by Josh Lanyon
For a second or two he lay blinking at the celling, feeling his breathing slow, his heartbeat calm as horror faded in recognition that he had been dreaming.
He gave a shaky laugh and felt for his phone. A bleary glance at the screen told him it was after one.
Good. Linley should be driving in any second, hopefully.
His thoughts froze.
Linley.
The signet ring.
A tourmaline and diamond ring worth—according to the insurance papers—ten grand. Which Miles had left sitting in a spoon rest next to the sink when he’d washed his hands before preparing his dinner that evening.
Shit.
He climbed out of bed—this time for real—and stumbled barefoot into the hall.
A few downstairs lights were on—he had missed them when he’d turned everything off before going up to bed—and the empty, shining halls of the house looked golden in the mellow, muted light.
He headed straight for the kitchen and flipped the overhead light switch on. To his relief, the ring was sitting right where he’d left it. He slipped it on his finger and noticed that the door to the servants’ quarters was closed. He tried the handle. Locked.
Was Agathe afraid of him, or was she attempting to send some other message?
Or had the door swung accidentally shut? Maybe it had an automatic lock.
If that was the case, and Agathe discovered the locked door, she would probably flip out.
Still half-asleep and not really processing, Miles unlocked the door to the servants’ quarters.
He looked around the kitchen, yawning, absently scratching his head. Should he fix coffee for Linley? Would Linley want something to eat? Did he want something to eat?
He was considering this when he heard footsteps, quick and light, approaching the kitchen.
Linley had arrived at last.
Miles turned, smiling. His smile faded.
The man checked on the threshold. He was not Linley. Did not look remotely like Linley.
He did look vaguely familiar: tall, slim, very fair. He was about Miles’s age.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the man demanded. He sounded legitimately outraged.
At the exact same moment, Miles said, “Who are you?”
“Fuck.”
Miles finally placed him—the dark clothes had thrown him. Last time, he’d been stylishly dressed in a herringbone suit.
He said slowly, wonderingly, “Wait a minute. I know you. You’re him. You’re Monsieur Thibault’s clerk. You’re Mr. Wesley.”
It was so surreal; he hadn’t even had time to feel afraid.
Wesley’s face twisted. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You weren’t supposed to be here.” He looked around the kitchen, then looked down at the thing he held in his hand—a black steel utility knife.
His gaze met Miles’s. Though his eyes looked sick, his expression was set.
Miles felt a flash of fear. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Wesley shook his head and took a step forward. Miles immediately moved to put the large farm table between them. Probably he should have grabbed a knife from one of the drawers—assuming he could find the right drawer—but what was he going to do? Have a knife fight with Mr. Wesley? The whole situation felt impossible, preposterous.
Miles automatically slipped back into teacher-breaking-up-a-fight mode. “Look, you’re just making it worse for yourself. Don’t compound the error.”
Wesley—the expanse of table between them—looked exasperated. “You know you’re not going anywhere.”
Miles thought maybe he was. If he could get over to the door and unlock it before Wesley reached him, he could probably make it out to the garden and watch for a chance to slip through the gate and go for help.
A utility knife, though potentially lethal, was not the wieldiest of weapons.
“You were here on Friday night,” Miles said. “You answered the phone, pretending to be me.”
Wesley looked pained. “That should be obvious.”
“Were you working with Erwan?”
Wesley made a sound that fell somewhere between snort and hoot. “Working with—? You’re insane!”
“I’m insane?”
“Work with that cretin?” Wesley seemed indignant at the idea.
“Did you kill him?”
“Of course not. It was completely an accident. The fool was trying to carry the Botero sculpture down the stairs. He looked up, saw me, and slipped. How is that anyone’s fault but his own? Greedy bastard.” Wesley shrugged in a no-harm-no-foul sort of gesture.
