Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (6 page)

I flopped down on the bed, which made an almost human sound of discomfort, and determinedly picked up the next manuscript. Arthur Gohring was apparently planning a series about a crime-solving ferret named Farrell. I sighed and started to read. The novel turned out to be funny and horrifically violent. One chapter into Farrell the Ferret and
Monkey Matters
, I understood why Anna thought Arthur needed to be part of the group even if he was an uncomfortable fit.

When I next looked up, it was past midnight and I still had four manuscripts to get through. I skimmed the ending of
Monkey Matters
—I’d been wrong about Arthur going for a series—shook my head over the bloody demise of Farrell, and reached for Sara Mason’s
Death
and Her Sisters.

I hadn’t realized until then that Sara was an active participant in the group. No wonder she’d seemed sort of, er, phlegmatic when I’d asked if she wrote too.

Three hours later, shocked and envious, I finally, reluctantly, set the manuscript aside, wondering what the hell Sara Mason was doing working as Anna’s PA. Not that PA wasn’t an admirable profession—when it wasn’t engaged in spouse stealing—but Sara was the real deal.

This went beyond talent and hard work, this was gifted. This was the kind of acuity you were either born with or you weren’t. Like having perfect pitch or Brad Pitt’s cheekbones.

The words flowed. The story was gripping, but the prose was mesmerizing. I didn’t want to put the manuscript down. I could easily picture a bidding war breaking out for
Death and Her
Sisters
. Sara Mason was a real find. She needed to be encouraged, nurtured, shepherded. Not by
me
, naturally, but by someone who knew which way was up. Anna. Which, unless Anna had changed a lot through the years, was already happening.

And that was a pretty nice perk for any PA. To have Anna Hitchcock as your mentor? No wonder Sara didn’t mind organizing the occasional writing seminar.

I set Sara’s manuscript aside to finish later. No way was I spoiling it by skimming or glancing at the ending. I picked up the next manuscript.

Drive
by Nella House. I began to read.

Ten minutes later, I began to skim. Nella was talented, no question, but I couldn’t understand, at least from this particular work, why everyone from Anna to Rowland thought she was a force to be reckoned with. I’d probably read a dozen books similar to
Drive
in the past couple of years. Sure, the kid had a nice turn of phrase and some great imagery, but the themes were well-worn and the characters’ motivation and psychology was about what you’d expect from a twenty-year-old.

One of these days Nella was going to be a fine, strong writer, but she wasn’t that writer yet.

Maybe it was her age that was confusing everyone. She did write very, very well for a twenty-year-old. I wish I’d written half that well at twenty. If I compared her work to that of the average twenty-year-old, she shined bright. If I compared her work to the average mainstream published author…she showed a lot of promise.

Granted, this was one book. The rest of the writing group—certainly Anna—had seen more of Nella’s work and maybe she
was
as good as I had the impression everyone believed.

As I picked up Victoria’s manuscript, a noise from outside caught my attention. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. It sounded like someone was knocking against my window.

I set the manuscript aside, crawled out of the linen-lined crypt once more and went to the window.

I relaxed as I made out a tree branch, its twisted twig-fingers scraping at the edge of the window frame. What had I expected? One of the gulls from
The Birds
? Or Poe’s raven tap-tap-tapping at my window?

The terrace below was blanketed in soft white, glowing preternaturally in the night. I realized the lights were all out downstairs. I hadn’t heard anyone returning to their rooms after the movie ended, but the party must have broken up while I was engrossed in my reading. Staring down, I could pick out the shapes of flower urns, finials and steps beneath the frozen white velvet. The lawns beyond the terrace glittered like fields of crushed milk glass.

Wait a minute… I bent closer to the window, my breath misting on the dark surface.

Someone was coming up the steps from the bottom garden. A large, bulky figure appeared at the top of the flagstone steps.

My gasp of shock fogged the whole damn window, or enough of it that I couldn’t see for a few vital seconds. I wiped it clear with my sleeve and peered more closely.

Now the bundled figure was making its way along the path away from the house, heading toward the front drive perhaps.

