by Josh Lanyon
Slammer? There was a golden oldie. Maybe Izzie thought that was what they called it back in my day.
“You don’t believe me?”
“What I believe or don’t believe is beside the point.”
Well, not really. But I kept my mouth shut.
Izzie nodded to J.X. and they both walked out of the breakfast room and went into the garden.
There remained a lot of crime scene personnel wandering up and down the brick walkways. It was still a ways from morning, but the night was starting to fade. The colored solar lights were dimming as the flowers took shape and hue once more. I watched J.X. listening to Izzie. He looked as tired as I felt. He nodded a couple of times, but mostly he was just hearing out all that Izzie had to say. There seemed to be a lot of it.
I resisted the temptation to put my head on the table. My collarbone had not been rebroken, but my shoulder hurt. My face hurt. There was a bruise on my cheekbone and forehead both. My stomach was in knots. I didn’t think I was going to be arrested. Izzie’s exasperated as good as married to seemed to indicate otherwise. But I couldn’t help wondering if that hadn’t been overstating the current situation between me and J.X. It was clear to me that I had crossed a line there was perhaps no coming back from. Despite all that had happened that night—hell, maybe because of it (and who could blame him?)—J.X. was keeping an unmistakable distance.
I’d nearly died twice, but he hadn’t even put his arms around me. Oh, he’d been beside me one hundred percent, explaining the situation with Jerry and the situation with Ladas. I had his support and his protection, no question. But there was none of the warmth or affection or tenderness I’d come to rely on.
I could have been any good friend in trouble.
My eyes stung. I wiped at them impatiently.
I shouldn’t have said what I had about the kid. J.X.’s family meant everything to him. I knew that.
My thoughts broke off as Izzie gave J.X. a commiserating pat on the back. What the hell did that mean? My stomach dropped another couple of floors.
They walked back inside, Izzie took his chair at the table, and we began to go through my account of the evening’s events again.
The sun was coming up by the time J.X. and I stumbled up to bed.
“Try not to worry,” he said as we undressed.
I glanced at him. He met my gaze solemnly and I nodded.
That seemed to be all he had to say. He pulled the bedclothes back, crawled between the sheets and closed his eyes.
I dropped my clothes to the floor and lay down on the bed. The sheets felt cool and caressing, the mattress soft and comfortable. A little groan escaped me.
J.X. opened his eyes. He said nothing. I said nothing. He closed his eyes.
I turned on my back and stared up at the ceiling.
The argument seemed like a million years ago. I wasn’t even sure now of everything I’d said. Let alone what he’d said. No, I did remember. He’d said I was self-centered, self-pitying… Probably true. Maybe self-destructive too, if I was going to let this go without a fight.
I could hear his soft, even breaths slowing, deepening.
I found myself studying the painting by Friedlander, the study of autumn wine country. I let myself remember how it had felt when I’d thought J.X. was dead.
My eyes stung just thinking about it. I never wanted to feel that again. Couldn’t afford to feel like that again. That kind of emotion could destroy you. If you gave someone that much power and then they changed their mind, decided they didn’t want you, didn’t feel the same?
That wasn’t for me. I wasn’t built like that.
And I was kidding myself because it was already too late. Way too late.
I turned my head and said, “J.X.—”
His lips were parted, his lashes never stirred.
Or maybe he was pretending to be asleep.
Either way, the moment had passed.
He let me sleep late.
When I woke, it was to the comforting smells of coffee and bacon. But when I padded downstairs after my shower, the kitchen was deserted. The dishes had been done and put away, but coffee was still warming on the machine and I discovered four pieces of bacon on a covered plate.
J.X. was in his office. The door was closed and music was playing softly.
I’d kind of hoped that the new day might set us right. Offer us a fresh start. But no.
The walls were up, the doors were closed.
So that was that.
Right?
