All She Wrote

by Josh Lanyon

  “Why don’t you sign stock while you’re here?” I suggested.

  “Yes!” Rowland said. “God, yes. That would be fantastic.”

  J.X. said all the appropriately modest, gracious things and Rowland scooped up the pile of returned books and scurried away. He was back in seconds with stacks of books for J.X. to sign. They seemed to be carrying his entire backlist. I was thrilled for him. Really.

  “I think we have a couple of your books too in the mystery section,” Rowland offered in afterthought as J.X., borrowed pen in hand, patiently started through the high-rise of literary real estate. “Would you—?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  Rowland fetched the three hardcover copies of the latest Miss Butterwith, and I signed them quickly. He peeled the star-shaped gold labels indicating a signed copy off a long sheet and stuck them firmly on the covers right over Miss B’s beaming face.

  “I heard what happened at the house last night. Everyone’s talking about it. About Sara dying. It’s unbelievable.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re saying it’s murder. That the wine at dinner was poisoned.”

  That was the only logical conclusion. No way did corncockle seeds accidentally wind up in a bottle of Sutter Home or whatever that wine had been.

  I asked, “What else are people saying?”

  “That the poison was meant for Anna.”

  “I guess that makes sense. I know Sara wasn’t Miss Congeniality, but I can’t imagine anyone disliking her enough to poison her.”

  “Not at the risk of killing everyone else,” Rowland agreed.

  It seemed an interesting comment. I glanced at J.X. He appeared to be entirely focused on dashing off that distinctive signature of his.

  I said, “The interesting thing is apparently that bottle was a gift from Victoria.”

  “Victoria?” Rowland sounded stunned.

  “Something she’d got in a Santa exchange program.”

  J.X. looked up at that. “Secret Santa.”

  Rowland’s expression of confusion cleared. “You’re kidding. You mean Victoria is a suspect?”

  He seemed to have missed the significance of Victoria having received poisoned wine—or maybe I hadn’t made it clear enough. But then it wasn’t clear in my mind either. As hard as it was to believe, I kept coming back to the conviction that if Victoria wasn’t the killer, she had to be the true intended victim.

  “Can you think of any reason Victoria might have a grudge against Anna?”

  “No. None. It’s crazy to even suggest such a thing.”

  I found it curious that he was so adamant. “I don’t know. She kind of reminds me of the main character in your story. What was her name? Gretchen? The mousy woman who—”

  “Victoria isn’t mousy. Victoria is nothing like Gretchen.” Maybe Victoria was nothing like Gretchen, but I didn’t see how he could argue that she was mousy. Then again, maybe I was being swayed by outward appearances. I had to assume these people knew each other fairly well.

  “Still, Anna can be pretty—well, she’s Anna. I could see Victoria might—”

  “No.” Rowland shook his head. His tight black curls bounced with his insistence. “It’s not in Victoria’s nature. She would never hurt anyone. Besides, she’s perfectly happy living in Anna’s farmhouse.”

  “What if Anna wanted her to move?”

  “But she doesn’t, does she?”

  “I’m theorizing.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question,” J.X. remarked, still doing his impression of a printing press.

  I shot him a deadly look, but bullets seemed to bounce right off his manly chest. Or, in this case, manly profile.

  “Even if Anna did want Victoria to move from the farmhouse, she wouldn’t kill her. That’s…that’s like out of a book.”

  J.X. made a muffled sound that could have been a cough but was more likely a laugh.

  If he’d been closer, I’d have accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. As it was, I had to settle for ignoring him. Pointedly.

  “True, but nearly everyone involved in this case is a writer. Or involved in publishing somehow.”

  As I said it, I had a flash of awareness that I’d hit on something. Something significant.

  The next instant it was gone.

  Rowland was saying, “Maybe so, but if someone in our group was a murderer, it wouldn’t be Victoria. I’d look at Poppy. Or Arthur. Or both of them. Yes, both of them.”

