Somebody Killed His Editor Read online

  “Seems a mite disrespectful,” Edgar muttered. I couldn’t seem to speak around the obstruction in my throat.

  J.X. said nothing. When he had finished roughly outlining the body and the possible murder weapon, he and Edgar spread the tarp out beside Peaches.

  He looked at me, and I saw what he expected. I said—and it was God’s truth, but it sounded horrifyingly lame, “I’ve got a bad back.”

  His expression told me that this was exactly what he had thought I would say, and I opened my mouth to refute it—but I’d have sounded lamer than I already did. In silence I watched them lift her up, depositing her body on the canvas and folding the flaps over her like they were wrapping a sandwich.

  They picked her up and carried her to the truck. I moved out of the way, though I was not in the way.

  Circumnavigating the crime scene, I walked over to the Japanese building and peered inside. It smelled of damp wood and something animal. I studied the floor and the torn screen. No convenient cigarette butts or a scrap of material or a matchbook. Real life is so unsatisfactory compared to fiction.

  I peered more closely. There seemed to be two shadowy shapes in the darkness.

  I jumped at a whisper of sound behind me.

  J.X. knelt beside where Peaches had lain. As I watched, he slipped something in his pocket. Then, with gloved hands, he quickly shoveled the pine needles over the spray-painted outline of the body to preserve the paint from further rain.

  “I think her suitcases are in here.”

  His head snapped up, and he rose, coming to join me. He stared inside the small structure.

  “Edgar,” he called.

  “Do you think he’ll return to the scene of the crime?” I asked.

  He glanced at me but didn’t respond as Edgar rejoined us.

  “Her suitcases are inside there.”

  Edgar didn’t seem to hear. He handed J.X. an empty trash bag. “You want to put your murder weapon in that?”

  By his tone of voice it was clear to me that Edgar still clung to the belief that Peaches had gone for a midnight stroll and been unfortunately conked by a fallen branch. I couldn’t blame him. Murder would not be good for business.

  J.X. said, “Someone wanted us to think she left voluntarily.”

  “Maybe she did,” Edgar said stubbornly. “Maybe she stashed those suitcases in there herself.”

  J.X. didn’t bother to argue. He picked up the branch with his gloved hand and began to wrap it in the black plastic.

  Then he hesitated—just for an instant.

  I looked from the branch to his face and then back to the branch, which he finished wrapping in the black plastic.

  “Something wrong?” Edgar asked.

  J.X. shook his head.

  But there was something wrong, and I knew what it was thanks to Miss Butterwith, the retired botanist with an insatiable love of gardening. All those nights spent reading seed catalogs and planting journals were paying off. The branch that hit Peaches over the head had not come from any low-hanging pine tree. For one thing it had been partially sawed off on one end. For another, it wasn’t pine. It was black oak. And there wasn’t an oak tree anywhere around us.

  Chapter Five

  Murder is a lot more fun in books.

  The burst of adrenaline that had carried me through our ghastly trip seeped away, leaving me chilled and sick. I hugged my arms around me for warmth, sliding back in my rear seat. The cold glass of the cab window felt good against my aching head.

  My suitcases were knocking against the back of the cab. Turning, I glimpsed the mound of tarp sliding gently along the truck bed. I quickly faced forward, staring out the windshield. After a minute or two I closed my eyes and rested my head against the chill of the glass behind me.

  “We’re liable to have a panic on our hands once word of this gets out.” Edgar’s voice was as loud as Surround Sound. I jerked back into wakefulness. “Some of those gals are a mite high-strung.”

  I had an instant visual of the pink ladies in pastel panic—it was frightening. We might be trampled beneath all those stiletto heels making for the open road.

  “They’re not going anywhere,” J.X. said indifferently. “Not till the road’s open again.” He glanced back at me. “Did you faint, or were you sleeping?”

  “Just resting my eyes.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Edgar sighed.

  I must have dozed off again because the next thing I heard was J.X.’s quiet but heartfelt, “Jesus.”

  I opened my eyes to find his hand planted in my chest, bracing me—which sort of played into the weird dream I’d been having, and then I realized the truck was fishtailing on the slimy hillside while Edgar struggled to regain control. J.X. and I sat in rigid silence as the headlights swung back and forth, catching glittering eyes beneath a bush, the lights of the lodge, the bulk of distant mountains.

  Edgar yanked the wheel. We slid sideways a few feet and lodged in a deep rut. He swore under his breath and gunned the engine.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  “Steady.” J.X. sounded for all the world like Inspector Appleby in a tough spot. As an afterthought he removed his arm from my chest. I kind of missed the warmth.

  Edgar gunned the engine again, and the pickup gained some traction. Mud flew. We jolted and bumped our way back onto what was left of the road. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw J.X. relax. He glanced my way. We shared a grimace of relief.

  “Nice driving,” he told Edgar.

  Edgar grunted.

  A few minutes later we reached the outlying buildings of the lodge. The small cabins reminded me of the house tokens in a Monopoly game. Edgar cruised slowly, headlights picking out the black windows.

  “Are the cabins all in use?” J.X. asked. “We need a secure location to store her.”

