All She Wrote

by Josh Lanyon

  “I want you to change your plane reservations again. I want you to leave as soon as possible. I simply couldn’t bear it if something else happened.”

  “We’re not going to leave you in the middle of this.” I glanced at J.X. for confirmation. It wasn’t coming anytime soon. He looked back without expression. I frowned at him and the line of his mouth thinned, but that was it. He remained otherwise unmoved.

  “I’m serious,” Anna said. “It’s too much to ask. Besides, my own stepson can’t leave the sinking ship fast enough. Why on earth should you have to stay to hold my hand?”

  “Ricky’s leaving?”

  “Yes. He lives in New Milford, though. It’s not as though he were fleeing the country.”

  “We’re not going to leave you, Anna.” I glanced at J.X. again. His eyes would have had to be onyx for his gaze to be any stonier. I said slowly, “At least, I’m not.”

  She looked from me to J.X. “Well, perhaps you’d better talk it over. In the meantime…I confess I still don’t feel very well. I’m going to have something on a tray in my room and make it an early night. I can have the cook do the same for you. Or perhaps you’d like to go out to dinner. I fully understand why you might not want to dine in this house again if you don’t have to.”

  I opened my mouth, caught J.X.’s eye, and closed it again.

  “We’ll figure something out,” I said.

  When J.X. had safely closed the door behind her, I went on the attack. “What the hell was that about?”

  “What?”

  “Your attitude. You were one step from openly rude.” And it was a baby step at that.

  “So’s she.”

  “No she wasn’t. She was just…being Anna. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  He slipped out of my robe and tossed it over the back of the chair she’d been sitting on. Stalking over to the dresser, he pulled out clean jeans and a sweater. “You want the shower first?”

  Apparently we weren’t going to talk about it. Maybe that was as well. I didn’t want to get into a big fight with him. Especially while I was still basking in the afterglow of some of the best sex of my life.

  I asked instead, “Are we going out to eat?”

  “Sure. If that’s what you’d like.”

  “What did you want to do?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and wriggled his eyebrows at me. I shook my head regretfully.

  “In that case I could go for some Italian.”

  “Will a middle-aged WASP do instead?”

  His cheek creased in a smile. “Don’t flirt with me if you’re serious about leaving this room.”

  “I’m serious about finding somewhere to eat where the only thing I have to worry about is MSG. Neither of us have had anything to eat since breakfast. And you didn’t have breakfast.”

  “Okay. Dinner in town it is.”

  That seemed easy enough. Too easy?

  I had a shower with J.X.’s help, and then J.X. had a shower. I was shaving, watching his reflection—a dark, lean blur—moving behind the patterned glass of the shower door.

  I turned off my razor, said over the beat of water against tiles and his tuneless humming, “Listen, J.X., I can’t leave. But it’s okay if you want to go home. I understand.”

  His voice echoed from inside the shower. There wasn’t even a pause. “You don’t understand anything if you think I’m leaving you here.”

  I was sort of touched and sort of irked. “You know, I’ve been taking care of myself quite effectively for…a number of years. I’m the one who didn’t get poisoned last night.”

  He turned off the shower taps. Popped opened the shower door. Water made shining rivulets in the sable etchings of his body hair. His hair was black and glossy as a raven’s wing.

  “Kit, she told you to go home. There isn’t any point sticking around.”

  “You know why she said that. She’s feeling guilty.”

  “She said it because that’s exactly what she wants. She wants you to go home.”

  I said slowly, “You really don’t like Anna, do you?”

  “No. I don’t. For one thing, I don’t like the way she talks to you.”

  I saw my bruised, half-shaved, startled expression in the remaining circle of mirror before the steam from the shower swallowed it.

  “She doesn’t mean anything by that. It’s just her way.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  It was so succinct and matter-of-fact I couldn’t seem to come up with an answer.

