Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) (16 page)

J.X. was lying on the stately bed, his hands folded on his chest like he’d been laid out for burial.

I stumbled forward.

J.X. must have heard the stricken noise I made because his long black lashes lifted and his dark eyes gazed up at me from his colorless face.

I could have cried with the relief of it. After the horror of finding Sara—

“Are you…okay?” I faltered.

He whispered, “I’ve been better.”

I impatiently wiped the blur from my eyes. “Emergency services is on the way.”

He raised his eyebrows.

I sat on the edge of the bed. He winced as I rested my hand on his forehead. His skin felt cold. Was that a bad sign? I had no idea. The extent of my medical training involved Band-Aids and Bactine.

“Are
you
okay?”

I nodded. “Everyone who was at dinner is ill. Except me.”

Apparently he’d been thinking about this too. He cleared his throat. “The wine. You had white. We had red.”

I nodded. “That’s my thought too.” I took a deep breath. “Sara’s dead.”

“Jesus.” He closed his eyes. With those long lashes and the unusual pallor of his chiseled features, he looked disarmingly young—though still heroic, of course.

He lifted his lashes again and said, “You need to secure the crime scene.”

A slightly hysterical sound burst out of me. “The whole fucking house is a crime scene. I told you everyone in the place is sick.”

“Sara’s bedroom,” J.X. said huskily. “Close it off and don’t let anyone inside.”

I thought guiltily of Rudolph who I’d left sitting beside Sara’s body. “What does it matter? We already know how the poison was introduced.”

He clenched his jaw against a stab of pain—whether from his gut or my obstinacy.

I don’t know why I was arguing because I knew full well that, since Sara’s was the only death so far, there could easily be some crucial variable in her case. I was hoping heart failure. I was hoping Sara was the poisoner and she’d had the bad luck to fall prey to the ultimate irony, but I feared that was too easy. I guess the truth was, I didn’t want to leave J.X. Not that I was doing him one whole hell of a lot of good sitting next to him wringing my hands, but he was still alive and I wanted to make sure he stayed that way.

After a struggle for composure, he asked, “Have you notified the police?”

“I…” God almighty. It hadn’t even occurred to me. What would Miss Butterwith think?

“Not specifically. Nine one one.” I swallowed. “Are you…okay on your own for a few minutes?”

He smiled wanly. Awkwardly patted my thigh. “I’m hanging in there. Go.”

“I’ll be right back.”

See Christopher run. Run, Christopher, run, run.

I took the stairs at a fast hobble. By then I was starting to feel pretty rocky myself.

Considering the fact that I wasn’t twenty-four hours out of the hospital, I wasn’t doing too badly, but adrenaline and alarm could only take one so far. I’d about used up my allotment.

Downstairs, the lights were all on and the household staff was rushing around in what looked to me to be complete disarray. I kept hearing Sara’s name mentioned. Not because anyone yet knew she was dead, but because they were expecting her to show up and tell them what to do.

My arrival on the scene was greeted with more doubt than enthusiasm. I requested help for Anna and Ricky, who I’d last spotted crawling across the gallery, and then I went into the library, closed the door and phoned the police.

It didn’t take long.

Once I’d given my information to the astonished police dispatcher, I returned upstairs to Sara’s room. Rudolph was sitting right where I’d left him.

Oddly enough, the first thought I had was how much Sara would have detested the indignity of her death scene. Not that dying is ever glamorous, but vomiting your guts out and expiring on a bathroom floor has to rank up there with freak accidents and celebrity overdoses.

I helped Rudolph to his feet, assisted him out of the bathroom. His knees seemed to give out as we crossed the beige bedroom carpet. I half-dragged him to the bed.

He fell back on the rumpled bedclothes. Whether physical distress or emotional trauma, either way he seemed to be in bad shape. I leaned over him, trying to determine if he was conscious or not.

“Rudolph? Can you hear me?”

He nodded. His eyes remained closed. He wasn’t a young man. Regardless of what J.X.

said, I didn’t see how I could drag him out of here until he was ready to go. I straightened up, my hand going to the throbbing small of my back. My glance fell on the pillow which still carried the indentation of Sara’s head.

