The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Perfect.” She turned toward the bedroom door. “Go ahead and get cleaned up and dressed. We’ll eat at the party.”

  * * *

  Soon the two were ready. Holmes looked casually handsome, the English-cut corduroy jacket emphasizing his lean build; Skye wore a black broomstick skirt and scoop-neck blouse, cinching her waist with a chunky turquoise and silver concho belt. Black pumps clad her feet. She rummaged in the coat closet, emerging with a soft grey ruana to protect against the spring evening’s chill. Holmes took it, wrapping the fluffy shawl about her shoulders, then offering his arm.

  Skye took it, and they headed out to the car.

  * * *

  The party was a bit much, in Holmes’ mind. The music was loud, and while he found it interesting, some of it was so discordant he was getting a headache. For the most part, he stood in the corner and observed the event with a glass of Jack Daniels in his hand, which he occasionally imbibed.

  Skye mingled freely, although she didn’t ignore her escort by any means. Every few minutes she wandered back to Holmes’ side to chat, and coax him from the corner. A few times she even got him involved in some conversations with other party-goers, mostly about his literary “namesake,” and the “hobby” his name had supposedly engendered. Once or twice the discussion meandered into the artistic, and Holmes was able to discourse on the artist Vernet or the merits of Wagner over Gilbert & Sullivan.

  But the gyrations this modern crowd called dancing puzzled him. Holmes was familiar with ballroom dancing, and reasonably accomplished at it—it had stood him in good stead on several cases when he had to disguise himself. But he frankly had no idea where to start on this style, although he refused to admit it to Skye.

  * * *

  After delivering several hints, which were ignored, Skye pointedly suggested they dance. Holmes promptly and decidedly declined. Skye frowned, unhappy and secretly hurt.

  “Holmes, you need to at least try. It’s a skill you should learn.”

  * * *

  “I am aware of that, Skye,” Holmes replied in an undertone, aware he had hurt her by his rejection despite her efforts to disguise it, “but now is neither the time nor place. Later, after I have had the chance to study the form, and perhaps to ask you some questions, I may attempt it at home. Emphasis on may. I do not find it aesthetically pleasing.”

  Skye grumbled something under her breath, and opened her mouth to say something else, but it never came out.

  “Hey, Skye, is this guy buggin’ you?” a voice came from behind her. “Back off, buddy. Nobody messes with our Skye.”

  Holmes raised an irritated eyebrow as Skye turned. A stocky, tow-headed man in jeans and bright pink t-shirt stood there, beer in hand, truculent expression aimed at Holmes. He was younger than Skye by a decade, Holmes estimated, if not a couple years more. He was not inebriated, although he had partaken of enough to lower his inhibitions.

  * * *

  “No, Jake,” Skye explained patiently, internalizing her exasperation at the interruption. “Everything’s fine. This is my date, Sherlock Holmes. His parents named him for their favorite literary character. He’s a good friend. Holmes, this is Dr. Jacob Batson. He was a co-operative student under me a few years back.”

  Holmes nodded acknowledgement.

  “Cool,” Jake grinned. “Neat name. So what’s with the long face?”

  “Nothing,” Skye sighed. “Minor disagreement.”

  “Aw. Lover’s quarrel?” Jake’s grin became a smirk. Skye bit her lip in an effort to control her annoyance.

  “Hardly,” Holmes replied. “We were discussing dancing.”

  “He’s not much into it,” Skye observed.

  “On the contrary, I have been known to dance the odd waltz. Even the occasional tango. But that,” Holmes nodded at the floor where couples writhed, “is another matter entirely.”

  “A waltz, eh? You one’a those ballroom dance instructors, like they have on the TV competition show?” Jake asked curiously.

  “Something like that,” Holmes remarked blandly, he and Skye having once caught part of the program in question while channel surfing.

  “Skye, can you dance that fancy shit?” Jake wondered.

  “I can, a little, yeah. I can waltz, anyway. I can’t tango…” Skye shrugged.

  “Wait here a sec.” Jake grinned slyly. He scampered off toward the DJ, beer sloshing in hand.

