by Tara Lain
LLEWELLYN SAT in the hard-backed chair and tried not to stare at the mirror that covered one wall. Knowing someone was likely behind it watching might be creepy, but not as much as staring at his own nerdy plainness. He’d been alone since he got there about fifteen minutes before.
The door opened, and Holiday walked in with a plain woman with short hair, wearing a dark blue pantsuit and carrying a file folder. Llewellyn stood.
Holiday said, “Dr. Lewis, this is CJ Muller.”
“How do you do?” Llewellyn stared at his hands, then forced himself to look back.
She nodded. “Do fine, thanks. Sit.”
He sat. They pulled out the chairs across from him. Muller opened the folder. “May I ask the nature of your relationship with Blaise Arthur?”
Holiday looked up. “By the way, you don’t have to tell us unless you want to.”
“Are y-you reading me my rights?” He managed to say it like he wasn’t about to have a heart attack.
Holiday shook his head. “Not at all, Dr. Lewis. You’re not under arrest. You’re simply a person who has had the closest contact with our suspect.”
Muller muttered, “You’re not under arrest—yet.”
Holiday gave her a look, then turned back with a smile. “Your relationship?”
“W-we met recently. We’ve b-become fr-friends.”
“With benefits?” Muller practically sneered.
Asshole. He stared right at her. “Y-yes.”
She looked shocked that he admitted it, and Holiday seemed ready to laugh. “The night of the murder, you’ve told me that Blaise Arthur was with you—all night as far as you knew at the time. We later discovered from Mr. Arthur himself that he left in the middle of the night to return to his apartment.”
“Y-yes. He told me.”
“Does Mr. Arthur have a key to your office?”
Llewellyn’s head snapped up. “W-what? No.”
Holiday and Muller glanced at each other.
Muller looked at Llewellyn. “Who did Mr. Arthur tell you he was?”
Llewellyn frowned. “H-he’s a t-teaching assistant for the English d-department.”
“He’s never told you of other interests?” Holiday flipped a page in his notebook.
“H-he says he might not w-want to stay in English teaching, but he’s y-young.”
“Yes, well, so are you.”
“B-Blaise had n-no reason to k-kill Anne.”
Muller raised a graying eyebrow. “Are you sure of that?”
Was he? “Y-yes. H-have you investigated her b-brother and sisters? They w-were very angry sh-she was spending the m-money.”
“They have alibis for the time of the murder.”
He shook his head. He wanted to blurt out about the Echevarrias and George Stanley, but he couldn’t bear to get them in trouble when he had no real evidence—just suspicions.
Muller looked up from her file. “You say Arthur had no reason to kill Anne de Vere. What if he wanted a really good story?”
“St-story?”
Holiday gave Muller another firm look, then turned to Llewellyn. “Dr. Lewis, are you aware that Mr. Arthur is a journalist?”
“N-n-no.” Everything in his chest sank to his knees.
“Yes, for a publication called the Daily Phoenix.”
Cold. Cold hands. Cold heart.
Muller looked up sharply. “Dr. Lewis, are you Ramon Rondell?”
His belly flipped, heart hammered against his chest, and getting breath seemed impossible.
Holiday held up a hand. “For the moment you don’t need to answer that. But it appears that Mr. Arthur was assigned by his editor, who happens to be his mother, to prove that you’re Ramon Rondell.”
The pizza pushed against his throat for exit, and he breathed deeply. “B-but that has nothing to d-do with Anne de Vere. S-surely that’s n-not reason to ch-charge him with mur-murder.” Jesus, why was he defending Blaise? It seemed like Blaise had lied to him every moment they were together. His inner voice screamed Told you so!
Holiday sighed. “No. We have evidence that Arthur was inside your office the night Anne de Vere was killed. We’ve spoken to your assistant, and she’s told us Mr. Arthur was never inside your private office to her knowledge.”
“H-he might h-have been.” Think, damn it. Was Blaise ever in the office? Dear God, why would he be in my office at the same time as Anne de Vere?
“If you remember such an occasion, please tell us.”
