by Tara Lain
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
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Copyright
The Case of the Sexy Shakespearean
By Tara Lain
A Middlemark Mystery
Dr. Llewellyn Lewis leads a double life, as both an awkward but distinguished history professor and the more flamboyant Ramon Rondell, infamous writer of sensational historical theories. It’s Ramon who first sets eyes on a gorgeous young man dancing in a club, but Llewellyn who meets teaching assistant Blaise Arthur formally at an event held for wealthy socialite Anne de Vere, descendant of Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford—who some believe was the real Shakespeare. Anne wants Llewellyn to prove that claim, even though many have tried and failed. And she’s willing to offer a hefty donation to the university if he succeeds.
It also means a chance for Llewellyn to get to know Blaise much better.
Not everyone thinks Llewellyn should take the case—or the money. Between feuding siblings, rival patrons, jealous colleagues, and greedy administrators, almost anyone could be trying to thwart his work… and one of them is willing to kill to do it.
When Anne de Vere turns up dead, the police believe Blaise is the murderer. Only the shy, stuttering professor who has won his heart can prove otherwise….
To my mom, may she rest in peace, who adored mysteries, and to KC Burn, who inspired me to want to write a cozy.
Acknowledgments
MY THANKS to Lynn and Elizabeth for always looking out for me and the stories I can tell.
Chapter One
THE MUSIC flowed through him like wine—like freedom—and Ramon threw his head back, letting the swish of hair against his shoulders tickle him as he danced. One of his partners, a big muscular stud with tattoos on his neck, leaned over and kissed Ramon’s cheek. Strutting away, Ramon just laughed. We all love our illusions, and I’m his.
Not to be outdone, the pretty blonde girl who had also leaped onto the floor to dougie with Ramon shook her pert chest against his back. Bless her heart, she’d misjudged her target, but he gave her a butt bump in return, and she giggled.
The music crashed to an end, and Ramon swept a bow at both partners. They both looked like they’d enjoy a second act of some kind, but he tipped an imaginary hat and walked back to the bar, where that handsome dude with the silver hair had promised to save Ramon’s seat. Ramon didn’t get out much. Only rarely did he feel comfortable enough to go out and meet the public. He needed all the good reactions he could soak up, like fuel to keep him going until the next time.
Sure enough, there sat Silver Fox at the bar, gazing at him with open admiration while draping a very expensively clad leg over the empty barstool. Ramon gave him a grin. “For me?”
Silver Fox chuckled soft and low. “If not, I’ve almost lost my leg at the knee three times for nothing.” He gracefully removed his appendage, and Ramon slid onto the seat, grabbing the icy craft beer the bartender had left in his absence. He wrinkled his nose. Yuk, it’s yeasty. He flicked the hair from his eyes with a toss of his head and pushed the glass toward the bear of a bartender. “This is caca, darling. Bring me a glass of champagne instead, please.” He turned on his barstool toward the crowd, where a wall of people had formed between him and the dance floor, all of them clapping and whistling like they were watching WWF with oiled fighters.
A young guy with dark, slightly wild eyes separated from the crowd and stepped toward him, staring at the floor. Kind of cute. Kind of not. The guy glanced up through heavily mascaraed lashes. “Excuse me. Are you by any chance Ramon Rondell?”
Ramon frowned and looked around warily, then tried to return to pleasant face as fast as possible. “Where did you get that information?”
“Uh, I saw you come in and asked the guy at the door who you were. He said your name was Rondell. I was kind of hoping. I’m a huge fan.” He shrugged and extended a napkin and a pen. “May I have your autograph?”
“What if I’m not Ramon?”
The kid grinned. “You’re so gorgeous, I don’t even care.”
Ramon glanced at him. Caught. What can it hurt? He laughed and scrawled his name across the flimsy paper.
The guy gazed at the signature like he’d been given an original copy of Tom Sawyer. “I’m such an admirer.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” He started to turn back to his beer.
“Are you going to write a book on the real identity of Jack the Ripper? You can prove it was somebody from the royal family, right?” The guy’s voice sounded avid.
Ramon’s wacko-dar tingled, and he shook his head. “I doubt it. There’s a pretty extensive record of information from the time. Everyone thinks their theory is conclusive, but gathering new data’s difficult, if not impossible. I confess I don’t believe there’s a royal family connection. It’s more likely that so-called Jack the Ripper was some poor insane person who hated women and killed five in a row before he died or was incarcerated.” He shrugged. “But honestly, no one wants to hear that, so I doubt I’ll take on the project.” He smiled to soften the blow and made to turn again.
The guy frowned darkly. “You’re not gonna prove that those rich bastards used those poor women as guinea pigs? Come on, you’re the one who should do it. You can get ’em.”
Oh dear. “Yes, well, we all have to draw our own conclusions. Thanks for being a fan and saying hello.” He turned his back on the young man and faced the bar. Sadly, writing about the mysteries of history did tend to attract conspiracy theorists and crazies. It went with the territory.
The bartender delivered the glass of bubbly, and Ramon reached for his wallet. Mr. Silver Fox put a hand on his forearm. “Allow me.” He dropped a couple of twenties in front of the bartender.
