All She Wrote

by Josh Lanyon

“When you put it like that…Sara chose to show the manuscript to the entire group, so that doesn’t quite make sense. Then again she was in Anna’s will too. And I think she may have had designs on Rudolph.”

  J.X. looked taken aback.

  “Yeah, he was a little old for her,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, and it was a hell of a lot more than five years.”

  I let that go. “Which gives Sara motive, opportunity and means.”

  “Except she’s dead.”

  “Oh yeah. That.” It wasn’t funny, of course, just a touch of gallows humor. “That could have been an accident. The hand of fate stepping in. Or poking in. Whatever hands do.”

  Following this without trouble, J.X. said, “I see. So Sara poisoned the wine, but Sara had a weak heart or something and ended up killing herself?”

  “Sure. Works for me.”

  “You no longer suspect Poppy or Victoria?”

  “You’re humoring me,” I said sourly.

  He smiled into my eyes, his own shining in the candlelight. “A little. I figure it’s better if we talk it all out now so we can focus on other things tonight.”

  My cock found itself in unexpectedly cramped quarters, and—much more disconcerting—my ass seemed to itch with unseemly anticipation. What on earth was that about? Surely I wasn’t wanting that again? I was still tender from the afternoon.

  I reached for my glass, drained it. “Poppy,” I said briskly, ignoring the desire crawling through my guts. “Although I can’t see what her motive would be. If Poppy is behind this, then I think Victoria must have been her target, not Anna, and certainly not Sara.”

  J.X. shifted in his chair, cleared his throat and said, “Um, right. Poppy. So Poppy wants Victoria dead because Victoria knows the truth about what happened to Poppy’s husband?”

  “Right.”

  “Poppy gives Victoria a bottle of poisoned wine which is accidentally handed off to Anna. And Poppy deliberately crashes her car in an attempt to kill Victoria—but misses Victoria and kills Nella. Not to mention nearly killing you and herself.”

  “Right. The problem is—” I broke off as the door to the restaurant opened and two newcomers bundled against the cold stepped inside the crowded dining room. They were laughing and pushing back parka hoods from damp hair.

  “The problem is what?”

  “Look who just walked in.”

  I had to give J.X. credit. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t turn. “Who?”

  “Bachelor Number Four. Little Ricky is here with a chick who looks like she’s auditioning for the last of the gold diggers.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ricky stopped by our table, leaning over and planting one hand on J.X.’s shoulder and one hand on mine. I winced. There was a faint whiff of bourbon as he said, “Great minds think alike. I guess you couldn’t take the mausoleum either.”

  J.X. gave him a look that ordinarily would have sent Ricky bouncing back from the force field. But we were all running low on dilithium crystals that evening.

  “How are you feeling?” I inquired. The last time I’d seen Ricky he’d been crawling along the upstairs hallway, sicker than a dog, but the horrors of the night before seemed strangely long ago.

  “As you see.” Ricky offered a big smile. “Ter-rif-ic.”

  The bravado was clearly for the sake of the bimbo, who gazed smiling and glassy-eyed from one of us to the other. It still felt sort of inappropriate given the circumstances.

  I said, “I guess you didn’t know Sara very well.”

  “Frosty bitch.” He heard that and made a face. “Sorry. Not exactly politically correct, I know.”

  I wasn’t sure what the political implications were of Sara’s death, but tactless, callous, oh yeah. He got it goin’ on.

  “She meant a lot to your mother.”

  “Anna’s not my mother.” The affable mask slipped and for a moment his face was hard and much older.

  “Right. I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a hypocrite. Sara never had the time of day for me, and I can’t say I’m broken up she’s dead. I didn’t kill her, though. As I told the fuzz.”

  J.X. raised his head and said coolly, “Sara wasn’t the target. Anna was.”

  The effect on Ricky was instantaneous. He dropped the buddy-buddy act and straightened up. “Says who? Anna?” There was no faking the scorn there.