Now or never. Miles started for the door. His plan was to drag the table with him and keep it between them while he got the heavy locks undone, but the table weighed a ton—maybe literally—and did not budge. In fact, he almost lost his balance. Wesley sprang at him, nearly caught him, and Miles just managed to leap back behind the table.
Wesley gave a breathless laugh. “Nice try.”
The one good thing was Miles did now have the advantage of being on the opposite side of the table, giving him access to the doorway leading onto the main hall.
Wesley saw it the same moment Miles did and charged around the end of the table, swinging the utility knife like he thought he was in the last act of West Side Story.
Miles bounded for the doorway, Wesley right on his heels. He made it through, grabbing and throwing a small decorative table in Wesley’s path. He heard Wesley go down, heard the clatter of the utility knife bouncing across marble, and sprinted for the front door.
A few steps from the door, he heard a key being inserted in the lock, saw the door handle turn, saw the door swing silently open.
“Lin,” Miles gasped.
Wrong again. It was not Linley standing in the foyer, and Miles skidded to a halt. Wesley, only a few steps behind him, also stopped in his tracks.
Miles stared in astonishment at the diminutive figure in black overcoat and black gloves.
“What in the name of God is going on here?” Monsieur Thibault demanded.
Chapter Eleven
“He knows everything,” Wesley gasped.
Monsieur Thibault looked heavenward. “Yes, imbécile, because you’ve just told him all he did not know.” He drew a black snub-nose revolver from his pocket and shook his head regretfully. “Why, Mr. Tuesday, will you never follow instructions?”
Too late all the pieces fell into place. Little things, like M. Thibault trying to convince Miles to stay someplace not within walking distance of Braeside. And bigger things, like the proprietress of Monsieur Comptant’s thinking she recognized Miles.
Because yes, while he and Wesley were not twins, they were roughly the same height, same age, same coloring.
Who better than M. Thibault would know which pieces at Braeside would be simple to liquidate: easy to remove, unlikely to be missed, and sure to fetch a good price. M. Thibault would never make the mistake of trying to remove a wall mural, although maybe Wesley might.
And, of course, M. Thibault had tried to prevent Miles from coming back to the house until midweek.
“You’ve been robbing this house since Capucine died,” Miles said.
“Eh bien,” M. Thibault said. “After all.” He shrugged.
“After all what?” Miles demanded.
“There’s plenty here. More than enough for you. What did you ever do to deserve nine million dollars? What have any of these rich, spoiled parasites done?”
“What should we do with him?” Wesley asked.
“What can we do?” M. Thibault looked apologetic.
“Wait,” Miles said. “There’s a big difference between stealing and murder.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“So how do we…” Wesley let that trail.
Into that pause came the unmistakable sound of a key biting into a lock. M. Thibault jumped and swung the revolver.
No. He could not let Linley walk into this. Here was as good a chance as he would get. Miles grabbed at M. Thibault’s gun hand—and
Wesley grabbed for him.
From down the hall behind them echoed an unholy shriek, and Agathe appeared in her flowered pink robe. She came hurtling toward them, screaming at the top of her lungs and swinging a frying pan.
“Fucking hell,” Wesley gasped, raising his utility knife.
Everything happened at once. Miles slammed M. Thibault’s arm into the opening door, which slammed shut again. Thibault dropped the revolver, which bounced and went off with a deafening and terrifying bang. The bullet hit the staircase, ricocheted and shattered the window opposite. Agathe reached them, swinging her frying pan like a tennis racket, and smashed the utility knife out of Wesley’s hand. He howled in pain, which cut off abruptly as Agathe swung again, backhanding him in the face with the frying pan.
Wesley went down like falling timber, out cold as he hit the marble tiles. M. Thibault landed on his knees, gasping in pain as Miles wrenched his arm backward. Linley shouted his alarm from outside and gave the door a ferocious shove, knocking M. Thibault flat.
The door burst open. “Jesus Christ, what’s happening in here?” Linley demanded.
