by Tara Lain
Blaise nodded. “Good to see you, sir.” He walked away with Anne practically pulling him. They exited into the lobby, and Blaise escorted her to the elevator, then stopped.
She sighed. “Thank you. That man annoys the hell out of me. In fact, I find academics rather hard to take across the board.”
“And yet you want a building on a university campus to be renamed for Edward de Vere.” He grinned to soften his incredulity.
“Yes, that was my father’s wish. He really wanted the legitimacy academic recognition would give.” She released a long stream of breath between her lips. “But you and Llewellyn are academics, so I shouldn’t tar the whole profession with the same brush.”
Blaise leaned against the granite wall and cocked his arms. “In truth, while Llewellyn’s a researcher, I’m just a grad student, right? I’m still making up my mind what I want to do, and teaching may not be it.”
“Oh? What else would you do?”
He shrugged, though he didn’t feel quite as casual. “Maybe write ad copy or be a journalist. Who knows?”
“Well, that would be academia’s loss.” She put a warm hand on his arm. “Sorry I wrecked your date.”
“No worries. You didn’t.” Not exactly.
She pushed the elevator button.
He said, “By the way. You mentioned that what you have is a copy of the de Vere original documents your father might have seen.”
“Yes.”
“But what you gave Llewellyn is a copy of your copy, right?”
The elevator door slid open, and two people walked off. Anne took a step into the elevator and turned. “Oh no. I gave him my copy. To reproduce it again would make it almost unreadable. Besides, who could be more responsible than Llewellyn?”
The door slid closed on Blaise’s openmouthed expression.
LLEWELLYN WALKED down Higuera Street, sipping on his tea latte carefully since it was still hot. He’d sat up for hours after Anne left the previous night and he’d received that bizarre phone call. He’d wanted to call Anne and confront her, but what would she say? Of course, that she was right and her sister was an idiot.
Instead of calling her, he’d pored over the document Anne gave him, attempting to make sense of it—the whole time trying not to hope Blaise would come back. Stupid. Of course Blaise didn’t return, suggesting that his intentions toward Llewellyn might be something other than lust. Maybe.
Oh crap, why can’t I just go back to my quiet research and stop all this nonsense?
“Lew-Lew. Llewellyn.”
He turned toward the voice behind him and found Lizzie striding toward him, carrying a large thermos. “H-hey.”
She thrust the thermos toward him. “I couldn’t get over how tired and upset you were when you got your tea. I thought you needed some more to tide you over.”
“Th-thank you.” He stared at the giant thermos, and heat pressed behind his eyes at her kindness. “S-so nice of y-you.”
“No worries, Doc.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve had a few people ask about you in the last day or so.”
He frowned. “R-really? Who?”
“One was that guy I saw you with yesterday. The kind of cute one? He came by this morning and asked if you’d been at the shop. Then he left. Didn’t even buy anything. What can you expect from a coffee drinker?” She snorted. “Then there was some other guy who at least bought tea, and there was some red-haired woman. It’s weird. In the years I’ve known you, I don’t remember anybody asking about you and then, bam.”
“N-not sure which f-fact’s m-more disturbing.” He gave her a snarky grin. Hopefully he didn’t show how damned much that news upset him. Probably the woman was Anne. The guy? Was it Blaise? Why would they ask about him at a tea shop? “Th-thank you again.”
“My pleasure, sweetie. Bring back the thermos whenever.” She gave him a wink, turned, and walked away with her sturdy stride.
He linked the thermos on the second finger of his left hand and headed for home, sipping his tea a bit more luxuriously since he knew there was more where that came from.
Why would Anne go to Jazzie Tea? How does she even know it exists or, more pertinently, that I go there? I need to be a private detective, not a researcher.
He turned on his street and tried to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face before he went back into his cave and stared at a computer screen all day, trying to find some source for the document Anne had given him. It couldn’t just appear in her hands with no one in the past having seen it. There had to be records somewhere—if it was real, of course.
He walked up to the porch, half expecting to see Carmen Echevarria. Oddly, after her big play, he hadn’t heard from the Echevarrias. Not as if he needed any more lobbyists.
