The Boy With The Painful Tattoo: Holmes & Moriarity 3 (3 page)

Rachel made a tsking sound. “Then do your homework. Start researching. Just as you do for Miss Butterwith. Only
not
Miss Butterwith. It’s time for a breakthrough book, Christopher. You know what that means.”

I swallowed. Oh yes. I knew.

Standalone.

Something dark and edgy and psychological. Ideally, a little twisted. Random violence. Grisly murders. Calculated violence. Torture. Maybe some child molestation, if I could work it in. I groaned. “It would be easier to write Scandinavian.”

“Exactly. Especially since you
are
Scandinavian.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s code for something else.”

Rachel chuckled evilly. “So. The convention? Are you reconsidering?”

“No. For the last time, no. I’ve got to go buy a sprinkler head. But say hi to my—J.X. when you see him.”

* * * * *

The problem with moving to a new city that you never wanted to live in, is you don’t know where to find the best place to have brunch—or where the nearest home improvement store is. But I don’t write mysteries for nothing, and I soon managed to locate a Lowe’s on Bayshore Boulevard.

See, that’s the nice thing about chains. You always know what you’re getting. Zuppa Toscana soup at Olive Garden or Rust-Oleum paint at Lowe’s, there are no surprises and no disappointments. This is why I prefer chains over indies. You’re not supposed to admit that though.

I wandered aisles wide and mostly empty on a Thursday morning, checking out lighting fixtures and lawn furniture. They had a magnificent selection of garden hoses. Once upon a time, the word
kinks
was synonymous in my mind with garden hoses. I lingered, fondly considering lengths and widths. I mean, as crazy and inconvenient as this was—my situation, not the home improvement center—I couldn’t help feeling a little chuffed that I
was
doing it. Doubts and misgivings notwithstanding, I was starting a new life with J.X.

Anywho. My new home and garden center was well organized, and it didn’t take long to choose a sprinkler head: stationary pop-up in a half-circle design. Some things in life are simple.

“Oh my God,” someone said from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. There was an attractive guy about my age—average height, slender, curly dark hair, blue eyes—staring straight at me over the forest of plants stacked on his trolley.

I nodded politely. Possibly discouragingly.

“It is you, right?” he said.

This time I glanced around, just to make sure he
was
actually addressing me.

“It was this morning.”

His blue eyes were wide with disbelief verging on shock. “Christopher Holmes? It
is
you?”

“Yeah.” I unbent enough to say, “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Oh God. Jerry Knight. You won’t remember me. We met years ago at Murder in Midtown. The one in DC.”

Ten years ago. That was the convention after I’d found out David, my ex, was cheating on me. It was the convention where I’d met J.X. So, yes, a lot had been going on at that conference, and it was safe to say I barely remembered the event, let alone Jerry Knight.

“That was a great conference,” I said.

“Meeting you was the highlight. You are my all time favorite writer.”

I laughed self-consciously. “Or at least your favorite of all the writers shopping in Lowe’s this morning.”

Jerry laughed too, rolling his trolley forward and offering his hand. “No, but seriously. I love your books. I’ve got every single thing you’ve written. Even the Japanese edition of
Miss Butterwith Plants a Clue
. I’m your biggest fan.”

He had a firm handshake. Any clamminess could be put down to the metal handlebar he had been tightly gripping. That and the fact that it was like a rain forest in the garden center. Even now mist was rolling out through the open doors.

“Thank you,” I said. I can’t deny that it was heartwarming hearing this, especially on a morning when I was feeling a little…okay, a long way from home.

“I had you sign five of my books.” His smile was sheepish.

“
Now
it’s coming back to me,” I joked, but really that wasn’t all that unusual. The only genuinely unusual signing request I’d ever had was to sign someone
else’s
books—and that had happened twice from two different readers. Oh, and the reader who had asked me to sign her naked breast. That was one for the scrapbook.

Jerry asked, “Is it true you’re done with the Miss Butterwith series?”

“Uh…well, it’s not official or anything. I just think maybe the series has…run its course.” I listened to the echo of these words and waited to feel the reverberating shock of my final acknowledgment of a fact I had avoided facing for so long. But I felt…nothing. No sadness, no regret. No relief or happiness either. Nothing.

