So This is Christmas: The Adrien English Mysteries Page 5

Through the years we all will be together, Ella crooned into the speakers. If the fates allow…

  I said, “Did you know the original lyrics to this song were ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas. It may be your last. Next year we may all be living in the past’?”

  Jake laughed. “Is that true?”

  “I read it on Wikipedia. It must be true.”

  He made another sound of amusement.

  It struck me that he laughed more than he used to. But then I laughed more than I used to too.

  For a few miles we listened to Ella and the tires hissing on the wet pavement; then Jake said, “Try not to get too involved in this.”

  “He’s a friend. How involved is too involved?”

  “He’s not exactly a friend. He’s someone you helped a few years ago. And now he’s looking for more help.”

  “I could argue that definition, but okay.”

  “Also.”

  He didn’t go on, and I waited. I could feel him weighing and discarding possible approaches. He said finally, “I’m not working for him. I’m not reporting to him. Before you report to him, I have to ask you to consider whether I’d be comfortable with any information you’re sharing, before you share it.”

  The sentence structure was convoluted. His request was not.

  “I’m not going to betray any confidences,” I said. “I’m not going to betray your confidence.”

  “Never intentionally, I know. But you’re sorry for him, and you’re sympathetic to his situation. You may feel that he has a right to certain information.”

  After a moment, I said, “I understand.” And I did. My involvement in previous cases had frequently been a source of tension between us. Jake was trying to lay down guidelines for my continued participation rather than try to keep me from being involved. I thought it showed a willingness to compromise on his part—and also a kind of unnerving insight into the way my brain worked.

  “Thank you,” he said. I don’t think I imagined the note of relief.

  Somewhereshire—as my teenage crew had called the house I grew up in—was a two-story pseudo-Tudor mini mansion in Porter Ranch. It appeared to have been airlifted out of a fairy tale and plopped down in the SoCal chaparral when the chopper ran out of fuel. There were enough steeply pitched roofs and oddly shaped windows to make up a geometry final. The house, cream-colored stucco and Old World blackened timbers, was surrounded by large front and backyards designed to bring to mind English-cottage gardens. What they brought to my mind were L.A. County water restrictions. Still, no denying it was a pretty house and a pretty yard.

  An intimidating black wrought-iron fence surrounded the tiled swimming pool—the pool ostensibly being the reason my mother had “sold” Somewhereshire to Jake and me. Swimming and walking being the two highest rated exercises for cardiac patients.

  Not that I was really taking advantage of the pool or the scenic walks provided by the surrounding hills. I did plan to one of these days. Maybe when I started taking Sundays off.

  The gates opened, and Jake’s Honda skimmed up the cobbled, circular drive. The automatic door rose, and we pulled into the garage.

  I got out as Scout, our not quite seven month old German shepherd puppy galloped up to meet us, whining and crying as though we’d been gone another week.

  “Why, hello, you poor baby orphan.” I knelt to greet him, which was a mistake because he had the brains and heart of a puppy and the body of a very big dog. He hurled himself in my arms, knocking me on my butt, and proceeded to lick my face while airing his grievances loudly.

  “Hey.” Jake hauled the dog off and offered me a hand. “I must have missed this episode of Dog Whisperer. Is that what you call pack leading from behind?”

  “Ha. Funny.” I accepted his hand and, once back on my feet, brushed myself off.

  Jake unlocked the door leading into the house. Scout trotted into the kitchen ahead of us and headed straight to his metal dish, which was empty, of course, though he could have doubled for the Rin Tin Tin of the Silents given the drama and pathos he projected at the shock of this discovery.

  Although I’d grown up in this house, it didn’t feel like our home yet. Partly that was due to my difficulty in letting go of Cloak and Dagger, and partly it was due to all the cardboard boxes, opened and unopened, covering most of the available flat surfaces.