He slipped the key into the lock, opened the door, and got met by the usual carpet of meowing fur. “H-hi, my furries.” He held up his thermos. “I’m s-sorry. I got something for me, but n-nothing for you this t-time.” He knelt, set the thermos on the floor, and started his official petting duties. Julius rubbed and Marie Antoinette took a dive for his lap—just as the slam of metal against his head shot pain through his body and everything went black.
Chapter Ten
“LLEWELLYN. MY God. Llewellyn, what happened?”
Oh man, head hurts. Llewellyn tried to open his eyes. Stop. Bad idea. Light flashed like a strobe in his brain. Felt more like an ice pick. He squeezed his eyes shut again.
“Mew.”
“Emily, get over here. Julius, inside the house. Shit! Marie.” The voice came from somewhere above Llewellyn.
“B-Blaise?”
“Llewellyn, don’t move. I’m calling 911.” The sound of scrambling and scuffling. “Marie, goddammit. Get back here.”
“Wait. D-don’t need an ambulance.”
“Yes, you do. Marie. Get over here.”
Llewellyn tried to laugh. “Sh-she’ll never come if you ch-chase her.”
Blaise’s voice got closer. “Just like a goddamn female.”
“P-person.”
“What?”
“N-not just f-female.”
“True.” Soft hands touched Llewellyn’s face and his head. “What happened? Did you faint? Slip? When I got here, you were lying there, and I thought you were dead.” His soft lips pressed against Llewellyn’s forehead. “I need to call an ambulance because there could be something really wrong. Maybe you passed out. Maybe—”
Llewellyn slid a hand over Blaise’s where it rested on his cheek. “H-hit.”
“What?”
“Somebody hit m-me.” He struggled up onto his forearm. “From behind.”
Blaise slid his knee under Llewellyn’s head. “Wait. Stop moving so fast.” His cool palm caressed Llewellyn’s forehead. “Just lie here for a minute while we assess the damage, okay?”
Llewellyn closed his eyes and sighed. Maybe just for a minute. No one ever took care of him. His brain whispered, Whose fault is that?
Blaise’s fingers began to explore his head, sifting through his hair. “So you think you were hit? By whom?”
“N-no idea. I-I was petting the c-cats.”
“Any chance you could have fallen and banged your head on the edge of the door?”
Well, damn. “N-no.” He rolled his head to the side and managed to pull himself to sitting. “I’m n-not an idiot.”
“Of course not.” His hands on Llewellyn’s back didn’t feel quite as nurturing in light of his dismissal. “It’s just that when you black out, it’s sometimes hard to keep track of events.”
“Th-thanks for the d-diagnosis.” He got his feet under him and slowly rose.
“Why would someone hit you?”
“N-no idea.” Although after the phone call, maybe he had a clue. He looked at the two cats inside the entry, then glanced at Marie, who sat halfway across the lawn, staring at him challengingly. “S-stay there. I don’t give a d-damn.” He glanced at Blaise, who still knelt on the porch, and let th
e command include him. With as much cool as he could muster, he turned and walked inside, pushing the door closed behind him.
He moved slowly across the entry, into the living room, and made it to the couch, where he flopped down. Should call the police. Of course, they’d be even more skeptical than Blaise. Stuttering nerd of a professor saying he got struck from behind for no reason whatsoever. Right.
“Merwaow.” Julius swaggered across the floor and jumped up beside Llewellyn, butting against his hand for a pet.
“Y-you’re pretty c-cocky without Marie, aren’t y-you?” He stroked his orange fur.
“Merwawwr.”
“Y-yes, I know. I have to let her b-back in even though she’s acting like a p-pill.” The door looked a mile away. “Y-you open it.”
“Mewow.”
After one more chuck under Julius’s chin, he stood, staggered to the door, and opened it. Okay, seriously cute. Blaise sat on the top step of the porch, his back to Llewellyn, with a white fluffy tail hanging off the side of his lap. The movement of his arm suggested serious petting going on.
“W-want to c-come in?”
