by Josh Lanyon
I stepped closer, and as I did, I spied movement out of the corner of my eye.
Something rose up from the shade of a tall urn. My heart stuttered in fright and tried to crawl out through my ribcage. My first horrible suspicion was that Jerry Knight was sneaking around my backyard. That was followed by the more horrible—and more likely suspicion—that Beck Ladas had returned.
But a girl’s voice exclaimed, “Oh! You startled me.” She sounded both shaken and mildly outraged.
I quit clutching my chest and glared, though it’s hard to glare effectively in the dark. “I startled you? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Astonishingly, she shot back, “You’d have to have a heart for that.”
“Excuse me?” I knew that voice. I peered more closely at her. She stared warily back. “You’re that reporter. Something Nightingale from KAKE.”
I could see her chin lift defiantly. “Yes. Sydney Nightingale.”
“Ms. Nightingale, what the hell are you doing skulking in my backyard? What part of no comment do you not get?”
“All of it,” she said impatiently. “I’m only asking for a few words. What’s so hard about that? Why are you being so mysterious?”
“I’m not being mysterious. I don’t like being hounded.”
“Hounded! Well, if you weren’t acting like you had something to hide—”
“Wait a minute. The fact that you’re crawling around in my backyard is my fault?”
“Kind of! Yes. My editor sent me out here for a story. All I need are the answers to a few simple questions. And maybe a photo of the crime scene.”
“Go.” I pointed like Death in a Bergman film to the street beyond. “Leave. Now.”
I would have to work on my silent menace because she didn’t so much as waver. Like a good general, she did change tactics. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry I said you were hiding something. And I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Honestly. But you don’t understand how it is for me. For any woman journalist these days. We’ve got to comp—”
“I feel for you, Nellie Bly,” I interrupted. “But there’s no story here.”
“You found a body in your basement. How can there not be a story there? Even if you weren’t a famous crime writer, there’s a story.”
Famous crime writer. I tried not to soften. Anyway, she probably had me confused with J.X.
“I’m just looking for a little human interest angle, that’s all. How can you be a writer and not want publicity for your books?”
Oh, touché. Or ouché. I could practically see Rachel’s scolding image materializing behind her, taking me to task for missing this golden opportunity to promote myself and my work.
“Because this is the wrong kind of publicity,” I said to both Rachel and Sydney.
Sydney shot that feeble protest down like someone picking off pop-up ducks in a shooting gallery. “There’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Believe me, I’ve covered enough of people’s embarrassing moments to know. You’re a mystery writer involved in a real life mystery. That’s great publicity.”
“I’m not involved in a mystery,” I protested. “I found a body. That’s not the same thing. I didn’t know him. I have no connection to him. He just happened to end up in my house. Which was unfortunate for both of us.”
“Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.” She held out a card.
I stared at the pale square for a moment. The crescent moon slipped shyly behind the pewter-edged clouds and there was only darkness and silence. And the gurgle of the pool pump.
Reluctantly, I took the card. “I’ll think about it.”
Her smile glimmered. “You won’t regret it, Mr. Holmes.”
I said gloomily, “Sydney, they all say that.”
Chapter Eight
“…worry about that. Just call when you—”
J.X. was leaving a message on the answering machine when I came through the breakfast nook doors, and I knocked over a kitchen chair in my haste to get to the phone before he hung up. I’d have been willing to crawl across the dining room table after our last round of phone tag.
I snatched the receiver off the hook. “Here! I’m here!” I gulped. “It’s me. Present and accounted for.”
“Hey! I thought I’d missed you.” J.X.’s voice was warm and cheerful. “Sorry for not calling earlier. It seems like every time I start to phone you, there’s some interruption.”
“I know how that goes,” I said. And I sort of did.
“How’s everything there?”
I said at the same time, “I guess congratulations are in order?”
“Oh.” His laugh was a little strained. “I didn’t win.”
“What? Those bastards.” I was only half kidding. I actually did feel an unfamiliar surge of protective anger on J.X.’s part. “Who won?”
“Crais.”
“Oh.” It was hard to get too riled up because, well, Robert Crais. But still. I said, “Good. I’m still a couple of awards ahead then. That’s a relief.”
He joked, “How is it you always know to say the right thing?”
“My next project will be a book on etiquette for writers. I believe Rachel is selling Swedish translation rights this very minute.”
J.X. made an amused sound. But he sounded serious when he said, “I wish you were here.”
I was surprised by how much I wished I was there too. Not that he really needed me there, but if it would have helped? Yes. Because he was disappointed. I knew him well enough now to hear that infinitesimal huskiness in his voice.
An idea flashed across the arid landscape of my brain. “Hey, what if I drive down to L.A. and meet you for your signing at Cloak and Dagger? We could come back together. Kind of a mini road trip.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I am. Would you like that? Can you get your plane ticket changed?”
“I don’t care if I can change it or not. Hell yeah, I’d like that. But are you sure? You just made that drive a couple of days ago.”
My back winced in anticipation of another nine hours behind the steering wheel. “I know. Crazy, right? I guess I miss you or something.”