  “You don’t see it,” J.X. said. “You’re fond of her and you feel like you owe her something. Maybe you do, but my impression of Anna is that she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m tired of those digs she makes at you.”

  “What digs…?” My voice dropped out. I realized I didn’t—did not—want to hear this. “Never mind.”

  “Like last night at dinner. Those little jabs about Miss Butterwith. And you having writer’s block.”

  “I said never mind. I don’t have writer’s block. Anyway, it’s pretty ironic hearing you objecting to someone giving me a hard time over my writing.”

  He was busily toweling himself off, pastel plush towel mopping shining, brown skin. He spared me a look. “Look, in case I’ve failed to make it clear, I think you’re a fine writer. I think you’re wasting your time and talent on the Butterwith books, but if they make you happy, fine. Anna talks to you like—”

  “Okay.” I cut him off. “Enough. That’s not true. You two got off to a bad start. Don’t drag me into it.”

  He continued to briskly saw the towel against his shoulder blades. His expression was closed.

  “And I’m staying on for a couple of days,” I added. “Just to make sure she’s really all right.”

  His mouth curled up derisively. He refrained from comment.

  For once.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’d conveniently forgotten that driving into Nitchfield for dinner entailed getting into a car again.

  It was stupid to be nervous—especially since I had so little actual memory of the accident—and yet as we walked out to J.X.’s rental car, I could feel my palms dampening, my heart starting to race.

  “Would it be easier if you drove?” J.X. asked suddenly over the crunch of our boots in the snow.

  “What?” I threw him a quick look.

  “You’re still edgy about riding in a car. Would you prefer to drive?”

  How the hell could he know that? Was it a cop thing or was it because he was paying me the kind of attention Miss Butterwith generally reserved for the rare cypripedium calceolus orchid? “I don’t know. What I do know is this is ridiculous. I need to get over it.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. I saw that car.”

  I would have swallowed, but my mouth was so dry there wasn’t enough saliva. “Yeah, but I can’t even remember the crash. Not really.”

  “Maybe if you’re driving, you’ll feel more in control.”

  I hesitated. I did much prefer to drive, but I needed to consider his welfare as much as my own comfort. “I don’t think it’s a good idea with my shoulder.”

  “Okay.” He accepted the logic of that immediately, so I knew it had been the right choice. “If it helps, I’m a very good driver.”

  “I know.”

  “And on top of that I’ve had police driver training.”

  “I know.”

  We reached the silver sedan. He unlocked the passenger side and I slid in. The interior smelled of artificial new car scent and, very faintly, hospital antiseptic. My stomach gave a queasy roll.

  To distract myself I pulled out my glasses and unfolded the list of names Victoria had given us of those who had taken part in the Santa Pal gift exchange.

  J.X. came around to his side, climbed in, started the engine. The windows began to slowly defrost. We could see the lights of the mansion twinkling through the ice-limned trees.

  I said, “So here�
�s the info on these two gift exchanges of Victoria’s…one was for the Nitchfield Book Club. The other was for the Woolsey Olivier Library.”

  “She works part-time at the library.”

  Nice to know he’d taken his responsibility seriously when I’d asked him to check out Poppy’s car. At this point he probably knew more about Victoria and the other members of the Asquith Circle than I did.

  I continued to study the list as he slowly pulled away from the side of the road. “Hey. Both Nella and Rowland Bride were part of this book-group gift exchange. And Poppy too. Something she conveniently forgot to mention.”

  “Poppy and Victoria are obviously good friends. They probably know who had whom for a Secret Santa.”

  “Maybe.” I scrutinized the list more closely in the waning light. “We need to talk to Rowland. Maybe it had something to do with this book group they all belonged to.”

  “Such as?”

  “Who knows. Maybe someone snapped after being forced to read Life of Pi for the hundredth time.”

  “Why don’t we leave it to the cops, Kit?”

  “You really think the cops are going to look into this whole Secret Santa thing?”

  “Yes. I do. If it’s connected to the poisoning. Of course.”

