Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (10 page)

“It’s not even midnight, Min.”

“It’s late for me,” she said sweetly. “I have a long day tomorrow. This isn’t a vacation for me.”

The light went out of his face. He shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”

No one said anything as we watched Mindy gather her belongings. George stood silently by, his expression glum. “Good night, all,” she caroled.

As we watched them heading for the lobby, Espie remarked, “Chico and the Mom.”

My chuckle died as she mused, “I wonder if she did Peaches…”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, someone did her, right? That’s what everyone’s saying. Old Granny Goose was mad enough to kill last night.” She seemed amused at the idea.

“Why?”

“Why do you think? Peaches never met a man she didn’t like—or want.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There didn’t seem much to say after that. I was suddenly so tired I could hardly focus. I realized I should have asked Mindy and George to wait for me so that I didn’t have to walk to the cabins on my own.

Too late now.

“Looks like there may be room at the bar,” Espie said.

I shuddered. If I never saw any of those people again, it would be too soon.

“Here you go,” Rita announced, setting a tray with an unopened bottle of Bombay Sapphire, tonic water and a couple of limes on the table in front of me. “There’s an ice machine in the lobby.”

“Thanks,” I said, dragging myself to my feet. The tray looked like it weighed a ton.

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Josh Lanyon

“We’ll see if you’re still thanking me in the morning.”

“All things in moderation,” I informed her loftily. “See you both in the a.m.”

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” drawled Rita.

“If we’re still alive,” Espie added cheerfully.

~ * ~

I let myself quietly out the back, deciding it would be faster to cut behind the lodge. This or the front path, either way I’d be all by my lonesome. It was like they had planned the layout of this place after watching horror movies for a week.

It seemed years ago that I had crossed the wet-slick deck with J.X. and Edgar Croft.

I walked briskly down the cement path. The rain had stopped. The silence seemed absolute.

Somewhere to the left, an owl hooted and I nearly jumped out of my skin, the bottles on the tray I carried rattling in alarm.

I walked on, less briskly. The sound of my footsteps on the path had a hollow sound—which matched the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

As I reached the end of the walkway, I heard a noise. I looked around, trying to identify the source.

There it was again. Small and furtive. Followed by the sound of a rolling log.

The woodpile.

I froze, my heart pounding hard.

Kneeling, I carefully lowered the tray with the ice bucket and bottles to the cement. As quiet as I tried to be, they sounded like alarm bells going off. I crouched there, breathing hard, waiting…

Nothing happened.

I didn’t hear anything now. Could I have imagined it? Maybe it was a squirrel or a lizard with a taste for the nightlife.

I stood up, stepped past the tray and sidled along the hedge until I reached the end. Cautiously I poked my head around, twigs pulling at my hair.

I had a quick view of the woodpile silvered in moonlight. There was no one there.

The next instant I was grabbed by the lapels of my Burberry, yanked out of my hiding space and thrown to the ground.

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Someone was howling—a thin, breathless cry that was, in fact, more breath than cry.

Me.

Far from splitting the night, my bleat barely carried three feet, so I had no trouble hearing my attacker’s exasperated,
“What. The. Fuck?”

I knew that voice.

I bit off the rest of my screech and sat up, wincing as pain shot up my spine. I was sitting in a puddle, ice-cold water soaking through my trousers. The last time I remembered being decked had been a playground rumble at Our Holy Mother. I’d been thirteen. My bounce had been better back then. Now I felt like I’d wrenched every muscle in my already worn-out body. And my back…I’d be lucky if I wasn’t crippled for a month. I wiped the mud off my face.

“I am
so
going to sue your ass,” I spluttered.

“Well, what the
hell
are you doing out here?” J.X. demanded.

No apology seemed forthcoming. Also, I couldn’t help noticing, neither was help from the lodge.

Were we too far away to be heard? Not a happy thought.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to my cabin.”

“Crawling on your hands and knees?”

“I wasn’t
on
my hands and knees till you knocked me down.”

“You sure as hell were skulking in the bushes.”