“Hey, you’re home!” Miles panted, and fell into his arms.
***
“Only ten more days before you have to leave,” Linley said. His smile was rueful. “Given the first four, are you sure you’re coming back?”
It was Tuesday afternoon, and they were walking along Sherbrooke Street on their way to visit éclatant, the gallery where Linley worked. They had spent much of the night and all of the morning giving their statements to the police. Thibault and Wesley were currently in jail on an assortment of charges including theft over $5000, culpable homicide, and attempted homicide.
“Hey, I wanted adventure. Of course I’m coming back. And I’ll be flying in as often as I can until I make the final move this summer.”
Linley nodded. He did not seem entirely convinced.
Miles said, “Do you believe Thibault’s claim that they had nothing to do with your mother’s death?”
Linley seemed to weigh it. “Yes. They weren’t in the business of murder. They were in the business of robbing the estates of Thibault’s deceased clients.”
True. And a very nice supplemental income they had earned from it. After the police had departed with Thibault and Wesley in custody, Miles had discovered the two Tom Thomson prints cut from their frames and lying on the dining table.
“They sure seemed willing to expand their business model when they were cornered.”
“Yes,” Linley said.
“But something’s worrying you.”
Linley said slowly, “I can’t help wondering… Erwan was released from prison only a few days before Mother’s fall.”
“You think he might have had something to do with it?”
Linley shrugged. “We’ll never know. If she came across him creeping around inside the house? If he startled her?”
Miles winced inwardly. “I hope not.” If Erwan was responsible, directly or indirectly, for Capucine’s death, there was a poetic justice to his own fate.
“So do I.”
“One thing for sure, I’ll never again even consider trying to get rid of Agathe.”
Linley smiled faintly. “She’s not so bad when you get to know her. And she makes a really wonderful chocolate soufflé.”
“I’ll win her over,” Miles said.
“I’m sure you will.” Linley sighed. “Two months is a long time.”
“Not that long. And we do still have ten days.”
“Did you want to have lunch before or after we visit éclatant?”
They were passing a small gallery. Miles glanced in the window—and did a double take. He stopped walking.
“What’s wrong?” Linley asked.
“I just— Can we step inside here?”
“Of course.”
Puzzled but patient, Linley followed him into the shop. Miles went straight to the counter at the rear of the gallery and stared up at the large rectangular oil on canvas hanging there. He felt…almost light-headed, like he was moving through a dream.
“Bonjour,” the woman behind the counter said. She studied him, smiled. “C’est charmant, n’est-ce pas?”
He didn’t answer her. He was not dreaming. He knew those quick, keen brushstrokes—knew the desperate need to get it all out, the emotion, the hunger, the excitement—maybe those strokes were not as sure, as decisive as they could have been—and that ardent, unpredictable rush of color: alizarin crimson, vermilion, cadmium yellows, cobalt yellow, viridian, and ultramarine. A little emotional, Linley would have said. Linley had said.
“That’s Lake Tahoe,” Miles said.
The woman smiled at him. “Is it? I never knew before.”
“It’s wonderful,” Linley said. He rested his hands on Miles’s shoulders as though he felt Miles needed support, even if he didn’t know why. “Shall I buy it for you?”
The woman said quickly, “Oh! It’s not for sale.”
“Where did you find it?” Miles asked.
Her face lit up. “You won’t believe it. I found it many years ago in a dumpster.”
“There were three of them,” Miles said.
Her eyes widened. “Oui! There were three. I sold the other two. This one I kept for myself. Sometimes I need to remember why I’m in this business.” She hesitated. “Is it possible you are the artist?”
“There should be an MT in the right bottom corner.”
He wasn’t sure why his throat closed and his voice sounded all choky, but it did. That had been the worst day of his life. But this woman with the wonderful smile had come along after him and found his art, and it had moved her—she had kept it close ever since. And wasn’t that the way it was supposed to work?