He made a sound. Not exactly a laugh. More like…I don’t know. Like I had caught him off guard. It was such a small sound, but somehow revealing. It actually closed my own throat for a second. Did it mean that much to him?
“Well, if you’re really willing to do that, I’ll book us a room somewhere nice for Monday night. Adrien invited me out to dinner after the signing. I know he’d love you to come.”
“Sure. That sounds fine. I remember Adrien.” Who didn’t remember Adrien English after the thing with Paul Kane? Not that it was an isolated incident. Crime writers experienced their share of violence like everybody else. Sometimes they were the victims. Sometimes, like Anne Perry or Richard Klinkhamer, not. The only difference was, for us crime was just work experience. Grist for the mill.
J.X. said wryly, “You’re sure this isn’t all a clever ruse to sneak back into Southern California?”
“Nope. I mean, yep. I’m sure.”
“How are you? Is everything okay?”
I opened my mouth to tell him about last night’s intruder, but it was just going to worry him. It wasn’t like he could do anything. “I’m fine. The house is fine. The bed is set up and rarin’ to go.”
He said in a deep, sexy voice, “I like the sound of that.”
I did too. But there was no point in getting ourselves worked up. “It’s a beautiful house,” I said instead. “I don’t think I made that clear. But I know you tried hard to find the right place and I think this is it.”
His laugh was a little self-conscious. “Now I know you feel sorry for me not winning.”
I laughed too, but I saw suddenly how it probably felt to him when he was trying to be serious and I made a joke. “Anyway, despite everything—including reporters skulking in the garden—things are coming along nicely.”
J.X.’s voice chan
ged. “Are reporters skulking in the garden?”
“I just ran one off a few minutes ago. I’m trying to look at it as a promo op. Make sure you share that with Rachel when you see her.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
That made two of us. If girl reporter Sydney Nightingale could slink around the garden undetected at night, what was to keep even less appealing characters from finding their way to my back door?
“I know. Maybe we should electrify the front gate.”
J.X. chuckled, imagining I was kidding. “Speaking of Rachel, did you tell her you were working on a thriller set in Switzerland?”
“It’s a long story.”
“About 80K?”
“About, yeah. The Swiss Miss Cocoa Girl retires, buys a cat named Olaf, and with the help of a handsome Interpol agent solves a series of grisly Alpine crimes.”
He was further amused. We chatted a little more before I said, “I guess I better let you go. Have fun. But not too much fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“You mean like attend a convention?” J.X. teased.
It had been a long day. I set the alarms and headed upstairs. I took a quick shower, then crawled into bed with my laptop. From the bed I had a nice view of both the Friedlander painting over the fireplace and the balcony. Stars above and city lights below. The night breeze stirred the gauzy draperies.
I turned on my laptop and did a Web search for Sydney Nightingale. I’d seen her sitting in a news van, so I knew in all likelihood she was legitimate, but suspicion is part of the mystery writer’s makeup.
My suspicion was unfounded. Sydney was indeed a reporter for Baywatch News. In fact, she had covered the original robbery, looking a little green around the gills but still spunky as she stood in front of Quercus Gallery and gave out the details of the robbery and murder for the at-home viewers.
Feeling stalkerish myself, I did a little more searching. Sydney was thirty-two and a former model. She had graduated to doing the weather for Gateway News and then eventually landed the reporter gig at Baywatch.
So she was legitimate. That didn’t mean I wanted to spill out my life story to her. Okay, in fairness, she hadn’t asked for my life story. But what was there to say about finding a body? Yes, there was potential irony—at least coincidence—in a mystery writer finding a dead body in his own home, but that really wasn’t much of a story.
Still, I knew what Rachel would say and I knew I was probably going to give Ms. Nightingale a call.
On impulse I did a search for Elijah Ladas. To my surprise he popped up all over the Web. In fact, he seemed to have been some sort of underworld celebrity. Even I had to grant that he had one of the most attractive mug shots I’d ever seen. He was a big man, ruggedly handsome with pale blue eyes and silvery fair hair. Well, the silver hair had probably been gray by those later photos because Ladas had to have been at least in his forties by the time he died.
A large part of his fame seemed to originate with his co-writing credit on a series of pulpy thrillers about a gentleman thief cum adventurer by the name of Lazlo Ender. His co-writer, Richard Cortez, had passed away in the late nineties, and the series had died with him. But apparently the books had been quite popular in their day and Ladas had shamelessly worked that popularity to his own advantage. He had gained entry to the homes and art collections of San Francisco society—and then had turned around and robbed a number of his social acquaintances. Well, to be accurate, he was only suspected of robbing his wealthy friends, but there was most definitely an alarming pattern. That pattern had eventually made Ladas persona non grata with the Nob Hill set.
Even so, he still showed up at the occasional movie premiere or yacht club event, squiring some pretty young thing trying to build her street cred or bolster her edgy image in the media.
As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been arrested in recent years, though his kid brother Beck had been nicked—as Inspector Appleby might have put it—for a number of ill-conceived and mundane burglaries.
The Lazlo books were not available in digital, so I ordered a copy of an old print edition of the first title through AbeBooks.