  “Uh-oh…” Skye groaned under her breath.

  “What is wrong?” Holmes asked, tone denoting concern at her reaction.

  “Jake’s plotting. That’s never a good thing. I wonder sometimes if he’ll ever grow up. I swear he’s still more boy than man, even if he did finish his doctorate last year. Listen, if he does what I think he’s gonna do, don’t feel obligated.”

  “What do you think he is going to do?”

  “That,” Skye observed, as the opening strains of Anne Murray’s May I Have This Dance warbled through the air. “Yeah, that’s a passable waltz, I guess.”

  “He anticipates we shall dance now?”

  “That appears to be the expectation,” Skye agreed, watching as Jake and the DJ smirked at them. Jake bowed, cheekily brushing his hand toward the dance area, which had cleared at the opening notes of the older song. Skye frowned at him, shaking her head in disapproval at the younger man—and found herself swept into the center of the room.

  Holmes was good, Skye decided within seconds—really good. He led her skillfully around the dance floor, his right hand on her waist keeping her steady, his left hand on hers holding her upright, while her startled feet learned the rhythm.

  * * *

  As she settled into the steps, his hand slid around her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer; his observations of the other dancers told him partners now stayed much nearer one another than would have been proper in his day. Once Skye’s body brushed his torso and his thighs subtly guided hers, he eased his hand’s pressure. Skye shook her head in perplexed amusement.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t expect this,” she murmured into his chest.

  “No, but they did,” Holmes observed into her ear. “I thought it behooved us to keep up the appearance, at least. After all, you have gone to a good deal of trouble to provide me with an appropriate background and relationship to you, as a fitting façade; not to mention furnishing me so many varied learning experiences. It would be a shame to spoil it by failing to take advantage of the opportunity.”

  Skye smiled, blushing into his shoulder at the appreciative comment. The pair glided across the floor while the other partygoers watched, impressed.

  “You ought to be careful, Holmes. You’re going to spoil me.”

  “How so, pray tell?”

  “Victorian gentlemen removed to the present day are SO much more socially adept and considerate than the chronally apposite variety. I’ll be permanently ruined for ‘normal’ men.”

  It was Holmes’ turn to redden, the heat suffusing his face. “Well…I am glad you approve,” he decided after a moment to regain his equanimity.

  “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  The song ended, and their audience applauded, even adding a few enthusiastic whistles. Holmes released his partner’s waist and sketched a half-bow to their onlookers, as one corner of his mouth quirked in sardonic amusement. Skye dropped a curtsy, which surprised him with its fluidity—he had long since observed formal bows and curtsies were not in common use in this world, or at least in this part of it. Keeping hold of her hand, he led her off the dance floor, in search of his discarded drink. When he found it, there were lipstick stains on the glass, and he frowned, abandoning it and going to the bar to make another.

  * * *

  He brought two, handing one to Skye. She gave him a gratified smile and accepted it, sipping the whisky.

  “If you like,” she suggested, “when we leave, we can run by a liquor store and you can pick out something you recognize, instead of this Jack Daniels. It’s go
od stuff, but it IS American, and you might find something British you’d rather have. A lot of the established labels have been in existence for a long time.”

  “No, this is quite satisfactory,” Holmes noted, swirling the dark golden drink in his glass before taking a sip himself. “It is more than acceptable whisky. Occasionally I indulged in a good single-malt scotch, such as Glenlivet, but not frequently.”

  “Well, it’s expensive, but Glenlivet is still aroun—” Skye began, when they were unexpectedly besieged.

  * * *

  Or at least, Skye corrected herself, Holmes was.

  “Well, hello there,” the sultry brunette remarked, coming up to Holmes and laying a possessive hand on his arm, stroking the muscles through his sleeve. “My name’s Yvette. You’re quite a dancer. So am I. Wanna take a spin?” She smiled up into Holmes’ face, her green gaze seductive. “They’re playing something slow. Maybe later, we can even take it…horizontal.”

  “I get him next, Yvette,” the brunette’s bottle-blonde friend laid claim, edging between Holmes and Skye to take Holmes’ other arm, effectively cutting Skye out. “I’m not letting you monopolize him. He’s a hunk. I’m Barb,” she added obsequiously.

