Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (12 page)

“They aren’t married, Lisa,” Lauren said. Lauren was married
-- for now -- to a handsome dolt who was wed to his upper management job; the
spouse had apparently popped in for dinner, but couldn’t stay for the photo shoot.
I wondered if Lauren sensed her days as Mrs. Corporate Clone were numbered. She
was the toughest of my stepsisters to read.

“No, I suppose not,” Lisa said, meeting my eyes thoughtfully.

“That’s funny,” Natalie piped up. “Nobody has a problem with
Warren not being part of the family picture.”

“Come on, Nat,” Lauren murmured.

“It’s hardly the same thing, darling,” Lisa put in. “Adrien
has been seeing Guy for two years. You and Warren have only been dating a few
weeks.”

“We’ve been dating for three months,” Natalie said.

No one responded to that.

Emma, sitting next to me, fidgeted in her frilly pink dress,
and said, “I hate taking pictures.”

“Emma, don’t encourage Adrien,” my mother remonstrated, and
Emma giggled. I met my mother’s gaze and she flicked an eyelid.

The photographer’s assistant began positioning us around the
sofa, moving lights.

“What a lovely family,” she said, and Lisa preened as though
she had responsibility for the whole kit and caboodle.

Eventually everyone stopped blinking and sweating and
complaining about their bad sides -- and assuring each other they didn’t have
bad sides -- and the photographer got down to it, clicking and snapping away
while his assistant continued to flatter and instruct.

Finally it was over. The photographer packed up his gear and
his assistant and left. Lauren and Natalie immediately fled to the nether
regions of the house to “get comfortable.” Emma, who had complained several
times about her scratchy, uncomfortable dress, apparently forgot all about it
and settled on the floor with the box for Worst Case Scenario -- and a hopeful
expression.

“Em…” I said.

“Adrien, you couldn’t take the time for dinner,” Lisa said.
“At least you can visit for a bit.”

By which, I understood, that she planned on having a
word
with me.

I said, “In that case, I need a drink.”

“Darling, you mustn’t have alcohol while you’re on
antibiotics.”

“I’m joking,” I said, although I wasn’t really. I missed
alcohol. I missed it a lot at times like these.

She poured me mineral water, cut a wedge of lime, said way
too casually, “Natalie said that your book is going to be made into a movie.”

“It’s been optioned. But lots of books get optioned, and
almost none of them get made into movies.”

“You should have had Bill look at any contract before you signed
it, darling.”

I nodded, sipped my mineral water, glanced at the clock.

“I’m seen some of Paul Kane’s movies,” Lisa said. “He’s very
good. Very handsome. He makes a very good pirate.”

I shifted my eyes her way. “So does Bill,” I remarked.

“But Bill has kind eyes,” my mother returned equably. “Were
you at Paul Kane’s house when that terrible tragedy on the news happened?”

By which, I assumed, she meant Porter Jones’s murder.

“Yes,” I said. “But you don’t need to worry about me getting
involved in some murder mystery.”

She grimaced. “I notice you say I don’t need to worry about
it, not that you’re not involved.”

“Adrien!” Emma called impatiently from the front room.

I bussed Lisa’s cheek. “Don’t fuss,” I said and went to join
Emma.

* * * * *

Emma read, “‘How to get skin out of a zipper. Do you, (a) Rub
peanut butter or margarine on the zipper and gently jiggle it --’”

“Wait, I already know this one,” I said. “Give me something
about recognizing bubonic plague. I always forget that one.”

“Ad-ri-en!”

“What?”

She tucked the card away, read the next one. “‘How to soothe
a wound in the wilderness: (a) Rub tree sap between your hands, then apply it
to the wound as a soothing sealant, (b) Wrap the wound in wet dark green
leaves, (c) Wrap a warm rock in a piece of cloth, then press it against the
wound.’”

“I’m going to go with the warm tree sap,” I said.

She gave a throaty Ming the Merciless chuckle. “
Wrong
. ‘Wrap a warm rock in a piece of
cloth, then press it --”

Lauren appeared in the doorway. “Guy’s on the phone, Adrien.”
She studied her sister. “Emma, you should change that dress. And you’re
monopolizing Adrien.”