  Arthur Gohring. The biker writer. I’d forgotten all about him.

  “Why’s that?” J.X. asked, reentering the conversation.

  “Because the rumor is Poppy murdered her husband.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Murdered as in…”

  “Murdered,” Rowland agreed. “Nothing was ever proven, but—”

  “How is she supposed to have killed him?” J.X. asked. He was all business now. He slid the final stack of signed books across the counter and thrust his hands in his pockets. He looked casually, devastatingly tough and capable. Like those hip young television cops—only genuinely smart and competent.

  “She supposedly hired someone to do it for her.” Rowland’s button-black eyes met mine. “Arthur.”

  “Arthur? The rumor is Poppy hired Arthur to kill her husband?”

  “They were friendly for a time and Arthur had a boat. Now they’re not friendly—and Arthur sold his boat.”

  “That’s it? That’s the extent of the case against Poppy?”

  “She and Phil were headed for divorce. That’s common knowledge. And he left her a big insurance policy. That’s common knowledge too.”

  I looked at J.X. His upper lip had that quirk that indicated his particular blend of sardonic amusement.

  “What would her motive be for wanting to get rid of Victoria?” I questioned.

  “None. Victoria’s the only person I know of who can even stand Poppy. But…she probably knows the truth about Poppy having Phil knocked off.”

  He said it so casually. Like it was fact. It was kind of frightening. In such ways are outlandish rumors started—and accepted as truth.

  I said slowly, “Do you think Poppy might have had that car accident deliberately?”

  His eyes filled with tears. I was sorry I had asked, but…

  After a struggle, Rowland said, “I think Poppy loves Poppy too much to risk killing herself.”

  No fan of Poppy’s, he.

  “We should get going,” J.X. said. I was grateful for the interruption. I didn’t want to see Rowland break down and I couldn’t seem to think of anything else to ask him, although I knew I was missing some obvious points. The sleuth thing isn’t as easy to do as it is to write.

  Rowland had just supplied Poppy with motive for murder, but not Anna’s murder.

  “Right.” I offered my hand to him. “Good luck with everything.”

  He hung on to my hand. “Are you coming to Nella’s funeral?”

  “No, I—when is it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.” I looked to J.X. for help.

  He hesitated.

  “We haven’t decided,” I said. I gave Rowland’s hand a parting squeeze. “If I don’t see you again, take care of yourself.”

  “Yes.” He released me, turned away to scrub at his eyes.

  As J.X. and I reached the door he said suddenly, urgently, “Chris!”

  I turned back. Rowland had followed us up the front aisle. He was staring at me with painful intensity.

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Who?”

  “Nella. Did she…you were one of the last people to talk to her, you were with her when she…I wondered if she…said anything.”

  I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed anything quite that excruciatingly naked. He was in such pain I was briefly tempted to make up some conversation between me and Nella where Rowland had somehow heroically figured in.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember m
uch of the afternoon very clearly. Concussion, you know?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “If you do remember something, could you—”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  J.X. shoved open the door, hooked his hand around my good arm and towed me out of the bookstore.

  The smell of dirty snow and car exhaust was weirdly bracing as we walked around the building.

  “That was awful,” I said at last. The weight of J.X.’s hand on the middle of my back was reassuring. Not quite a hug, but not far from it.

  “Yes.”

  “He was completely in love with her. With Nella.”

  “What was she, nineteen?”

  “Something like that. Too young for him. At least…”

  “Too young for him.” J.X. was uncompromising. “She was a kid. That’s the difference there.”

  “I have no idea what she thought of him. If she thought of him at all. She was obsessed with her writing, with her career.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t always stodgy and middle-aged.”

  “I know.”

  “I got around plenty in college.”

  “I don’t doubt it. You’d have been one cute twink.”

  I sniffed disapprovingly. “I was never a twink.”

  “No?”

