“That doesn’t mean anything if they got the wrong house.”
“It’s not the wrong house. How many houses on our street had a gazebo?”
“It wasn’t a gazebo! If they’re digging up a gazebo, they’ve got the wrong house.”
“It’s our street address!”
Oh. That. Okay. There was no arguing with street addresses. Even so.
“This can’t be happening…” I didn’t think I’d said it aloud, but David said accusingly, “Why not? It sounds exactly like the kind of thing you’d write.”
Yes, it did.
“No it doesn’t!” I protested. The smell of burning milk reached me. “Hell. Hold on.” I pressed the Flash button and heard Rachel saying, “The timing could not be more fortuitous.”
“The word is calamitous. Hold on, Rachel.” I dropped the handset, grabbed the sizzling pan off the stovetop, and dropped it into the sink. I turned on the taps. The water hissed, and a small mushroom cloud of milk and Nutella formed over the basin.
“Everything okay?” J.X.’s voice inquired from behind me.
I spun guiltily. “Uh…well…no. Hang on a sec.”
His eyebrows rose as I leaped back to the counter and picked up the phone. I pressed—well, I thought I pressed the Flash button again, but maybe not because the loud buzz of a dial tone met my ears.
Had David hung up on me? Or had I hung up on David?
“Shit!” Had that even been David? Maybe it was Rachel? I hit the Flash button a second time and got another loud dial tone.
What the hell? I began to thumb the Flash button in a manic tattoo, like a gamer in the final minutes of Crackdown 3.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I slammed the phone into the receiver. Then reslammed it—twice—to make sure it was resting properly.
“Ohhhhkay.” J.X. is pretty much unflappable. Which is both admirable and annoying. “What’s going on, Kit?”
I turned to face him. His dark eyes were warm with concern. I opened my mouth, remembered We Are Not Alone, and glanced past him at the empty hallway. “Where’s the…er, you know?”
“The…er, you know? You mean my nephew Gage?”
“Yes. The kid. Gage.”
“He’s watching TV in our room.”
“Good. Hopefully it’s a miniseries. That was David.”
“David?” J.X.’s face changed. “Your David?”
“My former David. Yes.”
J.X. scowled. “What does David want now?”
The now made it sound like David was constantly phoning up with lame excuses to see me, and nothing could have been further from the truth. If David had spared me a thought over the past year, it would have been only to gnash his teeth and curse my name for having gotten rid of his precious player piano in a yard sale. That had occurred in the first bitter stages of what more civilized persons refer to as “uncoupling.” I preferred to refer to it as “utter fucking betrayal” and had planned accordingly.
I sucked in a deep breath—anticipating the need for extra oxygen—and the phone rang. I jumped as though I’d been holding the business end of a live wire, and J.X.’s scowl burgeoned into what Victorian novelists referred to as A Black Look.
“Let me get this,” I said.
J.X. protested, “Kit, what the hell is going on?”
“One sec.” I grabbed the phone and snapped, “Speak!”
“Speak?” Rachel snapped back. “Do you imagine I’m a poodle?”
“I picture you more as a miniature Pinscher, since you ask. What’s going on, Rachel? I only got part of the story from David.”
“I’m sure he only has part of the story. In any case, the gods are smiling on you, Christopher. You’ve been talking about turning to true crime, and a true crime has turned up in your very own garden.”
Only Ving the Merciless could see my involvement in a possible homicide as an opportunity for career advancement, but I guess that’s part of what makes her one of the best agents in the biz.
“First of all, that’s not my garden. That’s now the Kaynors’ garden. Secondly, I haven’t been talking about writing true crime. I told you I was watching a lot of true crime, and you suggested I try writing it.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is I write fiction.”
Rachel replied tartly, “Not lately you don’t!”
Ouch. She was right, of course. I said shortly, “Possibly this is not the moment to discuss my career.”
“Do inform me should that moment arrive,” Rachel retorted.
Double ouch. “Can we get back to what David told you?”