Muller said, “Since you and Mr. Arthur are such good friends”—her voice reeked with suspicion—“wouldn’t you assume he’d try not to let you know about his actual identity and that he was investigating you for his publication?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Isn’t it logical he’d try to hide it?”
“N-not enough to k-kill someone.” He sounded desperate even to his own ears.
Holiday pushed back from the table. “That’s all for now, Dr. Lewis. Thank you for your cooperation. If you have to leave town, please let us know.”
Llewellyn stood. Just get outside before you fall apart.
Holiday led him to the elevator. “If you remember additional details about your interactions with Blaise Arthur, or anything else you think is pertinent, please call me.” He handed Llewellyn another of his cards. Llewellyn shoved it in his pocket. Keep it together.
The elevator dinged, and both he and Holiday turned to face it. The doors opened.
No.
There she was. A woman he’d only seen in print and online but he’d learned to hate and fear. Octavia Otto stood in the elevator between two men in suits. She started to exit past him, looked up, and seemed to register his face. Her eyebrows rose, her mouth opened, a red flush spread across her cheeks, and she shrieked, “You bastard! You did this. If he’d never met you, he wouldn’t be in this mess right now.” She reached back a hand and swung it forward in a huge arc toward Llewellyn’s face.
Llewellyn grabbed her wrist in midflight. No. “S-stop.” No one would ever slap him again.
She wrenched her arm back, but he didn’t let go.
Holiday glanced at Llewellyn with surprise in his gaze, but he reached up and took her arm from Llewellyn’s grasp, gently but firmly, and held it. “Ma’am, it might be good to remember that your son wouldn’t have been here at all if you hadn’t sent him.”
“Go to hell.” She tugged back on her wrist, her teeth bared. Her companions pulled her away, and Holiday let her arm go.
He nodded toward the same room Llewellyn had been in. “Please take a seat. I’ll be there shortly.”
The two men half dragged Octavia Otto, or whatever her real name was, down the hall.
Holiday said, “Sorry. She’s obviously upset about her son.”
“Y-yes.”
“I think you are too.”
Llewellyn said nothing. Even Octavia Otto couldn’t blame him more than he blamed himself. He stepped into the elevator. Holiday gave him a light slap on the shoulder, which was kind of nice, and he rode down to the lobby of the police station. The doors opened, and Maria rose from the chair she’d been sitting in. She smiled, but it barely covered her concern. It only took a glance to see why. Outside the doors of the police station, TV vans and a group of reporters gathered.
Maria hurried to his side and led him into an area where the reporters couldn’t see him. She pointed down the hall. “There’s a side entrance. I have my car there, and the police said I can use that door to get you out.”
He slumped against the wall. “If I w-wasn’t gay, I’d m-marry you.”
She grinned. “If you weren’t gay, I’d consider taking you up on it. Come on.”
Against all odds, they made it out the side door, into the back of the parking lot where a bunch of police cars were gathered, and into Maria’s Honda. She started it and said, “Duck down.”
He complied, though it reminded him too much of being with Blaise in San Francisco. After a few minutes of intense
staring through the windshield by Maria, she glanced down at him. “Coast’s clear, I think.”
He unfolded himself from the seat well, remembering what Blaise had said about his bravery.
“We’ll have to sneak into your house. I’ll bet there’s press waiting.”
“L-let’s go to the English d-department.”
“Hoo yeah. Are we taking on Stanley?”
He nodded. “Yes. And anybody else w-we can f-find.”
The rode quietly for a minute; then Maria said, “I heard more about how Blaise Arthur isn’t who he says he is. I figure that’s pretty crappy for you. So what’s our goal at the English department?”
Llewellyn took a deep breath. Act now, process later. “J-just because he’s a lying son of a b-bitch doesn’t make him guilty of m-murder.” He meant the bitch part literally.
“Oooohkay. So we’re still on the case. Cool.”
“N-no. I need you to stay out of h-harm’s way.”
“Hey, thanks, but I’m really good at snooping, and I promise to be careful.”
“Th-this isn’t a g-game. Anne is really dead.”