  I glanced at him. He was smiling. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?”

  “Deliberately distracting me.”

  He gave me a sideways look. “Is it working?”

  “Sort of. I’m not sure I feel like eating, though.”

  He patted my back. “You’ll work through it.”

  One look at J.X. and it was love at first sight for Ricardo, the slim, blue-eyed and vaguely waifish waiter at Mamma Zini’s Ristorante.

  “Can I help you reach a decision, gentlemen?” he inquired pointedly, smiling into J.X.’s eyes after we’d been seated and handed menus. “Any questions about the specials?”

  J.X. had a couple of questions about the specials which Ricardo interpreted as an invitation to flirt. He did pretty much everything but wave his breadstick in J.X.’s face. J.X. remained stoic and focused on culinary matters throughout the performance. After my initial irritation, I started to find it sort of funny.

  “Now that’s a twink,” I said when Ricardo finally departed with our drink order.

  J.X. gave me what is commonly referred to as a speaking look.

  I grinned, enjoying his discomfiture. “I’m kind of enjoying being with the best-looking man in the room.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” he retorted.

  “That I was enjoying being with the best-looking man in the room?”

  “That I’m with the best-looking man in the room.”

  I snorted.

  J.X. fastened a surprisingly bleak and beady eye on me. “There you go again.”

  “What?”

  “One thing I want to get straight between us right now. I don’t want to hear the M word out of you anymore.”

  “Murder?”

  He was not amused. “Middle-aged. Let it go, Kit.”

  I set my menu aside. “Jeez, you young whippersnappers need to learn to lighten up.”

  His expression grew reminiscent of those generally worn by villains in illustrations of Edgar Allan Poe’s more macabre works.

  “Okay. Fine. I’m only as young as I feel, which tonight is older than both of us put together, but whatever. When I get back to L.A. I’m going to buy myself a BlackBerry and a slew of French-cuffed shirts. Possibly a nipple ring.”

  J.X. relaxed. “That I’ve got to see.”

  At that point Ricardo reappeared with our drinks. G&T for me, Jack Daniels for J.X. I had a feeling it was going to be a while before either of us opted for wine again, regardless of the meal.

  J.X. was brisk and businesslike about ordering our meals, and I wondered if he really was concerned about my possible insecurities. I’d never really thought of myself as insecure. Even after the personal and professional disasters of last year, I didn’t think I was insecure. Necessarily. My career was in a slump, I was getting older, and my domestic partner had dumped me for a younger man. Was I not allowed to mention that stuff for fear of looking insecure?

  Ricardo departed, greatly subdued, and J.X. sipped his drink and regarded me in that solemn way that always made me want to check whether my fly was open.

  “Aw. Look at him.” I nodded after Ricardo. “He’s heartbroken. He was all hopeful because he thinks you knock me around.” I winked my still-colorful eye at him.

  J.X. swallowed the wrong way and started coughing. We nearly had Ricardo rushing back to the rescue, but I waved him off, briskly smacking J.X. between the shoulder blades.

  J.X. wheezed protest.

  “There now, there now,” I said absently, still patting him.

  “Bastard,” J.X. gulped when he could speak.

  I laughed and reached for my glass.

  We chatted about absolutely nothing important until the food came. Lasagna with meat sauce for J.X. and linguini in white clam sauce for me. Ricardo brought more drinks and warned J.X. to leave room for scrumptious dessert.

  “I feel like I’m missing something.” At J.X.’s expression, I clarified, “About Sara’s death and the attempts on Anna’s life. I keep feeling like there’s something obvious and I can’t see it because I’m too close to it.”

  “Of course you’re missing something. You’re trying to solve a crime without access to almost any of the evidence, either physical or testimonial.” He added in the tone of a man who knows his good advice is going to be ignored, “Which is why you should leave this for L.E. to solve.”

  “I’m afraid your beloved law enforcement is going to settle on the first and obvious solution.”