“He was trying to locate you. He couldn’t reach either of your parents, and your realtor is on holiday. He phoned me, explained the situation—in rather hysterical terms, I might add—and insisted he had to speak to you. What could I do? I tried to warn you, but he was too fast. I suppose there isn’t any mistake about it?”
“I suppose there are a lot of mistakes about it,” I said. “But since David and I got cut off midway through his call—”
“Is it possible it’s Dicky?” Rachel sounded just a tad—uncharacteristically—worried.
“Are you asking me if I killed Dicky?”
J.X. made a sound unique to our acquaintanceship. My gaze veered to his, and I tried to silently communicate apology along with a request for more phone credits.
“Kit,” he said in a warning tone.
“Not that I’d blame you if you had murdered the little sod,” Rachel said, demonstrating one of the qualities that made her such a good agent.
“Yeah, but I didn’t. And I don’t believe it’s Dicky buried in my old backyard.”
“But then who could it be?”
“Kit!”
I threw my better half a guilty look and said hastily, “Rachel, we’ll have to continue this later. J.X. wants a word.”
“I’m going to need more than a word,” J.X. said.
“Of course,” Rachel said. “Just remember to take notes.”
“No worries there. He usually repeats himself several times.”
J.X. began to mutter darkly—with his sensual Spanish good looks, it’s something he does quite well. Before J.X., I’d never known anyone who could make the three Rs—reproach, recrimination, and remonstrance—sound so sexy.
“I mean on the investigation! This is a godsend, Christopher. We mustn’t waste it.”
“Uh, righteo. I’ll keep you posted,” I said and clicked off. I turned to face J.X. “Hey, before you say anything—”
“Your former PA is buried in your backyard?”
“So again, before you say anything, I don’t have the full story yet. What I do know is that when the new homeowners dug up the pergola in the backyard—which is annoying as hell because that structure was beautiful, especially with the honeysuckle vines growing over it—they discovered a body. It—he—is male, and he was wrapped in a red blanket. For the record, I never owned a red blanket.”
“You owned the house, though.”
“Well, yes.”
“And the body has been identified as your former PA Dicky Dickison? The twink who ran off with David?”
“I don’t know if the body has been formally identified, because I spoke to David, not the police. David thinks it’s Dicky.”
J.X. said in a protesting kind of tone, “How would that be possible?”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how it could be. Unless David killed him and buried him in our backyard—and why would he?”
J.X. was gazing at me in what seemed to be wordless alarm. Like me, he is not often without words, and I recoiled as I realized what he must be thinking.
“You don’t believe I—”
His eyes widened. His grim expression changed into one of affectionate exasperation. “What? Of course not. Is that a serious question? Honey.” He put his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I realize this has got to be a shock.”
Funny thing. Until J.X. pulled me into that h
ug and started murmuring sympathy, I hadn’t felt particularly shocked—I’d been too busy with the fight-or-flight response David always triggered in me. But yeah, come to think of it, this was kind of a shocking thing. A dead body discovered in my old backyard? David accusing me of murder?
I said, “My God. I guess the police are going to want to talk to me.”
“Yes,” J.X. said. “I’m surprised they haven’t already. When did all this happen? When was the body discovered?”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed. “Do you think they’re really going to view me as a suspect?”
J.X. bit his lip. As mannerisms go, not terribly reassuring. He said, “How soon after David left did you build the pergola?”
“I don’t remember. Not long.” I added defensively, “I was trying to keep busy. Anyway, it’s not like I built the pergola myself. I wasn’t out there laying concrete and raising timbers. I hired a landscaping company to do the actual construction.”
“Good point.” J.X. looked thoughtful. “When was the last time you saw Dicky?”
Remembering that period of my life was more painful than I expected. I freed myself from J.X.’s arms and went to clean the burned chocolate from the pan in the sink. With my back turned to him, I was able to say briskly, “The week after David left. He came to ask for his final paycheck.”