Ramon raised an eyebrow at the proprietary hand, and the man withdrew it. The guy was great-looking, probably in his early fifties, wearing a lot of money on his body. Still… “You’re kind, but I have just enough time to drink my champagne. Then, I fear, I must fly.” He took a healthy mouthful. Much better than the beer.
The man leaned on his hand and gave Ramon a wistful look. “I can’t persuade you to fly to my nest?”
That earned both of Ramon’s raised eyebrows. “Even if I were that kind of girl, I have an early day tomorrow.”
“How very sad. I haven’t seen you in here before, and I’d remember, believe me.”
Ramon nodded. “No, you’re right. I don’t come in often.” Mostly because it was a four-hour drive to his real life, but no point admitting that.
“Even sadder. Perhaps I can persuade you to make a return visit soon?” Silver Fox smiled softly. “So I can determine if you are that kind of girl.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Martin, by the way.”
Ramon shook his hand lightly. “Ramon.”
&nbs
p; “I gather you’re famous. At least with one ardent admirer.”
Ramon wrinkled his nose. “Only the tiniest bit. I write articles and have a popular blog.”
“I’ll look for them. What shall I search?”
“Ramon Rondell.” He downed the last of the champagne. “Now I must go.” He turned on the stool—and froze. Martin said something, but he didn’t quite hear it. The crowd facing the dance floor had parted, and Ramon stared at what they’d all been watching so enthusiastically.
A male couple dancing.
No, actually it was a guy dancing, and maybe there was a partner there somewhere. The young dancer was tall, over six feet by at least a couple of inches of superlean body that moved like he was made of rubber. Except for the ass. Holy crap, the most perfect, taut, iron-hard butt, with those irresistible dips in the side that showed even through his jeans. The only thing more perfect than those buns of steel was the face of magic—all brightness and sparkle, with heavily lashed eyes that crinkled as he laughed, dimples that could have sharpened pencils, and a flush of pink across his adorable cheeks. His blond hair flopped forward and he’d flick it back, making even Ramon’s practiced head toss look amateurish. Altogether gorgeous, but more than that. The man had an energy, a charisma that captured and held every eye, and a way of grinning and ducking his head that said Don’t take me too seriously.
“You like that?”
The voice came from over Ramon’s shoulder, and he looked back. “What? Excuse me?”
Martin gazed at the dancer in cool appraisal. “Is that your type? The type you’d be ‘that kind of girl’ for?”
The question gave Ramon a little shiver. “I was interested in the dance style.”
“Right.” Martin popped a sardonic half smile. “I’m sure he goes from vertical to horizontal very quickly.”
Ramon reached in his pocket, grabbed the first bill he felt, and slapped the fifty on the bar. “I like to dougie. Pay the bartender for me, will you?” He turned on his stacked heel and marched catty-corner behind the dance floor and lines of observers toward the lobby. The weirdo who’d asked for the autograph leaned against the wall in the corner. His eyes met Ramon’s and glowered almost—odd to think the word—evilly. But he didn’t move. Thank God.
With a quick glance behind to be sure no presumptuous stalkers were following, Ramon slipped out the entrance and broke into a jog toward the back lot where he’d parked his car.
He ducked behind an SUV and peeked at the entrance to the lot. No one. Even the attendant seemed to be elsewhere. Good. Quickly he ran to the gray Volvo, opened the door from a few feet away, and slid into the driver’s seat, then closed the door after him and gazed out through the tinted windows. Moonlight illuminated the lot, but nothing moved.
He let out a long slow breath. Why the hell did I do this? Martin could so easily have been someone from the university. Or even that crazy conspiracy theorist. What if one of them recognized me? He needed to retire Ramon from public view, but the idea hurt. Ramon didn’t make many appearances and he was always careful to look different when he did, but those few outings were fun, dammit.
With an angry snort, he pulled the floppy-haired dark wig off and then the skullcap he wore under it, tossed them in the tote bag on his seat, and ran his hands through his totally ordinary, short brown hair. Totally ordinary described a lot of things. He yanked the vanity mirror down, peeled off the false lashes, fished in the tote for the plastic container and stored them away, and then squeezed out the blue contacts he used to transform his mud-brown eyes. A little lotion removed the lip gloss, mascara, and blush. Wish I had the guts to just throw all this crap away and forget the cosplay. Ramon can write without making personal appearances. But the idea of retiring nauseated him. Like giving up on joy.
He toed off the shoes that made him two inches taller. He just wore them for cover because he was already really tall. Then he slid off his tight leather pants, pulled his khakis from the tote, and yanked them on easily, since they bagged around his narrow hips. They felt like home. Sighing, he added the brown Oxfords and a cardigan over his shirt—that would do until he was alone—then piled some books from the well of the passenger seat on top of the paraphernalia he’d stuck in the bag. Ready.
He glanced in the mirror again. Who the hell do you think you are, asshole? Easy answer. A tall, awkward, unattractive nerd, too smart to love.
Finally he cranked the ignition, and the rumble of the old Volvo’s engine vibrated through him like it was rearranging his cells. The gray of the car settled on him like a cloud, and he inhaled reality. His pulse scampered and his eyes jerked from side to side.