“Not yet. Monopoly is next,” I told her, going into the
kitchen to pick up the phone.

“Where are you?” Guy asked.

The question was clearly rhetorical since he was calling on
the Dautens’ land line. Just one of those subconscious little guilt inducers, I
guess. “At Lisa’s,” I said. “I told you. It’s the photo thing tonight.”

“You didn’t tell me that was tonight.”

“Yes, I did. Didn’t I?”

“No.” He sounded put out, which was not normal for him. “I’m
over at your place but you’re not here. It’s beginning to feel eerily
familiar.”

I started to answer, then lowered my voice, aware I had an
audience although the adults in the family room appeared to be mesmerized by
some reality show on the television. “What are you talking about?”

Guy said, “Paul Kane left a message for you, apologizing for
landing you in deep shit with Riordan again. What was that about?”

“It’s not a big deal --”

“Really? Because it sounded like it was a big deal to Paul
Kane.”

“Really.” I glanced over at the family room again -- the
Dautens looked like a magazine layout for fine living -- their taste in
television notwithstanding. “It was -- look, we’ll talk about it when I get
home.” I hesitated. “I mean, if you’re going to be there?”

“Of course I’ll be here.” His tone changed again --
flattened. “Or would you prefer that I wasn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t prefer that.” I caught a look exchanged
between Lauren and Natalie and broke off the rest of what I had been about to
say. “I’ll be home in an hour or so, all right?”

“I’ll see you then,” he said.

I hung up.

“There’s Tab in the fridge, Adrien,” my mother said brightly.

“Thanks. I’ve got to get going,” I said.

I returned to the living room to break it to Emma. “Just one
more game!” she pleaded.

“I can’t, sweetie.”

“
Pleas
e
!”

“Emma,” Lisa said sharply from the doorway. “Adrien’s tired. He’s
played with you for over an hour. We didn’t get to visit with him at all.”

Emma directed a mutinous face at Lisa. I ruffled her hair,
and said, “Next time for sure, Em.”

She gave a sort of droopy, unappeased nod.

I followed Lisa back to the family room to make my good-byes.
There was the usual ring of kisses and then a handshake with Bill.

“We don’t see enough of you, Adrien,” he said, clearly cued
by Lisa.

I watched her stage-managing the Dautens, and I thought how
perfectly she fit in here. She had successfully managed to build a new life, a
new family for herself -- and I was happy for her. But yet tonight I felt
distant, detached from it all. Or maybe it was just the knowledge that Guy was
sitting at home waiting for me -- seething.

“You know Guy is always welcome here,” Lisa said, walking me
to the front door.

“I know.”

She opened the door to the scent of smog and jasmine.
Crickets chirped loudly.

“Good night,” I said.

But she said, as though she had been thinking it over all
evening, “It’s a pity you can’t make up your mind to settle down with Guy. He’s
very good for you. But you’re not quite over Jake, are you?”

I stiffened. “
Jak
e
? Where the hell did you get that
idea?”

“Watching you,” my mother said with unexpected dryness, and
kissed my cheek.

Chapter Ten

Coward that I am, I was half hoping that Guy would have gone
to bed by the time I reached home, but he was up, drinking cognac and waiting
for me when I unlocked the door to my living quarters.

“So Riordan is back in your life,” he said by way of
greeting.

I dropped my keys and wallet on the hall table. “Jesus, Guy.
He’s not ‘back in my life,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean. He’s overseeing
this investigation. Which you already knew.”

“I sure as hell did. I knew
this
was going to happen.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

He said wearily, “Oh, for God’s sake, Adrien. Do you think I
don’t know about you and Riordan? You think I can’t put two and two together?
You obviously had some kind of relationship. It was very obvious from the way
you used to clam up every time his name was mentioned -- and you still do it,
for your information. Same with him. Every time your name came up, he froze.”

I felt a great resentment that this long-held secret was
being pried out of me; but then I realized how unreasonable I was being.
Regardless of what Lisa thought, of course I wanted a real relationship with
Guy. Of course I did. He was smart and funny and caring and sexy as hell. And I
wanted the trust and intimacy of a committed relationship. I wanted the real
thing.