I couldn’t do this on my own. And like D.H. Lawrence said, We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
I scrambled eggs and had my breakfast, and then I went out to get the mail.
It was a pretty day. A little hazy, but that would burn off. It was kind of nice to know that Beck wasn’t hiding behind the hedges, waiting to jump me. And hopefully Jerry was still busy answering questions downtown. Or uptown. Whatever they called it here in San Francisco.
Maybe I wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.
There were a couple of forwarded letters for J.X., our first utility bill, and a small parcel for me from a bookseller I didn’t recognize. I carried the mail inside.
J.X. was in the kitchen pouring a glass of milk. “Hey,” he said indifferently.
Okay, I don’t know that his greeting was indifferent. It was polite and it was not exactly enthusiastic. But maybe it was just guarded.
“Hey,” I replied in the same careful tone. “Mail call.” I placed his envelopes on the table and went through the breakfast room to the patio.
Technically, the upper level of the garden was now a crime scene, but I turned my chair so I didn’t have to see the yellow-and-black crime scene tape. I put my head back and closed my eyes.
The sun felt good on my face. Despite sleeping late, I had not slept well. I was still very tired. Physically worn out. Emotionally…flattened.
“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!” Emmaline’s voice floated on the warm breeze.
I opened my eyes and sat up.
A small hand was waving to me over the hedge.
I got up and walked over to the hedge. Emmaline looked cheerful enough, though I wouldn’t have been surprised to see some dismay after the events of the previous evening. Maybe teaching high school prepared you for anything.
“Christopher! What on earth happened here last night? All those police cars and crime scene people again. And was it my imagination or were police helicopters circling us for a few hours?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. But since I had no one else to talk to, I launched into it.
“Oh my gosh!” Emmaline exclaimed at intervals. Occasionally, she broke it up with “Oh, my goodness!”
She was not at all like my dear Miss Butterwith, but she was a comfortable sort of person. I could see growing fond of Emmaline. If I stuck around long enough.
When I was finished with my long and rambling tale, she said, “I don’t imagine there’s been this much excitement in the old neighborhood since Dimitri Foden murdered Julia Clare Hargetter.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. And then, “Who?”
Emmaline’s cheeks pinked. “Oh! I took it for granted you knew. About the murder.”
“What murder?” I stared and the meaning of her discomfort registered. “There was a murder in our house?”
“Well, yes. I thought you must know. I thought that was probably one of the attractions for a pair of mystery writers.”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, it was long before any of our time. Julia Clare Hargetter used to live at 321. She was a very famous 19th century painter. Quite eccentric, so the story goes. Anyway, she was murdered by her lover, Dimitri Foden, who disappeared and was never seen again.”
She sounded quite chipper about the whole thing.
I said, “Great. I know what that means. I used it in How Does Your Garden Grow, Miss Butterwith? Foden’s somewhere in our backyard. With my luck, beneath the s
wimming pool.”
Emmaline laughed merrily at the idea. “You mystery writers! What sinister minds you have.”
We chatted a little more. Emmaline invited us to dinner Saturday evening, and I told her J.X. would be out with his nephew. So she invited us to dinner on Monday evening. I said I would check with my better half.
We said goodbye and I returned to my place in the sun. I unwrapped the parcel from the bookstore. It was a slim, battered paperback titled Dead Man’s Chest: A Lazlo Ender Mystery. By Richard Cortez and Elijah Ladas.
I began to read.
An hour later I knocked on J.X.’s office door. He turned down the music and called, “Come in.”
I opened the door.
He was seated at his desk, scowling, though the scowl cleared when he saw me. “What’s up?” he asked.
I held up the paperback. “I think I know where Ladas hid the coins.”
Chapter Twenty
The scowl returned. “Where?” J.X. asked.
I took a deep breath. “Before I get to that, I just want to say that I know you’re angry with me. And disappointed. I know I’m not—”
He interrupted harshly, “Did you mean what you said about having second thoughts?”