So what had brought Ladas out of comfortable retirement? Because that’s how it seemed to me. Had he run short of funds? Had he grown bored with the straight and narrow? Was it simply the lure of Viking treasure? Or…or…had baby brother come up with a plan to rob Quercus Gallery and needed Ladas to pull it off? The gallery job was much more Ladas’ style than Beck’s, but Ladas was getting a little long in the tooth for that kind of job, surely?
It was interesting—from a purely academic standpoint.
For sure, things had not gone according to plan.
I took my glasses off, wiped my eyes. But it was no use, I couldn’t stay awake. I put my laptop aside, climbed out of bed and locked the bedroom door and then closed and locked the door to the balcony. I wondered if Izzie had managed to bring Beck in for questioning or if Ladas Jr. was still running from the law. So long as he wasn’t planning on paying me another midnight visit, I didn’t much care.
Sunday was beautiful. Yes, even I, professional, full-time curmudgeon had to award the fresh and sparkling morning full marks. It was like the week had been practicing every day to get to this perfect moment. I had my coffee and toast out on the terrace. The air was sweet and clear, the butter-soft sunshine warmed the bricks beneath my bare feet. A couple of hummingbirds duked it out over blue-eyed grass—sisyrinchium bellum, Miss Butterwith would have said. I sighed. I missed Miss B. and it troubled me that I seemed to have nothing else to write about.
Maybe once I was settled.
This morning that actually felt reasonable. Maybe even likely. I sipped my coffee and considered my kingdom with a benevolent eye. We’d have to see about hiring someone to mow the grass and another someone to take care of the pool. Maybe get a third someone in a couple of times a month to dust and scrub the toilets. Yes, even with all these someones running around underfoot, the place had possibilities.
When I finished my coffee, I went inside, phoned Rina, my realtor. I told her to accept the offer on my former home.
* * * * *
I decided that maybe it would be easier on my back—and I’d be better able to concentrate on J.X.—if I split up the drive and left that afternoon, stayed overnight somewhere on the way, and arrived in Los Angeles in time to sign papers for Rina.
Once I’d settled on my plan of action, I went next door to speak to Emmaline.
“On the run from the law?” she inquired sweetly, before inviting me inside for a cup of tea.
“Ha.” I declined the tea, but accepted her invitation to step inside, pausing to examine a series of watercolor botanical studies in the front hall. Her house was similar in layout to ours, minus the Corinthian porch and with the charming addition of stained-glass windows in the foyer. “These are nice.”
Emmaline’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you! I did those. Years ago.”
“They’re really good. Then you’re an artist?”
She chuckled at the idea. “No. I’m a retired teacher. I used to teach high school. Science, actually. Biology, environmental studies, botany.”
“Botany?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why? Is there something wrong with botany?”
“No. Not at all.”
“It’s one of the oldest branches of science.”
“I know. In fact, I used to write a mystery series about a botanist.”
“Isn’t that interesting!”
“Yes. Well, she was English.”
Emmaline was still smiling, but something in her eyes changed. A look of…discomfort? fleeted across her rosy face. “As a matter of fact, I think I may have had your friend in one of my classes.”
“J.X.?”
“No, no. Your other friend. Jerry.”
“He’s more of an acquaintance,” I said.
“Then you haven’t known him long?”
“No. I met him Thursday in Low
e’s. Or actually, I guess we’d met at a conference a few years ago. But I don’t know him really.”
“Well.” She stopped right there and I felt a little prickle go down my spine.
“Was he a good student?” I asked tentatively.
“I think he was.” Her smile was almost apologetic.
“But what?”
“That’s the reason I’m hesitant to say anything. I taught so many young people. Hundreds. Thousands. To be honest, the faces blur after a time. Once in a while a student stands out, sometimes for the wrong reasons.”
“And you remember Jerry for the wrong reasons?”
“That’s just it. I’m not sure that I’m thinking of the right boy. He looks like a lot of people.”
“Supposing that Jerry is the boy you were thinking of? Was there something I should know about him?”
There was no sign of a twinkle in her blue eyes now, no hint of dimples. “That’s the second problem. I’m not sure I remember the story correctly.”
I tried to control my nervous impatience. I respected that she didn’t want to say horrible things about Jerry if he’d never been guilty of more than being the normal obnoxious teenager. I even agreed with her in theory. But I couldn’t really view my safety and well-being in theoretical terms.
“Then I’ll take whatever you tell me with a grain of salt.”
She thought it over. “If this is the same boy, he formed an attachment to a classmate, a girl. Well, teens do. They’re so emotional, so intense at that age. But he hounded this poor little thing until she had some kind of a breakdown. I think she tried to kill herself. Her parents threatened to sue the school, but I don’t believe anything ever came of it.”
“What happened to him?”
She made an exasperated sound. “I’m not sure. I think his parents moved him to another school.”
I weighed that information. Frankly, it sounded sort of innocuous—I’d been thinking in terms of bloody valentines—although being a mystery writer I could expand on the idea of “hounded” in all kinds of alarming ways. But then Emmaline was playing it down too. I could tell by the way her gaze kept flickering from mine.