  “You don’t believe Anna was the intended victim?”

  Ricky laughed, a short, harsh sound. “I think all of us were poisoned last night—except you, Chris—and yet Anna leaps instantly to the conclusion that she was the intended victim. That’s just Anna all over. She’s always got to be the center of attention.”

  “You have a different theory?” I asked.

  “I’m not a mystery writer. No. I don’t have a theory. All I know is I could have died last night like Sara. I’m not going back to that house. No way.”

  “Gosh!” the blonde said. She looked from Ricky to J.X. to me. “Gosh.”

  Ricky gave her a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, babe. It’s all over.”

  Nice to be so sure. I said, “Do you have any idea of who might want to kill Anna?”

  “Take a number. Not everyone loves Anna as much as she believes.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll buy that. But who dislikes her enough to want her dead?”

  “I’m going to guess a lot of people. You’ll never meet a more controlling manipulative bit—broad than my stepmother.”

  That was apparently his last word on the subject. He gave his blonde a little pat on her parka-ed behind and followed her to their table.

  We watched their retreat. “I don’t know why the hell Anna is so bound and determined to protect him. He sure doesn’t reciprocate.”

  “No. He doesn’t. Kind of interesting, don’t you think?”

  “Aren’t stepmothers universally hated?” I had the only original matched set of parents in my entire social circle, so I couldn’t speak from personal experience.

  “It might be that. Anna is controlling. And manipulative.”

  I said irritably, “You’ve known her all of two days.”

  “You disagree?”

  It would be hard to disagree with that. I acknowledged with a face. “She can be controlling.”

  “Sometimes the solution to the crime lies within the character of the victim. Or in this case, the intended victim.”

  “That gets back to motive.”

  He nodded in concession.

  Ricardo appeared with the check. “Anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?” he asked J.X. “Dessert perhaps?” I don’t know for a fact that he wiggled his eyebrows, but it was in his tone.

  J.X. looked at me. I shook my head.

  Ricardo sighed regretfully, set the check down at the midway point on the table and sashayed away.

  J.X. started to reach for the check.

  “I’ve got it.”

  He withdrew his hand immediately, and it was like I could see right into his brain. See what a delicate balancing act it was for him. He’d reached for the check to dispel the idea that I, as the older partner, would automatically—in a parental role—be the one picking up the tab, but my response had reminded him that I might be equally or more touchy about the fact that he was the more successful and affluent of the two of us. And that was absolutely right. That had been my instinctive reaction: I don’t need you paying my way.

  God almighty. We had a learning curve ahead of us—and winding roads always made me carsick.

  I said gruffly, “The next one’s yours.”

  He offered a quick half-smile.

  The heater gusted warmly over our legs, the music—Jack Johnson again—played softly in the background, the breezy, beachy sounds of “Better Together” reminding me of home as J.X. and I started the drive back to the Asquith Estate.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  I smiled though I knew he couldn’t see
it in the dark of the car interior. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  I was too. Barely a qualm as we hit the open road. I don’t know if it was proof that I really did trust J.X.—certainly his driving skills—or if I was just past the initial unease of being in a car again. As the tires hissed soothingly on the wet road it occurred to me that if we could work things out, this moonlit drive might be typical of many nights and many drives…that perhaps, just perhaps, J.X. and I were heading for a future together.

  Maybe.

  That was what J.X. wanted—thought he wanted, anyway—and it was what I thought I wanted.

  I said, “Anyway, getting back to Poppy. The problem is that while it’s conceivable Poppy might have access to the house and grounds, it would be a lot harder for her to arrange those other accidents. Plus…there’s something sort of guileless about Poppy, don’t you think? This kind of murder plot doesn’t seem like her style. Even her story. You should have read what she submitted to the group. It’s horrible for a lot of reasons, but it’s very straightforward. The heroine—I use the term loosely—finds her ex-husband at her mercy and she cuts his genitals off.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty unpleasant. What it isn’t, is convoluted or clever. And that’s really the problem I have with the idea of Poppy as Lucrezia Borgia. Poppy doesn’t seem like someone who would go to this much trouble to get rid of an enemy. Nor does Victoria make a very convincing enemy because if anything she seems to go out of her way to keep Poppy from saying things that might land her in hot water.”