  We were working to remedy that, and the fact remained that it was a very nice house. We were lucky to have it. The kitchen had white, glass front cupboards, blue granite countertops, and glossy, reddish barnwood floors.

  There were hardwood floors in the dining room too, as well as a large chandelier of bronze leaves and frosted glass which Jake claimed came from the Vincent Price Collection. Beneath the chandelier was a mahogany Duncan Phyfe-style dining set, complete with china cabinet and sideboard—a “housewarming present” from Lisa, who had conveniently forgotten that she’d already given me a small John Atkinson Grimshaw painting as a housewarming gift. “Moonlight at Whitby” hung between two picture windows which offered gracious views of the large garden and wild mountains behind the house.

  The other rooms had plush ecru carpet, fresh white paint over the decorative moldings, and a few pieces of antique furniture from Pine Shadow ranch. A stately set of Palladian windows overlooked the front garden.

  As a kid I had taken all this for granted. As an adult, I had to admit it was really pretty much outside our budget if we hadn’t had a lot of parental interference—a.k.a. assistance.

  Behind me, Jake was once again bringing up the subject of obedience training for Scout—another task for all those free Sundays?—and I felt a sudden wave of fatigue like I hadn’t experienced since my surgery all those months ago.

  “I’ll handle it,” I said, sorting through the stack of mail we’d picked up when we’d arrived home late the night before.

  Bills.

  Christmas cards.

  More bills.

  The next time I tuned back in, he was saying, “…we can have for dinner. We’re going to have to pick up some groceries pretty soon. Not that a lifetime supply of Top Ramen won’t be handy in an earthquake…”

  “I’m just going to run upstairs and change,” I said, although running was the last thing I felt like. Or at least had energy for.

  Hard to believe that yesterday evening at this time we had been on a plane flying back from England. And twenty-four hours before that we had been in England. It seemed like a million years ago.

  Scout galumphed behind me as I dragged myself up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  More built-in bookshelves, fireplace, and brand new king-size bed, which was another “housewarming gift” from Lisa. She’d picked one of those Hollywood Regency-style beds with a beige padded scroll-style headboard. It suited the room perfectly, but it was not the kind of thing I’d have chosen. Let alone the kind of thing Jake would have chosen.

  Here too were more boxes to be unpacked. Stacks of boxes. Mostly books. Books apparently so precious I’d designated them for the bedroom, which had entertained Jake unreasonably. The TV had been set up, but we couldn’t find the remote controls.

  Scout found his rubber squirrel toy and chomped it invitingly.

  The squirrel squeaked heartrendingly, and Scout grinned around its molded form.

  “Give me five minutes.” I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the bed. Scout tried to jump up with me.

  “No,” I said, and he settled for resting his upper body on the mattress and dropping the saliva-coated squirrel on my chest.

  I tossed the squirrel across the room. Scout watched it go and eyed me reproachfully. “Four minutes,” I promised, and closed my eyes.

  “Get off the bed,” Jake said loudly some time later.

  I sat up as Scout jumped from the bed. “Just resting my eyes!”

  “Not you.” Jake shook his head, unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re allowed on the bed.”

  “God. I was totally out.” I rubbed my face.
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br />   Scout had dropped down to his front paws and was wagging his tail frantically, under the misguided notion I was about to chase him around the house. I sighed, watching him. “I need to take somebody for his W-A-L-K.”

  Yeah, like Scout hadn’t already worked out the spelling of his most favorite thing in the world? He began to do doggie pushups in his excitement.

  Jake eyed this performance wryly. “I’ll take him. Why don’t you grab a nap before dinner?”

  “Another one?”

  “Three minutes doesn’t count.”

  “It does if you’re boiling an egg. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never get jetlag.”

  Jake gave me a quizzical look. “I noticed that.”

  I laughed. “Okay. Even when I did travel, I didn’t get jetlag.”

  “Take a nap, Adrien. It won’t kill you.”