Blaise didn’t even turn around. He just stood, fluffy tail rising with him, turned with Marie in his arms, and walked in the door. When he got to the couch, he sat, still stroking Marie. She stared at Llewellyn like, So there.
Llewellyn just wanted to sit back down before he fell down. He made it to the chair and sat, which gave him a different perspective on the room. What he needed was a new perspective on life. Wish I had some tea. He glanced around for the thermos Lizzie had given him. Maybe still in the entry. Hell, is it cold? How long has it been since I opened the door and—
He froze, his eyes glued to the coffee table. No.
Like his head was on a swivel, he stared around the room.
“What’s wrong?” Blaise sounded kind of annoyed. Him and Marie.
Llewellyn pressed a hand to his chest. “The b-binder from Anne. It’s g-gone.”
“What do you mean?”
Llewellyn rose. “G-gone. It was there.” He pointed at the table where he’d been studying it the previous night. The night Blaise hadn’t come back. The night weird strangers had threatened him.
Llewellyn rushed around the room, his head throbbing and his gut in a ball of sick. Nowhere. It wasn’t there. He faced Blaise. “S-someone took it. Whoever h-hit me. Robbed.”
“Good God, why? Who’d want it, besides you and Anne?”
Llewellyn shook his head. “Who—who even knew it existed?”
“Shall I call the police?”
Should he? Sweet Jesus, he was knocked out and robbed. “D-do you think they’ll p-pay attention? I have a big lump, but I c-can’t p-prove I was hit. They could think I fell.” He frowned. “Like y-you did.” He wiped a hand over his neck. “And there’s no v-value to a copy of a c-copy of an obscure d-document. W-will the p-police care? Will they even b-believe me?” He looked up at Blaise, who stared at Llewellyn with a weird expression. “Wh-what?”
“I hate to tell you this, but—” He exhaled noisily. “That wasn’t a copy of a copy. I think it was Anne’s only copy.”
His stomach leaped into his throat. “N-no. She n-never told me.”
“When I was taking her home, she said something that made me worry, so I asked her. She said, ‘Where could it be safer than with Llewellyn?’ But if she wanted to be sure it was safe, she should have told you. I assumed she had, or I would have called you.”
“Wh-when would she h-have told me? You w-were here.” Llewellyn’s hands actually shook, and his voice rose. Anne’s priceless family artifact. Gone.
“I don’t know.” Blaise locked his hands behind his neck. “I didn’t think. I just—”
“I guess we sh-should call the police.” He sighed. “B-but f-first I should c-call Anne.”
Blaise stood and waved a hand at the couch. “You lie down and let me take care of it, okay? Come on. You might have a concussion.”
“N-no.”
Blaise frowned.
“I-I mean, n-no concussion. I will lie d-down.”
As soon as he was horizontal, Marie jumped on his chest and the other two bracketed him, all purring loudly. Drifting through the vibration and the warmth, he vaguely heard Blaise saying, “Anne, I know this is hard to believe, but someone hit Llewellyn on the head and stole the manuscript.”
Yes, they certainly did. He drifted off.
THE DETECTIVE leaned forward in Llewellyn’s comfortable living room chair. “Ms. de Vere, why is this document so valuable?”
“It’s my only copy.” It came out as a wail.
“That’s not what I’m asking. Who would want to hit Dr. Lewis on the head in order to steal this photocopy you describe? Who would want it?”
“Many, many people.” She was practically crying.
Blaise said, “The document provides evidence that an English nobleman might have been the real Shakespeare. It’s a claim that people have been trying to prove for years. As I understand it, this document isn’t definitive since it’s a photocopy and its authenticity is hard to prove, but it does take a step toward establishing the connection between the Earl of Oxford and Shakespeare.”
The detective, whose name was Holiday, wrinkled his nose. “Excuse me, but who cares?”
Anne’s head snapped up. “Who cares? Dear God, it’s one of the greatest mysteries of all time. The person who proves Shakespeare’s real identity will be renowned and respected.”
