All She Wrote

by Josh Lanyon

  “Just that she’d slipped on the ice. She was in a lot of pain as you can imagine.”

  “Did Luke say anything?”

  Victoria’s brows drew together in an effort at recollection. “I think he asked what had happened. To tell you the truth, it’s all kind of a jumble. I was so shocked.”

  “Could you tell where she’d slipped?”

  “Look at you making like Miss Butternut.” Poppy seemed tickled.

  “Butterwith.”

  “Same difference.”

  Why was I wasting my breath? I turned to Victoria who said apologetically, “I didn’t notice. I was only thinking about getting help as fast as possible.”

  Nella said, “We should be getting back or we’re going to be late.”

  Her shuttered expression caught my attention. Generally her face was as open and guileless as a little kid’s.

  “They can’t start without us,” Poppy replied, reaching for the last blue iced cake. “We’re holding the teacher captive.”

  Next came the inevitable tussle over the bill. I was prepared to pay for everyone’s lunch. I had some vague idea that this was what Anna had done back in my day, but to my surprise Poppy graciously insisted on picking up the check.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She brushed aside my thanks. “My old man left me a big fat insurance policy when he kicked off.”

  I recalled that her spouse had died in a drowning accident. I wondered if anyone had thought to investigate possible suicide.

  The bill paid, we trudged out into the elements once more. It was starting to sleet as we piled back into Poppy’s battered Mercedes.

  “Victoria’s the tallest. She should sit in front,” Poppy said when Victoria tried to offer me the copilot position. Victoria looked apologetic, but I was only too happy to yield to her. I squeezed in the backseat with Nella and we had a moment of awkwardness as I had to ask her to shift so that I could find the other half of my seat belt. Having driven into town with Poppy, no way was I risking the return trip without buckling up.

  As we left the parking lot and hit the slushy, crowded streets, Nella said softly, “I’d like to send you my manuscript.”

  “Sure.”

  “How much do you earn per book, Chris?” Poppy questioned.

  “Not enough.”

  “But you get an advance, right?”

  Less at Millbrook House than I was used to receiving from Wheaton & Woodhouse, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not that I liked to think of myself as standing at the transom, cap in hand, but for a while there that had been uncomfortably close to the truth.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you have to pay that back if you don’t sell all the books they print?”

  “Sell through my print run? No. The only way you pay back an advance is if you don’t deliver the book or the deal falls through for some reason.”

  Nella asked, “Can you live on an advance?”

  “If you’re willing to give up eating.” Realizing that I was being a bad author ambassador, I amended, “It depends on the size of the advance and where—and how—you live. I have a large backlist by now, so I earn significant royalties. My advances tide me over between royalty checks.”

  “I’ll say you have a lot of books,” Poppy commented. “I don’t know how you keep them straight. The book-jacket blurbs all sound the same.”

  I sighed and gazed out the window at the picture-postcard landscape gliding past. I was already starting to feel queasy thanks to the walnut-paste sandwiches. Poppy’s driving wasn’t helping. We don’t do a lot of traveling through snow in Southern California, and I don’t like being a passenger under the best of circumstances. And finding myself as Poppy’s passenger was not the best of circumstances. She had a habit of frequently taking her eyes off the road to converse with Victoria—or even me and Nella in the backseat.

  We left Nitchfield in the soft and snowy distance, and Poppy shifted into high gear as the road opened up before us.

  The other three chattered about people unknown to me, and I tuned out, watching the dark ragged outline of pines, ice-limned chestnut and maple trees, the occasional tall stalk of grass poking through the blanket of snow.

  There was scant traffic and the highway was mostly empty, though snow lined the shoulders in tall drifts. I could see glimpses of a frozen lake or reservoir over the top of the ice wall.

  I was thinking that there was a very good chance that Anna had simply slipped on the icy steps. If Victoria had gone up the stairway immediately after, there couldn’t have been anything obviously wrong with the stairs or she would have fallen too.

  That didn’t explain those other near misses, though.

  “How long did it take you to be able to support yourself with your writing?” Nella asked me.

  I turned to answer her—and so did Poppy.

  The car swerved slightly, the tires failed to grab and we slid sideways. There were gasps all around, me included. Poppy instinctively slammed on the brakes, and we began to skid in horrifying earnest.

  Victoria screamed. Nella cried out as Poppy wrenched the wheel against the skid. The fishtailing rear end of the Mercedes pitched violently away in the opposite direction, and now we were spinning, spinning like a top across the black and shining road. The trees and frozen hills went whirling by, the white wall of snow loomed up and we crashed into it.

  Crashed into it—and ploughed right through.

  The three women were screaming as we sailed out into empty air. For a moment we seemed to hang in the nothingness. Clumps of snow slid down the windshield and then blew away as we smashed down the hillside.

  Chapter Eight

  The next time I opened my eyes I was being whooshed along in a wheelbarrow. A crowd of excited gardeners surrounded me, shouting confusing questions.

  That was…odd.

  I ignored the hollow, booming voices, and stared up past the hovering green pajamas and smocks to the white ceiling and light panels skimming swiftly past like train tracks.

