Death of a Pirate King

by Josh Lanyon

  I wasn’t about to tell her where I’d been. Jake Riordan had never been on Lisa’s A-list, and she’d been even less keen on him after he and I had parted ways -- not that I’d ever discussed my relationship with her. Before or after.

  “I know, I’m sorry. I just got caught up in some things.” The story of my life, actually.

  She protested, “But Natalie says you haven’t been at the shop all day.”

  If only they hadn’t outlawed corporal punishment for bookstore employees with big mouths. “No, I’ve been running errands,” I admitted, glaring at Natalie.

  She spread her hands in a What? What’d I do?

  “Darling, you’re not well enough to do all this racing around. Horseback riding lessons for Emma last night and these mysterious errands today. You’re just out of hospital. You mustn’t tax yourself.”

  I managed to swallow my impatience. “Lisa, I’m fine. Really. And I’ve been out of the hospital for a week.”

  “You’re not strong, darling. I wish --”

  “I know you do,” I said. “So what’s the plan now?”

  There was a pause while she registered my tone. Then she sighed. “Well, we’ve missed lunch. I suppose we could meet for drinks.”

  My heart sank. There was nothing I wanted more than to lie down for half an hour, but I could hardly insist on naptime, having stood her up and then made a point of how terrific I felt.

  We arranged to meet at Villa Piacere on Ventura Boulevard in forty minutes.

  I took my meds, checked my wallet, grabbed a jacket despite the warmth of the afternoon. The phone was ringing as I headed out the side door. I stopped when Natalie called to me.

  Handing over the mouthpiece, she hissed, “It’s Paul Kane again.”

  “I’ll take it in the office.” Back in the storeroom that doubled as my office, I picked up, waited to hear Natalie clicked off, and said, “Hi. I was going to call you later.”

  He chuckled -- a lazy, vaguely seductive sound. I wondered if he and Jake laughed a lot together. Not that Jake was exactly Comedy Hour material…but, yeah, there had been some good times. We had found a lot of the same things funny.

  “I’m not expecting an hourly report,” he assured me. “Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t had second thoughts. I’m afraid Jake was rather…hacked off with our arrangement.” He added. “I do apologize. Was he particularly obnoxious?”

  “Not for Jake,” I said. And in fact Jake had been uncharacteristically agreeable to my poking around, so Paul’s apology caught me off guard.

  “He did give in, in the end,” Paul said ruefully, “but he said he was going to have a word with you. Establishing the parameters, I suppose.” He chuckled. “He tore a strip off me for not telling him that Porter had hired a PI.”

  “That he didn’t seem pleased about,” I admitted. Although I hadn’t realized that Jake didn’t know about the PI, just that he was annoyed at the possibility I might trespass too far with my interviewing.

  “The thing is,” Paul said -- and I wished suddenly that I could see his face because his tone was…not quite right -- “I had thought it might be more pleasant for all concerned if you spoke to this bloke first. And then, depending on what you learned, we could decide whether to bring Jake in or not.”

  We?

  I said, “Yeah, well. Too late now. I’ve got orders from the top to call in before and after I interview anyone.”

  There was a pause. I heard the echo of my words: Orders from the top? I had to bite my lip to contain an inappropriate laugh. This was followed by even more inappropriate speculation as to who was the top in that relationship? I didn’t see Paul Kane as the submissive type, but picturing Jake on his knees to anyone was pretty much…although there had been one astounding night, one transcendent night --

  His lips trailing softly down my naked flesh, pressing tiny melting kisses on my chin, my throat, collarbone, breastbone, belly, the sensitive joining of groin and inner thigh before his wet, hot mouth closed around me. And then the delicate rasp of Jake’s tongue tracing the slit of my cock, tasting. And I had felt him smile…

  I made myself focus as Paul said carefully, “But you see, I didn’t tell Jake the name of the PI. I told him I didn’t know it. In fact, I told him I wasn’t absolutely certain Porter had gone ahead and hired anyone. That it might have been nothing more than bluff.”