“I heard something—you—and I was making sure it was safe.”

He continued to stare down at me. I wished I could see his face. His motionless outline caused my scalp to prickle. Then he reached down a hand.

His hand was warm on my chilled one. Again I was aware of his wiry strength. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He pulled me to my feet and dropped my hand.

“What are
you
doing out here?” I asked, uneasily rubbing the twinging small of my back.

“Grabbing a log for my fireplace.” He reached past me and picked up a nice stout sawed-off limb.

“It’s going to be a cold night.” He picked up another log. “Here’s one for you.”

“Thanks.” I stepped out of range, trying not to be too obvious about it. Not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but there was something unconvincing in his manner. What had he been looking for out here?

J.X. still held out the log. I took it gingerly.

Josh Lanyon

“I’ll see you to your cabin.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I remembered my minibar set up. “Hang on.”

I limped back to where I’d set down the tray. Everything was as I’d left it. I lifted the tray and nearly dropped it. J.X. stood right behind me, log in hand.

I managed to save the gin. The tonic water, ice bucket and glass slid off the tray and landed in the mud.

“What is it with you?” I demanded and thrust the log and the tray at him. I knelt, gathering up the fizzing bottle and glass. The scattered ice cubes winked dully in the pallid moonlight.

“What the hell is this about?” J.X. indicated the tray.

“What the hell does it look like? I’m planning to drown my sorrows.”

“That’s not going to solve anything.”

“I’m not trying to
solve
anything.” I added pointedly, “I’ll leave that to the experts.”

“It’s your head,” he said. “Come on.” He put his hand under my arm as I started to rise, and I nearly lost the entire load again.

“Do you
mind
?”

“Sorry. Jesus, you’re jumpy.”

“I can’t imagine why.” I rebalanced and set off—limping—down the path.

“Do you really have a bad back?” he asked, behind me.

“No, it’s just something I say to get chicks.”

He didn’t respond, but as we reached the edge of the meadow, he caught me up so that we were walking side by side. “This way.”

I followed him down the dirt path that cut across the open field toward the cabins. The sodden clouds had parted and a lackluster moon gilded everything in unnatural light. In the absence of the rain and wind, the stillness seemed uncanny.

Mostly to fill the uncomfortable silence between myself and J.X., I said, “There’s something eerie about the stillness.”

“It’s the eye of the storm.”

“You mean there’s more rain on the way?”

“Oh yeah. We’re a couple of hours away from another downpour.”

“Great.”

“Which is your cabin?”

“That one—with the lights on.”

He said sharply, “Did you leave the light on?”

“Yes.” I cast a quick glance at his silvered profile. “Why? You don’t really think I’m in any danger, do you?”

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“No.”

“You could try to sound a little more convincing.”

What he sounded was irritable. “You had to go around telling everyone Peaches had been murdered, didn’t you?”

“That’s it.” I stopped walking. The glassware rattled to a halt with me. “We need to have this out here and now.” I was talking to his back. “
Hey
.”

He kept walking. I had to trot to catch up—which irritated me further.

“Listen,” I said, “I did not tell anyone
anything.
Peaches was everybody’s candidate for unnatural selection. From the minute I said I found her in the woods, people were speculating about how she died.”

“And you encouraged their speculation.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t say anything one way or the other. I didn’t
know
anything one way or the other. I still don’t.”

J.X. stopped walking. His voice was low. “We both know she was killed.”

I swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Did you tell the sheriffs?”

“Yep.”

He started walking again. After a few seconds of thought, I tagged after.

As we reached my cabin, he asked, “You want me to take a look inside?”

I hesitated. If he was a homicidal maniac, this was his big chance. No one had seen us walk out here together. Certainly no one had responded to my shouts.

On the other hand, what if the homicidal maniac was hiding under my bed? I didn’t feel up to dealing with it on my own.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. The first sight to meet our gaze was my brand-new silk jockstrap lying on the floor next to the bed. Scarlet silk. I mean…

“I had no idea,” J.X. murmured.

“You still don’t.”

