This morning the first traveller to call in for a bite to eat on his way to the coast was a prosperous-looking trader. He had good clothes, a fine horse, and a large string of pack-mules. When he introduced himself his name was unfamiliar, but with his fair hair, the crescent-shaped scar on his face, and, above all, his dazzling smile, I’d have recognised him anywhere.
He gave no sign that the recognition was mutual, so I didn’t speak to him. Discretion is as much part of an innkeeper’s stock-in-trade as wine and beer. But as he was leaving he beckoned me over and said very softly, “I owe you thanks, Aurelia Marcella. You did me a favour once.”
“It was nothing, Wild Man.”
“Exactly. You said nothing, and gave me the chance to get away and make a new start.”
“And a successful one too. I’m glad. May the gods go with you.”
“And with you.” He smiled and went on his way. That wonderful beaming smile has stayed with me all day.
The Customer
Laurie R. King
I’ve known Barbara Peters for nearly as long as I’ve been writing, with an early event followed by a life-changing invitation to join the 1995 conference “Arizona Murder Goes…Classic” and talk about Sherlock Holmes. This is the background to my story here, of course—although I’d always thought Barbara found me all on her own.
That means I’ve been with Poisoned Pen Press since its first project, the collected papers from that conference. Later, PPP became my UK publisher (I try not to take responsibility for that division’s closure) and has co-published a number of my other projects, from A Study in Sherlock to the booklet Barbara and I wrote (with Rob’s photos) about our trip to Japan called Not in Kansas Anymore, TOTO, and on to the 2016 Mary Russell’s War. Their skill and generosity of heart gives lie to the maxim that one shouldn’t do business with friends.
—L.R.K.
***
Luck plays an outsized role in the life of a writer—luck, and friendship. If the two come together, a career can be carved out of nothing. In 1992, out of the blue, I received a number of handwritten manuscripts that purported to come from one Mary Russell, partner and—yes—wife of one Sherlock Holmes. Three years later, Barbara Peters hosted my first Poisoned Pen book signing in Scottsdale. Then the following year, in 1996, I participated in the extraordinary Classic Crime conference, which led to Poisoned Pen Press. Only recently has the conspiracy between these two formidable women, Russell and Peters, come to light, when I received the following account:
May is a time of brief flowering in Scottsdale, Arizona. Tourists have moved on to cooler climes, while residents have yet to retreat behind twenty-four-hour air conditioning.
On an early May morning like this one, when shorts-clad, sunburned visitors have given the streets back to leisurely locals, Main Street might almost look like an actual vestige of the Old West were it not for the public art. Shops begin to open, galleries pull some of their less fragile art out in front, servers bring lattes to outside tables.
The sun reflected off a shiny black limousine as it turned onto Main from Goldwater Boulevard. It passed slowly down the first block to the intersection, where a huge bronze statue of a man on a bucking horse drew traffic into a circle around it. The limo obediently followed the curve into the next block, where the driver began to pull into the first space—only to change his mind and continue down the block a few spaces before turning in.
The driver jumped out, but his passenger did not wait for his services, leaving him to close her door and hover beside her, hand half-raised, as she walked toward the sidewalk. She ignored him, but made the sidewalk without mishap, so he tugged at his hat-brim and returned to the car. The sound of voices came through the open window. After one rather sharp exchange, the engine died, along with its air conditioning.
The woman standing on the sidewalk was old enough to justify the driver’s outstretched hand. Nonetheless, her spine was straight, her white hair neatly tamed into a bun, and the blue eyes behind her thick glasses were focused tightly on the shops across the street. She took a more general survey of her surroundings—palm trees, white Grecian-style porticos, ornate lampposts overhead—before nodding to herself and setting off up the sidewalk, stepping down to move surely across the intersection beside the frozen bucking bronco. On the other side of Main Street, she turned back in the direction she came, moving under the shade of the low portico in front of a series of shop windows.
In her hand was a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine.
Tucked in between cafés, art galleries, and vendors of tee-shirts and turquoise necklaces was a shop of a different kind. The sign declared it The Poisoned Pen, and its windows were filled with the cheerful covers of books about murder.
The tall, thin, white-haired woman paused to study the display before her hand came out to open the door. The short blond woman behind the desk looked up and greeted her, but the old lady just smiled and wandered on toward the shelves.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with,” the shopkeeper said.
“Thank you,” replied the customer. Her accent was English.
Another customer came in to ask for something she’d seen that had a black cover, or maybe red, with the letter K in the title. The shopkeeper was aware of her other visitor listening with a bemused expression as this vague description evolved into the most recent Sue Grafton novel. After the other customer left, K is for Killer in her bag, the Englishwoman returned to her browsing, pausing near the small signing table at the back to study the spines of books waiting to be shelved.
When she had worked her way back up toward the front, the visitor commented, “I was impressed by your detective skills, on locating that woman’s book.”
“It can take a bit of work to figure out what a customer wants,” the younger woman agreed. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered Laurie King.”