  “But you do know the name of the PI?”

  “Er…yes.”

  I said, equally careful, “Why wouldn’t you tell Jake?”

  He made a little sound of impatience as though I were being disappointingly slow. “In addition to being a very dear friend of mine, Porter was my business partner. I’m not in any way suggesting we would or should keep information from the politzia, but I should like to hear firsthand anything that’s liable to prove damaging -- rather than wait for the police to inform me.”

  I was silent.

  “I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?” He laughed but I could hear the unease.

  “No,” I answered. “But if this investigator was hired to follow Jones’s wife, what potentially damaging information do you think he might have?”

  “I don’t know, do I?” Kane said. “That’s why I’d like to hear whatever it is first.”

  It’s not that I didn’t understand or sympathize, but no way was I going to be placed in that position.

  “Look, Paul. I appreciate what you’re telling me, but I gave Jake my word. Not to mention the fact, he’d throw my ass in jail if he found out I tried to go around him.”

  “He wouldn’t, you know,” he said. “Jake’s a pussycat.”

  Yeah, just a big old saber-toothed tiger.

  “Then you go talk to this PI,” I said shortly.

  “I’m afraid that really would put a strain on our relationship,” Paul said, and I was pretty sure he didn’t mean his and mine. “Look, the bloke’s name is Roscoe Markopoulos. Markopoulos Investigations. He’s in the book. Just think about it. I won’t tell Jake for a day or two.”

  Safe to say, few people ever told Paul Kane no. I said, “You might as well tell Jake now because I’m not going behind his back. Also, since we’re sort of on this topic, I don’t think Ally is your murderer. She admits she and Porter were having some problems, but she says that was all in the past.”

  “Of course the stupid slag says that,” Paul said without any particular venom. “She married Porter for his money, and when she realized he wouldn’t put up with being cuckolded, she decided to play the devoted wife in hopes of keeping him from changing his will. She’s an actress, Adrien. Not a very good one, I admit, and I didn’t expect you to fall for the act. I tell you, that woman is evil.”

  Cuckolded? Will?

  I said, “Right, did you want me to focus on Ally to the exclusion of everyone else? Because, personally, I don’t see why she didn’t knock Porter off at home and in private, where there was less chance of the poisoned cocktail going astray.”

  He said quickly, “No, no. I’m not trying to railroad the woman. I trust your instinct. You’re the expert here, after all. By all means you must keep talking to people -- with my blessing. Besides, perhaps someone will have seen something to prove Ally is guilty.”

  He was so sure. What was it he hadn’t told me? And why wasn’t he telling me?

  Into my silence, he said, “Why don’t you speak to Valarie?”

  I was totally blanking on the name. “Valarie?”

  “Valarie Rose?” He gave that attractive laugh. “She’s going to be directing Murder Will Out.”

  “Oh God,” I said. “I remember. I do remember. Any particular reason you think I should talk to Valarie? I was thinking maybe I’d talk to Al January next.”

  “Al?” Kane sounded wary. “Why?”

  “He was a longtime friend of Porter’s, right?”

  “Er…yes. But Al tries to stay removed from all of our little personal dramas.”

  “Is there any reason I shouldn’t talk to Al?”


  “No, of course not.” His amusement sounded perfectly natural -- but then he was an actor. “I’ll call Al and arrange a meeting.”

  And I was apparently paranoid.

  I said, “And if you could also set something up with Valarie, that would be terrific.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” Kane said -- still sounding amused.

  * * * * *

  Lisa was sipping a G&T in the brick courtyard behind the Villa Piacere restaurant. The broad pepper and willow trees shading the patio threw lacy shadows over the white canvas umbrellas, and the fountain in the rear alcove splashed soothingly.

  “Sorry about lunch,” I told her, slipping into the chair opposite.

  She fastened those wide Siamese blue eyes on me and gave me the maternal once-over. “Oh, darling,” she said in gentle dismay. “You look so tired.”

  I beckoned to the waitress.

