Lanyon, Josh - Adrien English 04 - Death of a Pirate King (8 page)

I beckoned to the waitress.

“You’re not drinking, are you?” Lisa protested.

“Not so far. The afternoon is young.”

She tittered. “
Darling
.
I just get frightened with everything you’ve been through. And it’s not like
you to forget our lunch date.”

“I know. I am sorry. I’m a little distracted right now.”

She waved this off as if it were of no consequence. The
waitress appeared and I ordered apple juice for a change of pace.

“How’s Guy?” Lisa asked.

“He’s fine.” I pushed my sleeves up, and reflected I did need
to get out in the sun more often. I’ve seen polar bears with more color.

Lisa seemed to be following my train of thought; she said,
“What did the doctor say, darling?”

I hadn’t really thought she didn’t know the exact day and
hour of my doctor appointment, had I?

“He says my lungs are clearing nicely,” I said. “But it’s not
a pretty process, so I’m limiting my social engagements.”

“And you
are
feeling better?”

“Than I was a couple of weeks ago?” I laughed. “For starters,
not having an oxygen tube rammed up my nose is a big improvement.”

She made a little moue of distaste at this reminder.

“You would tell me if you weren’t all right, wouldn’t you,
Adrien?”

“Of course.” Would I? I’d have to. But in all honesty, I’d
probably wait till the last possible moment.

Dark head bent, she nodded distractedly and traced a little
circle in the white linen tablecloth with one pearl-colored nail. A pose I
recognized only too well. Granted, she had always been overprotective, but
something else was going on here. I said gently, “Come on, Lisa. What’s up?”

She looked at me. “You’ve changed your will.”

I stiffened.
How the
hell --?

Her mouth quivered, and there was a sheen in her eyes that
might have been actual tears -- unlikely though that was. “You’ve made Em your
sole beneficiary.”

As shocked as I was, I almost laughed. “Is that a problem? It’s
not a secret that I don’t plan on getting married anytime soon.”

“You know what I’m talking about, Adrien. You’ve never given
your will a thought in a dec --”

“How the hell did you find out I’d changed my will?” I
interrupted.

For a split second she looked discomfited. “Mr. Gracen.”

What a pity Mr. Gracen was about a hundred and eighty years
old and fragile as cracked porcelain because it would have done my nerves a
world of good to be able to holler at someone without inflicting permanent
damage. As it was, I wasn’t sure he’d even survive my firing him -- which I
planned on doing before the afternoon was over.

I said, “Yes, I changed my will after the pneumonia. I’m fond
of Em and I’ve got to leave the money to someone. I did it because it seemed
like a practical thing to do, not because I’m not planning to be around for
much longer.”

She looked unconvinced.

I said, “I’m okay, Lisa. Really. And even if I wasn’t…it’s my
life. Understood?”

Understood?

Her jaw dropped. Just for a moment. She pulled herself
together and said, “You never used to be like this, Adrien. So…hard.”

“
Har
d
?” I blinked. Was I hard? In the space
of a couple of days I’d been accused of being bitter, jealous, and hard. Funny,
I still felt like me. Just…tireder.

“Jake Riordan did this to you,” Lisa said and there was
genuine anger in her face. “He hurt you so --”

“God,
don’
t
!”

She broke off, looking shocked.

“I’m sorry,” I said, more calmly, “but please don’t bring
Jake into this.”

After a moment she wiped her eyes and picked up her glass,
and I picked up mine.

* * * * *

I was lying down that evening when Guy let himself in. I got
up quickly and went to greet him. The savory scent of chicken curry filled the
flat. I found Guy in the kitchen unpacking foil-wrapped containers of Thai food
from Saladang Song. The same place Jake used to pick up dinner sometimes -- and
I really,
really
needed to stop
thinking about Jake.

I kissed Guy and he smiled and said, “Grabbing a kip, were
you? Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll call you when it’s ready?”

I pulled out a chair and sat down backward, folding my arm
along the back. “It’s takeout,” I said. “It’s ready. How was your day?”

“The takeaway will wait. Go have your lie down.”

“I don’t need a lie down,” I said pleasantly. “I’m hungry.
Let’s eat.”

