An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (6 page)

“Yeah.” The lamp was on; the corners of the room were in shadow. I wiped the corners of my eyes with the heels of my hands and sat up. “What time is it?”

“Seven.” She was frowning. “Have you been sleeping this whole time? Are you sure you're all right?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“The police
finally
finished downstairs.”

I pushed myself to my feet. “Is Alonzo waiting to talk to me?”

“No. They've left.”

24

Josh Lanyon

“
Left?
Without talking to me? What did they say?”

“Nothing. Do you want me to go pick up something for dinner?”

Dinner? The cops had shut us down, and she was worried about
dinner?

I sank down on the edge of the bed again, trying to understand. “They didn't say anything about what they found?”

“They—that asshole in charge—said we can't open the store tomorrow.”

“The hell we can't.”

She was shaking her head. “I don't think you should push him, Adrien. I have a feeling he's dying for a reason to hassle you. He tried to insist that you had to vacate the premises.”

“Oh
really
?” I said dangerously, rising again.

“It's okay,” she said quickly. “You don't have to do anything. Everything's been taken care of for you.”

“What?”

“I called Daddy, and
he
called the chief of police, and the final decision was Detective Asshole can't make you leave, but he does get to make the call about when the shop can open again.” She smiled reassuringly. “As you can imagine, Daddy had a thing or two to say ab—”

“Goddamn it. I don't need your
daddy
running interference for me.” I heard the echo of that in the harsh silence that followed my interruption.

“I”—her expression was stricken—“I was trying to help.”

What was I doing? None of this was her fault. I was lucky to have her. Lucky to have Bill Dauten willing to go to the mat for me. And he would. He'd do anything for Lisa and, by extension, me.

“I know you were. I don't even know why I said that.” I didn't know how to explain the raw compound of frustration and resentment that surfaced lately when I least expected it. “I'm sorry. It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. Truly.”

Natalie was still hurt, still waiting for me to say whatever it was that would make her understand why I was being such a prick when she and everyone else were doing their best to take care of me. I offered lamely, “I thought I'd be feeling better by now.”

About a lot of things.

She softened. “I know. The doctors said you'd be up and down. Like an emotional roller coaster. They told us what to watch for.”

I resisted the temptation to undo my apology by throttling her. “Uh, yeah.”

Bucking for sainthood, she volunteered, “Would you like me to make you something to eat?”

Natalie's cooking skills were even worse than my own, so it was a truly noble gesture. Or revenge. I shook my head. “I'll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Soup,” I said irritably. “Tuna. I'll find something. What did the cops say?”

“Why don't you come home tonight?” she coaxed. “Lisa said she'll make chicken potpie just for you.”

“I
am
home.”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

25

“I know.” It was the tone of one humoring a crabby child. “But wouldn't you feel better in a house with other people than in this creepy old building where someone was murdered?”

I sighed. “He was murdered fifty years ago, Nat. I don't think I'm in any danger.”

“You don't know who that skeleton belonged to. You
think
it was the trumpet player the old guy was talking about. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe that murder was a lot more recent than you think.”

I ignored the suggestion of wholesale slaughter in my home and hearth. “Did the locksmith show up?”

“Yes. The new keys are on the table in the hall.”

“What happened to that old guy, anyway? What was his name? Henry Harrison?”

She nodded. “I think so. I don't remember. I think he wandered out again after your—

Mel—arrived.”

I didn't like the delicate inflection on
my
Mel. The legendary Mel, no less. God only knew what information Lisa had shared about my past. Not that it was much of a past, but it was my own, and I'd have preferred to keep it that way.

“He didn't leave a card or anything?”

She shook her head as she stooped to pick up Tomkins, who had wandered in. “Hello, bootiful boy. He looks
so
much healthier now, doesn't he, Mr. Tomkins?”

I wasn't sure if she meant me or the cat. Probably the cat. I wisely remained silent.

Mr. Tomkins put up with being cuddled with better grace than I did, although his eyes did slant my way in a silent appeal for aid when she started kissing his nose.

“So what's the problem with the temporary help?” I asked.

Natalie hesitated before admitting, “Well, as you may have noticed, there
was
no temporary help today. This is the third day she's called in sick.”

“Tell the agency we need someone new.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“The thing is, you've got sort of a reputation.”

“I have?”

“The bookstore has.”

Oh
. I considered this glumly. Yes, I could see where Cloak and Dagger Books might not win any Employer of Choice awards.

“Let's try a new agency.”

“I did. Several of them. I finally found one who said they'd send someone out tomorrow.

Or at least they were going to try. Now I'll have to get them to postpone until we're open again.”

I nodded, preoccupied. If I really wasn't going to be able to work—and admittedly, I'd felt ready to die with weariness by the time I'd dragged myself upstairs to rest that afternoon—we were going to need more help.

Natalie let Tomkins down, and he sprang onto the bed and shook his head as though he'd been on the roller-coaster ride with me.

26

Josh Lanyon

“Are you sure you won't come back to the house tonight?” she coaxed. “You'd make Lisa so happy, and you'd save Lauren a drive tomorrow, and Emma misses you
so
much.”

“At the risk of seeming more ungrateful than I already do, I want to spend the night in my own bed.”

She didn't like it, though she had to accept it in the end.

Following Natalie's departure—after reciting the usual list of warnings people seemed to feel obliged to deliver to me—I felt relief—for all of an hour. Long enough to feed the cat, make myself a small dinner salad, and relax in front of the TV.

