Murder in Pastel by Josh Lanyon Read Free Book Online Page A

Brett.
    Brett dabbed at his temple again. “I fell. On the rocks.”
    “Poetic justice,” someone commented. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Joel.
    We settled down by the fire. Someone passed me a hot dog and a plate of potato salad and baked beans. I could feel Adam’s eyes on me but when I looked up, he was staring at Brett.
    Studying the circle of fire-lit faces, I remembered that these were people I’d known for years, all my life in the case of Joel and Micky. Tonight I felt that they were strangers. And it was Brett’s presence that had triggered this transformation.
     
    I don’t recall who suggested a moonlight swim. It might even have been Brett. He was certainly the one who pushed for it, egging everyone on, and at last turning to me. Tugging my hands, he tried to pull me up out of the sand.
    “Come on, Kylie. Let’s go skinny dipping.”
    “Maybe later.”
    He was beautiful in the moonlight, bringing to mind those Hermann Liemann neoclassic photographs of sandaled young men brandishing swords. I didn’t know where to look. Not everyone was as beautiful naked—in fact, no one was. But a lot of drinks helped them get over it.
    “Fuck. You’re an old man!”
    Brett gave up on me, and darted ahead, plunging into the waves. The others were right behind him in various stages of undress.
    I stood, tugged my sweatshirt over my head. Put my hands on my belt buckle. With sudden clarity I wondered what I was trying to prove. I’d just eaten. It was cold. My bare skin was breaking out in goose bumps as the wind off the water hit it. The blue-black water was rough, sweeping in on the incoming tide. Who was I trying to impress? And how impressive would it look keeling over in cardiac arrest?
    Reaching down, I shook the sand out of my sweatshirt and pulled it back on. Adam still sat on the log drinking beer.
    “You’re not going in?” I asked, dropping down beside him.
    “No.” Curt.
    Was Adam always the designated driver?
    Silently, we sat watching the others scream and frolic in the inky waves, their bodies alabaster in the moonlight, reminding me of those stark black-and-white woodblocks Gauguin did in Tahiti.
    Adam smelled like almond soap and sunscreen. He smelled warm and familiar, although at the edge of my vision his outline—lean, hard, smooth-shaven and close-cropped—was suddenly alien.
    His shoulder brushed mine as he leaned forward toward the tub of ice. “Want another beer?” he asked.
    “No. Thanks.”
    For the first time in my life I had nothing to say to him. It was weird and a little sad.
    “Everything okay, Kyle?” Adam’s abrupt voice cut into my thoughts.
    “Yeah, why?”
    I flicked a look his way. He was staring into the fire, half his face in shadow. “You seem…distant. Have I done something to offend you?”
    “Of course not.”
    Hesitation. Then he said colorlessly, “Has Brett done something?”
    “Huh? No.” I heard the nervousness in my voice. Adam stared at me. I said, “I just—I’m preoccupied, that’s all. The book I’m working on.”
    “Because if I’ve done anything or said anything that…hurt you…”
    “No.” I jumped up, pacing. “No, Adam. I said no. Let it go.”
    Kyle, Ace of Spies.
    “Okay,” Adam said evenly, after a pause.
    After that there really was nothing to say. I walked out a way from the fire, my shadow exaggeratedly long and sinister across the bleached sand. Adam continued to drink, gazing out at the ocean.
    “Do you see Brett?” he questioned suddenly.
    I scanned the waves. “No.”
    He rose, striding toward the water’s edge. At the same time there was a yell for help, half-strangled.
    The swimmers closest in, Micky and Vince, turned. A wave knocked Micky to her knees and Vince splashed back to drag her up.
    I couldn’t see who was further out, only pale bobbing shapes cresting the rolling black peaks.
    “Adam, help! ” That ghostly cry was Brett, his voice choked off as he went under a second time. By then