“Wow. That guy had nerve.”
“Yep. He did.” I grabbed a Brillo pad and ferociously scoured the blackened bits at the bottom of the pan.
“What happened?” At the look I threw him, J.X. added quickly, “I know what didn’t happen. You didn’t kill him. But what occurred during that meeting? What was said?”
I made myself think back. “I paid Dicky and told him not to expect a reference letter.” That was the Reader’s Digest version. I’d also told him he was an ungrateful little bastard, that cheaters never prospered, and that he was going to get exactly what he deserved. But maybe it was better to keep that to myself. It had not been a pleasant encounter. Dicky had been defensive and self-righteous. He’d told me I was a pain in the ass to work for and that by neglecting David, I had brought their twin defections on myself.
Even so, I hadn’t wished Dicky dead. In fact, as time had passed, I’d pretty much sort-of-almost-though-not-entirely forgiven him. Partly—maybe mostly—that was due to J.X. resurfacing in my life. But partly…Dicky had been young and inexperienced, and I knew firsthand how charming and persuasive David could be. I had not forgiven David, but I had never wanted him dead either.
If I had wanted either of them dead, I wouldn’t have bungled it by burying their bodies in my own backyard. You didn’t have to be a fan of Hitchcock—or true-crime shows—to know that never worked out well.
“You never saw him again?” J.X.’s voice recalled me to the present.
“No.”
“Did he cash the check?”
I looked up in surprised relief. “He did, yeah. I do remember that. He cashed the check right away. I think he was afraid I’d change my mind.”
“There’s a point in your favor right there.”
“I guess so, yes. Unless someone can prove he returned to the house a second time—but why would he? He got what he wanted.”
J.X. suddenly smiled, his teeth very white in the silky frame of his Van Dyke beard. He moved to take me into his arms once more, and I didn’t resist.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Kit. Whoever that is under your old pergola, it’s not Dicky. I think Dicky wised up and passed on David.”
“Yeah, but then whose body is it?”
“I’m guessing no one known to you. It’s more likely one of your neighbors took advantage of your landscaping project and dumped their own problem into that hole in the ground. We had a case like this when I was on the force. I think you’ll talk to the detectives and clear up any concerns they might have, and that will be that.”
I said doubtfully, “You think?”
“I do, yeah.” He winked, kissed me lightly. “Now why don’t we fix a new batch of your special spiked hot chocolate, return my er, you know Gage to his own bed, and get back to practicing for our vacation.”
“Practicing what?” I asked blankly.
J.X. offered a slow, sexy grin.
Chapter Three
Cops. Before Breakfast. Before coffee even.
Now why did that sound so familiar?
Anyway, it wasn’t before coffee. It was during coffee, which I was having while J.X. and Gage fixed blueberry-chocolate-chip pancakes. A process which entailed a lot of “testing” chocolate chips, giggling—on Gage’s part—and singing loudly—and badly—with the Black Keys.
“‘Strange times are here,’” warbled Gage.
J.X. echoed energetically and tunelessly, “‘Strange times are here.’”
And so they were. But it had been a pleasant morning, following a pleasant—despite the odds—evening, until LAPD Detectives Dean and Quigley turned up on our doorstep promptly at nine o’clock.
Dean was a tall, willowy brunette, who looked more like a TV star than an actual cop. Granted, J.X. looked more like a TV star than an actual writer, and he was both a writer and an ex-cop. Appearances are often deceptive.
Quigley also looked like a cop on television, but starring in a very different kind of show. A show with less budget and lower ratings. Possibly straight to cable. He was shorter, squatter, redder, and a lot older than his partner. He had a mustache like Friedrich Nietzsche near the end, and, even before he opened his mouth, conveyed a similar aura of unpredictability.
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Mr. Holmes?” Dean inquired after badges had been flashed and the initial introductions were out of the way.
J.X. threw me a lopsided but encouraging smile, and ushered Gage back to the kitchen. I led the way to the living room.
