All She Wrote

by Josh Lanyon

  “Nor to me.”

  “The police are certain that Nella’s death was an accident.” She started to speak. I forged ahead. “Obviously that can’t be true of Sara’s. At least, I don’t see how it can be. That would be one helluva coincidence. But what the connection can be, I sure don’t see.”

  “The connection is me. Someone is trying to kill me.”

  “But there’s no way you could have been the intended victim of Poppy’s auto accident. Even if it wasn’t an accident, you couldn’t have been the target.”

  She drooped back against the pillows and stared despairingly at the ceiling. “I don’t pretend to understand the reasoning of a homicidal maniac, but obviously there’s a connection between the car accident and last night’s poisoning. Anything else defies logic.”

  “But how can any of this be the work of a homicidal maniac? These attempts aren’t random and…last night proves that they’re coming from within the house.”

  She shuddered and drew the comforter up around her shoulders. “I know,” she said almost inaudibly.

  “Who has reason to want to hurt you?”

  “No one. No one.”

  “Then we’re back to looking at other possible motives. And financial gain is the most obvious.”

  She shook her head.

  “What about Ricky?”

  She stared at me as though she didn’t understand the question.

  I persisted. “I know what you said yesterday, but the whole house has heard you two arguing about money on other occasions. Obviously your relationship has its ups and downs.”

  She made a graceful, dismissing gesture.

  “Anna, he needs money and you’re currently standing in the way of that. Frankly, I think the way Miles set up Ricky’s trust fund was an invitation to murder.”

  “Nonsense.” She was shaking her head again, very definitely. “Ricky wouldn’t hurt me. We have our differences, but he’d never—”

  “Someone would.”

  She was silent.

  “How does Ricky fare in your will?”

  “I told you. Obviously…I’ve made provisions for him. He’s my stepson. He’s entitled to that.”

  “He’s your stepson and he has financial problems. When, aside from you dying, does he inherit his father’s property?”

  “When he turns fifty. Unless, prior to that time, I agree that he’s responsible enough to take control of his finances.”

  Fifty? “Which you’re not about to do.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  If I was Ricky, I’d probably want to conk her over the head myself.

  “So he doesn’t inherit for another ten years?”

  “Twelve, to be exact.”

  “Was he here when you had your fall down the garden stairs?”

  “No.”

  “Was he here for any of your other close calls?”

  “I don’t remember.” Her chin rose mutinously. “Ricky is not trying to harm me.”

  “Have it your way. Maybe Rudolph is trying to knock you off.”

  I’d been thinking she couldn’t get any whiter, but she went the color of dirty linen.

  “Rudolph would never…” Her voice gave out.

  I agreed with her. I’d never met a more kind and gentlemanly man than Rudolph. I was playing devil’s advocate as I said, “Rudolph was here when you fell. Was he here when you had any of your other accidents?”

  “Yes. No. You’re mixing me up, Christopher. Stop this.”

  “How can I? It’s not like I’m enjoying this. You brought me here to help you. What am I supposed to do now? Pretend nothing happened? Nella’s dead. Sara’s dead. I nearly died. J.X. could have died.” With surprise I heard the wobble in my voice when I said J.X.’s name.

  “I know.”

  “That’s not easy to ignore. The police sure as hell aren’t going to ignore it.”

  “Did you share any of this…ridiculous speculation about Ricky with the police last night?”

  “I didn’t have to. The detective in charge of your case brought it up.”

  She stared down unseeingly at her breakfast tray.

  “I asked you once before and you basically told me to butt out. I’m asking you again. What’s your relationship with Rudolph?”

  She closed her eyes. Her head fell back on the mound of pillows. “You’re not naïve. You know what my relationship with Rudolph is.”

  I considered her unhappily. I really wasn’t enjoying this. Anna had asked me to help her, and the only way I could see to do that was by ferreting out the truth.

  “Okay, but there’s also local speculation that you’re having some kind of affair with your gardener.”

  Her head lifted. “Luke?”

  I nodded.

  “You didn’t share that with the police, I hope?”

  “No.” I hadn’t bothered because one thing I was quite sure the police would turn up all on their own was Luke’s criminal record.

  “You mustn’t—must not—mention Luke to the police. Not in any context.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s an ex-con. And if you introduce his name into this case, the police will give up looking for anyone else. Promise me you won’t mention Luke’s name.”

  “You can’t ask me to do that.”

  “I am asking you. I’m insisting.”

  “Anna.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. No. I can’t make you that promise. Besides, if the police aren’t complete incompetents, they’ll already have that information.”

  “They are incompetents. That’s obvious from the fact that they believe Poppy’s crash was an accident.”

  We were back to that. One thing about Anna, she was a tireless advocate. Which is a nice way of saying she didn’t know when to give up.

  “Is Luke in your will?”

  Her mouth tightened. She didn’t reply.

  “Let me try it from this angle. Is there anyone on the planet who isn’t in your will? Did you maybe forget to mention some gal in Vanuatu? It would be nice to cross someone off our suspect list.”

  Anna said tartly, “You’re assuming the primary motive for wanting me out of the way would be gain. Perhaps it’s something else. Revenge. Lust. Fear. Jealousy.”