  “You’re not drinking, are you?” Lisa protested.

  “Not so far. The afternoon is young.”

  She tittered. “Darling. I just get frightened with everything you’ve been through. And it’s not like you to forget our lunch date.”

  “I know. I am sorry. I’m a little distracted right now.”

  She waved this off as if it were of no consequence. The waitress appeared and I ordered apple juice for a change of pace.

  “How’s Guy?” Lisa asked.

  “He’s fine.” I pushed my sleeves up, and reflected I did need to get out in the sun more often. I’ve seen polar bears with more color.

  Lisa seemed to be following my train of thought; she said, “What did the doctor say, darling?”

  I hadn’t really thought she didn’t know the exact day and hour of my doctor appointment, had I?

  “He says my lungs are clearing nicely,” I said. “But it’s not a pretty process, so I’m limiting my social engagements.”

  “And you are feeling better?”

  “Than I was a couple of weeks ago?” I laughed. “For starters, not having an oxygen tube rammed up my nose is a big improvement.”

  She made a little moue of distaste at this reminder.

  “You would tell me if you weren’t all right, wouldn’t you, Adrien?”

  “Of course.” Would I? I’d have to. But in all honesty, I’d probably wait to the last possible moment.

  Dark head bent, she nodded distractedly and traced a little circle in the white linen tablecloth with one pearl-colored nail. A pose I recognized only too well. Granted, she had always been overprotective, but something else was going on here. I said gently, “Come on, Lisa. What’s up?”

  She looked at me. “You’ve changed your will.”

  I stiffened. How the hell --?

  Her mouth quivered, and there was a sheen in her eyes that might have been actual tears -- unlikely though that was. “You’ve made Em your sole beneficiary.”

  As shocked as I was, I almost laughed. “Is that a problem? It’s not a secret that I don’t plan on getting married anytime soon.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Adrien. You’ve never given your will a thought in a dec --”

  “How the hell did you find out I’d changed my will?” I interrupted.

  For a split second she looked discomfited. “Mr. Gracen.”

  What a pity Mr. Gracen was about a hundred and eighty years old and fragile as cracked porcelain because it would have done my nerves a world of good to be able to holler at someone without inflicting permanent damage. As it was, I wasn’t sure he’d even survive my firing him -- which I planned on doing before the afternoon was over.

  I said, “Yes, I changed my will after the pneumonia. I’m fond of Em and I’ve got to leave the money to someone. I did it because it seemed like a practical thing to do, not because I’m not planning to be around for much longer.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  I said, “I’m okay, Lisa. Really. And even if I wasn’t…it’s my life. Understood?”

  Understood?

  Her jaw dropped. Just for a moment. She pulled herself together and said, “You never used to be like this, Adrien. So…hard.”

  “Hard?” I blinked. Was I hard? In the space of a couple of days I’d been accused of being bitter, jealous, and hard. Funny, I still felt like me. Just…tireder.

  “Jake Riordan did this to you,” Lisa said and there was genuine anger in her face. “He hurt you so --”

  “God, don’t!”

  She broke off, looking shocked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, more calmly, “but please don’t bring Jake into this.”

  After a moment she wiped her eyes and picked up her glass, and I picked up mine.

  * * * * *

  I was lying down that evening when Guy let himself in. I got up quickly and went to greet him. The savory scent of chicken curry filled the flat. I found Guy in the kitchen unpacking foil-wrapped containers of Thai food from Saladang Song. The same place Jake used to pick up dinner sometimes -- and I really, really needed to stop thinking about Jake.

  I kissed Guy and he smiled and said, “Grabbing a kip, were you? Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll call you when it’s ready?”

  I pulled out a chair and sat down backward, folding my arm along the back. “It’s takeout,” I said. “It’s ready. How was your day?”

  “The takeaway will wait. Go have your lie down.”

  “I don’t need a lie down,” I said pleasantly. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  For the first time Guy’s vaguely British accent and those little affectations of speech were irritating me -- and so was that Father-Knows-Best attitude. The realization dismayed me.