“Hey, boss, I’m taking this seriously. I feel really bad for her, not just because she’s dead, but because we don’t get to prove de Vere was Shakespeare, and I was looking forward to that.”
“This c-could be d-dangerous, Maria.”
“I know, but why’s it okay for you to put yourself in danger and not me? Because I’m female? Come on.”
Was that the reason? “N-no. Because you have y-your whole life ahead, and this isn’t y-your fight.”
“Why?”
“W-what?”
“Why isn’t it my fight too? Hell, boss, I’m only a few years younger than you. You have your whole life ahead, just like me. I’m your research assistant. I have a stake in this. I want to help.” She looked at him, then back at the road.
Well, hell. “I-I apologize. I w-was being dismissive.”
“Nah. You just love me.”
He snorted. “T-true.”
She drove toward the parking lot of the English building. “Get down.” He slid back into his favorite pretzel position. She murmured, “There’s press in front of the department.” The car turned a couple of times and then stopped. “Okay. We’re in the side lot. You should be good.”
He unfolded onto the seat—do not think—and opened the car door. Walking quickly, they crossed into the building. Inside, Maria stopped him. “What’s the plan?”
“I’m g-going to see G-george.”
“Okay. I’m going to go snoop in the coffee room. How long shall I give you?”
“H-half an hour, but he m-may not be there.”
“I’ll come out and check in a few minutes, just in case.”
While Maria turned down the hall to the right, Llewellyn walked up the stairs. He stopped at a directory on the wall, then followed a line of offices down a long hall. Close to the end of the row, a small sign outside a door said Dr. George Stanley.
Chapter Nineteen
LLEWELLYN TOOK a breath and stepped inside George’s office. A cute young guy looked up from his desk. “Hi. Hey, you’re that guy, right? The Shakespeare guy? The murder?”
Was this twink real? “I’m Dr. Llewellyn L-Lewis. Is Dr. St-Stanley in?”
“Oh yeah, sure.” He bounced up from the desk and sashayed to the closed inner office door, which he opened without knocking. “Hey, George, a guy’s here to see you. Uh, Lewis, right?” He grinned at Llewellyn.
George appeared in the open doorway. “Llewellyn, come in. Oh my God, I’m so glad to see you. Do you want coffee? I mean tea?” He looked at the kid. “Do we have any, Harvey? Tea?”
“Oh, nah. Too pansy-assed. Just coffee.”
George gave Llewellyn an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. Come on in.” Llewellyn followed George into the office, and he closed the door. “Please sit.” He walked behind his desk and took the chair. “I was so shocked to hear about Anne de Vere. My God, to quote Ibsen, people don’t do such things.”
“Anne didn’t—”
He waved a hand. “I mean, whoever killed her. Unimaginable. Things like that don’t happen at Middlemark.” He held the bridge of his nose. “I hear Blaise Arthur did it. My God. To think he and I were colleagues.” He dropped his hand to his desk. “Shocking. Just shocking.”
“I d-don’t think B-Blaise had a reason.”
He sprang forward in his chair. “But he was arrested!”
“I th-think they’re wrong.”
“But they must have had a reason to arrest him.”
“You know him a little. D-do you think he c-could kill someone?”
“I don’t know.” He stared at his hands. “If he didn’t do it, that could make it random, and that’s terribly frightening now, isn’t it?” He slumped. “I mean, if it’s random, any of us could be next.” He looked genuinely freaked, which was reassuringly interesting.
“M-may I ask you a p-personal question?”
He sucked a breath and managed to curve a quirky smile. “Yes, I did hire Harvey for his cute ass and yes, I am an idiot.”
Llewellyn barked a laugh. “N-no. H-he’s the idiot.” He inhaled. “I w-wondered if you’re related to William St-Stanley, sixth Earl of Derby?”
His eyes widened. “Wow, you guessed that. I actually only found out a short time ago. I mean, what are the chances that two people related to famous ancestors who could have been Shakespeare would wind up at the same table at dinner?”
“Yes, j-just amazing.” Amazing unless it was planned. Llewellyn kept staring at him.