  “I’m open to suggestion here. Feel free to tell me who wants revenge on you.”

  She shook her head.

  I sighed. “Out of curiosity, why was Luke in prison?”

  Anna struggled inwardly. At last she said huskily, “He was convicted of attempted murder.”

  J.X. was awake and dressing when I returned to our room.

  “Hey, what are you doing up?”

  “There you are.” He’d clearly had a shower. Drops of water beaded the bare honey-brown planes of his chest and shoulders. His hair was black and sleek as seal fur. Dark shadowed his chest and groin. “I was coming to look for you. You okay?”

  “Me? Fine. I wasn’t the one throwing up my guts last night.”

  He looked briefly self-conscious. Having excellent self-esteem, he shrugged it off as efficiently as his digestive tract had thrown off poison. “I’m fine. I’m a quick healer.”

  No kidding. He still looked pale, but other than that he seemed to be his normal exhaustingly healthy self. His expression was grim, though, his face set in tough, unfamiliar lines. His cop face, I thought.

  “What’s the situation this morning?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I tossed my robe over a chair. Sadly, it appeared we were not going to hide in our bedroom all day. “I haven’t had much chance for reconnaissance. Anna’s freaking me out.” I headed for the bathroom.

  J.X. disconcerted me by stepping into my path and pulling me into his arms. “How so?”

  It seemed only polite to reciprocate.

  In the course of reciprocation, I lost the conversational thread.

  “I’m very glad you didn’t die last night,” I told him a short while later.

  “Thanks. Me too.” He kisse
d the bridge of my nose. “What were you saying about Anna?”

  I had to think.

  “Oh. I have this bad feeling that she knows who’s behind these attempts on her life. Or that she at least strongly suspects. Yet she won’t speak up. Won’t even seriously discuss the possibilities. She keeps insisting Poppy’s car crash is somehow related. That it wasn’t an accident. And she made some weird comment about revenge being a possible motive.”

  J.X.’s dark brows formed a straight line. “Well, the car wasn’t tampered with. Is she suggesting the Clark woman tried to commit suicide?”

  That was an angle I hadn’t considered. “I don’t know. She’s not exactly suggesting anything. She’s insisting that it wasn’t an accident. And that she was the intended victim.”

  I expected J.X. to scoff at this, but he seemed to consider it. “I guess it’s not impossible if you buy the attempted-suicide theory. The House kid was a favorite of Anna’s, right? So if Clark did want to hurt Anna for some perceived wrong, taking the girl with her—and let’s not forget you, Anna’s old friend—might have been a way of settling scores.”

  “If it is, it’s the dumbest plan I ever heard. Poppy would be dead. How would that be a satisfying payback?”

  “It wouldn’t be, not to a balanced mind, but whoever is behind these attempts isn’t hindered by a balanced mind, if you know what I mean.”

  Here I’d insisted to Anna that we weren’t dealing with a homicidal maniac. J.X.’s mouth twisted at whatever he read in my face. “When I was with SFPD, very early in my career, I was involved in a suicide-by-cop shooting. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yeah. How do you mean involved?”

  “Involved. I was a participant.”

  I admit I was mildly shocked. You don’t expect your significant others to have blood on their hands. Unless they cut themselves shaving.

  “It’s one of those things you pray will never happen on your watch. I happened to get called out as backup on a domestic. We had a complaint that an ex-SWAT officer had beat up his wife. Not for the first time either. There was a history of domestic violence at that address. Anyway, when the first responders went to the door, the guy pulled what they believed to be a rifle. He aimed it at the officers, wouldn’t put it down despite repeated warnings, and…we shot him. It turned out later that he was brandishing an air rifle, but there’s no way anyone could have known that at the time. Somebody’s pointing a rifle at you—someone who knows how to use it—” J.X. shook his head. “We were all cleared, but I can tell you I thought long and hard about resigning. The officers who first responded both ended up taking early retirement.”

  “Jeez.” I had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea J.X. had anything like that in his past. It was a reminder of how much we still had to learn about each other.

  “It’s hard to comprehend the way a disturbed mind works. But disturbed people often seem perfectly rational until they finally snap. We all have our methods for coping and they usually happen behind closed doors.”

  I recalled a few of my own methods for coping after David had left. “Okay. But Poppy couldn’t have doctored that bottle of wine last night.”

  “You won’t know that until you know how the wine was doctored—if whatever substance made us sick was even in the wine. But it’s not impossible that a guest in this house could have tampered with a bottle of wine, any bottle, knowing that sooner or later the poisoned bottle would be selected. The more time that passed, the stronger this person’s alibi would appear. Especially if he or she could avoid returning to the house.”

  “Great.”

  J.X. grinned. “Nobody ever said being a master detective was easy.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As much as I generally enjoy breakfast, I can’t say I had much appetite for eggs and bacon in a house where a fatal poisoning had occurred a few hours earlier. I wished I could have ordered in pizza, but it was liable to send a negative message.

  A more negative message than the cops roaming the stately halls of Murder Manor.

  J.X. had even less appetite for breakfast. He sipped tea while I bravely poked hardboiled eggs and nibbled on the corners of bacon.