Male or female? Male, I thought, though it was hard to get an idea of size let alone sex given the cumbersome snow wear.

He was not moving with any particular haste or stealth. If he was aware of me standing in this lighted window, he gave no sign. Maybe this was a household staff member who had every reason to be prowling around at this time of night. I tried to think of any maintenance jobs that were best performed in the dead of night. The only thing that came to mind was knocking down wasp nests. That was much better done when wasps were slow and sleepy—as I had good reason to know as a So Cal homeowner.

Anyway, I figured that was probably not the issue here at Chilblain Manor. I watched the figure slowly dissolve into the darkness.

I continued to wait at the window in case the mysterious other reappeared, but even a few seconds or so of standing there in your bare feet at three o’clock in the morning—a morning in February at that—is a loooong time.

After about four very dull, very cold minutes I gave it up and jumped back into bed, pulling the bedclothes up around my shoulders.

Miss B. would have been disappointed in me, but she was elderly. She didn’t need much sleep. She could spend entire nights watching her criminous neighbors through her bird-watching field glasses and nobody the wiser. I, on the other hand, required a full eight hours to be at my peak.

I clearly wasn’t going to get them tonight. I still had two more manuscripts to wade through before the next day, which was already slinking up on me, ravening maw salivating in anticipation of my morning agonies.

I settled my reading glasses more firmly on my nose and reached for the next manuscript.

Don’t get me wrong. I like morning. Perhaps I’m not what you might call a
morning
person
, but I’m okay with a.m. And I really like breakfast.

I like hot coffee and bright sunshine and the promise of a new day—even if the day is going to be exactly like all the other days that preceded it. That’s kind of reassuring, frankly. I like those raisin cinnamon swirl bagels from Panera Bread, or maybe a mushroom and spinach omelet, and I like sitting in the honeysuckle-covered arbor that overlooks my sparkling swimming pool and watching the hummingbirds brawl and the bees drown.

“Look to this day! For it is life, the very life of life.” That’s according to the poets, and they ought to know all about positive attitude, given what poets earn.

Even when David and I were together, he usually left for the office and a busy day of chasing office staff around the file room before I peeled off my sleep mask, which is to say that I’m used to greeting the day in a state of mandarin-like serenity.

What I’m not used to is being social or even coherent before ten o’clock, and finding Poppy glowering at me over the coffee urn in the dining room at seven thirty was sort of…blighting. Especially since at four o’clock that very morning I’d been reading the gruesome thing her heroine did with a pair of gardening clippers to her ex-husband.

Even minus nightmares about pruning shears, I never sleep well in strange beds. Which is why I diligently stick to my own.

“Morning,” I managed.

“Good morning.” She sounded as crisp as a drill sergeant greeting the new recruits over three sets of pushups.

I didn’t try to speak again until I’d downed a couple of reviving sips of very hot and very good coffee. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have spoken at all, but Poppy fastened me with that hypnotic gaze of hers. She clearly expected something of me. What? Chitchat? Surely not.

I took another sip of coffee and cleared my throat. “Where is everyone?”

“Getting ready for class, I guess.”

Class.
It sounded so formal. “Is there a lot to get ready?” I asked uneasily.

She smiled. I’ve seen wolverines with more engaging grins.

Today’s ensemble was jeans and a man’s sweater vest over her tailored shirt. In fact, apart from the sweater vest, we were pretty much dressed alike. I like to think I filled out the jeans better, but I wasn’t fully confident.

“Right. When do the festivities start?”

“Eight.”

I shuddered.

She studied me with those striking blue-green eyes and smiled. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I never sleep well away from home.”

“My husband was the same.” It was clearly a sign of weakness.

I didn’t miss the
was
either. Well, I could see why Poppy’s literary views on domesticity might create some tension behind the white picket fence.

“What did—does—he think about you writing murder mysteries?”

“He died in a sailing accident last year.”

This is why I generally steer clear of small talk. I didn’t get that gene.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s all right. More to the point, what do
you
think of my writing?”