  “It migh—” A jaw-cracking yawn interrupted me. “Didn’t you ever see Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”

  Jake said, “Sleep with confidence. I’ll check the basement for giant seed pods.”

  “I’m very confident in my sleeping skills. Anyway, that’s a wine cellar, not a basement.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for empties. Bottles or seed pods.”

  I flopped back on the mattress. “Ten minutes,” I told him.

  If he answered, I didn’t hear it.

  “Upsy-daisy,” Jake said, interrupting my dream of…Jake. Or, more exactly, Jake’s parents.

  “What?” I opened my eyes.

  It was a relief to wake up. My heart was still pounding hard with all that imaginary rage. Well, the rage wasn’t imaginary. The rage was real. I’d been shouting at his father—a man I’d never met. That was the imaginary part.

  The room—the bedroom in Porter Ranch—was in soft, toasty light, and Jake was bending over me. He wore the green plaid flannel pajama bottoms he’d worn in London, and he was gently shaking my shoulder.

  “Time for bed, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

  “Is it? It is?” I lifted my head. I looked beyond him to where Scout was sacked out in front of the fireplace, paws twitching as he went on a long and adventurous dream walk.

  “It is,” Jake was saying. “Get your clothes off, and get under the blankets.”

  That sounded promising, although, admittedly, tiring. Foggily, I sat up and pulled off my sweater and T-shirt.

  Jake pulled the bedclothes back. “You want the electric blanket on?”

  There’s something inherently unsexy about the words “electric blanket.”

  “Huh? No. What the hell time is it?” I peered blearily at the bedside clock, still awkwardly trying to wriggle out of my jeans.

  Eleven thirty.

  “Eleven thirty,” Jake confirmed, going round to his side.

  “Wait.” I let my jeans fall to the floor. “We’re going to sleep? What happened to dinner?”

  He glanced across at me. “Did you want dinner? I’ll heat up your dinner.”

  “You mean, you ate? Without me? You mean, the evening is over?”

  Why was he giving me that crooked grin? “Afraid so. Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me? We were supposed to…be building memories tonight.”

  Jake continued to smile. “We are.”

  “Yeah, but you know. Memories.” I half swallowed the word on one of those engulfing yawns. How fair was it that the jetlag lasted longer than the flight itself?

  “Because nobody zonks out like that unless he needs the rest.” The mattress dipped as he got into bed. He stretched out on his side, watching me fumble the rest of the way out of my clothes.

  When I finally slid between the sheets, he reached back and snapped out the bedside lamp. The mattress gave another heave as we crawled into each other’s arms. Jake’s hair was damp, and his bare skin carried the scent of shower gel. If I’d slept through his showering and getting ready for bed, I really had been out for the count.

  His arms wrapped warmly around me. Now here was a homecoming. I let out a long sigh.

  He kissed the top of my head.

  “Night, baby.” He sounded sleepy.

  “Night, Jake.”

  But as I lay there listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart against mine, I started thinking about what he’d said over lunch. He was being a good sport about it, but come on.

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I really did want this to be just you and me.”

  “It was.” He dipped his head, kissed me between my eyes, which I assumed was a miss. “There’s no problem here.”

  I brooded over that for a few minutes. “Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

  This time I felt him jerk back to awareness, so I could add sleep deprivation to the list of my sins.

  I could tell he was trying to recall my words.

  He said finally, a little sleepily, “I do know what you mean, and it’s okay. I’m not just saying it. We’re together, and there will be other nights and other memories. Right?”

  “It needs to be…for once, should be what you want.”

  Silence.

  “What?” Now he was awake. In fact, he sounded startled. He raised his head as though trying to read my face in the darkness. “I am getting what I want. This is what I want.”

  “How could it be? London and my family and the bookstore and this house?”

  “Baby, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m telling you that I’m going to do better, Jake. I’m going to be a better boyfriend. I’ll take the dog to obedience class, and I’ll try to manage some weekends off. And I won’t get involved in any more myster— What the hell is so funny about that?”