“Second thoughts, third thoughts, fourth thoughts. Aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
It hurt. A lot. But in a funny way, hearing it helped. Because I already knew it was true. And if we could talk about it honestly to each other, maybe we could work our way through it.
“But I still want it to work,” I said. “I love you and I believe you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Some of the hardness left his face. J.X. said uncertainly, “Is that true?”
“Yes.” Honest. But naked. Too naked. I said hastily, “Well, I mean, next to Miss Butterwith. And Mr. Pinkerton. But you’re definitely in the top three.”
There was a very faint smile in his eyes. He said, “Right. Of course.”
I said, “And I know you love me too and that you really want this relationship to work out—if only to avoid having to move me back to Southern California.”
“Do you resent the fact that you’re the one who had to move? That you’re the one who got uprooted?”
“No.” I meant that. “It makes sense because of Gage and Nina. I don’t resent them, if that’s the real question. And I don’t resent that I’m the one who had to make the great migration.”
He didn’t say anything and I offered a lopsided smile. “So although I know you think I try to control everything and that rules are going to kill any spontaneity between us, I think it’s in our best interests if we agree on a couple of things. Like…no matter how mad I get, I’m not ever going to talk about having second thoughts or us splitting up again. Unless I really am packing my bags. I’m not eight years old, and getting mad and threatening to take my ball home is not okay. Unless it really is game over.”
J.X. let out a long, unsteady breath and said quietly, “That would help.”
“But you have to cut me some slack too.” I was startled when my throat closed, cutting off the words. I hadn’t realized until that moment how deeply some of his words had cut. “I probably am self-centered and I probably do feel a little too sorry for myself right now. But I’m trying. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t trying. And I’m trying for you. Not because I want to be a better person or for any other reason than I want to make you happy.” A swallow caught me at that embarrassing juncture.
“Kit—” J.X. came around the desk.
I waved him away. “Wait. I’m not finished. Here comes the deal breaker.”
His brows drew together. “Go on.”
“You have a different relationship with your family than I have with mine. And I respect that. And I admire how you’re there for Nina and Gage. But I don’t know that I can be part of that. Any of that. I’ll do what I can. I’ll try to meet them halfway. But you have to understand that…it’s probably not going to turn out the way you want. I’m not that person. I’m not The Waltons.”
He said impatiently, “I don’t want The Waltons. I don’t care about that.”
“Except you do. You want big family holidays and outings with Gage. You’re going to want to have him over for sleepovers and you’re going to want to go to his Little League games and then his Demolition Derby shows. And the truth is…I don’t even like kids.”
“Kit—”
“I don’t. They’re small and they smell funny. I’ll make an effort. Sometimes. But I’m afraid that if they force you to choose between me and them—”
“No.” This time he wouldn’t be waved off. He wrapped his muscular arms around me and pulled me close. I can’t deny that it felt very good, like finding the way back through dark woods when you thought you’d lost the path for good. “Kit, you’re wrong about this.” He kissed me. “Listen, I fell in love ten years ago and I’ve never stopped loving you. Nothing and no one is going to—”
I had to protest. “Yeah, you did. Of course you did. You hated my guts when we met up again.”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t. Let me finish. Nobody is going to force anyone to choose anything. Or to do anything. I’ve been going over and over this last argument and I know I escalated it. I already figured out that I’m making it worse by pushing you to participate. So that’s over. That’s done. Just don’t…bail on me. On us. Don’t give up before we’ve given it a real chance to work.”
His eyes were dark with pain. I shook my head, wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “I won’t. I’m not going to. Hence this. This big emotional scene where I force us both to talk about our feelings.”
“I can’t bear you thinking this was a mistake.”
“I don’t. Well, I think it was probably a mistake on your part, but…” He wasn’t laughing, so I said, “I meant what I said. You’re the best thing that has happened to me…maybe ever. You brought me back to life. That’s the truth.”