Usually the Partners and Crime writing group would be meeting downstairs, but I didn't have the energy for it that night. Instead I watched TV and caught the tail end of the 1944 noir classic
Laura
, directed by Otto Preminger. Naturally that reminded me of Mel and his invite to the LACMA noir festival on Thursday. Thinking of Mel made me restless. I couldn't seem to decide if I wanted to go out with him or not. I was flattered that he'd asked, that he seemed to want to resume…friendship, at the least. There was a time I'd have given anything to believe he regretted walking out. Now I felt little. But then, I felt little, period. It had to be some lingering emotional miasma following the trauma of getting shot and nearly dying. I couldn't seem to make myself care about much of anything. I just wanted to be alone, but when I was alone, I felt edgy, almost nervous. Had I lost the knack of living by myself?

In the midst of these gloomy thoughts, the phone rang, and my heart jumped. I went to the phone, made myself take a deep breath, and answered.

“So you
are
there,” Guy said in that slightly affected accent, and I felt a flicker of disappointment. Not that I wasn't happy to hear from Guy. I missed Guy, truth be told. I guess I'd been hoping…

“I'm here.”

“I was sure you'd be at Riordan's.”

“No.”

I could feel a dozen questions in that brief pause. He said easily enough, “Good. I'm glad of that. How are you feeling?”

I was really quite tired of that question.

“I'm fine.”

“Lisa sounded…”

“Lisa is ticked off because I left the nest AMA.”

“Against medical advice?”

“Against Mother's advice.”

Guy chuckled. “That sounds about right. I heard you had a spot of excitement at the bookstore today?”

I filled him in on the discovery of the skeleton in the floor, and he said, “I don't think there can be much mystery about it. They're all but announcing on the telly that it's this Stevens bloke.”

“It's on the
TV
?”

“Of course.”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

27

Of course. I'd slept through the afternoon and missed a lot of the excitement. Naturally the media would have turned out for a story like this. And naturally Natalie would have neglected to mention anything she figured might upset me.

Guy was saying, “What the hell is it about you that attracts murder and mayhem?”

“Something in my body language?”

He groaned. “That was bad—even for you.”

“What are they saying?”

“Oh, you know. It's a slow week for news. They're making it sound like the Black Dahlia murderer has been revealed at last.”

“Is there any real information on Stevens? I remember when I first bought this place, I tried to find out what I could, and there didn't seem to be anything on him.”

“How hard did you look? After all, the press is going to have resources you didn't. Not to mention the fact that you weren't the supersleuth then that you are now.”

“Don't even joke about it. Do you know who's in charge of this investigation? Detective Alonzo.”

“Christ.” That was heartfelt. “But it's a-a what do they call it? A cold case, isn't it? Don't they have special departments for that?”

“I have no idea.” And my LAPD contact—I remembered Alonzo's “
hey, give my regards
to your boyfriend
, ex-
Lieutenant Riordan
.” I felt another surge of anger on Jake's behalf. Jake had been ten times the cop that incompetent, homophobic asshole would ever be.

I realized that Guy was still talking, and I hadn't heard a word he'd said.

“…dinner one evening.”

I replied automatically, “That sounds great.” And it did. I realized again how much I missed Guy. It had been good between us, hadn't it? Why hadn't it been enough?

We chatted a bit more, and Guy rang off. Three minutes later the phone rang again, and my heart did another of those fish-on-a-hook leaps. This time the caller was Lisa. Right on schedule.

“Darling, you
have
to come home,” she started in as soon as I answered. “You cannot
possibly
want to stay in that…that
tomb
with bodies falling out of the wall!”

“I don't know why not,” I replied. “It's everything a ghoul could ask for.”

“There's nothing humorous about this, Adrien. Your heart still isn't strong enough to withstand any kind of strain.”

My amusement faded. “Please don't start.”

“You're going to undo everything the doctors worked so hard for.”

“Lisa.”

“You
have
to be realistic now. You
know
what the doctors said.”

“Lisa.”

“Why do you so resent the idea that your family loves you and wants to take care of you?

Sometimes I think you'd rather d—” She caught herself, though not really in time.

There was a shocked silence between us.

28

Josh Lanyon

I clamped down on my anger and said as gently as I could, “I wouldn't. I don't. I appreciate everything everyone is doing for me. Or trying to do for me. But…sooner or later you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that I'm…okay.”

She objected, “Three weeks ago—”

“Three weeks ago I was
shot
.”

“Thanks to that
swine
, Jake Riordan.”

I'd known that was coming. She'd been uncharacteristically forbearing on the subject of Jake ever since I'd regained consciousness in the hospital. It couldn't last.

“Lisa,” I warned, still striving for patience, “Jake saved my life. Twice.”

“Your life would never have been at risk if it hadn't been for him.”

“Let it go.” That time I didn't bother to gentle my tone.

“I don't understand you,” she protested.

That made two of us. I didn't say that, though. Instead I did my best to soothe her, reassure her that I was feeling fine, following doctor's orders, and keeping the doors locked and the security system on. When she'd finally worn us both down, she bade me good night and rang off to go terrorize her own household.

I replaced the phone on the hook, collapsed on the sofa, and turned on the TV. I got the usual depressing dose of murder and mayhem on the mean streets of LA; and then, as I started to nod off again, the front of the bookstore flashed onto the screen. An earnest-looking young reporter described the shocking circumstances of the skeleton discovered by a construction crew in the walls of a historic old building.

The reporter did a brief interview with a discomfited Fernando, who looked ready to sink into the sidewalk, no doubt remembering the green-card statuses of most of his crew.

The news anchor speculated as to the identity of the cold-case victim. A photo appeared of a tall young man in a dinner jacket blowing a clarinet. Given the closed eyes, chipmunk cheeks, and double chin, that image could have been anyone from Richard Mühlfeld to Benny Goodman.

I concluded the local news didn't really have any more information than I did. Not about the gruesome discovery itself or Jay Stevens.

Clicking off the television, I was dismayed to realize that, despite having slept all afternoon, I was now ready for bed again. Could this excessive need for sleep really be normal?