  “I think it’s a lot more likely they’re going to notice Luke’s criminal record and stop there.”

  There was an edge to J.X.’s voice as he said, “That’s not how cops operate.”

  “It’s how some of them operate. I read the news. I watch TV.”

  He refrained from comment, but I could tell he was annoyed. Well, maybe with good reason. One thing I’ve noticed in my research, even if I do write about an elderly botanist sleuth, is that being a cop is not like being an office worker. Cops have that band-of-brothers mentality like soldiers or firemen or other action heroes. Okay, in fairness maybe some office workers have that too. The minions at the DMV certainly seem to believe it’s them against the rest of us.

  “I don’t mean you, obviously. I know you’d have been as conscientious as the rap sheets are long.”

  He grunted. Not entirely assuaged, but mollified. He glanced over at me and his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile.

  “What?” I realized what and put up a self-conscious hand to straighten my specs. “Hey, I’ve always worn reading glasses. This is not an age thing.”

  “I know that. I remember you wore them to your panel at the conference where we first met. You looked very intellectual—and sexy as hell. I like ‘em. They’re cute.”

  Cute? My three-hundred-dollar Armani tortoiseshell glasses were cute? They were supposed to make me look erudite and distinguished.

  He added with breathtaking honesty, “I want to fuck you in those glasses.”

  “Uhhhh…” I made a sound generally only heard when police officers ask what you were doing three Friday nights ago at eight o’clock—and can anyone verify your alibi.

  J.X. laughed, a low rasp of sound like warm, soft sand on bare skin. I tried to swallow whatever had lodged in my throat. “You know something else?”

  “Er, no.” I sounded faint to my own ears.

  “You have to stop with the age thing, Kit. You’re only five years older than me. We could have gone to school together.”

  “Only if one of us jumped a year. Which, considering your sexual appetite, is only too possible.”

  He laughed, but was serious when he said, “You’re using those five years to try and distance yourself from me.”

  “I don’t think I am. It is a difference.”

  “Kit, you’re forty. You look thirty. You act…well, never mind. You’re carrying on like you think you’re seventy.”

  Was I? I guess it was no secret I’d been unpleasantly startled to find myself suddenly hitting the big 4-0. You’d have thought the previous thirty-nine years were sufficient warning. I glanced at his profile. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little hung up on the age thing. You have to admit gay culture is youth-oriented.”

  “Oh hell. American culture is youth-oriented. No kidding. I’ve probably seen and done a hell of a lot more in my lifetime.”

  “Well rub it in,” I said, offended.

  “That didn’t come out right. I only meant I think we’re a good match in experiences and education. I don’t think about your age. There’s nothing to think about. Five years is nothing.”

  “It’s the difference between being eligible for social security and not. It’s the difference between getting into porn flicks without your mother and not. It’s the difference between—”

  “Okay, smart ass. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.” I did. I thought it over. “You might have a point.”

  “Age really is a state of mind.”

  I groaned. “Please. Spare me the Quote.com pep talk. I agree that I might be preoccupied with my age. And…”

  “And?”

  Was I really going to share this? It appeared I was. “I guess that stems from the stuff going on in my career and from what happened with David.”

  “That asshole.” He growled it with heartwarming promptness. “We lost enough time thanks to him. Don’t let him cost us even another day.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try not to obsess.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  I opened my mouth to retaliate when I realized we had passed the scene of the accident a few fleeting seconds before.

  It was an unexpected relief. As a matter of fact, bickering companionably with J.X. had taken my mind completely off my anxiety about being in a car. I glanced at his profile. His mouth was curved in a faint smile. I suspected that he’d deliberately been distracting me.

  Rowland was trying to close for the night by the time we found Blackbird Books.

  It was a small brick shop with ornate scripted windows and an old-fashioned hanging sign. Blackbird Books was located in the heart of Nitchfield. On one side of the shop was a bakery and on the other was a paint supply store—both closed for the evening.