  We had the dining room to ourselves. I don’t know what Tim Gunn’s take is on such situations, but I was relieved to not have to make polite breakfast conversation with people I suspected of trying to bump off my hostess.

  “You want some toast?” I inquired. “You should probably eat something.”

  He shuddered like a horse trying to rid itself of flies. “No thanks.”

  I gave up trying to pretend I was eating either. “I’ve been thinking. Since Poppy is staying with Victoria, maybe we should walk over there.”

  I had his full attention. “And do what?”

  “Ask her if she’s feeling suicidal?”

  He choked on his coffee, but recovered. “If you want. But it would make more sense to drive.”

  “Actually, I think I’d like to be outside for a while.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to a walk in the snow?”

  “I am if you are.”

  He shrugged off the idea that he might not be up to anything. His gaze, meeting mine, was thoughtful. I was afraid he understood my reluctance to get in a car again only too well.

  Since we practically live in our cars in So Cal, I knew I’d have to get over that, but for now I preferred the idea of walking. It helped that, as battered and bruised as I was, I seemed to have a constant supply of sheer nervous energy that was keeping me on my feet and moving. Since I’m usually about as big a baby as you can find when it comes to my own physical woes, I was a little surprised at my macho-man impersonation. Though probably not as surprised as J.X., who’d witnessed me canceling one of our three weekends midway through because of a migraine.

  Maybe the tough guy thing was catching.

  Probably not.

  We were finishing up our tea and coffee when a uniformed officer requested J.X. accompany him to make his statement. He rose at once in a spirit of cooperativeness, although I’m not sure how much of a statement you can get out of the single word ralph.

  I went upstairs to change into something warm enough to walk across the north forty without developing pneumonia.

  As I was checking my wallet I noticed the In Case Of Emergency card had been tucked in with the bills. Probably when the emergency technicians or hospital staff were trying to identify us after Poppy’s car had gone over the side. I stared at the small, Day-Glo green card.

  The wallet was only a couple of months old, and I hadn’t bothered to fill in the emergency card until after I’d returned from my adventures in Northern California. I’d forgotten all about it, in fact, but right there in the field where it asked who to contact in case of emergency, I’d written J.X.’s name and phone number. There was no mistake. It was my handwriting.

  As horrible as that writing-retreat weekend had been, I’d come back from it feeling newly confident and even happy. And a large part of the reason for both those emotions was J.X.

  It was later on that I’d got cold feet, that I’d kept trying to stall and delay the relationship from progressing.

  Why?

  Clearly I’d been feeling confident enough to list J.X. as something pretty darned close to next of kin.

  Nor had I been wrong. When I’d needed him, he’d dropped everything to fly across country to my bedside—and this after I’d basically blown him off.

  I slipped the card back in my wallet. That was one mystery solved, anyway. Maybe it hadn’t been conscious, but I had asked for J.X. after I’d been injured. I had certainly wanted him.

  I still did.

  Sliding the wallet into my back pocket, I dragged a heavy blue and green tweed pullover over my shirt and headed for the door.

  It opened before I reached it. J.X. looked in.

  “There you are. Ready?”

  “I think maybe I am.”

  He blinked as I walked straight up to him, wrapped
my arms around his neck and locked my mouth on his.

  When we finally, reluctantly broke contact, he said with a hint of unsteadiness, “What was that for?”

  As I stared into his eyes I felt like I was seeing right into his heart, seeing the strength tempered by gentleness, the stubbornness balanced by loyalty and integrity, the honesty that didn’t sacrifice kindness. “I missed you.”

  “Okay. I missed you too.” He seemed bemused, but agreeable.

  My normal self-consciousness reasserted itself. I started to walk past him and J.X. caught my good arm, swinging me back. He scrutinized my face for a long moment, then he kissed me again, quickly, lightly.

  “I mean that,” he said softly. I realized that once again he’d read me quite accurately. It was getting to be a habit with him. “I did miss you, Kit. But I won’t push you for more than you can give.”

  It was absurdly hard to meet his eyes. I nodded.

  It seemed like a very long walk to Victoria’s, but that was probably more about snow than distance.

  Or maybe it was more about how out of shape I was. Although, in fairness, I was in better shape than I had been three months ago—or at least I had been before the car accident. Once J.X. and I had started seeing each other—okay, perhaps “seeing each other” was an overstatement of three visits in three months—I’d made myself start swimming again and half-heartedly working out.

  In fact, it occurred to me, as he was helping me over yet another fence stile, that maybe that sense of being unprepared, well, unfit, had been a factor in my reluctance to get involved with him. There was going to be a lot of competition for a guy like J.X. I’d already lost one lover to a younger, cuter rival. I didn’t know if I could take having it happen twice. All the biceps curls in the world weren’t going to turn me into Mr. Atlas.

  Hell, J.X. was probably too young to even know who Mr. Atlas was.

  I continued to brood as we walked down the snow-cleared dirt road past long white stretches of meadow and copses of dark evergreens. The air smelled of snow and pines. It burned in my lungs. My muscles burned too. It was a hike, not a walk, and a harder hike than I’d expected.