For the first time Guy’s vaguely British accent and those
little affectations of speech were irritating me -- and so was that
Father-Knows-Best attitude. The realization dismayed me.

He had turned to get plates from the cupboard. I rose, slipped
my arms around him and rested my face against his hair, which was pulled back
in a long ponytail. The silvery strands were soft as silk, smelling of the
apple shampoo he used and more faintly of pipe tobacco; it smelled familiar and
comforting. He put his hands over mine, raising one to his mouth and kissing my
palm.

The feel of his mouth nuzzling my skin was pleasant too, and
when he turned to take me in his arms, I was glad. He kissed me, and I knew his
taste and liked it. I kissed him back and opened my mouth for his tongue, and
it slipped in wet and slick. His kiss deepened; his hands stroked my back, warm
through my T-shirt, pulled me closer -- and I wondered why I wasn’t getting
hard like Guy was.

It had to be because I wasn’t feeling one hundred percent.

After a few seconds he pulled back, kissed my lips lightly,
and said, “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. I wish people would stop asking.”

Guy was smiling. He ran his hands lightly down my arms,
caught my fingers briefly, and let me go. He turned once more to lift the
plates down. “It’s the beautiful but frail shtick,” he said over his shoulder.
“You bring out my maternal instincts.”

He was joking, but I knew he worried about me. The fact that
I’d waited until we were seeing each other fairly steadily to confess I had a
heart condition hadn’t helped -- nor did the fact that I currently looked like
I was related to those big-eyed waifs that Margaret Keane paints.

I said, “Appearances are deceptive. I’m more than capable of
taking care of myself.”

Guy said, “Don’t I know it. I’ve never met a more
self-sufficient little prick.”

“Hey, watch the adjectives.”

He grinned, handing the plates to me. “You have a problem
with
self-sufficien
t
?”

* * * * *

We ate our meal on the sofa watching a History Channel
special on the Salem witch trials -- and I remembered Jake’s comment about
Calamity Jane.

I was doing it again. In fact, I was brooding over Jake’s
reentry into my life more than I was worried about being suspected of murder.
All I could figure was that my ego had taken a bruising with the knowledge that
Jake had continued his S/M pursuits during the time we’d been seeing each other
-- well, and that it had been with one steady partner.

Because I
knew
he
cared about me. Maybe I wasn’t the most experienced guy in the world, but I
wasn’t inexperienced either. I remembered…

But if I had any brains, I
wouldn’t
remember. Because that was painful and pointless.

What I needed to be thinking about was how the hell did I
break it to Guy that I was getting involved in the Porter Jones murder
investigation despite having assured him I had no such intention. I knew he was
going to be upset. He’d have been upset even if Jake hadn’t been part of the
equation. And the fact that Jake
was
part of the equation was definitely not going to go over well.

Maybe I could wait another day or two to fill him in.

I glanced at his profile, and Guy glanced back and smiled.
“That tom yum goong soup has put some color in your face.”

“It’s very good,” I said. It could have been warm water for
all the attention I’d paid. I was stalling out of sheer cowardice. I needed to
tell him.

I’d finally wound myself up to it when Guy glanced at the
clock on the bookshelf and said, “Damn and blast. I promised I’d go to Margo’s
signing tonight. I didn’t think -- did you want to come? It’s not like you
don’t get enough of book signings.”

I said, “I’ve got the Partners in Crime group tonight. But
give Margo my love.”

His brows drew together. “I thought you were going to cancel
Partners in Crime?”

“They’re meeting in my bookstore. How am I going to cancel
them?”

“Simple. Tell them you don’t want to host the group here
anymore. Last week you said you were fed up with it and wanted out.”

“I’d just got out of the hospital last Tuesday,” I said. “I
was tired and irritable.”

Like now -- only then I’d had a good reason. I could hear Guy
thinking it, but he didn’t say it. Already in motion, he carried his plate into
the kitchen, dumped it into the sink. Pausing by the hall table, he gathered
his keys and sunglasses.

“Shall I come back later?” he asked…and I wasn’t sure if
there was a hesitation in his voice or not.

I said, suddenly awkward -- it was atypical for Guy to ask
permission -- “I think I’m going to make it an early night after the writing
group.”