The brown column of his throat moved. “That’s…more than I ever thought you’d give me.”
“Well, I’ll probably only say it the once. So when I’m being a bigger jackass than usual, try to remember that inside this is how I really feel about you.” I found his mouth and kissed him deeply, sweetly. His eyelashes flickered against my face. I felt an unexpected wetness and tasted salt. I wasn’t sure if the tears were mine or his. They could have been mine.
When we reluctantly broke the kiss, J.X. said, “Did you say you figured out where Ladas hid the coins?”
“That! I almost forgot. Yeah, I think so.” I’d dropped the Lazlo book on J.X.’s desk. I picked it up and flashed the lurid cover his way. “When I was reading up on Ladas, finding out whatever I could about him, one thing that stuck in my memory was that he was a member of the San Francisco Yacht Club.”
“So? I thought you said Ingrid and the others had already searched his boat.”
“They did. And they didn’t find anything. Because he didn’t hide the coins on the boat. I’ve been studying the layout on the Web. The yacht club has over fifty dry-storage spaces and I’m betting one of them belongs to Ladas. Somewhere on those premises is a locker or a dock box or some kind of storage unit, and that’s where he stashed the coins.”
“But how would he—”
“The docks and grounds are accessible anytime to members.” I handed J.X. the book. “It’s right in here. He used it in the book. It’s just the kind of private joke he’d have loved. Putting it right out there in front of everybody.”
J.X. reached for his cell phone. He hesitated. “Are you sure about this?”
I swallowed. “Yep,” I said staunchly.
* * * * *
I had been sure, but I won’t pretend it wasn’t a huge, huge relief when—several hours later—the yacht club maintenance man sawed off the heavy duty padlock on the unassuming dock box belonging to Elijah Ladas, and Izzie reached inside to heave out a heavy-duty green trash bag.
The sun beat dow
n on our unprotected heads. Gulls circled and swooped overhead. Absently, I was aware J.X. patted me on the shoulder. I couldn’t tear my gaze from the sagging bag.
“It’s heavy enough,” Izzie said. “And it’s jingling. He’s either got Christmas bells in h—”
The green bag caught on the side of the silver box, tore, and the ring of watching cops and yacht club officials gasped as a rush of glinting, plastic coated squares and a handful of loose coins poured out at our feet. A Viking’s treasure.
Izzie, holding the torn bag, gazed across at me. “Not bad,” he said.
I nodded coolly just as though I wasn’t ready to sag with relief.
Izzie glanced at J.X and then back at me. “I’ll still throw you in the slammer if you ever interfere in one of my cases again, but…not bad.”
“Not bad at all, Mr. Holmes,” J.X. said softly, smiling.
Later J.X. told me that Izzie had confided that when Ingrid and Kenneth were questioned that morning, they had spilled everything. Ingrid had not known about Ladas’ murder, and Kenneth was claiming Sydney had killed Ladas in self-defense. Sydney was saying nothing to anyone on the advice of her lawyer.
“What’s going to happen to them?” I asked.
“A lot is going to depend on Lorenson.”
“That doesn’t sound hopeful.”
“People can surprise you,” J.X. said. He smiled into my eyes, which I took to mean lately I was one of the nicer surprises.
“Speaking of which. Is Jerry still claiming I invited him over to our house so I could bash his brains out?”
“No. He’s now claiming that he came over to apologize after losing his temper at all the unfair and undeserved things I said to him. He saw Ladas attack you and rushed to your rescue. He says Ladas got away from him and must have fallen in the pool.”
I gaped at J.X. “And what does he say about trying to smash my head in with a meat hammer?”
J.X.’s face was grim. “He says he was trying to get you out of the house because Ladas had escaped from him. He says in your blind panic, you attacked him, and he was only defending himself.”
“What?” I stared, trying to read J.X.’s expression. “And does anyone believe that cock-and-bull story?”