The old blue eyes looked down at the hardcover book she had taken from a shelf: The Beekeeper’s Apprentice. “I see the author has signed it.”
“Yes, she was in for an event a few weeks ago, so I had her sign some of those, too. I think it’s going to be a popular series.”
“It would not surprise me in the least. I understand Ms. King has a background as an academic. Theology, if I’m not mistaken.”
“No, you’re right. They’re not religious mysteries, although she seems to incorporate religious elements sometimes.”
“Religious mysteries,” the old woman mused, studying the author photograph on the inside flap. “You know, as an academic myself, I often think it’s a pity that a writer’s serious research is not sufficiently explored. People like this often spend years investigating their characters and situations.”
The shop owner gave her visitor a curious look. “Odd you should say that. I’ve been wondering recently if anyone but me would be interested in a more…substantial sort of conference than the usual fan get-together. Talking about research, and influences.”
“Modern writers giving papers on their Golden Age counterparts?”
“Exactly. Harry Keating—H.R.F. Keating, that is—could talk about Dorothy Sayers. Or Michael Connelly on Hammett or Chandler.”
“Ms. King on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his…characters.”
“Excellent idea! Are you on our mailing list?”
“I do indeed receive your communications, and I look forward to seeing what you come up with. In the meantime, I shall buy this, if you will.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice is a tale I know quite well already. But I do not have a signed copy.”
The shopkeeper rang up the sale, added a bookmark, and slid the book into a bag. As she made change for the bills the old woman handed her, she asked, “Are you just visiting Scottsdale?”
“We were here on business, my husband and I. We live in England.”
/>
“I do love England! What part?”
“The Sussex Downs.”
“Ah, Sherlock Holmes territory—how lovely. Well, I hope you travel safely. And any time you want an American book, we’re happy to do shipping.”
“Thank you,” said the woman. “And thank you, too, for your ongoing support of writers such as Ms. King.”
“It’s completely my pleasure,” the shopkeeper said warmly.
She watched the erect old woman walk out of the shop and turn right. Curious, and just a touch concerned at the fragility of age, the blond-haired woman moved closer to the window, watching her customer briskly cross the street and turn back down the opposite side of Main—three sides of a square when she might simply have crossed directly. A uniformed driver popped out of the glossy limousine parked opposite the shop and trotted around to open the back passenger-side door. When the old lady was settled, he shut the door and went back to the front. The engine started, the car reversing into the street. As it paused outside her window, the shopkeeper caught sight of the customer’s partner: a man even older than she, but equally firm and sure of himself. A pair of piercing gray eyes stabbed across the street at where she stood, three seconds of X-ray—and then the driver shifted gears and the limo pulled away.
As the shopkeeper turned, she suddenly realized that the old lady had been carrying a small package when she came in, but only the King book when she left. She hurried down the stacks and spotted the old-fashioned brown paper-and-twine parcel on the signing table. But before she could hurry with it toward the door, to call after the departing limo, she saw the writing on the front:
To Ms. Peters, a mutual friend of the Beekeeper’s ‘biographer’.
With sincere thanks from her admirers.
Curiously, the shopkeeper pulled one end of the twine and unfurled the paper, revealing a gorgeous little book bound in Moroccan leather. It bore the title:
A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture,
with some
Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen
Puzzled, she flipped it open to the title page, to see the author’s name.
By Sherlock E.L. Holmes
And in vivid black ink, just beneath the printed name, was the author’s signature.
Sherlock E.L. Holmes
Reciprocity
Catherine A. Winn
I’m a writer in Texas who has always loved reading mysteries, which led me to try my hand writing them. Some of my favorite writers were published through Poisoned Pen Press, so when my mystery novel was ready for submission, I sent it to them. To my amazement and joy, Poisoned Pen Press offered me a contract!
—C.A.W.
***
Adelaide Hays sat across the conference table from her husband, Vance, and studied her nails while he glared. Her attorney, Kent Jamison, argued with Vance’s attorney, Everett Howell, over the validity of the prenuptial agreement.
“Now Everett, you and I both know Mr. Hays is simply divorcing his wife before the five years are up so he can walk away without paying anything. In my opinion that’s fraud. She had no idea the marriage was in trouble.”
“Oh, please,” Vance said with a sneer at her. “You lied to your own attorney?”
“Don’t address my client directly, Mr. Hays,” Jamison warned.
Addie put a hand on her attorney’s arm. “He’s right, Kent. I haven’t been exactly honest with you.”
Jamison looked at her sharply and started to rise. “You and I need to talk.”
“That won’t be necessary. I think it’s time we invoked the deal-breaker clause.”
Jamison frowned. “Mrs. Hays…”
“Gentlemen,” she said, rolling her chair back, “I’ll only be a moment.” When her knees didn’t buckle the minute she stood, she smoothed her skirt and strode to the door. What she was about to do would send Vance over the edge.
“She’s probably going out to burst into tears,” Vance said with derision.