He laughed and I was abruptly reminded that this was not the first time he had been in my bedroom. I remembered some other things too—things I’d thought I’d forgotten: the smoky, sweet taste of his mouth, his husky laugh, his strength—and his gentleness. You don’t expect gentleness from a twenty-five-year-old macho cop, but he had been…tender. Energetic, but tender.

I had handed him the drinks tray while I unlocked the door, now I watched him set the tray of gin and tonic water on the table by the wall. I opened my mouth to ask if he was married—but there is no way to ask that it doesn’t sound like you have a personal stake in the answer. It’s like asking a man if he’s gay—

which would have been my second question.

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Josh Lanyon

And while I had no personal interest in J.X. Moriarity, hearing him confirm tonight that he was straight would have felt like the very last straw.

So I watched him open the closet and push my few clothes aside. He stepped into the bathroom and shoved the shower curtain back.

I squatted down and looked under the bed. “All clear.”

His expression told me that I was not taking this seriously enough.

He examined the window casings while I went to rinse my muddy glass out in the bathroom.

I sat on the bed and unscrewed the bottlecap. “Would you like a nightcap? I think there’s a plastic cup in the bathroom. Or you can use the coffee pot to drink from.”

He studied me.

“Look, Kit, I realize it’s none of my business, but go easy on that stuff. You need to keep your wits about you.”

“I’m never wittier than when I’ve had a few drinks,” I informed him in my best Elsa Lancaster imitation. Not that he would have a clue who Elsa Lancaster was, she was well before his time. Well before mine, too, now that I thought about it, but the evening had aged me.

J.X. sighed. “I know you’ve had a rough day. But this is for real. If someone really wanted into this cabin, it wouldn’t be hard to get inside.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open.”

“Better yet, sleep with that chair propped beneath the door handle.”

Great minds.

“Okay.” I held up the bottle. “Sure you won’t have one for the road?”

He shook his head. “I need to sleep. I’m dead.”

“Unfortunate choice of words.” I poured gin in the glass. Studied the still bubbly tonic water. That bottle needed to be opened in the bathroom over the sink to minimize loss of vital fluids. “Sleep tight.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

J.X. opened the cabin door. He hesitated. “Steven can be a real asshole.”

“There it is again, the keen eye of the master detective.”

His mouth tightened. “Don’t forget to lock this door.”

I rose, went to the door. He stepped out and I closed the door, sliding the bolt home. I leaned against it and closed my eyes.

“What is the matter with you?” I whispered.

Then I nearly jumped out of my skin as someone banged on the door. I backed away and called, “Who is it?”

“Me.” The muffled voice was male.

Heart thudding, I got out, “Me who?”

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“Kit!”

I recognized the exasperation. I unbolted the door and opened it.

J.X., looking unexpectedly self-conscious, pointed to a few cabins down and said, “Look, if something does…happen. I’m right over there. Cabin six.”

“Within screaming distance,” I observed.

“Uh…yeah.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll try not to take advantage of the situation. I know you need your beauty rest.”

He gave a funny laugh, shook his head and turned away.

“J.X.?” I said.

He stopped. I fastened my hand on the damp collar of his leather jacket and drew him through the doorway and back into the cabin. With my free hand I gave the door a shove. It snicked shut. J.X. reached back and locked it.

If they gave prizes at picnics for shucking your clothes fast, we’d have scored a jar of homemade preserves and a blue ribbon for sure. As it was, we had to be satisfied with our performance in the three-legged race, which somehow occurred as J.X. was struggling out of his jeans and I was dragging him to the bed. We collapsed on top of the calico bedspread, J.X. gracefully sprawled beneath me.

He was beautiful. I’d forgotten that about him in all those nasty online exchanges through the years. I gazed down at the strong, handsome lines of his face—dark eyes shining and a crooked white smile framed in the perfectly trimmed Van Dyke—took in the bronzed, muscular chest. Like rock…only not. His skin gleamed like brown satin, the small, flat nipples like dark copper pennies. I traced the left one with a fingertip. He closed his eyes, the lashes black crescents against his high cheekbones.