brown sugar her recent behavior might suggest, she’d have melted at my feet.

  “Natalie, what’s happened to you? What’s going on?”

  I don’t know if in that moment she reminded me of Emma or I was just finally getting the hang of the big brother thing, but I opened my arms, and she promptly
transferred the weather system to my shoulder.

  She sobbed out something I couldn’t understand. Her whole body was shaking with the force of her crying.

  “I don’t even drink a full can anymore,” I told her. “It was only a couple of sips. See how much there was left to spill on my important papers?”

  She shook her head and wept out another unintelligible update.

  “Look,” I said desperately. “You’re a grown woman. I’m not going to tell you how to run your life. If you and Angus want to…you know, I can’t stop you. Let’s consider the matter closed.”

  She finally seemed to pull herself together. She drew back and wiped her face—I hastily handed over more tissues.

  She blew her nose—a hearty, good blow— tossed the tissue in the trash bin next to my desk, and said calmly, if damply, “What did Lisa want?”

  “Uh…” I studied her doubtfully. “Are we not going to talk about this?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I’m hormonal.”

  “Oh.”

  Presumably she had been hormonal plenty of times over the past two years, and I’d never noticed a resemblance to Crazy Jane.

  “What did you tell Lisa?”

  “Nothing. But you’ve got to call Bill.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “That’s the point. He thinks something has happened. He thinks you don’t love him anymore.”

  Her face twisted, but she did not break down again.

  Two and half years ago my mother had married Councilman Bill Dauten, thereby supplying me with three ready-made sisters. Bill was a big, bald bear of a guy, and although we didn’t have a lot in common, I’d grown surprisingly fond of him over the birthday cakes and family barbecues. I couldn’t think of a good reason for Natalie to hurt his feelings over something so dumb as a holiday phone call.

  “I’ll call him.” She sounded like I was sending her to her doom.

  “They’re worried, that’s all.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m getting worried too. You’re not yourself, Nat.”

  Her face worked, but she stayed in control. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m just going through a lot.”

  “Like what?” I was astonished to hear myself ask, “Can’t I help?”

  “No one can help,” she pronounced in the kind of tone you expect to use when saying the final farewell to your loved ones in the sepulcher.

  I had to give her credit for knowing how to deliver a good exit line. She turned without another word and left my office.

  Chapter Seven

  “Did you hear from Kevin today?” I asked Jake over dinner.

  I’d picked up a couple of bottles of Singha beer to go with the takeout from Saladang Song, our favorite Thai place. Jake swallowed a mouthful of beer, put down his mug. He speared a bite of shrimp Pad Thai. “No.”

  “Me neither. I expected to.”

  “Disappointed?”

  My heart skipped, and I looked at him in surprise. He stared back, and for a moment his face looked like a stranger’s. Hard. Unfriendly. Come to think of it, not the face of a stranger at all. He looked like the old Jake.

  As the thought crystallized, his expression changed, twisted into apology. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Why did you say it?”

  I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then his mouth tightened as though he was in pain.

  “Maybe because somewhere in the back of my brain is the fear that there are some things you can’t put right. That I had my chance and I blew it. And that all this”—he nodded at the dining room where we sat—“is just a way station on the road to wherever I’m going to eventually wind up.”

  It was so unexpected, and hurt so much—for so many reasons—that I felt for a second like I couldn’t get my breath. Kind of like the bad old days when my heart had leaked and floundered like a sinking ship.

  “Are you saying after everything we’ve been through, you think this is temporary?”

  I thought I sounded steady enough, but his eyes turned dark with fierce, unreadable emotion. His chair scraped back, and he came around to me, folding me in his arms. “Don’t look like that, baby,” he said softly.

  “Because this is it for me,” I told him, and that time my voice wasn’t so steady.

  “This is it for me,” he whispered against my ear. “Till death do us part. Nothing could change how I feel about you.”

  I pulled away to scrutinize his face. “You think I might change my mind?”

  He shook his head.

  “What, then?”

  I know he could hear the pain in my tone because I could hear it. It just wasn’t possible to hide what I felt for him. Not anymore.

  “It isn’t logic. It’s jealousy and fear. Because I didn’t appreciate what I had when I had it. And maybe deep down I don’t know that I really deserve another chance.”