  Skye bit her lip, and she grew worried: She hadn’t thought to teach Holmes modern seduction terms. She tried to catch his eye, to ensure he knew what was happening, and more importantly, what was being suggested. It disturbed her on some fundamental level she didn’t quite grasp, but if—unlikely though she considered it—Holmes wanted to respond to the women’s invitations, he was welcome to do so; she just wanted to make sure he understood the implications first.

  * * *

  Holmes, however, was a sophisticated, suave, experienced man regardless of timeframe, and although the language was unfamiliar, the rest of the encounter was not.

  After all, he thought, a man being propositioned by a loose woman is much the same despite place or time. Thank Providence, Skye is a true lady.

  Adopting a banal expression, he informed the women in his cultured English, “I fear not. The only dancing I intend to do—‘horizontal’ or otherwise—is with my companion, Dr. Chadwick.” He pulled back somewhat abruptly, loosing his arms from clinging hands and moving close to Skye in the same motion, making it plain his date was his desired company.

  “Ooo,” Jake remarked with a huge smirk, walking up and overhearing Holmes’ comment as the disappointed women departed, “Horizontal dancing? Skye didn’t say she had herself a boyfriend now.”

  * * *

  “Skye doesn’t say a lot of things,” Skye retorted, irritated. “Because Skye’s business is SKYE’S business.” The hint was as blunt as she could make it. Unfortunately, it sailed past Jake like a kite in a Force Ten gale.

  “So somebody got under her skin. She get off on the accent?” Jake sized up Holmes with a leer. He turned to Skye, teasing. “I bet it’s like having your own personal 007 in the bedroom, huh?”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed in controlled anger. Skye’s anger was less controlled. Her face flushed and she scowled before barking, “Jake, shut the hell up.”

  “Hey, baby, don’t get all fussy on me. I think it’s great you finally sat up and took notice of somebody. About time you got your head out of your science books.” Jake shot another curious glance at Holmes. “I heard you’ve even moved in with her. That true?”

  “It is true I recently moved into her SPARE BEDROOM, yes,” Holmes admitted through gritted teeth.

  “Cool,” Jake leered again.

  * * *

  That was the last straw, as far as Holmes was concerned.

  “Sir,” his calculated tone was that of a man trying hard not to liberate his fellow conversationalist of a few teeth, “have you ever heard of the terms ‘old fashioned lady’ or ‘proper English gentleman,’ I wonder?”

  “Of course,” Jake laughed.

  “Are you aware of their meaning?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then let me be the first to inform you, without equivocation, that you are looking at prime examples of both.” Holmes’ tone was cutting. He sat down his unfinished drink, removed the barely-touched glass from Skye’s clenched fingers, and offered his arm. “Shall we depart, my dear Skye?”

  “Yes, Holmes, I think that’s an excellent idea,” Skye answered in a frosty, clipped voice, taking his arm.

  Jake looked crestfallen. Putting out a hand, he stammered, “Hey, hey, um, wait a minute.”

  The offended pair paused. Holmes pointedly extracted his pocket watch and glanced at it.

  “Don’t be mad, guys,” Jake muttered, dejected, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody’s feelings. It’s just…you two look really good together, and Skye, everybody here likes you. Well, maybe not those chicks,” he jerked a thumb after the two women who had propositioned Holmes, and Holmes noted they were now hunting in greener pastures, having managed to catch the attention of a handsome blond and his buddy. “But you know what I mean. We wanna see you happy, Skye, and I kinda thought…I mean, I hoped…well, I thought maybe you finally found the right dude.”

  Holmes watched dispassionately as the blonde head by his shoulder bowed. When Skye responded to Jake’s apology, it gave the detective considerable food for thought.

  “Thanks, Jake. I appreciate the idea, even if the way it was expressed was kinda ‘over the top and keep on going.’”

  Jake winced, then grinned sheepishly.