I looked at the pillow lying next to it. It also carried the indentation of someone’s head.

Of course, Sara could have been using both pillows. I slept alone and I used two pillows, but I scrunched them up into one big ball. I didn’t divide the night up and spend it lying neatly on each side of the bed.

Sara had had company last night.

I turned back to Rudolph. The vision of him sitting on the bathroom floor stroking Sara’s hair flashed into my memory. At the time, I’d put that and his other reactions down to shock.

Now I wondered.

Were Sara and Rudolph—?

But if that was the case, why were the housekeeping staff apparently not surprised to hear Rudolph calling from Anna’s bedroom?

I gazed at him with disbelief. The old
dog
.

I’m a law-abiding citizen, so I don’t know why the police make me nervous. I know cops are supposed to be sexy and all that, but something about a man in uniform makes me wonder if I’ve forgotten to pay any recent parking tickets.

However, given the unglamorous activities of the emergency services upstairs, I was glad to be occupied answering questions in the library.

I’d been through the drill once before three months earlier when I’d ended up involved in a murder investigation at a writing retreat in Northern California, but I didn’t find it any more comfortable the second time around.

First, we went through who I was and what I was doing at the Asquith Estate. The easy questions. We moved on to my relationship with Anna, the other guests and, of course, Sara.

I thought about going with my cover story, such as it was. I knew how ridiculous the truth was going to sound: Anna had coerced me—a fellow mystery writer—into flying out to Connecticut because she thought someone was trying to kill her. Plus, Anna had been so adamant about keeping the police out of her private life. But a woman had died tonight, and although it was far too soon to know by what method, I was positive Sara hadn’t suffered a natural death.

Not with everyone else in the house keeling over.

“This is a new one on me,” Detective Eames said, after I’d finished making my statement.

He was short and stout with a little black Hitler mustache and the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen.

“You’re claiming that Ms. Hitchcock hired you—”

I corrected quickly, “She didn’t hire me.”

“Okay.
Enlisted
you because she feared her life was in danger?”

I nodded.

“If that’s true, why wouldn’t she come to us?”

“I told you. Anna was afraid that you’d think it was a publicity stunt.”

I’ve seen floorboards with more expression than the face Eames was offering me.

“And,” I added, “she wasn’t absolutely
positive
someone was trying to harm her. I think she thought having an extra pair of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

“It didn’t help,” Eames said bluntly.

That was unanswerable. I scratched my nose.

“And your theory is the red wine at dinner was poisoned?”

“It’s the only thing that everyone else had that I didn’t.”

“Hmm.” Eames regarded me without pleasure. He asked me to give him my account of the events of the evening, which I did. I stuck to the bare facts—mostly—so it didn’t take long.

“So, in this amateur sleuthing you were doing—” Eames said
amateur sleuthing
in the same tone most people would say
exposing yourself in public
, “—did you reach any conclusion as to who the bad guy or girl might be?”

It wasn’t a serious question. Or, rather, it was serious in as much as he was too good a cop not to cover every angle, but he was clearly not expecting anything helpful. And he was right.

When I’d gone to bed that night I’d been convinced Sara was a shoo-in for Psycho of the Year.

Now it appeared she had fallen victim to that Psycho—or to her own machinations. Either way, that wasn’t a theory I was about to offer up.

“Er, no. Not really.”

He looked astonished. “No? And you’ve been here how many days?”

Ah. Sarcasm. And unfair sarcasm at that. I didn’t pretend to be a trained investigator.

Plus, I’d been sort of preoccupied with my own near-death experience.

I explained about the car accident and that did catch his interest. He heard me out in attentive silence.

“And you still have no idea who this mysterious person you saw skulking around the night before the accident might have been?”

“No. Shadowy figures all look pretty much the same.”

He refrained from making whatever his first comment was going to be. I appreciated that.

I’d had a rough night.