“There is.” She didn’t bother to check the painting. She was beaming at him. “And what does the MT stand for?”
“Miles Tuesday.”
She offered her hand. “It is an honor to meet you at last, Miles Tuesday. I am Zoe Grenier, and this is my gallery.”
***
Linley raised his glass. “To your first show.”
They clinked glasses, and Miles sipped the champagne. The bubbles went up his nose and straight into his heart. He could not remember ever feeling so happy.
He was not even sure where they were. A little café within walking distance of Zoe’s gallery. But the sun was shining, music was playing, and there were no more mysteries.
He smiled at Linley, and Linley said softly, “If even some of that smile is for me, I’ll be content.”
“Oh, a lot of that smile is for you,” Miles said. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Twice he had gone out on very shaky limbs for Linley, so he would not have been surprised if Linley had made a little joke to diffuse the moment.
But Linley said quite seriously, “Good. I think I fell in love with you the night I said you were a nice guy and you said, ‘The kiss of death!’” His smile was lopsided.
Miles laughed.
Linley added, “Thank you for giving me another chance.”
“Thank you for giving me another chance,” Miles returned.
Linley wrinkled his brow. “I want to ask, though. I’ve been wondering ever since you told me you took the teaching job after my appraisal of your paintings. Why didn’t you ever get another opinion?”
Miles stared at him. Now there was an obvious question. As he met Linley’s smiling blue gaze, the answer suddenly seemed so obvious—and this journey of his, inevitable.
He said softly, “Well, you know. Et l’on n’y peut rien.”
THE END
A sincere thank you from all the authors to Keren Reed and Dianne Thies for their work on this project.
About the Authors
Nicole Kimberling
Nicole Kimberling is a novelist and the senior editor at Blind Eye Books. Her first novel, Turnskin, won the Lambda Literary Award. Other works include the Bellingham Mystery Series, set in the Was
hington town where she resides with her wife of thirty years, and an ongoing cooking column for Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet. She is also the creator and writer of “Lauren Proves Magic is Real!” a serial fiction podcast, which explores the day-to-day case files of Special Agent Keith Curry, supernatural food inspector. http://www.nicolekimberling.com/
Meg Perry
Meg Perry is the author of the popular Jamie Brodie Mysteries series. She lives by the beach in East Central Florida, from where she can easily see rocket launches from Cape Canaveral. After twenty-eight years in the Sunshine State, she feels enough like a native to take #FloridaMan and alligator encounters in stride. https://megperrybooks.wordpress.com/
S.C. Wynne
S.C. Wynne has been writing MM romance and mystery since 2013. She’s a Lambda Literary Award finalist, and lives in California with her wonderful husband, two quirky kids, and a loony rescue pup named Ditto. www.scwynne.com
L.B. Gregg
L.B. Gregg loves to run, bike, hike, eat, drink wine, listen to The Front Bottoms, and visit far-flung places. She lives most of the time in New England, and part of the time in Asia. Though readers best know her for Men of Smithfield and the Romano & Albright series, at home she’s simply Nanna Banana, grandma extraordinaire. Learn more about L.B. at www.lbgregg.com
Dal Maclean
Dal Maclean comes from Scotland and is a Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery. She loves imperfect characters, unreliable narrators, and genuine emotional conflict in fiction. Her background is in journalism, and though she’s lived in Asia and worked all over the world, home is now the UK. Learn more at www.dalmaclean.com
Z.A. Maxfield
These days Z.A. Maxfield is getting her kicks writing on Route 66 in Rancho Cucamonga. She lives with her husband, three of her grown children, and a dog of indeterminable variety named Dr. Watson. Despite the world we live in, she still believes in first love, second chances, and kissing in the rain. http://www.zamaxfield.com/
C.S. Poe
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and EPIC awards finalist author of gay mystery, romance, and paranormal books. She is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. C.S. is a member of the International Thriller Writers organization. cspoe.com