  “Which you think is what? That the handyman did it? Are you so sure he didn’t?”

  I shrugged.

  J.X. put his glass down. “Okay, let’s recap for the at-home viewers. Luke does have motive. He’s in Anna’s will, right?”

  “According to you, motive is irrelevant.”

  “I never said it was irrelevant. I said it’s not the most important factor. It is a factor, obviously. It’s hard to know what might be sufficient motive for someone else. One thing’s for sure, a substantial inheritance is usually considered solid motive.”

  “I don’t know how substantial Luke’s inheritance is, but substantial enough that Anna felt obliged to comment on it.”

  “So motive and certainly opportunity. He works on the grounds.”

  “That doesn’t automatically give him access to the wine cellar.”

  “We don’t know that Victoria’s wine was in the wine cellar. It could have been sitting out on a counter.”

  “True.” I doubted it in a household as well organized as Anna’s, but…true.

  “He certainly had means. He works in the garden and the wine was laced with poisonous seeds. Those other accidents too—assuming they weren’t accidents—falling on ice, a falling flowerpot, faulty brakes…that’s all stuff he could probably contrive. Motive, opportunity and means. He looks good for it, Kit.”

  “It’s too pat. Here he is, right on the scene. An ex-con with motive, means, opportunity.”

  J.X. said with aggravating patience, “That’s usually the way it works.”

  “It’s too easy.”

  “Why is he in Anna’s will, by the way?”

  “I don’t know. Everyone seems to be in it one way or the other. You’re probably in it now.”

  “Probably not.”

  Perhaps he was right. Anna hadn’t seemed to cotton to J.X. much more than he’d cottoned to her.

  “The ladies hinted that Luke and Anna had some kind of romantic relationship, but I didn’t get that vibe from Anna. Although she’s pretty good at hiding her feelings.” I stopped, remembering the day I’d arrived and Anna’s comment about having someone in her life again. I hadn’t really co
nsidered the implications of that. Who was this person? If it wasn’t Luke, it wasn’t someone I’d met. The thing with Rudolph had been over for awhile, so that couldn’t have been what she meant—although Anna had been a bit defensive when I’d asked her about Rudolph. Her housekeeper had assumed it was Rudolph calling from Anna’s bedroom. But, again, that could simply have been because Rudolph was the man most likely to take charge in the event of an emergency.

  “Interesting,” J.X. remarked. “Kind of a Lady Chatterley thing going on with the groundskeeper?”

  “Maybe. Anna’s been married twice and in between the wedded bliss she and Rudolph have had this unofficial thing forever. She’s still…active sexually. I could see her taking a young, virile lover. Why not?”

  “Could her lover be female? Could there have been something between her and Sara?”

  The idea startled me, though it shouldn’t have. “She’s always been strictly heterosexual. At least as far as I know.”

  Sara and Anna? No way. I hadn’t picked up that vibe at all. But what about the fact that Rudolph and Sara had apparently been lovers? Sure, that was partly speculation, but…there had been something between them. Something they had taken pains to keep under the radar.

  “Let’s leave Luke for now,” J.X. said. “He’s at the top of my list, but I could be biased given my former day job.”

  “You? No way.”

  I think it hurt his feelings. “You know, you have your biases too, Kit.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I sipped my gin and tonic. “The irony is both Anna and I were thinking Sara might be behind the attempts on her life.”

  His brows drew together. “You were?”

  “Well, I was. Anna wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell she was leaning that way. Sara’s story submission to the Asquith Circle was a manuscript she’d apparently only ever let Anna see. Anna tried to persuade her to publish it, but she never would.”

  “What was the story about?”

  “About a woman who got away with murdering her sister when they were children. Apparently Sara’s own sister died under some possibly mysterious circumstances.”

  J.X.’s brows drew together. “You think Sara showed the manuscript to Anna and then regretted it and tried to kill her?”