Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (28 page)

that they were engaged in fact—and not only had he seen
Death and Her Sisters
long before the Asquith Circle, he was probably familiar with most of her work. But a baleful little notion whispered in my mind and silenced me.

Why warn her? Why give her time to prepare lies and excuses. I’d seen Rudolph’s face in the hall when the police were talking. He wasn’t stupid. Not by any means. No one knew Anna and the way her brain worked better than Rudolph. He was kind and civilized and he would try not to see it for as long as possible, but the sick knowledge was already taking root in his brain.

No. The last thing I wanted to do was give Anna a heads up. Let her stumble right into her own trap the way she’d made it look like Sara had done.

I answered, “You thought she wouldn’t show
Death and Her Sisters
to the writing group, but she did.”

“She won’t have shown any of the others. She didn’t think they were any good.” Anna’s smile was wry, and I saw where Sara had got the impression her work wasn’t any good.

The righteous anger that had been driving me drained away. I felt tired and empty. I made myself ask, “How long were you planning this?”

She understood. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t have designs on her work. I don’t deny that in my frustration I said things to discourage her. She was only writing for herself and she was so goddamned good without ever trying. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.”

“But you’re trying to steal her work now.”

“What does it matter? How does it help anyone to lose those stories? No, I didn’t do it for the work. The plan came to me a month ago when Rudolph was visiting and I saw the way she tried to monopolize his attention. The only thing I had left and she was trying to take that too.”

“Kit!” J.X. yelled from down the hall.

Both Anna and I froze.

She said quickly, softly, “There’s no evidence, no proof left. I was very careful. I’m a
very
good mystery writer. It’s your word against mine, and you’re not foolish enough to jeopardize what you have left of a career.”

“Kit.” J.X. had reached the doorway. He sounded angry. “We’ve got to go
now
.”

From the hostile blaze in his eyes as his gaze found Anna, I understood that the urgency wasn’t only about missing a plane flight. He feared for me in the Wicked Queen’s chamber. I was touched.

I nodded.

“Take care, Christopher,” Anna said as I turned away, and it was a warning, not good wishes.

“You too, darling,” I replied in the same spirit.

“What were you doing?” J.X. asked as the elegant, gaily lit house grew smaller and smaller in the side mirrors.

“You know what I was doing.”

“Kit.” I could hear the frustration though he was trying to bank it down.

“She admitted it.”

He didn’t expect that. He risked a quick look my way. “You’re serious? She admitted it?

All of it?”

I nodded.

J.X. was thinking rapidly. “But there’s still no proof. It would be your word against hers.”

“I know.”

He chewed his lip, considering. “Did she tell you why she dragged you into it?”

I gave a short laugh. “Because she’s a freaking psycho? I don’t know. I asked her.”

“You asked her that?”

I nodded.

Another quick look my way. “I’m sorry, Kit. This is total hell for you, I know. But even if she did admit it, you can’t safely pursue this. You’ve just got to trust that…justice will out.”

I snorted. What was there to say? He was right.

I thought about the things Anna had told me. About my career being over. About the fact that J.X. would not stay with me.

Both seemed to carry the ring of irrefutable truth. Was that fear or instinct? I glanced in the side mirror once more. The house had vanished into the white distance. There was only the swish of the windshield wipers and the shush of the tires on the slushy highway.

For a few miles I was lost in the whiteout of my own bleak thoughts. Finally I remembered that I wasn’t alone. I glanced over at J.X.

“Are you flying straight back to Frisco?”

His honey-colored skin turned a darker shade. “Uh, no. I’m flying to L.A. with you.” I didn’t say anything and he said cautiously, “Is that all right?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, we’ve got some things to talk over. We might as well do it while we’re both in the same room.”

“Right.”

“Like…” His voice cracked.

I stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. You’re beet red and your voice—”

He interrupted, “I know this isn’t the time for this discussion, but we’re going to pursue this, right? We agreed.”

“I—right.”

He relaxed. Gave me a quick, happy smile. A big white smile.

I wondered what the hell I’d agreed to.

My final conversation with Anna cost us making our flight on time. We spent part of the evening in the airport lounge on standby and caught the redeye to Los Angeles.

It was a mild and smoggy February morning when we landed. We grabbed a taxi at LAX

and headed straight for Chatsworth, for home.

The driver kept the radio blasting news as we wove in and out of cars on the 101.

J.X. was slumped against my shoulder, head back at an uncomfortable angle, mouth open as he snored melodiously into my ear when the radio announcer said in his cheerful deep voice,

“Mystery fans worldwide will be saddened by the death of Anna Hitchcock, often referred to as the American Agatha Christie.”

I sat up, listening tensely as the shining cars and palm trees flashed by.

“Hitchcock was found dead of what appears to be an overdose of sleeping tablets, in her Connecticut mansion earlier this morning. Her body was discovered by her long-time lover and editor Rudolph Dunst. Dunst told reporters that the sixty-eight-year-old author had been despondent over an ongoing inability to write coupled with the recent death of two of her closest friends. Police are investigating the possibility of suicide.”

The taxi driver’s brown eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “You like mysteries?” he asked over the wintery howl through the cab’s rattling windows.

I gazed out at the smoggy gray morning.

“I used to,” I said.

A distinct voice in GLBT fiction, multi-award winning author Josh Lanyon has written numerous novels, novellas and short stories. He is the author of the critically praised Adrien English mystery series as well as the new Holmes and Moriarity series. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist.

To learn more about Josh, please visit www.joshlanyon.com or join his mailing list at groups.yahoo.com/group/JoshLanyon.