  He had turned to get plates from the cupboard. I rose, slipped my arms around him and rested my face against his hair, which was pulled back in a long ponytail. The silvery strands were soft as silk, smelling of the apple shampoo he used and more faintly of pipe tobacco; it smelled familiar and comforting. He put his hands over mine, raising one to his mouth and kissing my palm.

  The feel of his mouth nuzzling my skin was pleasant too, and when he turned to take me in his arms, I was glad. He kissed me, and I knew his taste and liked it. I kissed him back and opened my mouth for his tongue, and it slipped in wet and slick. His kiss deepened; his hands stroked my back, warm through my T-shirt, pulled me closer -- and I wondered why I wasn’t getting hard like Guy was.

  It had to be because I still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent.

  After a few seconds he pulled back, kissed my lips lightly, and said, “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. I wish people would stop asking.”

  Guy was smiling. He ran his hands lightly down my arms, caught my fingers briefly, and let me go. He turned once more to lift the plates down. “It’s the beautiful but frail shtick,” he said over his shoulder. “You bring out my maternal instincts.”

  He was joking, but I knew he worried about me. The fact that I’d waited until we were seeing each other fairly steadily to confess I had a heart condition hadn’t helped -- nor did the fact that I currently looked like I was related to those big-eyed waifs that Margaret Keane paints.

  I said, “Appearances are deceptive. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

  Guy said, “Don’t I know it. I’ve never met a more self-sufficient little prick.”

  “Hey, watch the adjectives.”

  He grinned, handing the plates to me. “You have a problem with self-sufficient?”

  * * * * *

  We ate our meal on the sofa watching a History Channel special on the Salem witch trials -- and I remembered Jake’s comment about Calamity Jane.

  I was doing it again. In fact, I was brooding over Jake’s reentry into my life more than I was worried about being suspected of murder. All I could figure was that my ego had taken a bruising with the knowledge that Jake had continued his S/M pursuits during the time we’d been seeing each other -- well, and that it had been with one steady partner.

&n
bsp; Because I knew he cared about me. Maybe I wasn’t the most experienced guy in the world, but I wasn’t inexperienced either. I remembered…

  But if I had any brains, I wouldn’t remember. Because that was painful and pointless.

  What I needed to be thinking about was how the hell did I break it to Guy that I was getting involved in the Porter Jones murder investigation despite having assured him I had no such intention. I knew he was going to be upset. He’d have been upset even if Jake hadn’t been part of the equation. And the fact that Jake was part of the equation was definitely not going to go over well.

  Maybe I could wait another day or two to fill him in.

  I glanced at his profile, and Guy glanced back and smiled. “That tom yum goong soup has put some color in your face.”

  “It’s very good,” I said. It could have been warm water for all the attention I’d paid. I was stalling out of sheer cowardice. I needed to tell him.

  I’d finally wound myself up to it when Guy glanced at the clock on the bookshelf and said, “Damn and blast. I promised I’d go to Margo’s signing tonight. I didn’t think -- did you want to come? It’s not like you don’t get enough of book signings.”

  I said, “I’ve got the Partners in Crime group tonight. But give Margo my love.”

  His brows drew together. “I thought you were going to cancel Partners in Crime?”

  “They’re meeting in my bookstore. How am I going to cancel them?”

  “Simple. Tell them you don’t want to host the group here anymore. Last week you said you were fed up with it and wanted out.”

  “I’d just got out of the hospital last Tuesday,” I said. “I was tired and irritable.”

  Like now -- only then I’d had a good reason. I could hear Guy thinking it, but he didn’t say it. Already in motion, he carried his plate into the kitchen, dumped it into the sink. Pausing by the hall table, he gathered his keys and sunglasses.

  “Shall I come back later?” he asked…and I wasn’t sure if there was a hesitation in his voice or not.

  I said, suddenly awkward -- it was untypical for Guy to ask permission -- “I think I’m going to make it an early night after the writing group.”