Jerry looked disappointed but understanding. “They’re such great characters, Miss B. and Mr. Pinkerton. And of course Inspector Appleby.” He smiled and I smiled because Inspector Appleby was pretty darned appealing, if I did say so myself.

“So what are you working on now?”

I held up the sprinkler head and we both laughed.

“No gardener?”

“Gardener?”

“I guess I always picture big name authors like you living in a mansion with a drawing room and a butler and a private secretary. Cocktails at five and holidays at St. Moritz or the French Riviera. That kind of thing.”

It took a few seconds for all the words that followed
big name authors like you
to sink in. And then I hated to destroy the illusion. Technically, the house on Chestnut Lane wasn’t a mansion, but three thousand square feet was plenty big for two people. Was it big enough? That remained to be seen.

I said, “Ha. Don’t you believe it. Most writers I know have to keep their day jobs. Anyway, we’ll hire someone to take care of the yard, I’m sure.” Of that, I had no doubt. The front yard was pretty, but the Tommy Church back garden was one of the house’s major selling points. Church is regarded as the father of modern landscape architecture. In fact, he’s credited with the concept of “garden rooms,” a quintessentially Californian notion, if there ever was one. No way was I going to risk lowering our resale value by doing something destructive like planting the wrong roses or moving the tall stone urns out of alignment.

“We just moved in,” I added with uncharacteristic forthcomingness. “This morning was the baptism.” I held up the sprinkler head.

Jerry looked interested and surprised. “Really? You’re new to the area?”

I’m not the chatty type, so it had to just be feeling like a stranger in a strange land that caused me to pop out with, “Yeah. Well, my uh…he’s from up here. We just bought a place on Chestnut Lane. In Russian Hill.”

“Right. Right, because I
thought
you were based in Southern California. Russian Hill is a nice area. Pretty views and beautiful old houses and cute little cafes and shops. You’ll love it.”

“Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sure it’s going to be great.”

“Are you going to be doing any signings or book events up here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t do a lot of signings.”

“I noticed!” He was still smiling though. “Well, I’m on your mailing list, so I guess you’ll let us know.”

“Yep. I will definitely keep you posted.” I began to sidle away down the aisle, away from the registers as Jerry pushed his trolley forward. I was ready to check out too, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to stand in line chatting with Jerry. He seemed like a nice guy, but sociable was not my default. Actually, default was my default.

“It was so great meeting you,” Jerry called. “You made my day.”

I waved my sprinkler head in farewell.

I spent a few minutes browsing hummingbird feeders and then thought to pick up a couple of bags of picture hooks before heading to the checkout counter.

I paid for my purchases and left the store. As I approached my car I spotted Jerry loading plants into a minivan parked beside my BMW.

He looked up and his frown reversed itself into a bright smile. “Hello again!”

“Hi.”

“I promise I’m not stalking you.”

“No, I know.” I said, “At this point it looks like I’m stalking you.”

He laughed as though that was really funny, and pushed his empty trolley to the cart return area.

I unlocked my car, tossed the plastic bag with my purchases in the passenger seat, got in and was just starting to reverse when there was a tap, tap, tap on the passenger side window. I braked. Jerry was smiling tentatively through the tinted glass.

I pressed the button to lower the window a crack.

His mouth formed the words, “Hi again.”

I relented and lowered the window all the way. “Hi.”

I could see my lack of enthusiasm was making Jerry rethink whatever impulse had led him to stop me mid-getaway. He forged bravely on. “Er, I know you must be busy and I don’t want to seem pushy or anything, but I would love to buy my favorite author a cup of coffee. Just to thank you for years of great reading and to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Red-faced but hopeful, he gazed at me. The hand gripping the window sill of the door was white-knuckled.

Oh God. Being the socially backward type myself, I knew only too well how excruciating this was for him. And I did not want to crush him with a refusal. If only I was J.X. who was perfectly capable of accepting spontaneous invitations. In fact, he was always doing stuff like that: going off with readers for dinner after a book signing or attending book club luncheons. But I was me, and I had already exhausted my daily allotment of social niceties. I just wanted to go home. And failing that, get back to the house on Chestnut Lane and start unpacking all those boxes and crates.