It occurred to me that one thing I had got right in the Miss Butterwith books was the point about people never telling the cops the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Which is to say, I’d told the truth, but I’d left out all kinds of things that might—or might not—have proven useful to a homicide investigator because they were either embarrassing to Anna or she’d asked me not to speak of them. I’d left out my theory that Sara was trying to kill Anna because it sounded so farfetched. Besides…Sara had been one cool, efficient woman. I found it difficult to believe she’d have fallen into her own trap. But I’d also left out the fact that J.X. thought he’d seen evidence of Ricky manhandling Anna earlier that afternoon. I’d left out my suspicion that Rudolph and Sara had been having a thing. Also the indications that Rudolph and Anna had also been having a thing. Granted, there were other reasons the housekeeper might think Rudolph was in Anna’s bedroom summoning help. Next to Sara, Rudolph
was
the person Anna was most likely to turn to for help.

At least, before Anna had suspected one of her nearest and dearest of trying to knock her off.

That was a peculiar thought right there. Okay, maybe Anna had—and maybe rightly—

suspected Sara of trying to do her harm. But Rudolph? She and Rudolph practically went back to when time began. Their relationship had outlasted all the others in her life. And Rudolph…well, let’s just say that no one would believe a book where Rudolph was the murderer. He simply wasn’t the type.

Sure, in mystery novels anyone can be the killer. That’s part of the fun. But in real life?

No. Not everyone is murderer material. Capable of killing, yes. I think pretty much everyone is capable of killing given the right—extreme—set of circumstances. And certainly, given how vulnerable humans are, everyone is capable of killing by accident.

No, Anna
couldn’t
believe Rudolph was involved in any plot to murder her. Of course, to hear Anna tell it, she couldn’t believe anyone she knew wanted to get rid of her, but I took that with a grain of salt.

So why
hadn’t
she gone to Rudolph for help? Assuming that she’d told the truth about that. Had she held her own council because she knew Rudolph and Sara were involved? That sort of made sense to me. I hadn’t got the impression that she was aware of anything between Sara and Rudolph, and I thought I probably would have if only because—gut feeling—I suspected Anna wouldn’t approve of such a relationship. It was definitely awkward having one’s editor and old chum banging one’s PA. Granted, not as awkward as having one’s husband banging one’s PA.

Perhaps I was projecting.

“What do you know about the relationship between Ms. Hitchcock and her stepson Mr.

Richard Rosen?” Detective Eames’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I must have looked instantly guilty.

“Mr. Holmes?”

I was conscious of Anna saying that Ricky was not to be considered a suspect, but Anna had pretty much said that about anyone I asked her about. I understood and even sympathized with her squeamishness, but unless Anna was fabricating all these attempts on her life, s
omeone
had to be a suspect. And Ricky—well, in my opinion, Ricky looked pretty good for it.

I said, “I know that he stands to inherit a lot of money after Anna’s death. I also know that their relationship is occasionally difficult.”

His tone was so neutral I knew it had to be significant as he asked, “Have you overheard anything in the nature of threats from Mr. Rosen?”

“Me, no. But my—friend, Mr. Moriarity, believes he saw Rosen leaving Anna’s room yesterday afternoon after we heard her scream.”

“Scream?”

I nodded.

“What reason did Ms. Hitchcock give for screaming?”

“She didn’t.”

He considered this. “A number of the servants commented that Rosen and Ms. Hitchcock have frequently quarreled over money.”

I conceded, “Anna said that Ricky had asked her for money. She also indicated that it was a common occurrence. She said it wasn’t a problem, but…she did scream.”

“The scream, yes. All right, Mr. Holmes, thanks for your help. If I have any further questions, I’ll let you know. When are you planning on flying back to L.A.?”

“Are we free to go?” I asked, surprised. “We’re not suspects?”

“You’re not a suspect, Mr. Holmes. Neither is your friend Mr. Moriarity. For one thing, these attacks on Ms. Hitchcock—assuming there were any previous attacks on Ms. Hitchcock—

predate your arrival at the house, right?”

“Right.” It wasn’t that I wanted to be considered a murder suspect, but I could see Eames wasn’t taking my theories nearly seriously enough. In fact, unless I was mistaken, he was struggling to preserve a suitably grave expression at the notion of me as a serious contender for killer.

I said, “Then I guess as soon as my—Mr. Moriarity is well enough to travel, we’ll be on our way.”