  “But for starters, I met Holmes on business, and since it looks like he’s going to be here in the States awhile, I’m helping out. Second, he hasn’t been here long, and it wouldn’t be quite right for me to latch onto him for myself like that. He deserves the chance to look around a little, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Jake nodded, disappointed. “But he’s living with you…”

  “Not in the Biblical sense,” Skye chuckled. “Like I said, I’m helping out. He needed a place to stay, at least in the short term. He and I hit it off almost immediately, and he’s a good friend now, so he’s welcome to stay as long as he wants. But there are no strings attached, and if he decides tomorrow to strike off on his own, or with someone else, I’d tell him to go forth with my blessings.”

  * * *

  Skye’s hand was still in the crook of Holmes’ elbow, and he pressed her arm against his side, a world of meaning in the subtle, unseen gesture. The reassuring act registered on her consciousness, giving her the strength to get through Jake’s next statements.

  “Aw. Skye, you’re pushing forty, sweetheart. Aren’t you ever gonna settle down with somebody?”

  “Do I need to? Does it matter?”

  “It matters to your friends. Sometimes, girl, you seem so…alone. Like there’s not a person in the world who really gives a rip.”

  * * *

  Holmes felt her breath catch through his side, and he glanced down at her face. She was paler than usual, and there was an oddly strained expression on her face.

  “I dunno, Jake. I think you guys better get used to it. Listen, we gotta go now. It’s getting late and we have to get back to the ranch.”

  “Okay,” Jake nodded reluctantly. “Mr. Holmes, you’re not still mad?”

  “No,” Holmes answered succinctly.

  “Okay, good. See you later.”

  “Bye, Jake.” Skye twiddled her fingers at him as they left.

  * * *

  Outside, Holmes held the car door while Skye clambered behind the wheel, then went around and got in the passenger side. Skye put the key in the ignition, but sat there for a long moment, staring through the windshield at the darkness.

  “Skye?” Holmes asked, his tone evoking the meaning, Are you all right?

  “Yeah,” she said, answering the question he had not spoken aloud. “But I think we’re gonna make a little stop on the way home.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “Liquor store. For some Glenlivet. I think I’ll join you in a nip when we get home.”

  “Ah,�
� Holmes said in approval.

  * * *

  “Hello?” The shadowy figure picked up the ringing phone.

  “Hey there, Pete.”

  “Well hi, Yvette. What can I do for you?”

  “You didn’t tell me that Brit you met was such a hunk.”

  “Hunk? Brit? You saw him?!”

  “Did I ever, baby. Mm-mm. I could go for him. But he was only interested in some blonde chick he was with. Damn, ever since I left Bob I can’t seem to find anything but shit for men. The good ones don’t go for me.”

  “Well, don’t worry, Yvette. You’ll find a good one. So tell me…where did you see him? Holmes, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m at this party…”

  * * *

  They did indeed get a bottle of Glenlivet, and upon arriving home Skye opened it and poured them each a substantial glass. They repaired to the sofa in the den, where Holmes lit the fire Skye had set in the fireplace before they’d left; it was a chilly night despite the warmth of the day. They were both silent for long moments, staring into the flames as they savored the single-malt. When she neared the bottom of her glass, Skye sighed, then turned to Holmes, who was only about halfway through his drink.

  “Holmes, I want to apologize.”

  “For what?” he wondered, noting she had imbibed just enough for her inhibitions to be lowered. He suspected it was deliberate, to give her courage for whatever this conversation was going to be about.

  “Today must have seemed like a real assault on your senses.” Skye sighed again. “Between my swimsuit and the two women hitting on you, then Jake making his little remarks…I can guess what you’re thinking.”

  Holmes frowned at the term guess, but remained silent, waiting.

  “The thing you have to understand is,” Skye went on, “sexual mores changed drastically, several decades ago. Until around 1960, it was all still about like it was in your day. Then a big medical breakthrough happened, and it changed everything.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The Pill. The birth control pill. Artificial hormones for women that prevent pregnancy. It meant intimacy didn’t carry as much risk, and we were immediately propelled into the much ballyhooed ‘sexual revolution,’” Skye said, rolling her eyes in mild disgust.