A minute later, Dr. Llewellyn Lewis of Middlemark University drove his Volvo out of the parking lot, pausing at the street to carefully observe the oncoming traffic.
The dark outline of a person against the next building caught his eye. Who could that be?
In a break between cars, he pressed the accelerator and pulled onto the street. Shaking his head, he said, “I-I’ve h-heard one t-too many conspiracies.” Why would you, of all people, have to jump at shadows? Especially this far from home.
Llewellyn drove sedately onto the freeway, pointed the car south, and settled in for the long ride to San Luis Obispo and a return to real life. Ramon Rondell could stay gone.
“MORNING, DR. L.” Llewellyn’s assistant, Maria Conchita Gonzalez, looked up from her computer and grinned. “Did you have a wild and crazy weekend?”
The heat started instantly, creeping up Llewellyn’s neck and burning his cheeks. God, he hated it. “Uh—”
She bounded out of her desk chair in all her robust glory and planted her hands on her denim-clad hips. “Hang on, boss. Didn’t we get past the blushes? Aren’t we friends?”
“Y-yes.” Like a lot of actors, he could only cover his stutter on the stage. When he wasn’t wearing his Ramon skin, the stutter made everything harder and more miserable.
“Come on, you’ve got no reason to be shy around me.” She held up a finger. “A. I’m your biggest fan.”
Amazingly, that was true. When she applied for her position, she’d demonstrated an almost photographic grasp of all his scholarly works.
“B. I couldn’t care less if your wild weekend was finding a new kind of food for your cats or hanging naked by your heels from the chandelier. Everyone gets to live as they want as long as they don’t hurt anyone else.”
“Yo-your opinion does represent a mi-minority view.” He smiled, however.
She crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, it shouldn’t.”
“Besides, I d-don’t think my chandelier w-would hold me.”
She snorted but gave him an appraising glance. “Come on, you’re lean as a fashion model.” She circled back to her desk chair, then looked up through her lashes like some busty Hispanic elf. “If you decide on that chandelier trick, invite me. I suspect there are hidden treasures under those plain-Jane khakis.”
He blushed again, but this time she just laughed. “By the way, the big boss wants to see you.” She made quotes in the air. “As soon as you get in.”
“W-what does he want?”
“Probably to waste your time on political bullshit, but he didn’t consult me.”
He started to turn toward the door, and she said, “Dr. L., why don’t you put your stuff down first?” She nodded at his old beat-up briefcase and the cardigan sweater he carried even though the fall weather was hot. It could change. “Get comfortable. He’ll still be there, fussing and fuming. A couple minutes won’t matter.”
He nodded and walked into his small, dark office. Maria complained that her assistant’s desk was in a lighter, brighter spot than his desk, but he didn’t really mind. Dark could be comforting. As he’d managed to discard more and more of his teaching duties in favor of his research and publishing, this dark cave had become his sanctuary. Read more. Talk less. He set the briefcase beside the desk and pulled his laptop from it. His baby. Carefully, he placed it on his batt
ered desk and plugged it in, then walked quickly back out the door. “K-keep an eye—”
“No worries, boss. I got this.” She grinned, and he returned it. What a great find she was—efficient, brilliant, talented, and so blatantly on his side it was almost embarrassing. Almost. He seldom thought to do anything for himself—well, not counting Ramon—but he’d hired Maria as a rebellious act of self-expression.
“S-s-see—”
She just flashed her dimples, an expression that said I’ll sit here and listen to whatever you have to say no matter how long it takes, and I’m always three steps ahead.
He smiled and double-timed out the door. If he had to talk slowly, at least he could walk fast.
Skirting through the long dark halls of the old building, he passed several colleagues. This floor housed mostly professors’ offices and some of their staff, no classrooms. Professor Dingleton, the only man on earth who could make French history boring and unromantic according to Maria, nodded officiously. “Lewis.”
Llewellyn nodded back and kept walking. Around the corner lay “Mahogany Row,” the sought-after offices of the department’s crème de la crème. Llewellyn could have claimed one of those spaces by right of his research credentials, but all that exposure made him itch.
He stepped two offices down and tapped on the door of Professor Abraham “Don’t call me Abe” Van Pelt, head of the history department.
“Come.” Professor Van Pelt had definitely learned that response in a movie.
Llewellyn opened the door. “S-sir.”
“Come in, Dr. Lewis.” He gestured to one of the aggressively masculine leather chairs in front of his desk. Professor Van Pelt’s accoutrements—the chairs that matched the leather patches on his jacket elbows, the pipe he never lit, the wainscoting and wooden ducks that hadn’t been used in decorating since 1850—spoke more of who the good doctor would like to be than who the short, portly, balding man actually was.
Llewellyn sat. It made him secretly smile that Dr. Van Pelt jacked up his chair until the edge of the desk must have cut into his thighs and sat his guests in very low seats, making their heights closer to equal. Of course, it was hard to offset Llewellyn’s gangly six-foot-one frame. He didn’t speak. His stutter made Van Pelt nervous.