He came and kissed me, lingering a little, combing a strand
of hair behind my ear as he studied my face. “That’s a good idea, lover. You’re
looking awfully peaked.”

I smiled politely, unfairly annoyed with him again.

Guy kissed the bridge of my nose and departed.

A minute or two after the door shut behind him, I noticed
that he’d left his tweed jacket. I grabbed it and started downstairs, but I had
to take it slowly and I reached the side door in time to see the taillights of
his red Miata disappearing down the street.

Closing the door, I started back upstairs. An envelope
dropped out of Guy’s jacket pocket and landed on a step. I picked it up,
glanced at it, then glanced again as I took in the return address.

As I stuffed the opened letter into his jacket pocket, I
wondered who was writing Guy from Tehachapi California Correctional
Institution.

Chapter Seven

Wednesday morning was wasted at Huntington Hospital on the
battery of tests Dr. Cardigan had ordered.

It was nearly eleven when I got back to Cloak and Dagger
Books. I parked, let myself in the side door in time to hear Natalie saying
indignantly, “I don’t think it’s such a strange coincidence. Adrien used to
date a cop. If it’s anyone’s fault he keeps getting involved in murders, it’s
--”

“Natalie!” I said sharply.

She jumped guiltily, breaking off midsentence. Detective
Alonzo turned from the counter where he had cornered her. He held a Starbucks
cup, which he raised in greeting.

“Hey there, Mr. English. I’ve got a few follow-up questions,
if you don’t mind.”

“What if I do mind?”

He smiled a smile I’d have loved to wipe off his face.

“This way,” I said, leading him to the back and my office. I
shut the door behind us and leaned against the wall. No way was I sitting down
while this asshole towered over me.

He said, “So you used to…uh…
date
a cop?”

“No,” I said. “She got that wrong. I used to ‘uh date’ a guy
who was in the police academy. He washed out.”

“With you and with the academy, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

He continued to smile that broad smile.

Lout
. I glanced at
my watch.

He said, “We got the toxicology report on Porter Jones back.”

“That was fast.”

“These are important people.”

Maybe in Southern California. I couldn’t see the rest of the
world unduly shaken by the passing of a Hollywood financier -- although marlin
everywhere might be dancing on the waves.

“Apparently the poison was administered in a special cocktail
mixture Paul Kane made up.” He checked his notepad. “A Henley Skullfarquar.”

“A Skull…” I trailed off. “Right.”

Alonzo began reading, “One bottle of Smirnoff Ice, a quarter
of a liter of Strongbow Cider, fifty milliliters of Pip’s Cup --”

“Pimm’s Cup,” I said.

He smiled as though I had walked right into his trap.

I said, “There’s no such thing as Pip’s Cup. My mother drinks
Pimm’s in the summer. It’s some kind of gin-based liqueur.”

He was grinning that “gotcha” grin. “I think it’s very
interesting you would happen to know about this particular drink.”

“It’s not that unusual. A lot of Brits like Pimm’s.”

“But you’re not British, and
I’ve
never heard of it.”

“My mother is English,” I said. “And
I’m
not surprised.”

“About what?” he asked warily.

“That you’ve never heard of Pimm’s Cup.”

He stared at me, unable to pinpoint the insult, then returned
to his notes. “Maybe you’ll be surprised to hear what substance actually killed
Mr. Jones.” He fastened his gaze on me again.

I waited, guessing what was coming.

“Digitoxin.” He pulled it out like he was playing his trump
card.

I said more calmly than I felt, “Digitoxin is not digoxin.”

“Close enough.”

“Not really. Both require a prescription, and digitoxin isn’t
used as much these days. I think it would be harder to get. It’s also not as
toxic as digoxin.”

“So?”

“So why would I bother to use digitoxin which would be harder
to get hold of and less lethal than my own medication?”

“Because you were hoping to avoid drawing attention to
yourself.”

I laughed. Granted, it wasn’t much of a laugh. “Really? Then
why did I use heart medication which would immediately bring attention to me?”

“Because it was convenient.”

“But we’ve just established that I used a heart medication
that would be harder to get hold of.”