  Edgar didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

  Mr. Diplomacy added, “I’d suggest we dump her in the deep freezer, but I don’t know how the ladies might react to no frozen yogurt.”

  “Jeez,” I said. “How about a little sensitivity here?”

  “Hey,” he said. “It’s not all tea and crumpets.”

  “It’s not all serial killers and rogue cops either, although I admit they seem to sell your books.”

  Edgar interjected, “I guess you folks have known each other awhile.”

  “We’ve exchanged a few barbs online,” I said. No point going into what we’d exchanged off-line.

  J.X. opened his mouth.

  Don’t say it, I thought. Or the next murder you investigate will be your own.

  He closed his mouth.

  Edgar said slowly and thoughtfully, “There’s the icehouse. Hasn’t been used in years. We could put her there.”

  “The icehouse?” That was J.X.

  I said, “Icehouses were used to store ice all year long back in the days before refrigeration.”

  Edgar was nodding. “Back in the 1800s they built a cellar into the hillside behind the stables. The pond freezes in winter, and they used to cut the ice in blocks and store them there. There’s no ice now, but it’s still plenty cold.”

  “Can it be secured?”

  “It’s kept locked. We don’t want any of the guests getting injured, fooling around in there.”

  J.X. nodded. “The icehouse it is.”

  I opened my mouth, but before I could form a protest he added, “We can drop Kit at the main house first.”

  “We could do that,” agreed Edgar.

  We drove back past the carriage house and the long vine-covered arbor to the walkway that led back to the lodge. J.X. got out, and I climbed stiffly down after him. Sleet blew in my face as I watched him lift my suitcases out of the back of the truck.

  I took the suitcases from him and wondered why I had packed them with bricks.

  “Go back the way we came.” He pointed at the walkway. I nodded.

  “And don’t say anything about a possi
ble homicide to any of the others.”

  I nodded again.

  As I hurried down the path I heard the truck door slam and the engine die away. If it had seemed deserted when we came through a couple of hours earlier, it was like a ghost town now despite the smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. The silhouette of yew branches wavered in the dull yellow pool of the overhead lights, the patio tables and chairs formed a crisscross of bars and boxes like a shadow crossword.

  The lodge loomed before me; the rain pouring off the eaves was deafening. I paused, panting at the foot of the stairs leading to the deck, and stared up at the tall black building.

  Was there a killer in the house?

  Maybe the danger was past. Rigor mortis can set in within a few minutes after death and reach maximum stiffness twelve to twenty-four hours later. Even without the evidence of her pajamas, it was clear to me that Peaches had died during the night. At that point the bridge had still been usable—as were perhaps some of the other roads out of the valley. Peaches’ killer could have escaped to the outside world then. If I had committed murder, I wouldn’t hang with the girls talking publishing contracts.

  The simplest thing would be to ask around and find out who, if anyone, had left during the night or earlier that day—an unexpected departure would be especially interesting. To the police, that is. Not to me, because my only interest was getting out of Hell’s Half Acre as fast as possible. It was one thing to write about an amateur sleuth. I had no desire to become one.

  I put one foot on the steps, and a new thought occurred. Maybe a passing madman had stolen into the lodge and abducted Peaches Sadler from her wee trundle bed, murdered her in the woods, and then continued on his merry way. I liked that idea. A lot. If only I could convince my inner Miss Butterwith.

  I clambered up the stairs, crossed the slippery deck, and grabbed the handle of the lodge’s back entrance with my free hand.

  The door was locked.

  For a moment I stood there shaking with cold and weariness. I dropped my suitcases, took the door handle with both hands, and tried to wrench it open.

  It didn’t budge.

  I banged on the wet wood.

  Nothing.

  Where was everyone?

  I looked down the walkway shining and black in the rain. The night was alive with weird shapes and crouching silence. There was a buzzing sound above me. I looked up. Rain glinted in the artificial light like rice. One of the overhead lights flickered. Went out.

  I pounded on the door. Yelled.

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t go back that way. Walk down that lonely path into the darkness where no one could hear me yelling for help?

  I brushed the wet from my face. I hoped it was rain. Maybe I wasn’t the most macho guy on the planet, but I was too old to stand here bawling in the rain.

  Okay, I’d already walked a few miles. A couple more yards wouldn’t kill me—unless something waiting in the shadows did.

  Stop it.

  I picked my suitcases up and started back the way I had come.

  Scuttling along the slippery walkway, I rounded the corner and walked straight into a man carrying an axe.

  Chapter Six

  I had a quick impression of a tall, dark figure and a cowl without a face—exactly like the ghost of the murdered monk from Miss Butterwith and the Holy Terror. I sucked in my breath to vent all my fear—and a lot of my frustration.

  Then my eyes adjusted to the light, and I realized I was staring at a man in a hooded jacket. He was still holding an axe—but he was also holding a wood carrier.

  “Shiiiiiiiiiiit,” he said in shocked and startled tones. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “The back door is locked,” I informed him breathlessly.

  “Well, yeah, it’s locked. There’s a maniac on the premises.” His tone indicated he thought he’d located the above-mentioned maniac. And I agreed with him because I now knew for sure that I had been totally insane to ever agree to this scheme of Rachel’s.