  “That could be because she believes Poppy is innocent of all wrongdoing. It might change if she knew Poppy really had offed her spouse.”

  “Fair enough. But Victoria strikes me as closemouthed. Someone who would view minding her own business in the light of a personal philosophy. No, I can more easily see Poppy trying to hire someone—probably a cop, given her luck—to kill her enemies for her.”

  “Agreed. But that’s one theory, right? She hired this guy Arthur to kill her soon-to-be ex?”

  “Yeah.” I thought that over. The real problem I had with that particular theory was the unlikelihood of Arthur going along with any scheme of Poppy’s. Granted, we’re not always what we write, but our storytelling does reveal things about the way our brain works. Arthur’s writing was smart, blunt and violent. Whereas, if her storytelling was an indication, any scheme Poppy cooked up was going to be convoluted and rely heavily on the cooperation of the victim.

  I said, “Poppy’s reaction when she heard the news about Sara wasn’t in keeping with the reaction you’d expect if she was behind poisoning the wine. For one thing, I don’t think she’d have kept pushing Victoria to reveal where she got the wine. She seemed genuinely and totally floored.”

  “Victoria on the other hand—”

  “Seemed guilty as hell.”

  “Apparently with good reason.”

  J.X. was nodding. “It’s natural she’d feel that way. She knew she was the one who’d delivered the wine.”

  “It would be pretty dumb to poison a bottle of wine you were giving someone as a gift. It would bound to be traced right back.”

  “But then she has the cover story of receiving it as an anonymous gift.”

  “Yes. True. But in that case she wouldn’t first try to pretend she’d bought the wine, would she? Besides, unless she’s an idiot she has to know she’d have to hand over these two Secret Santa lists to the police and they’d track down each and every person and then do some crosschecking and figure out who gave what gift to whom. She’d have to know that eventually it would all point back to her.”

  “Yep. That’s the way it works.”

  I watched the white moon over the tops of the trees lighting the whole night sky in a platinum haze.

  I said, “With Victoria we have means and opportunity. She’s in walking distance of the house and apparently visits frequently. She admits to being there when Anna fell down the stairs. What we don’t have is motive.”

  “She’s in Anna’s will?”

  “Yes, but…I don’t know. I know we only have part of the facts here, but what would the hurry be in getting rid of Anna? Victoria seems to have a perfectly comfortable setup living in that farmhouse. I didn’t get the impression that Anna planned on changing things anytime soon. Victoria doesn’t strike me as much of a material girl. She seems…comfortable, relaxed with her life, with who she is. The only hint I got of anything unsettled was my impression that she cares for Rowland.”

  “Rowland? Blackbird Bookstore Rowland?”

  “Him. Yeah. The chick magnet. So maybe there was some remote reason for Victoria wanting Nella out of the way, but I can’t see how she would have brought about that car accident—and she’d be risking killing herself, which really doesn’t make sense if the motive is to ultimately win Rowland’s hand in marriage.”

  J.X. commented, “She brought the wine to the house before Nella was killed.”

  “That’s true. Maybe Nella had some health issues that might have made her more susceptible than the rest of us. Something Victoria knew about? Nella was a big girl. That puts a strain on the heart right there. But again, what would be the rush? It’s not like Rowland and Nella were planning to run away together. Nella had one thing on her mind and that was making it as a writer.”

  Once again I had that inkling that I was missing something obvious.

  J.X. said, “She’s an interesting type.”

  “Who? Victoria? What do you mean?”

  “Well, you commented on how relaxed and comfortable she seems, but I’ve known a couple of murderers who displayed the same personality traits. One was a serial killer.”