  Train tracks? No. That wasn’t it…

  “Can you hear me, Mr. Holmes?” one of the gardeners yelled in my ear. Loud, annoying man.

  No. Not a gardener. And not a wheelbarrow, although it was uncomfortable enough for one. A trolley of some kind…

  “Are you allergic to any medications?”

  No mistaking that sickly, antiseptic smell. I was in a hospital. Why?

  What had happened to me?

  The doctors or nurses or ambulance attendants—who were all these people?—continued to propel the gurney along, yelling tiring, silly questions.

  “I’m allergic to cantaloupe.” It seemed important that they understand this. “Maybe honeydew.”

  Perhaps they were gardeners because someone pinched me. Hard. I objected forcibly, and then, suddenly, it didn’t matter. I was gliding along and everything was pleasantly quiet once more.

  I closed my eyes.

  I didn’t think I lost consciousness—I would have sworn I didn’t—but all at once it was very bright and very noisy. I was so tired and it seemed to me that quite a long time had passed, yet there was only a blur where my recent memories should be. That worried me because there was something I should be remembering, something I urgently needed to tell someone.

  What?

  I said, “The pumpkin soup was very good.”

  A voice murmured in reply.

  No, it couldn’t be that because we were all agreed on that. And then I remembered the important thing I’d been waiting to tell someone.

  “I want to talk to J.X.”

  The voice sounded like it was hushing me.

  I persisted anyway. It had been on my mind and my sense of being wronged was strong. “It wasn’t fair. He didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

  I couldn’t tell if the voice responded or not, but I was relieved to have that off my chest. Now I could sleep.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Christopher, darling, I’m so goddamned sorry,” A
nna said when she came to see me Saturday morning.

  By then I was back in my right mind—if you could call it that—though still stuck in the hospital with a broken collarbone, a mild concussion and a wildly colorful assortment of bruises and contusions. None of which was making nearly the impression on me they should have thanks to a blessedly generous dose of painkillers.

  I made another try for the cup of water next to my bed, and this time I managed to snag it. I said around the straw, “The accident wasn’t your fault.”

  I wasn’t even sure it was Poppy’s fault, terrible driver though she was. Anyone could have hit a patch of black ice—which was apparently what had happened to us. Admittedly, my recollection of the accident itself was vague. According to what I’d been told, we’d hit the ice, spun out and gone over the side of the embankment. The car had turned over twice before coming to a stop a few yards from the reservoir.

  Anna took the chair by the hospital bed. She was using crutches—using them expertly, as a matter of fact. But she was obviously in pain.

  As no doubt would I be once I came down from the chemical cocktail I’d been served with my cold breakfast. I was being kept over one more night because of the surgery on my clavicle. Apparently when the paramedics had reached us, the bone had been sticking through the skin—which I was delighted to have missed seeing. The surgery was relatively minor, but when it’s your body being operated on, it always feels like a big deal.

  “I can’t help feeling…” Anna stopped. I managed to replace my cup on the bed cabinet—my spatial perception seemed off—and regarded her more closely. She looked dreadful. The only color in her face was her red-rimmed eyes and her red nose. For the first time in all the years I’d known her, she looked old.

  “What can’t you help feeling?”

  Her mouth trembled.

  Cold apprehension coiled through my gut. “How are the others, Anna? No one around here will tell me anything.”

  Her face worked. She sucked in a long, wavering breath. “I shouldn’t— You should be resting, Christopher.”

  “I am resting. I’m lying right here resting.” I gestured impatiently to my blanketed legs and feet. My mouth was dry again, but it wasn’t the medications this time. “What is it you aren’t telling me?”

  It took her a moment. “Like you, Victoria was wearing her seat belt. She got off with some cuts and scratches. Poppy has a broken nose, a broken leg, fractured ribs, some cuts and lacerations. Nothing that won’t heal. Nothing that bitch doesn’t deserve.”

  That shocked even me. “Anna.”

  Color flooded her bone-white face. “She’s a goddamned catastrophe on the road, and we all knew it. How many times did we all laugh about her fucking fender-benders and near misses? I should have warned you not to get in a car with her. I should have warned you both—”

  The coil of nerves and worry in my gut twisted into something more like the Gordian knot. “How’s Nella?” I made myself ask.

  Anna tried to speak and had to stop as she struggled with tears.

  “Oh God,” someone said faintly. I realized it was me.

  Anna managed at last, “Nella wasn’t wearing her seat belt. She was thrown forward and…and broke her neck.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean she’s dead?”

  Sometimes people survived breaking their necks, right? It didn’t have to mean…but Anna’s face told me it did.

  “She died instantly.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I kept thinking there had to be some kind of mistake. Something we could do over. The idea that the kid was dead…

  Just like that? From alive to not in a matter of seconds? All that enthusiasm and energy and excitement. All those hopes and dreams and aspirations. All the stories she would never have the chance to tell.

  “I can’t believe it.” People always said that, didn’t they? And yet if there was one certainty in this life, it was that we would all die. But when it happened to someone so young…when there was no warning. Humans were so fragile. So easily broken.

  Watching Anna, indomitable Anna, struggle not to cry, I said, “I’m sorry. I know you cared about her.”