  “How do I get in?”

  “What are you doing out here? Did you just get here?”

  “Yes—that is, no.”

  “No,” he confirmed in the tone of Sherlock Holmes when he’s about to explain something amazing about pipe tobacco to Dr. Watson, “because the bridge is out. There’s no way you could have just arrived from the main road.”

  “Elementary, buddy,” I said. “I was here earlier. I’ve been out with Edgar and J.X.”

  He looked startled. I mean, I couldn’t really see his face in the dismal light, but his body language indicated surprise. “So you’re the one,” he said. “You’re the one who found…her.”

  I thought that “her” was revealing. It reminded me of J.X.’s curt, She was eccentric. To say the least. Peaches seemed to have had an unsettling effect on the menfolk.

  “Yes. I found her.” I couldn’t think of anything to add to that. My brain didn’t seem to be working properly. Too much fresh air.

  “Was she—”

  “Dead?”

  He shook his head. “Murdered,” he said huskily.

  So much for J.X.’s hope to keep a lid on it.

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know something.”

  A lot of things. And none of them pertinent. “I knew where to find her,” I said. “Were you close to her?”

  He was silent, considering.

  “No one was close to her,” he said.

  I wondered if that were true. I recalled Miss Butterwith once pronouncing that murder always indicated a certain degree of intimacy. But people in Miss Butterwith’s world were never killed by maniacs or serial killers, and I had my heart set on Peaches being offed by a passing madman.

  “I’m Christopher Holmes,” I said, and shifted suitcases to offer a hand.

  “George Lacey.” He chopped the axe into a broad tree stump with casual, unerring aim, and shook my hand. “Where did you find her?”

  “I had to walk from the main road after the bridge washed out. I stopped in the woods near a tiny Japanese shrine—and there she was.”

  “Wow.”

  “My words exactly.” I’m not sure where the thought came from, but I heard myself ask, “How come no one noticed she was missing?”

  He gave a funny laugh. “Maybe it was a relief to most of them when she was a no-show.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wasn’t exactly Ms. Popularity, you know what I mean?” He took my big suitcase with his free hand—jeez, random acts of kindness practiced right before my very eyes. “Come on, we can get back in this way.” He proceeded in the direction opposite of the way I’d come. I gathered my wits and started after him.

  “Christopher Holmes, huh? Your name’s familiar. I think I’ve read your books.” He glanced over at me. “You write about that Welsh policeman in the mountain village, don’t you?”

  “Er—no. I write the Miss Butterwith series.”

  “Oh.” He sounded doubtful. “The syrup-bottle lady?”

  “That’s Mrs. Butterworth. No relation.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you a writer?”

  He made the sound that Miss Butterwith would have referred to as a raspberry. “Me? Nah. I’m here with Mindy.”

  “Ah-ha,” I said. Mindy, Mandy, Buffy, Trixie. They were all interchangeable. Bright young things with enthusiasm and ambition and occasionally talent, eager to discuss topics like Should You Trust Your Computer’s Word Count? Or What Color Did You Paint Your Home Office?

  “You probably know her,” George added.

  “I doubt it.”

  George and I trekked through the vine-covered arbor and cut back between a vegetable patch and another outlying building, probably a smokehouse from back in the days when smoked meats were still accepted in polite society.

  “How many people are trapped here?” I asked.

&n
bsp; “You mean guests?”

  “What a quaint way to put it. No, I mean literally. Everybody. We’re cut off from the outside, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. There are fifty conference attendees. I’m not sure if that’s counting you or not. And then the lodge staff. It’s off-season, so they don’t have a big crew.”

  “Did anyone leave during the night?” Look at me, making like the long lost Hardy Boy. Frank, Joe, and now Dick.

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t sound particularly interested, and why should he be?

  Why should I be?

  We reached the long front porch where the cowbell chimes clanged on the breeze, and pushed our way through the heavy doors. The front desk was deserted again.

  “Hey,” said George, pushing back the hood of his jacket. “Where is everybody? Someone’s supposed to be watching the front entrance.”

  I now recognized George as the angelically beautiful guy with the guitar, whom I’d spotted earlier. Music and wood-chopping. What more could you ask of a man? Besides fidelity, I mean.

  “It sounds like they’re having a meeting,” I said, listening to the sounds from down the hallway. “Or a lynching.”

  “Those babes can talk,” George agreed. He set my suitcase down and pulled the heavy bar across the front door.

  “I guess you aren’t expecting any more late arrivals,” I said, and no pun intended as I thought of poor old Peaches even now checking into the icehouse.

  “I guess,” George replied. “Well, let’s see what’s cooking…”

  Speaking of cooking, I was starting to get that low-blood-sugar feeling. Not sure if death and disaster were supposed to actually stimulate one’s appetite, but I was close to hallucinating at the thought of stale saltines or a lonely chocolate mint that might even now be waiting in my cabin. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to follow George as he started down the long hallway. I was debating how to wisely use my last milliseconds of energy when I heard my name whispered in a very sinister fashion.

  “Christopher,” the voice hissed again as I looked wildly around the lobby. “Here. Up here.”