In the outer office two men in business suits each took an arm of the beautiful young woman who had jumped to her feet. Her glance darted from the receptionist at the desk to Addie. “I changed my mind,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t do this. He’ll kill me.”
Addie hurriedly pulled the door closed behind her. “Karla, just hold it together for a little longer. Everything’s going to be fine but only if you do exactly what I told you to do.”
Karla sank back in her chair and chewed her bottom lip. “He’s really going to kill me.”
“Don’t be silly.” Addie nodded at the two men. They each took one of Karla’s elbows and lifted her to her feet. “Everything has been planned carefully. You’ll be perfectly safe from Vance.”
Karla shook her head. “I wish I had never agreed to this.”
“You have to stay strong to get your money because that’s the only way I’ll get mine. And remember, once we get in there, don’t say anything and don’t let him bully you. The boys here will take care of you.”
“Okay.” Karla took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Okay, I’m ready. You’d better be right.”
The satisfaction Addie felt at the look on her husband’s face was worth all the heartache and pain. When Karla walked in his jaw dropped. His loose jowls and double chin sagged even lower. An ugly shade of red flushed his face but he managed to control himself. Addie took a few brisk steps, retrieved her large tote from a vacant chair, and pulled out a laptop.
Vance’s eyes locked onto the laptop as he drummed his fingers on the table.
Addie glanced at the group near the door. The men were actually holding Karla up. Minutes mattered. Addie moved to the end of the table and opened the laptop. She had everyone’s attention as she clicked the keys. It was ready to play. She turned the laptop so the screen faced them.
Jamison squinted at her as he leaned back in his chair. Addie knew he didn’t like being surprised any more than her husband. Howell, on the other side of the table, appeared bored but the pen he rolled furiously back forth between his thumb and forefinger said otherwise.
Addie felt the pulse throb in her neck as she addressed her husband. “Vance, why do men your age think girls her age really find you more appealing than your money?”
Vance’s attorney pushed his chair back and stood. “Now, I want a moment with my client.”
“Sit down, Mr. Howell.” Addie was surprised at the authority she heard in her own voice. She needed to get this over with before her courage failed. “You want to see this before your private little chit-chat.”
Vance gave Addie a withering look that promised revenge. “Just show the damned thing.”
Addie moved the cursor, clicked play, and stepped back. “I believe this entitles me to half of our marital assets.”
As the video played Vance screamed at Karla. “You taped us!” He shot clumsily out of his chair.
Howell grabbed him. “Get yourself under control right now or I dump you as a client.”
Vance shook off his attorney, ran a hand through his hair, and sat back down. “I’ll get you for this!”
Karla broke free and ran to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, Vance. I love you! She said you were going to dump me! Please forgive me!”
He disentangled her arms from him and shoved her with all his strength. One of the two men helped her get off the floor and then had to restrain her from trying to get back to Vance. It took both of them to drag a screaming, begging Karla to the other side of the room. This time one of them snatched a chair and pushed her into it. Each of them gripped Karla’s shoulders and held her there as she dissolved into sobs.
Addie saw the fight had gone out of Karla and indicated the computer. “Shall I start this over?”
“I’m going to make you sorry you did this to me, Addie.” Vance threatened. She knew
he meant it.
Twenty minutes later, Karla ran, still sobbing, from the room with her two bodyguards fast on her heels. Addie gave a flash drive, containing a copy of the video, to Howell. “I’m sure Vance will do the right thing, now.”
Kent Jamison escorted her from the room but not before she took one glance back at her husband. Vance’s jaw worked as he sat with two white-knuckled fists on the table. He was already planning her punishment.
“Do I want to know how you went about getting this video?” Jamison muttered in the elevator on the way down.
“No,” Addie said. “Now make this happen and fast.”
“First we need to get full financial disclosure.”
“Fine, but don’t be too demanding. Take their word for everything.”
Jamison blinked at her. “That’s ridiculous. You know what kind of man he is. There will be millions in hidden assets.”
“Look, Kent…” Addie said as the elevator stopped and they stepped out. She faced him. “…things went very well in there. Your next move, your only move, is to get me a hefty cash payout. That’s all I want. Don’t mess things up by trying to best Vance, because we’ll lose.” Addie strode forward. “And let him have the house, free and clear, no strings.”
Jamison growled. “You’re not letting me do my job, Mrs. Hays.”
“You’re doing fine. I’m happy. Make this divorce happen, Kent, before Vance cools off and has time to think.”
In the parking garage, Addie kept glancing around as she ran to her car. Vance had not exploded in rage as expected. Seething in silence was a dangerous sign. She and Karla were both in for it. Right now, Addie wished she was boarding the same plane.
On the drive back to the house she kept checking her rearview mirror. It would be like him to try and run her off the road. Ten minutes later she beeped the iron gates open, raced up the drive, and dashed into the house. She set the alarm for immediate response, which would be enough warning to hide or grab her Bersa. It would also send for the police. In this neighborhood they came without delay when an alarm sounded.
Bound by Mystery Page 29