  “I’m an old fool,” Anna said, wiping her eyes. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. Especially with you. Christ knows you’ve been through enough.”

  I waved that away. My hand hit the bed railings. Yes, my perspective was definitely off.

  “I’ve never thought of myself as the sentimental type. I never wanted children. But to see such promise…lost. Such a bright light extinguished.”

  “I’m sorry, Anna.” It seemed to be all I could come up with. I was still having trouble taking it in.

  She wiped at the tears with the heels of her hands and cursed quietly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone had paused on their way into this private room. This private room that Anna was insisting on paying for. I glanced over, expecting to see another nurse bearing more chemical relief or the ever-efficient Sara waiting to take charge of her mistress.

  J.X. stood framed in the doorway.

  J.X.

  Not a dream. Not a mirage. J.X. Tall, spare and, um, supple in boots, jeans, and a Nordic blue Eddie Bauer parka. His dark hair was a little longer than I remembered it and matched with the perfectly groomed Van Dyke mustache and beard, it made him look like one of those dashing young explorers of days gone by.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said awkwardly, taking in the bedside tableau.

  Blame it on the pharmaceutical companies, but I heard myself make a choked noise. I sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain flashing through arm, shoulder, ribs, back and butt as I stretched my arms out to him like the final frame in a cheesy medical drama.

  But it wasn’t cheesy. It was just…Jesus, I was happy to see him. I can’t remember ever being so happy, so grateful to see someone. Someone I’d been afraid I was never going to see again.

  J.X. reached the bed in three steps, but then he sort of hovered as though not sure how to hug me without doing damage. I wasn’t having any of that. I wrapped my arms around him and as much as it hurt—and it did hurt plenty—it was nothing to the pleasure of being in his arms once more.

  “Jesus, Kit.” His husky voice, warm against my ear, sounded shaken, unfamiliar. “What the hell have you done to yourself?”

  I could feel him trying to be careful of the various bandages and IVs, but then his mouth found mine and I think he forgot all about my weakened condition. I responded to that fierce gentleness to the best of my bruised and battered ability. I’d have had to be comatose not to respond to J.X.’s kisses.

  Spots were dancing before my vision when he finally raised his head. His long-lashed dark eyes regarded me with emotion. “You look like a goddamned train wreck.” He sounded winded and angry.

  “You should see the other train.” Then I remembered how really not funny the situation was. My glance fell on Anna who had got to her feet with the speed of a much-younger woman. She was leaning on her crutches, studying J.X. with open surprise.

  “J.X., this is Anna. Anna, J.X. Moriarity.”

  “We met at Left Coast Crime about two years ago,” J.X. said. Even distracted he had very nice manners. When he chose.

  “I remember.” Anna shifted her crutches. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Neither did I.” I dropped back against the pillow, reluctant to let go of J.X. for even the length of time it would take him to shake Anna’s. Jeez. What was wrong with me? I’d never been one of these sloppy, sentimental types. It was just…I was so happy to see him. So touched that he’d done this—flown clear across country to yell at me in my hour of need.

  He was gazing down at me again with that flattering mixture of worry and aggravation. There were lines of weariness in his face and shadows beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in a while. “Is there a part of you that isn’t black and blue?”

  “My eyelids?”

  “No. You’ve got a black eye.”
>
  “My mouth?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Anna interrupted when it looked like J.X.’s inspection might turn interesting. “Christopher, darling, the police will want to question you about the accident when you’re feeling stronger.”

  I nodded. “I don’t remember much of anything after we got in the car.”

  “I’ll ring you this evening. Lovely to meet you again, J.X.” Her smile was a brave effort.

  J.X. made some distracted reply, and before I could think of what to say to her, Anna crutched her way out of the room. I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten her before she was through the doorway. All my focus was on J.X.

  He leaned over the bed railing again. He smelled pretty much like you’d expect from a guy who’d been traveling all night, but on him it was wonderful. Mixed with it was a hint of the John Varvatos fragrance I now associated with him: leather, tamarind leaves and auramber. His hands were cold as he brushed his knuckles against my cheekbone, a touch as light as a feather. Even so, I winced.

  He said softly, admiringly, “That is one hell of a shiner.”

  “Color coordinated to match my hallucinations. Are you sure you’re really here?”

  “I’m sure.” He leaned down. I closed my eyes as his lips delicately nuzzled my eyelids.

  Eyes closed, I murmured, “Are you kissing it better?”

  “Am I?”

  “I think so. My lips hurt too.”

  He was smiling as he kissed me again, still restrained and tender, but with a hint of better things to come.

  Abruptly he drew back. When I dragged open my eyes, it was to find his black with emotion.

  “What is it?”

  “Kit…” His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.

  “What’s wrong?” Startled, I realized what was wrong. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” I watched in fascination as J.X.’s chiseled nostrils flared. He clenched his strong jaw. Yep, he was pretty worked up in his manly way and I was probably a dork to feel so pleased about it, but there’s no denying that there’s a certain appeal in knowing it would really ruin that special someone’s day if you checked out early.

  “When I got that call—”