George readjusted his mouse on his desk, then frowned and glanced up. “Wait, you don’t think that I was trying to talk you out of taking the de Vere case because I want Stanley to be Shakespeare, do you?”
Llewellyn shrugged. “N-not much reason to think St-Stanley was Shakespeare.”
“No. As I told you, I think Shakespeare was Shakespeare, and most experts agree with me.” He fiddled with the mouse again. “But I do think there’s as much reason to think Stanley was Shakespeare as to believe de Vere was.”
“Not really. And s-so far as I know, no one has been k-killed for believing St-Stanley was Shakespeare.”
He frowned. “So you do think she was killed because of what she wanted to prove?”
“I th-think she could have been killed for f-five million d-dollars.”
“Oh, right.”
Llewellyn hunched his shoulders and dropped them. “B-but it was m-more likely r-random.” He gazed at George.
George literally shuddered, waving his hands in front of him like he was brushing away attackers. “This is really awful. I don’t know whether to hope Blaise did it or not.”
“If h-he did do it, what would y-you think is the reason? I mean, y-you know him f-fairly well.”
He shrugged. “Maybe she found out something about him that he wanted to hide.”
“Like w-what?”
“Don’t know, but the rumors around campus say he’s not who we think.”
Llewellyn stood. “I h-have to go.”
He looked surprised. “So you just wanted to ask me that? About Stanley?”
“I w-wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“Oh, uh, thanks.”
Llewellyn walked to the door.
George’s voice sounded flat. “You’re defending Arthur. You don’t think I killed her, do you? Because I can prove where I was.”
Llewellyn turned and gazed at George’s drawn, frightened face. “N-no. No, I d-don’t think you killed her.” But he wished he did.
Llewellyn walked past the idiot twink and down the stairs to the building entrance. Maria stood beside the door, scrolling through her phone. She looked up and smiled. “The hounds don’t seem to have tracked us down yet, so let’s run.”
They hurried out the door and to the car. As soon as they drove out of the lot, she said, “So?”
“So, he’s s-scared to d-death and I d-don’t think he d-
did it. He s-says he has an alibi, anyway.”
“Damn. That would have been easy. So, people are talking about Blaise being Octavia Otto’s son. Apparently the press spotted her going into the police station, and she was shooting off her mouth. Did you know that?” She glanced at him.
He nodded. “Not about the p-press, but I knew about Oc-Octavia. She came to the p-police station when I was there. She b-blames me.”
“You didn’t tell me that before.”
“I know.” He sighed audibly. “She sent h-him here. He works for h-her.”
“On the Daily Phoenix?”
He nodded.
“Did she send him to investigate the Shakespearean case?”
“I d-don’t know how that’s possible. He was here before Anne. Or about the s-same time.”
“Maybe Otto got wind of it before Anne came here?”
“M-maybe. S-seems unlikely.” He stared out the window at the trees that lined his neighborhood’s streets.
“Hell, who’d ever dream someone would kill a person over the question of Shakespeare’s identity?”
She pulled to the curb on the street behind his house. Should he tell her? Hell, she’d find out soon anyway. “B-Blaise was here to p-prove that I’m R-Ramon Rondell.” Quiet. He looked up, and she gazed at him with an unreadable expression. “What?”
“I’ve wondered if there was truth to the stories.”
“W-what was y-your conclusion?”
She cocked her head. “Most people think it’s too ridiculous. How could shy, inarticulate Llewellyn Lewis be the gay blade, Ramon Rondell? But I decided it might well be true.” She chuckled. “There’s way more fire in you than most people see. You’re more of a rebel. And I’ve read some of Rondell’s pieces, and they’re good. Sensational, yes, but also well researched and reasoned.” She chewed her lower lip. “But it’s truly crappy that Blaise came here to prove that.” She looked up. “And you don’t ever have to tell me if it’s true. Seriously, I’d rather guess.” She smiled, though it mostly reflected compassion. “Get some rest. I’ll call you if I hear anything important. Will you be at school tomorrow?”