I noticed Dean and Quigley exchanged looks as they glanced around the long room with cheerful, creamy-yellow walls and ivory decorative crown molding and corner pieces. The muted, rich tones of the Persian rug, elegant marble fireplace, and intricate etched glass and brass chandeliers were just a few of the house’s beautiful little touches. But the silent communication between LA’s finest was not admiration for our home decor. Money, Dean observed. Used to getting away with murder, concluded Quigley.
“You have a lovely home,” Dean commented. Somehow, it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I offer you coffee?”
Dean refused the offer of coffee with the air of one rejecting a bribe. Quigley accepted with a grin reminiscent of Foxy Loxy receiving an invitation from Chicken Little, and requested cream and sugar.
When I returned to the living room with the coffee, I found them in whispering conference in front of the built-in case that shelved my vintage collection of books on primitive criminology and obsolete investigative procedures.
“How to Read Character: A New Illustrated Hand-Book of Phrenology and Physiognomy,” Dean said to me. “Interesting choice of reading material.”
“That? It’s a little out-of-date,” I said. The book had been published in 1869.
Quigley scanned the shelf, read aloud, “Criminal Anthropology, Criminal Sociology, How to Read Faces: Nature’s Danger Signals. Here’s a good one: Evidence of Insanity in the Brains of Criminals. Ever read that one, Dean?”
“No,” Dean said.
“I guess you consider yourself an expert in criminal investigation, Mr. Holmes?”
I handed him his cup of coffee. “I guess you’re being ironic, Detective Quigley?”
He looked wary. Fair enough, but did they really think I had some peculiar fixation on crime à la Hannibal Lecter, as revealed by my quirky reading habits?
Dean returned to the beige chesterfield sofa and said briskly, “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
Quigley slurped his coffee in apparent agreement and sauntered over to join her.
I’ve been interviewed by the police a few times, and these en
counters always follow a certain pattern. They start with the easy questions and then move on to the more awkward topics such as…why didn’t you call us sooner?
It doesn’t matter how fast you call them, the cops always want to know why it wasn’t sooner. As though prescience is one’s civic duty.
“We had some trouble tracking you down, Mr. Holmes,” Dean said crisply when the three of us were seated again. “Can I ask why you neglected to update your DMV records with your new address?”
I stared at her in surprise. “I…meant to. I don’t drive much up here, and…I don’t know. I just keep forgetting. It’s not like it’s expired or I moved to a different state.”
Her perfectly shaped brows rose in open skepticism. “You weren’t attempting to go off the grid?”
“What? Me? No. Why would I? I had my mail forwarded here. I’ve changed most of my credit cards. That’s not exactly going to ground.”
“Maybe you didn’t want to get called for jury duty?” Quigley suggested. He winked at his partner and took another noisy mouthful of coffee.
Well, who wanted to be called for jury duty? But that wasn’t the reason. The reason was maybe slightly more complicated and something I hadn’t explored until that moment. Changing the address on my license somehow felt final, irrevocable, in a way forwarding my mail or even updating my credit cards had not.
To-have-and-to-hold final. From-this-day-forward irrevocable.
I mean, J.X. and I were living together, and we talked about making it official, but practicing energetically for a possible honeymoon aside, neither of us had actually popped the question. That first of many inevitable questions.
Regathering my thoughts, I said, “No. It wasn’t a conscious thing. I intended to update my license. We’ve been…busy getting settled in.”
Dean pounced on this. “You’ve been busy, all right. We understand four months ago you found a body in one of your moving crates.”
I sat up straighter. “You’ve been busy yourselves. Yes, I did find a body. And that matter has been resolved to the satisfaction of SFPD and everybody else. That was nothing to do with…”
This.
She arched her brows politely.
But of course it had nothing to do with this, and not because I knew what this was. I hadn’t had anything more to do with this than I had with that. And if trying to formulate that response in my head was complicated, I couldn’t even imagine putting it into words.
In Other Words...Murder Page 2