Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 by Josh Lanyon Read Free Book Online
Authors: Josh Lanyon
others.”
30
www.samhainpublishing.com
Somebody Killed His Editor
I nodded again.
As I hurried down the path I heard the truck door slam and the engine die away. If it had seemed deserted when we came through a couple of hours earlier, it was like a ghost town now despite the smell of wood smoke lingering in the air. The silhouette of yew branches wavered in the dull yellow pool of the overhead lights, the patio tables and chairs formed a crisscross of bars and boxes like a shadow crossword.
The lodge loomed before me; the rain pouring off the eaves was deafening. I paused, panting at the foot of the stairs leading to the deck, and stared up at the tall black building.
Was there a killer in the house?
Maybe the danger was past. Rigor mortis can set in within a few minutes after death and reach maximum stiffness twelve to twenty-four hours later. Even without the evidence of her pajamas, it was clear to me that Peaches had died during the night. At that point the bridge had still been usable—as were perhaps some of the other roads out of the valley. Peaches’ killer could have escaped to the outside world then. If I had committed murder I wouldn’t hang with the girls talking publishing contracts.
The simplest thing would be to ask around and find out who, if anyone, had left during the night or earlier that day—an unexpected departure would be especially interesting. To the police, that is. Not to me, because my only interest was getting out of Hell’s Half Acre as fast as possible. It was one thing to write about an amateur sleuth. I had no desire to become one.
I put one foot on the steps and a new thought occurred. Maybe a passing madman had stolen into the lodge and abducted Peaches Sadler from her wee trundle bed, murdered her in the woods, and then continued on his merry way. I liked that idea. A lot. If only I could convince my inner Miss Butterwith.
I clambered up the stairs, crossed the slippery deck and grabbed the handle of the lodge’s back entrance with my free hand.
The door was locked.
For a moment I stood there shaking with cold and weariness. I dropped my suitcases, took the door handle with both hands and tried to wrench it open.
It didn’t budge.
I banged on the wet wood.
Nothing.
Where was everyone?
I looked down the walkway shining and black in the rain. The night was alive with weird shapes and crouching silence. There was a buzzing sound above me. I looked up. Rain glinted in the artificial light like rice. One of the overhead lights flickered. Went out.
I pounded on the door. Yelled.
Nothing.
www.samhainpublishing.com 31
Josh Lanyon
I couldn’t go back that way. Walk down that lonely path into the darkness where no one could hear me yelling for help?
I brushed the wet from my face. I hoped it was rain. Maybe I wasn’t the most macho guy on the planet, but I was too old to stand here bawling in the rain.
Okay, I’d already walked a few miles. A couple more yards wouldn’t kill me—unless something waiting in the shadows did.
Stop it.
I picked my suitcases up and started back the way I had come.
Scuttling along the slippery walkway, I rounded the corner, and walked straight into a man carrying an axe.
32
www.samhainpublishing.com
Chapter Six
I had a quick impression of a tall dark figure and a cowl without a face—exactly like the ghost of the murdered monk from Miss Butterwith and the Holy Terror . I sucked in my breath to vent all my fear—and a lot of my frustration.
Then my eyes adjusted to the light and I realized I was staring at a man in a hooded jacket. He was still holding an axe—but he was also holding a wood carrier.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiit,” he said in shocked and startled tones. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“The back door is locked,” I informed him breathlessly.
“Well, yeah, it’s locked. There’s a maniac on the premises.” His tone indicated he thought he’d located the above-mentioned maniac. And I agreed with him,
30
www.samhainpublishing.com
Somebody Killed His Editor
I nodded again.
As I hurried down the path I heard the truck door slam and the engine die away. If it had seemed deserted when we came through a couple of hours earlier, it was like a ghost town now despite the smell of wood smoke lingering in the air. The silhouette of yew branches wavered in the dull yellow pool of the overhead lights, the patio tables and chairs formed a crisscross of bars and boxes like a shadow crossword.
The lodge loomed before me; the rain pouring off the eaves was deafening. I paused, panting at the foot of the stairs leading to the deck, and stared up at the tall black building.
Was there a killer in the house?
Maybe the danger was past. Rigor mortis can set in within a few minutes after death and reach maximum stiffness twelve to twenty-four hours later. Even without the evidence of her pajamas, it was clear to me that Peaches had died during the night. At that point the bridge had still been usable—as were perhaps some of the other roads out of the valley. Peaches’ killer could have escaped to the outside world then. If I had committed murder I wouldn’t hang with the girls talking publishing contracts.
The simplest thing would be to ask around and find out who, if anyone, had left during the night or earlier that day—an unexpected departure would be especially interesting. To the police, that is. Not to me, because my only interest was getting out of Hell’s Half Acre as fast as possible. It was one thing to write about an amateur sleuth. I had no desire to become one.
I put one foot on the steps and a new thought occurred. Maybe a passing madman had stolen into the lodge and abducted Peaches Sadler from her wee trundle bed, murdered her in the woods, and then continued on his merry way. I liked that idea. A lot. If only I could convince my inner Miss Butterwith.
I clambered up the stairs, crossed the slippery deck and grabbed the handle of the lodge’s back entrance with my free hand.
The door was locked.
For a moment I stood there shaking with cold and weariness. I dropped my suitcases, took the door handle with both hands and tried to wrench it open.
It didn’t budge.
I banged on the wet wood.
Nothing.
Where was everyone?
I looked down the walkway shining and black in the rain. The night was alive with weird shapes and crouching silence. There was a buzzing sound above me. I looked up. Rain glinted in the artificial light like rice. One of the overhead lights flickered. Went out.
I pounded on the door. Yelled.
Nothing.
www.samhainpublishing.com 31
Josh Lanyon
I couldn’t go back that way. Walk down that lonely path into the darkness where no one could hear me yelling for help?
I brushed the wet from my face. I hoped it was rain. Maybe I wasn’t the most macho guy on the planet, but I was too old to stand here bawling in the rain.
Okay, I’d already walked a few miles. A couple more yards wouldn’t kill me—unless something waiting in the shadows did.
Stop it.
I picked my suitcases up and started back the way I had come.
Scuttling along the slippery walkway, I rounded the corner, and walked straight into a man carrying an axe.
32
www.samhainpublishing.com
Chapter Six
I had a quick impression of a tall dark figure and a cowl without a face—exactly like the ghost of the murdered monk from Miss Butterwith and the Holy Terror . I sucked in my breath to vent all my fear—and a lot of my frustration.
Then my eyes adjusted to the light and I realized I was staring at a man in a hooded jacket. He was still holding an axe—but he was also holding a wood carrier.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiit,” he said in shocked and startled tones. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“The back door is locked,” I informed him breathlessly.
“Well, yeah, it’s locked. There’s a maniac on the premises.” His tone indicated he thought he’d located the above-mentioned maniac. And I agreed with him,
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