Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (14 page)

I shook my head. “No. But she might have been curious.” I thought back to the interactions between the members of the AC that fateful morning. I’d had the impression that Victoria had feelings for Rowland. Rowland, it had seemed equally clear to me, had feelings for Nella. Given the knack people had for inflicting pain on themselves, I could imagine Victoria wanting to read Nella’s completed story, especially since Rowland had thought so highly of it.

Or was I the only one with neurotic self-punishing tendencies?

“What was Victoria’s story like?”

I made a face. “The usual chick fantasy. Beautiful, kick-ass lady bounty hunter fucks and shoots her way through a series of misadventures. I skimmed a lot of it. Not my kind of thing, and to be honest, it was getting late. Anna was supposed to send me the files earlier in the week, but in the end she printed everything out for me. She’d already done the real evaluations. I was basically a guest speaker.”

“And Anna’s relationships with these people?”

“I didn’t pick up anything amiss. She had her favorites, and being Anna she didn’t bother to hide them. But I doubt if that would be cause for—”

“Motive is the least important aspect of any murder investigation.”

“Right.” I did know that, though in the Miss Butterwith books motive was everything.

“We don’t really have much of a starting point without it.”

“From the standpoint of means and method, Victoria looks like a likely candidate. She’s right on the estate and it looks like she comes and goes as she likes.”

“That’s true of Luke too. And
he
does have motive and a criminal record, although it might not be pertinent.”

“Criminal record is always pertinent.” That was the ex-cop talking.

I flipped through Nella’s manuscript, read a few lines. It was illogical, but it did affect my opinion of the work knowing that Nella was dead. But was that sympathy or was that merely a more open-minded reading? I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure it mattered.

I was pretty sure Nella had not been anyone’s target. Why would she be? Besides, a car accident was a pretty dumb means of trying to commit murder. There were too many things that could go wrong. In this case, four people could have died, and that seemed a bit too much like whole-scale slaughter.

Any way I looked at it, it didn’t seem to make sense.

“Anna wants to see you,” Sara greeted me when we returned to the house.

“Now?”

“Now.”

I looked at J.X. His eyebrows lifted. “I’ll see you back at the clubhouse.”

I nodded and followed Sara upstairs. It was the usual wordless trek across hill and plain and antique carpet. She tapped on the door, stepped aside as Anna’s muffled voice bade me enter.

Anna, wreathed in a cloud of smoke, was seated on the loveseat in front of the bay windows looking over the frozen ornamental lake. She wore a peach silk dressing gown. The leg encased by the cast was propped on pillows.

“Darling.” She patted the side of the loveseat. “Come sit down.”

I was fairly sure she didn’t expect me to leap to the cushions and curl up beside her. I sat on one of the companion chairs.

“I have to apologize for earlier,” she said. “Not for the lie, but for the lameness of the lie.”

“That’s all right.”

“I don’t think you ever met my stepson Ricky, did you?”

“No.”

“He’s what’s known as a rotter in the kind of books you write.”

I’ve never used the term
rotter
, but I didn’t see the point in debating it. “Did he threaten you? J.X. thought he saw you holding your arm as though you’d been hurt.”

She made a sound that fell somewhere between derision and irritation. “Ricky has a temper. So do I. It doesn’t mean anything. I know how to handle Ricky.”

I repeated, “Was he threatening you?”

“He was asking for money. That’s nothing new. Ricky comes home for one reason and one reason only. When he’s short of funds.”

“So he
was
threatening you.”

“You say potato, I say potahto.”

“I say rice pilaf. I say you’re trying to distract me with talk of side dishes. I say it sounds to me like Little Ricky has a motive for wanting you out of the way, assuming you included him along with everyone else in your will.”

Her mouth tightened. “Ricky is in my will, naturally. In addition, upon my death he inherits Miles’s literary estate as well as Miles’s share of our joint holdings.”

“How old is Ricky?”

“About your age.”

Interesting. Forcing Ricky to wait until Anna’s death before inheriting from his father seemed like a guarantee for resentment. Not that it was necessarily pertinent, but I wondered whose decision that had been. Anna’s tendency to want to control people was liable to prove a contributing factor in someone wanting to get rid of her. I wasn’t tactless enough to say so, of course.