“But Dr. Lewis is the one trying to prove it, and he didn’t hit himself on the head.” He gave Llewellyn a look that definitely questioned the whole head-hitting thing. The police had brought an EMT, who had verified Llewellyn had a lump, but it was impossible to establish how he acquired it.
Blaise cleared his throat. “Uh, Detective, Ms. de Vere has offered five million dollars to Middlemark University if Dr. Lewis, or anyone, I suppose, is able to prove that de Vere is Shakespeare.”
“Holy shit. Uh, excuse me.”
“Exactly.” Blaise nodded. “That’s enough for somebody to do some head hitting.”
“But who benefits from it not being proven?”
Blaise shrugged.
Llewellyn took a breath. “Y-yes, that is the b-big question. I haven’t h-had a chance to t-tell Anne, but her sister called me l-last night and said the rest of the f-family doesn’t want the research to g-go forward. Sh-she was very upset.”
Anne huffed. “Damn. My sister’s an idiot. All my siblings are. And they have no say, since my father left money specifically for this purpose and put me in charge of it.” She looked at Llewellyn. “So whatever she told you is hogwash.”
Holiday wiped a hand over his forehead like he’d never heard a stupider case. “Still, by stealing the document you had, somebody’s assuring this research doesn’t continue, so I guess they’re successful.”
Llewellyn shook his head. “F-fortunately, I-I did read it all.” He pointed at his temple. “Very g-good memory.”
The detective shrugged. “But your memory isn’t proof.”
“The document isn’t p-proof. Must f-find the original.”
The detective stood. “I’ve got to be honest. This is kind of an obscure case for our little police department. The object of the theft could be easily destroyed by one good match. Aside from Ms. de Vere’s offer, which certainly can’t be collected by most people, it’s hard to see who gains. If it was stolen by your relatives, it’s really a family matter or a question for an estate lawyer, not the police. I’m afraid we could invest a lot of time and get no results and, well, we have bad guys to catch. I’ll file a report on the possible assault, and aside from that if you learn anything more, feel free to call me.”
Moments later he was gone.
Llewellyn, Anne, and Blaise sat in silence. Finally Llewellyn said, “I-I’m so sorry.”
Anne glared at him. “How could you leave it just out in the open where anyone could find it?”
“I-I—�
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Blaise lifted his head. “Be fair, Anne. You never told Llewellyn this was your only copy, and who would ever dream that anyone gave a shit, anyway? You didn’t even come clean about your family. Plus, he left it in his own living room. Not exactly a thoroughfare.” He got up and stalked across the room to where Marie Antoinette sat on the window seat, looking out onto the porch. He stroked her fur like it calmed him down. It probably did. “I know there’s a lot of money at stake, but who’d actually attack someone to get an obscure historical document?”
She stood. “I have to go. I’m just too upset to deal with this right now.”
Blaise glanced at Llewellyn, then at Anne. “Do you need a ride?”
“Okay.” She marched to the door, not looking back.
Blaise stood also, but Llewellyn stayed in his chair. Blaise murmured, “Can I come back?”
Llewellyn shrugged. “If y-you want.”
For a second Blaise gazed at Llewellyn’s face, then turned and followed Anne out the door.
In the quiet, Llewellyn leaned his head back on the cushions of the chair and took a breath. He had three cats on and around him in seconds. Marie crawled as high on his chest as she could get, ending up with her head over his heart. He petted her idly.
So Blaise is coming back. How do I feel about that? A warmth in his nether regions certainly communicated how his body felt about it. But no matter how much he might crave some more of those kisses, it was hard to forget a couple of facts. Except maybe for Anne’s sister, Blaise Arthur was the only other person he was aware of who knew he had the Oxford document, and Blaise was the one who was there when Llewellyn woke up.
BLAISE PARKED two blocks from Llewellyn’s house and clicked off the ignition so his call transferred from the car system to his phone. “Yeah, there’s a lot going on. More than I thought. Even if I could get the first story wrapped up soon, which seems unlikely, I have to see what else happens.”
“Don’t take forever.” His mother’s voice growled, but he knew she loved him.
“I won’t. But trust me, this is great stuff.”