  “Oh.”

  “We really don’t know much about Victoria at all.”

  I said in my best seductive tone, “Ah, but you could change all that with a word in the right ear.”

  He laughed. “Maybe.”

  I made my voice deeper still. “I could make it worth your while.”

  J.X. spared me a glance. “Look at you, Mata Holmsi. Keep talking. I’m three-quarters convinced now.”

  The house was deathly quiet when the bathrobed housekeeper let us inside. She assured us that everyone was in bed, wished us a good night, and departed for the nether regions, turning off lights as she went.

  J.X. and I crept quietly up the stairs past the snooty portraits, painted faces looking even more dour after the events of the past days.

  Reaching the sanctuary of our bedroom, J.X. locked the door and turned to face me.

  “Alone at last.” I used my good hand to unbuckle my belt. I had no doubt we were going to fuck, and right there showed a change in our status. If we’d reached the stage of taking sex for granted, we were well on our way to becoming a couple.

  J.X.’s face was flushed and a little self-conscious, his eyes, hungry and admiring. “It was practically all I could think about at dinner. Having you again.”

  My heart gave a little jerk. Just what the old ego needed, but still a little overwhelming. I said feebly, “Maybe we should…try it the other way.”

  “That would be nice too. I’d like that.” J.X. was practically purring as he put his arms around me. “But right now, Kit, I want to bury myself up to my balls in your body and fuck you.” He drew the words out. “Fuck you slow and sweet.”

  Playfully, he humped against me. I could feel the hard outline of his cock through the soft denim of my jeans and his own. My buttocks clenched tight at the idea, clenched in instinctive rejection. And yet at the same instant that tight opening to my body burned to be touched. Burned for that illicit finger on the entrance buzzer of that most private of all private clubs. My heart was jumping around my rib cage like a frightened bird.

  “Oh God.” I shivered helplessly. “I want it too.”

  J.X. pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it in the general direction of the chair. His T-shirt followed. I’ve seen fireman drills that took longer than it took him to strip. N
aked, he was beautiful to behold. Flushed, aroused, golden. Part of that beauty, though, was the longing in his eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that. As though I mattered more than anything else. It was salve to my wounded ego, but it was a weight on my heart too. How did anyone live up to that?

  Eventually J.X. was going to see that I was just…me. And that everything he disliked about me was still there no matter how good the sex was.

  Naturally I was smart enough not to endanger getting laid by expressing any of those thoughts as he helped me undress—which, incidentally took a lot longer than his disrobing because J.X. found it necessary to touch and taste as we went along. He nipped my earlobe, blew on the back of my neck, scratched my nipples, and it was all I could do to keep on my feet beneath that tender onslaught. My legs were shaking by the time we fell into bed.

  J.X. bent over me and I stared past his shoulder at the wildly twining grapevine and folds of green velvet. The globe lamp on the dresser threw half his face in shadow, gilded the other half. I gasped as he eased a slick finger into me.

  “You’re tensing up,” he said softly, watching my face.

  I bit my lip. He worked his finger deeper, touching the sweet spot, making me writhe. He gave me a couple of seconds’ respite then pressed again and again. I jumped as though I’d received an electric shock. It was pleasure, but it was so intense it was alarming. Partly it was sheer physical response, but partly it was the emotional and psychological reaction to letting him in. Literally letting him in—with all that the action seemed to represent.

  Some of it must have shown on my face.

  “Do you think being older and wiser you shouldn’t like this?” I could hear his curiosity, but I could hear his gentleness too.

  “I don’t like it. I mean, I never have before.”

  “You do now.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Jesus. Your face is wonderful to watch. It’s intense, isn’t it?”

  I nodded helplessly, closing my eyes, biting my lip as those clever, clever fingers twisted again.

  J.X. said in that rough velvet voice, “It’s like this massive turn-on because it’s you and you’re letting me do this to you, and you like it so much—even though you think you shouldn’t.”