One thing that did strike me was that Anna and Miles had been divorced for a couple of years by the time Miles died, yet he’d left Anna as Ricky’s trustee. I guess that was a vote of confidence if there ever was one. Unless Miles had forgotten who he’d named Ricky’s trustee.

Hard to believe.

“Was Ricky here when you had any of your other accidents?”

Her face took on a stubborn expression. “I don’t remember.”

“Well try, Anna.”

“Ricky is not to be considered a suspect.”

“That’s logical.”

“Logical or not, Ricky is family. I don’t want you to include him in your…your speculations.”

Funny how my investigation became speculation the minute Anna was annoyed with the direction I was moving in. “You said yourself he’s a rotter. And he’s got the best motive of anyone so far.”

“I’m serious about this, Christopher. You must trust my instinct on this. Ricky is not trying to kill me.”

“Okay. Next theory. Could it have something to do with the writing group?”

“Such as?”

“What about the stories themselves?”

Anna blinked. “The…stories…themselves? You mean one of the Asquith Circle wrote something that he or she later regretted letting me read?”

She articulated the theory so quickly I had to believe the idea, however fanciful, had already occurred to her.

“Is it possible?”

She didn’t answer immediately, further confirming my suspicion. “It’s not very likely, is it?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. With the exception of Victoria, they all wrote about small-town murders that are, in theory anyway, plausible. Rowland’s story about a fall down a staircase sounds pretty similar to the tumble you took. Sara wrote about one sister using insecticide to get rid of another.”

“Sara?”

“Sure.
Death and Her Sisters
.”

Anna still looked uncomprehending. “Sara had a story?”

“Yeah, she had a story. She had the best story in the group. You didn’t know?”

She shook her head.

“I guess that explains why you didn’t make any notes or comments on her manuscript.”

“No…” Anna seemed to gather her thoughts. “That is, I knew of course about the novel, but I didn’t realize she was going to show it to the group. She was so adamant about
not
showing it.”

“Why? The book is brilliant.”

Anna’s expression was troubled. “I don’t know why. And I agree with you about the manuscript. I only know that Sara was very definite about not showing the novel to the group.

I’m…astonished to hear that she apparently changed her mind.”

“Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

Anna laughed with genuine humor. “Not really. Sara is a very private person. To be honest, I’m sure she would never seriously consider publication.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not. Sara really does write solely for herself. At least…until now.”

“But she’s shown her work to you?”

“Yes. I’ve mentored her to the best of my ability. I’ve encouraged her to publish for years.” She fell silent.

“Well, she’s taken the first step. Now my next question is, is it possible one reason Sara didn’t want to publish her book is because it’s based on something in her own life?”

Anna opened her mouth and then closed it. Opened it and closed it again. Seeing that she was not getting past the codfish impersonation anytime soon, I said, “Or what about Rowland with his mom-loving serial killer?”

“There’s never been a serial killer in Nitchfield, and to return briefly to the topic of Sara, she doesn’t have any sisters living—” She stopped abruptly.

“She had a sister who died?”

Anna put her face in her hands. Her voice was muffled as she said, “This is
crazy
.”

“Crazy is as crazy does. Did Sara’s sister die under suspicious circumstances?”

Anna looked up. “I don’t know. I know nothing about it. I swear.”

“All right. Maybe J.X. can talk to his pals in the local PD and find out for us.”

Anna said urgently, “Until we know something for sure, you mustn’t let on in any way that Sara is under suspicion. She’s not merely an employee, she’s a friend.”

“Understood.”

“I’m serious, Christopher. Not by word or deed or—or even facial expression. I know you. You’re not good at hiding your feelings.”

“I’m not
that
bad at hiding my feelings,” I said, peeved. In fact, I thought I’d done a pretty decent job of hiding my feelings from the minute I’d arrived at the Asquith Estate.

Anna looked tolerant but unimpressed. She said with what I thought was unseemly lightness, “Anyway, if someone—and I don’t mean Sara necessarily—did realize he or she was under suspicion, they might…retaliate.”