  J.X. parked in the tiny empty alley behind the bookshop and we went around to the front. We hadn’t exactly argued over talking to Rowland, but J.X. was not in favor of it, and as per ever, not afraid to say so.

  “This will only take a couple of minutes,” I assured him. Even if Rowland hadn’t been on Victoria’s list for the gift exchange, I felt it would be worth chatting with him. He’d lived in Nitchfield all his life and he’d known Anna longer than anyone else in the Asquith Circle.

  J.X. glanced past me, nodded and committed himself to nothing as he held the front door open for me.

  It was warm and bright inside, smelling of books and hardwood floors and the bakery next door. Bookmark mobiles hung from the ceiling. Cute banners in primary colors urged people to READ.

  I spotted Rowland immediately. He stood openly perspiring behind the counter as he tried to assist a distracted-looking woman with a pyramid of books she was apparently returning. On the floor near her feet, two small children were busily pulling all the books out of lower shelves and stacking them in crooked towers.

  “Don’t do that, Patsy,” the woman said automatically. “This man will have to put them all away.”

  This was Patsy’s invitation to create more mayhem. She smiled sweetly and shoved over one of the towers. Her curly-haired partner in crime took note and joined in, chubby hands closing on paperback spines with glee.

  Rowland winced at the sound of falling books, wearily turning our way as the birdsong doorbell trilled. His face was puffy and pallid, his eyes red. He was either ill or midway through his metamorphosis into undead.

  Our eyes met. I saw the confusion as he tried to place me. Recognition dawned. His expression turned stricken.

  “Twelve forty-eight,” he said tonelessly to the woman.

  She passed over her plastic, he ran her card, and then handed the receipt and a much smaller bag of books to her. She went out calling to the two devil moppets who left a couple of cases worth of books scattered across the
polished floor.

  “Chris,” Rowland said as the door swung shut again. That was all. I could see the memories swamp him. He had to stop talking or embarrass himself. It was that fresh, that painful.

  “We were on our way to dinner when we passed by. I wanted to say goodbye before I left Nitchfield.”

  He made a visible effort. “That’s nice of you. Kind.” He wiped his forehead and offered his damp hand.

  I shook his hand, guiltily aware that it wasn’t kindness prompting my visit. Rowland spared a curious glance for J.X. who stood at my shoulder. J.X. nodded politely and vouchsafed nothing.

  “This is my…friend J.X. Moriarity.” My voice dipped on friend. I’ve never been good at—or comfortable with—expressing emotion in public. Not that admitting J.X. was my boyfriend was exactly blubbering my feelings, and yet it felt…too personal to share. At least for now.

  “You look good. I mean, apart from the black eye and…” Rowland gestured to the sling. “How are you? I meant to stop by the hospital, but…” His voice cut out again and he visibly struggled for control.

  I said awkwardly, “I’m okay. Grateful to…” Well, that was more awkward still.

  J.X. said, “Great little bookshop you’ve got here. Nice selection of titles. Do you hold many signings?”

  “Sometimes.” Rowland turned to him gratefully. “Not as many as we used to. For awhile every author out there was touring and doing signings. I think readers started taking them for granted.” I saw the penny drop, saw recognition dawn, and I sighed inwardly. “J.X. Moriarity. The J.X. Moriarity?”

  J.X. made self-deprecating noises.

  I nearly said, No, the other one, but caught myself in time. I felt a real wave of self-contempt. Was I that insecure, that jealous? Because that was the kiss of death to any budding relationship right there.

  Instead I pointed to the glossy black and red covers on the bestseller rack next to the counter and said, “Yep, that’s the guy.”

  “Oh wow,” Rowland said. It was so genuine, so heartfelt—and so was J.X.’s half-pleased, half-self-conscious smile—that I couldn’t resent it. In fact, I managed a self-mocking grin when J.X. threw me an apologetic look.