  He was still chuckling as he kissed me. I could taste mouthwash and amusement and yeah, love.

  Chapter Six

  “Remember, I’m supposed to meet Kate this afternoon,” Jake said over the breakfast smoothies.

  The smoothies were Jake’s idea. I’m not and have never been a breakfast person. Yet I was supposed to believe that he was worried about his cholesterol level—come to think of it, that was not unreasonable because once upon a time I’d have been willing to swear egg yolk ran through his veins—anyway, he’d always been a fanatic on the topic of breakfast, and my breakfast in particular.

  So every morning it wasn’t the weekend or we weren’t on vacation, we had a crunchy grain cereal or some kind of smoothie. In fairness, I didn’t mind the frozen banana and coffee smoothies and the mixed berry and almond milk ones. Not so crazy about any variations on avocado and basil. But love means never having to say I won’t eat that.

  Which brings me back to Kate.

  “I remember,” I said. “Will you be home for dinner?”

  He gave me a thoughtful look, and I said, “I mean, I know you’ll be home and we’ll have dinner. I’m figuring the timetable.”

  As it was a point of honor for Jake never to discuss his ex-wife, it was a point of honor for me never to ask anything about their interactions. I knew they weren’t hanging out these days, let alone getting up to anything that would break my heart, but even the whole civilized, grown-up divorce thing took a toll.

  “I don’t think it’s going to take long. We’ve got to decide on this counteroffer. I’d prefer to hold out, but she needs the cash.”

  It went through my mind that this sounded like something that could be handled over the phone, but how would I know? I did know Kate was never going to ask for a favor that he didn’t immediately jump to. Including selling the house he’d owned before he met her, at less than market value. And that was okay. Small price to pay for having Jake blend my morning smoothies.

  “All right,” I said. “If you can pick up the groceries on your way home?”

  “I’ll pick up the groceries.”

  “A loaf of bread, a jug of milk, and thou. Also dog food.”

  “Got it.”

  “I can grab something for dinner. Thai?”

  “Thai’s always good.”

  I swallowed another m
outhful of coffee smoothie. “I’ve been thinking about this job of Ivor’s.”

  Jake rinsed his glass and set it in the sink. “What about it?”

  “Is it possible he could have uncovered something on a dig? Something valuable? Something to do with the land itself? Does it make sense to talk to his supervisor at the Archeological Research Institute—and doesn’t that sound like a made-up name to you?”

  “There speaks a mystery writer,” Jake said. “It’s not impossible that Ivor’s disappearance is linked to his job, but it’s not the most likely explanation. And frankly, most company names sound made up. Because they are.”

  “I’ll give you the last one,” I said magnanimously. “Also the first one, since you’re the PI in the family. It wouldn’t hurt to contact the institute, would it?”

  He considered me for a moment. “You like the idea because it dovetails with your original meeting with Kevin. It’s got synchronicity.”

  “No. I like the idea because I think it’s got possibilities.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to contact the institute, no. Which is why I’ve contacted them,” he said.

  “You already called them?”

  Jake deadpanned, “Thanks to the years of training I received simply by watching you solve so many of your most famous cases—”

  “Okay. All right. Point taken.”

  His lip curled sardonically, but his words were grave enough. “The two most likely scenarios in this particular case are accident or suicide.”

  That was a mood killer. “Kevin checked the hospitals and morgues.”

  “He may think he did. And maybe he was even relatively thorough about it. But I’ll tell you right now that he didn’t search widely enough or deeply enough.”

  “He’s not going to have your contacts, that’s a given.”

  He didn’t deny it. “He’s also going to be too quick and too happy to take no for an answer. The other thing is, the body may not have been discovered yet. We’re between holidays. A lot of companies, including city and state agencies, are still closed or running on a skeleton crew.”

  “And he hasn’t been missing that long,” I said.