“That’s really nice of you, Jerry. It’s just…there’s so much to do right now. Moving in, you know. Nothing is unpacked. I couldn’t even find the toaster this morning. There are people coming to hook up. I mean, to hook things up. You know. You know how it is.” I was starting to babble in my own discomfort.

“Yeah, of course.” Jerry looked crestfallen.

I made an effort. “But it’s been really nice meeting you. I don’t get a lot of opportunities to talk to readers.” In the back of my mind I could hear J.X. and Rachel chorusing that if I’d ever go to conferences I could meet all the readers I wanted. What they failed to understand was that was
already
the case.

“No, I totally understand,” he said. “It was a dumb idea.”

“No! It was very thoughtful. I appreciate it. It’s just…you know. Another time.”

“Right. Sure.” He smiled sadly and I smiled too brightly, and threw the car into reverse again. He stepped hastily out of range of my tires.

I stopped at a market on my way back to Chestnut Lane and stocked up on a few essentials like frozen pizzas, frozen fried chicken, frozen pot pies, frozen egg rolls, frozen lasagna, frozen burritos, beer, frozen popcorn shrimp, chocolate muffins and ice cream. Also a bag of limes, a bag of pre-washed romaine lettuce and two bottles of sparkling mineral water. After J.X. and I had started seeing each other more regularly, I had tried to make a conscious effort to eat better and exercise more. There’s nothing like having to get naked with someone younger and trimmer to make you start worrying about dimples where there should be none. I’d lost a few pounds and toned a few muscles. But whether it was stress or the fact that J.X. and his sleek, taut body would be out of sight for a few days, I found myself
craving
cardboard-flavored pizza.

My hunting and gathering finished, I headed back to the house. It took about five minutes to replace the sprinkler head. I showered downstairs and considered my plan of attack as I ate my pizza.

Should I start with the front room, to give a semblance of order to the house? It would be time-consuming but pretty simple. Just shelving the boxes and boxes
and boxes
of books we both owned would go a long way toward making this feel more like a home and less like a publisher’s warehouse.

Or did it make more sense to start with the kitchen? It would be nice to be able to cook a real breakfast or wash a dish. But how we organized the kitchen was something J.X. and I should probably figure out together. I could start with my office.

No.

Definitely not.

Maybe the bedroom. But then again, might as well wait until the new bedroom suite was delivered that afternoon.

I ate the last piece of pizza and considered my unusual lethargy. Of course part of it was probably just lack of sleep and the previous day’s nine-hour drive. Not to mention the exhaustion of trying to get my entire life packed and moved over the last few weeks. I mulled over the idea of having a beer and cooking the fried chicken. It was past noon, after all. Time for lunch.

I had the freezer door open and was contemplating the fine layer of frost that had already formed over the box of chicken when the kitchen phone rang, startling me.

I answered cautiously.

J.X. said, “Hey, it’s me. I’m at the hotel. How’s it going?”

The sound of his voice had an unexpected effect. All at once I felt both cheerful and calmer. My overstrung nerves unclenched, released, smoothed out. The knot in my gut eased. Or perhaps that was the pizza inching toward the next phase of digestion. Whatever, I was happy to hear his voice.

“It’s good. The sprinkler is repaired and I’m unpacking…everything. How was your flight?”

“I spent longer getting through security than in the air. Did you have trouble…” His voice seemed to dip and then I heard female laughter and noise in the background. J.X. said distantly, “Very funny, give me my phone, Samantha.”

Ah, yes. Conferences. Networking. Socializing. Shenanigans. And more shenanigans. Shenanigans were how J.X. and I had met. Funny to think that it could have been Jerry Knight I met that weekend.

“Sorry about that.” His voice came back on, loud and clear. “Kit, I got a call from Nina. She sounded upset but I couldn’t understand what the problem was. I was thinking maybe if you went over there?”

My moment of serenity deflated like a runaway balloon pricked by the point of a weathervane.