And besides all that, this long-held secret really wasn’t
much of a secret anymore.

“Yes, I had a thing with him,” I said. “It was sex. That’s
all it was. And it was over a long time ago.”

“It was a hell of a lot more than sex,” Guy said. “For Christ’s
sake. You couldn’t talk about it for two years. Not to mention the fact he used
to park across the street and watch this place.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your Lieutenant Riordan used to park across the street from
the bookstore and watch for you.”

I laughed. “There’s no way.” I mean, it was ridiculous, but
ridiculing the idea didn’t do a lot to calm Guy down.

“You think I couldn’t recognize that asshole behind a pair of
mirror sunglasses? He used to wait out there for you. And now he’s got an excuse
to come back into our lives.”

I went to the sideboard and poured myself a cognac. One drink
wouldn’t kill me, and I needed a drink or I was going to say a lot of stupid
shit I would regret in the morning. Guy watched me slop cognac in the balloon
glass, watched me swallow a mouthful.

I said, striving to modulate my tone, “Guy, where is this
coming from? Jake didn’t arrange for Porter Jones to be murdered, and he didn’t
arrange for me to get dragged into the investigation. It just happened.”

“Nothing just
happens
,”
Guy said. “There are no accidents. There are no coincidences. Everything
happens for a reason, for a purpose.”

The Metaphysical Mystical Tour was waiting to take me away!

I swallowed the rest of my cognac and said, “Believe me, this
just happened. There is no higher -- or lower -- power at work here.”

“
You’re
at work
here,” Guy said. “Riordan is at work here. Hell, Paul Kane is at work here. You
all have and are choosing to exercise your freedom of will, of choice. You’re
choosing
to get involved in another
murder case. And Riordan is choosing to let you. Why do you think that is?”

“I think he wants to keep Paul Kane happy. And I think he
wants, needs, for this to be wrapped up quietly and quickly.”

“The only person you’re fooling is yourself,” Guy said with
great -- and infuriating -- finality.

This was my fault. I was making Guy insecure. I was making
him crazy. My inability to commit was going to bring about the very things I
feared. I put my glass aside. “Guy, I’m tired. And this is crazy. Can we
just…go to bed, please?”

He stared. “You mean, can we go to
sleep
, right?”

The surge of anger I felt took me by surprise. With something
less than my usual finesse, I returned, “You want to fuck? Fine. Let’s go
fuck.”

* * * * *

Easier said than done. And after about a half hour of what
felt like manual labor with tongues, Guy dropped back in the sheets and stared
up at the ceiling.

“Have you mentioned this to the doctor?” he asked shortly.

I was equally short. “No.”

“Maybe you should.”

After a moment, I got up and went into the living room. I
poured another cognac and sat down on the sofa to watch the moonlight travel
slowly across the room, limning each item on the bookshelf in pallid light.

* * * * *

Al January lived high on a hillside on the northwest side of
Elysian Heights. The house was one of those modern designs: clean, geometric
lines and angles.

January met me at the door wearing peacock blue trousers and
a gold and blue Hawaiian shirt, two of those wrinkly, Chinese shar-pei dogs at
his heels. He led the way into the front room, chatting about the problems he
was having keeping the local raccoons out of the house.

“Don’t the dogs scare them off?” I asked.

“You’d think so,” January replied. “They’re good watchdogs,
too.”

I didn’t catch the rest of what he said, distracted by the
gorgeous view. Who needed artwork with windows that offered the incredible
vista of the canyon, the mountains, and the city lights at night? Even so,
January did have an impressive collection of South American art -- including
two huge mural segments -- adorning the spacious, stark white room with its
towering vaulted ceiling.

“We’ll have lunch in a bit. What will you have to drink?” he
asked.

I requested fruit juice and got a bottle of noni juice.
January poured himself Bushmills.

“So Paul tells me you don’t just write murder mysteries, you
also solve them?”

We had settled on the long deck that looked out over about
seven thousand square feet of wooded hillside. The air was sweet with the scent
of sunwarmed earth and wild mustard. Bees hummed drowsily.

“Well…one way or the other I’ve probably been involved in
more than my fair share of homicide investigations,” I admitted.