Now I understood the air of expectancy. The feedback frenzy had already begun. I opened my mouth but did a rethink and instead poured in more coffee. What I thought of Poppy’s work was that it had been years since I’d read anything that disturbing. And that was simply the overuse of adjectives. Never mind the violence her heroine perpetrated on her hapless ex in the name of self-assertion.

Rescue came in the shape of a handsome young man in a red parka. He had curly long brown hair and a ruggedly handsome profile which I beheld as he passed in front of the dining-room picture window carrying a long metal ladder. I did what any red-blooded hero would do when facing insurmountable odds. I pointed behind Poppy and exclaimed, “Look! Who’s that?”

Naturally, Poppy glanced around. “Oh. That’s Luke.” She added, with that disturbingly feral smile, “Anna’s handyman.”

“Her…?” And then with the disapproval of any Victorian papa, “Exactly how handy is he?”

“Very, from what I understand. Well, why not? They’re both adults.”

In fact, Anna was adult enough to be Luke’s mother. Age differences being something of a sore point right then. Not that five years was quite the same thing as forty.

Poppy looked at the clock hanging above the sideboard and said, “I’ll start down to the cottage now. Shall I tell everyone you’re going to be late?”

“I’m not going to be late.” I gulped the dregs of coffee in my cup. “I’ll meet you down there. I have to grab the stories out of my room.”

As I raced back upstairs to my room, I couldn’t help noticing how very quiet and empty the big house was. Of course, that was probably the mark of a well-organized household, a home as efficiently run as any Fortune 500 business. You had to admire that even if my own preference was for something cozier—and a lot more manageable.

Reaching my room, I paused. The door was ajar.

I pushed the door open. The obvious explanation was the maid had been and gone.

Except…the bed was still unmade. I’d spread it up, but it hadn’t had the official treatment from someone who knew a hospital corner from a thirteen-year-old-trying-to-hide-his-porn-mags tuck.

Maybe I’d forgotten to close the door properly after me. That was pretty unlikely though.

I’m nothing if not paranoid about my privacy.

I walked into the adjoining bathroom. The towels were still on the floor where I’d left them to sop up the water that had pooled from the shower. My kit bag sat on the marble sink counter. My electric razor lay next to it. I stared and stared as though a baby cobra curled there.

Surely I’d dropped the razor back in my kit bag? It was second nature to me to do so.

Then again, I’d been in a rush that morning, having overslept. Maybe I’d distractedly set the razor down.

In a puddle of water?

That
really
didn’t seem like something I’d do, but equally I couldn’t think of a reason anyone would want to search my things. It’s not like I was carrying top-secret microfilm or fabulous stolen jewels in my luggage.

Too many late-night mystery stories. That was the most obvious explanation.

Nothing else struck me as wrong and nothing seemed to be missing, so…yeah. Too much imagination and too little sleep. I grabbed the stack of stories, shoved two of the smaller manuscripts in my laptop case and, carrying the others in my arms, hightailed it back downstairs.

Again I was struck by how still the house was. There was no sign of anyone. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a minion.

I wandered around till I found the kitchen, and from there I was directed out the back to a large, frozen herb garden. I followed a newly cleared path through snow-laden fruit trees until I came to the stairs leading down to the lower garden.

The garden steps looked freshly swept of any snow and ice, but I took them cautiously, clutching my armload of manuscripts. At least this wasn’t the good old days when there might have been a horrible chance I was carrying someone’s only copy, and if I did happen to slip I could make my crash landing on a bed of manuscripts.

Below me I could see lights on in the cottage. A wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, like ivory feathers against the slate sky.

I was out of breath by the time I crossed the garden. Reaching the cottage, I eased open the door. In the alcove near the window, this year’s Asquith Circle was seated around the round table like the dwarves waiting for Snow White to make her appearance.

The babble of voices cut off sharply when I slithered in. Literally slithered in. The soles of my boots were soaked. I’d forgotten about changing them for the snow boots until it was too late. I skated to the table, dropped the armload of manuscripts with a thud and exhaled my relief.