  “Jake. Don’t. Don’t say stuff like that. Those words don’t belong between you and me…”

  He pulled me back into his arms, muttering, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just hard sometimes to believe.”

  He was holding me so tight it was hard to breathe, like he was hanging on for dear life. I clutched him back. I was pretty sure this—whatever it was—had been triggered by his meeting with Kate and the continued ostracizing by his family.

  How could they do this to him? When they knew better than anybody who he was inside. When they had to know how much they were hurting him.

  I wanted to fix it for him, and since I couldn’t, I wanted to comfort him any way I could. I lifted my face to his and said, “Are you still hungry? Because I don’t know about you, but right now I need more than Tom Yum Goong soup inside me…”

  The scent of warm, naked skin…

  The lamplight threw a summery radiance, kind to the goose bumps, and five o’clock stubble, and shadows under our eyes. Hiding the boxes—and maybe some of the baggage.

  It couldn’t have been more different from the first time we were together, but something in the way Jake smiled at me made me remember. Like that night at the ranch, he looked a little self-conscious. There was a flush across his cheekbones, and his brown-gold eyes were very bright.

  “Have I ever told you I love you?” he asked.

  I smiled, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. It was a good face. There was strength and discipline there—also kindness and character. But it was not the face of a saint. His jaw was too stubborn. The line of his mouth was too passionate, too sensual. “Once or twice.”

  “I love you. I’ll love you till the day I die. And afterward. If there is an afterward.”

  That seemed to go unexpectedly dark. I said gently, “I know. It’s the same for me.” I angled my head and kissed him. I could taste the beer and hot chili spice as he pushed his tongue against mine. Playful and sexy.

  As the kiss came to its lingering, reluctant close, he whispered, “I want you to fuck me.”

  He might as well have been speaking in Thai. I stared into the fierce emotional blackness of his eyes and couldn’t think of anything to say. He nodded at whatever he read in my face.

  “I trust you.”

  My mouth dried. My throat dried. My heart was crowding my chest. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” I said at last.

  He actually laughed, though he sounded breathless. “I know. It’s not about proving something. I want this. I want to share this with you.”

  Without waiting for my answer—like it was in doubt?—he reached over to the bedside table, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the tube of clear gel. He tossed it to me, and I caught it automatically.

  He got on his hands and knees, which was also…rather basic. But okay. I couldn’t help staring at him, and my expression must have been dubious because he said indulgently, “Come on, baby. I know you haven’t always played catcher.”

&nbs
p; No. Not always. But then I hadn’t exactly thought of what I did in terms of sports metaphors either. If I had, it would have been something like men’s singles tennis champ or extreme ping-pong player.

  I squirted a blob of silvery gel onto my fingertips. “Are you sure about this?” I stared down at the shiny glob of lube in my hand, rubbed my fingers, feeling the slick squish, trying to warm it.

  His brows drew together. “Don’t you want to?”

  “Yeah. Of course.” Hell to the yeah. Never had I expected it, and certainly not on what seemed like spur of the moment. “It’s just— I just—”

  “I’ve thought about it for a long time.” Jake sounded strangely calm. Like somebody in a trance state. “I knew if I was going to do it, it would be with you.”

  It made me smile, but it scared me too because I did not want this to disappoint him, did not want him to do something he would regret, or take advantage of a moment of weakness simply because he believed he’d wounded me at dinner.

  I ran my hand lightly over the muscular, round globes of his ass, stroking him. So beautiful. Hard and lean like something wild that had lived alone a long time. His skin felt warm and supple over those hard juts of bone and cartilage. I could feel the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs.

  And the pounding of my own.

  Jake shuddered. Kind of like the way a horse shudders when a fly bites him. Hopefully more pleasurable than that.

  “Did that tickle?”

  “Nah. Go on, baby.” He sounded more urgent now.

  I gently parted his butt cheeks, tracing a finger down his crack—not quite teasing, but not invasive either.

  Jake swore softly. It didn’t sound like anger, though. Didn’t sound like no.

  Delicately, I brushed a fingertip against the hot, tight—and clenching tighter—entrance to his anus. The nexus? A Celtic knot. My heart was beating so hard and so loudly the thump seemed to fill my chest.

  Jake sucked in a breath. His fists and knees punched sharp indentations in the pale sheets and mattress beneath.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He threw a quick look over his shoulder. “Yeah. And you’re okay. I want to do this. I want you to do this.”