The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 13

“I got no problem with it,” said Chan.

Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to

interrupt. “But you see, that makes more sense,” I said quickly. “It’s more believable that a

cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a

series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling

on all these murders?”

“That’s the problem with the amateur sleuth in general,” Grania pointed out. Grania,

naturally, wrote about a kick-ass female PI. “It’s totally artificial.”

Chan said reasonably, “I don’t know. A lot of kinky shit goes down in Hollyweird. A

gossip columnist could get sucked into that.”

“Hey, you’re writing about a gay Shakespearean actor solving mysteries,” Max pointed

out to me. “You sold the series to some lunatic fringe publishing house.”

Ted said, “How believable is it that a bookseller and mystery author would get involved

solving mysteries? But you’ve been involved twice in murder cases, Adrien.” Jean nodded

eagerly. “You’re like a real-life amateur sleuth. So it does happen. Truth is stranger than

fiction.”

“Let them write what they want to write,” Max said irritably. “What do you care?”

“I don’t think that Avery’s…likeable.”

Jean looked like she was going to cry, like I’d insulted her precious prune of a newborn.

“You don’t like Avery?”

Ted glared at me.

The entire circle stared at me.

“Not a terribly constructive comment, Adrien,” Grania observed.

* * * * *

When the group at last broke up, I cleared the chairs and crumbs, made sure the side

and front doors were secured, and climbed the stairs to my flat.

I poured myself a drink and tried to think of an entertaining way to fill the rest of the

evening. I don’t think of myself as a loner, but it’s a fact that my friends generally do the

calling. And I’ve never been able to get into the whole club scene. I don’t like crowds. I like

reading.

I’d carried a stack of books upstairs. I lazily skimmed a copy of Rick Copp’s The Actor’s

Guide to Murder. I noticed a lot of these gay amateur sleuths have cop boyfriends. And I

noticed that none of these cops seem particularly closeted. I also noticed that they all seemed

amazingly agreeable about sharing privileged information with their non-cop boyfriends. It

was a shame Jake didn’t read these books.

I was getting into a scene in which Copp’s protag was once again being scolded by his

(yikes!) hazel-eyed, brawny cop boyfriend for sticking his nose into a criminal investigation,

when I noticed the answering machine blinking. I pressed the button, listened to a stiff

Professor Snowden telling me I could call him at a certain number. I picked up, dialed the

number he’d left.

He answered on the fourth ring, sounding as preoccupied as if I’d caught him

correcting final exams.

“Hi, it’s Adrien English.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Er…hello.” Pause.

I opened my mouth to say hello again – it seemed to be one of those conversations –

but Snowden said carefully, “I’ve been unable to get in touch with the person I thought

might know about our mutual friend’s difficulty.”

The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens. I said, “Well, not to

pressure you, but some joker painted a pentagram on my front step last night. The folks at

Dragonwyck seemed to think this was not good.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

“Perhaps we should meet,” he said finally.

I had no problem with that, provided it was in a public place in broad daylight, not

Eaton Canyon at midnight. “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

* * * * *

Wednesday morning brought fitful sunshine and Lester Naess. Lester was about my

age, very heavy and a talker. He smelled of cigarettes and astringent. By midmorning I’d

heard about his first divorce, his second wife, and his kidney operation. On the bright side,

he wasn’t afraid to deal with the customers. The fear was all on the side of John Q. Public.

Before lunch, Lester had updated me on his gallstones, his second divorce, and his

current girlfriend. Immediately following lunch, he had what he described as “a nicotine fit.”

When he recovered, I slipped out for a Starbucks and a quick nervous breakdown. I phoned

Guy Snowden to tell him I’d have to reschedule our meeting.

“Has something happened?” he asked warily. Possibly it was my tone.

I assured him all was cool, although I couldn’t help wondering: If God works in

mysterious ways, why shouldn’t the Devil seek temporary employment in a mystery

bookstore?

After lunch Lester told me about his angina, his IRS audit, his first heart attack, and his

girlfriend’s lousy teenagers. I decided that another day of Lester, and I’d also be having chest

pains.

I called the agency once more.

* * * * *

Jake dropped by that evening with Chinese takeout and the Alien vs. Predator DVD. I

had closed shop on the ponderous heels of Lester and was trying to drape miniature

Christmas lights along the ceiling. I had the McGarrigle sisters’ Christmas CD playing in the

storeroom, so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear him using his key in the side door.

A floorboard squeaked, I glanced down, and for once, there really was a shadowy figure

coming at me.

“Jesus!” I yelped, nearly overbalancing the ladder.

“Christ!” finished Jake, who also jumped, but managed to make it look more like

someone leaping into battle mode and less like someone about to rocket through the roof.

These tender greetings out of the way, he ordered me down from the ladder, took my

place at the dark beams. I carried the takeout upstairs, emptied out the soggy containers, put

the food into pans to heat later, and briefly studied the DVD cover.

“My money’s on the aliens,” I called, starting back down the staircase.

“Nah,” Jake returned, seriously. “No way. All the aliens have is acid blood. The

predators have body armor and invisibility.”

Ah, yes . I saw why Jake was voting for the predators. Nothing like invisibility when

you need it.

He had already managed to string the lights all along the back partition of the shop. I