“Retaliate?”

She said succinctly, “Well, think about it, darling. If someone starts to view
you
as a threat, you might find yourself in the same danger as me.”

“She said that to you?” J.X. looked sternly handsome—as stern as a man dressed in nothing but his underwear and goose bumps can look—as I related my talk with Anna while we dressed for dinner.

“Well, it’s common sense.”

“Nothing about this weekend is common sense,” he had to point out.

“All right, but it’s logical that if someone is willing to kill to protect him or herself once, they won’t hesitate to remove a nuisance like me.” I paused to watch him pull up his Diesel black jeans. It was a sight worth savoring.

“Yeah, what bugs me is that Anna knowingly dragged you into a situation that could prove hazardous to your health.”

I nodded absently. I wasn’t seriously worried. Besides…J.X.’s thighs were long and muscular, his ass was trim and tight, and the hand-brushed denim encasing both had a cool, worn-in look.

“Kit?”

“Hmm?”

He turned to face me, and the view was even better before he zipped it away. “You’re not listening.”

“Yeah, I am. You don’t like Anna.”

I don’t know why I said it. It wasn’t something that had been on my mind. I’m not sure it had even consciously occurred to me, but the minute I said it—and saw his expression—I knew I was right. “You really
don’t
like her.”

J.X. said awkwardly, “That’s putting it too strongly. I don’t
dis
like her. I don’t know her.

I don’t like the way she’s using you.”

“How is it using me to ask for help? We’re friends. Friends help each other.”

He nodded. The fact that he wasn’t arguing as he normally did made me more uneasy. It wasn’t like J.X. to tiptoe over my tender feelings.

“She’s scared. She’s—”

He gestured at the clock, cutting me off. “We should get down there.”

I said slowly, “Right.” I finished buttoning my shirt and slid my arm back in its supportive sling.

I wasn’t aware that J.X. was watching me until he said, “Don’t worry about it, Kit. I don’t have to like her. I’m sure you won’t be crazy about all my friends either.”

Well, that went without saying. I made a face and he chuckled. Unconcerned as usual.

“What’s with you and black?” I inquired as we started down the stairs. I nodded at his black lambswool turtleneck. “I thought you were one of the good guys?”

He grinned. “Hey. Black is the new white.”

I was still thinking over that philosophical statement when we joined the others for cocktails in the drawing room.

I was sipping my gin and tonic as Anna, assisted by Rudolph, joined us. She looked spectacular in an aquamarine sequined pantsuit, and if she privately feared for her life, she hid it well—as good at applying the emotional concealer as the other kind.

“How are you feeling, Christopher?” Rudolph asked. He appeared to be going for aged collegiate in a red cashmere pullover.

“Lucky,” I answered.

“Yes. That was…truly terrible.”

“I need a drink,” Anna said, lowering to the blue velvet sofa before the fire.

Sara, elegant and cool in gray silk, brought her scotch and water. To Rudolph, she said,

“Bourbon on the rocks?”

He smiled faintly. And smiled again when she brought his drink. She didn’t exactly warm up, but she wasn’t as frosty as usual.

A silence fell, broken only by the chink of ice in glasses and the crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

“Ricky, darling.” Anna smiled in welcome at the young man who appeared in the doorway.

I say “young man”, but he was my age. Clearly he spent a lot more time at the gym and the tanning salon. His hair was the shade of gold that comes from a bottle. I recognized it because that’s the same place I get my stylish highlights. And lowlights. His eye color was lapis lazuli. I was guessing tinted contacts, because that’s a color Mother Nature generally reserves for non-humans. His clothes were expensive and well cut, but for all the time and effort spent, Ricky wasn’t handsome, just…well-crafted.

Anna made the introductions. Ricky was pleasant and smiling as he promptly forgot all our names. I admit I was predisposed not to like him after J.X.’s speculation on whether Ricky had grabbed Anna, but he seemed a nice enough guy. Maybe a bit too slick, but that’s not hard in a gathering of writers.
Savoir-faire
and
author
are not generally what you’d call synonymous.

“Writers!” he said. “A houseful of writers. Whoa, baby.”