Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 by Josh Lanyon Read Free Book Online Page A

because I now knew for sure that I had been totally insane to ever agree to this scheme of Rachel’s.
    “How do I get in?”
    “What are you doing out here? Did you just get here?”
    “Yes—that is, no .”
    “No,” he confirmed in the tone of Sherlock Holmes when he’s about to explain something amazing about pipe tobacco to Dr. Watson, “because the bridge is out. There’s no way you could have just arrived from the main road.”
    “Elementary, buddy,” I said. “I was here earlier. I’ve been out with Edgar and J.X.”
    He looked startled. I mean, I couldn’t really see his face in the dismal light, but his body language indicated surprise. “So you’re the one,” he said. “You’re the one who found… her .”
    I thought that “her” was revealing. It reminded me of J.X.’s curt, She was eccentric. To say the least.
    Peaches seemed to have had an unsettling effect on the menfolk.
    “Yes. I found her.” I couldn’t think of anything to add to that. My brain didn’t seem to be working properly. Too much fresh air.
    “Was she—?”
    “Dead?”
    He shook his head. “Murdered,” he said huskily.
    So much for J.X.’s hope to keep a lid on it.
    “I don’t know,” I lied.
    “What happened to her?”

    Josh Lanyon
    “I don’t know.”
    “You must know something.”
    A lot of things. And none of them pertinent. “I knew where to find her,” I said. “Were you close to her?”
    He was silent, considering.
    “No one was close to her,” he said.
    I wondered if that were true. I recalled Miss Butterwith once pronouncing that murder always indicated a certain degree of intimacy. But people in Miss Butterwith’s world were never killed by maniacs or serial killers, and I had my heart set on Peaches being offed by a passing madman.
    “I’m Christopher Holmes,” I said, and shifted suitcases to offer a hand.
    “George Lacey.” He chopped the axe into a broad tree stump with casual, unerring aim, and shook my hand. “Where did you find her?”
    “I had to walk from the main road after the bridge washed out. I stopped in the woods near a tiny Japanese shrine—and there she was.”
    “Wow.”
    “My words exactly.” I’m not sure where the thought came from, but I heard myself ask, “How come no one noticed she was missing?”
    He gave a funny laugh. “Maybe it was a relief to most of them when she was a no-show.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She wasn’t exactly Ms . Popularity, you know what I mean?” He took my big suitcase with his free hand—jeez, random acts of kindness practiced right before my very eyes. “Come on, we can get back in this way.” He proceeded in the direction opposite of the way I’d come. I gathered my wits and started after him.
    “Christopher Holmes, huh? Your name’s familiar. I think I’ve read your books.” He glanced over at me. “You write about that Welsh policeman in the mountain village, don’t you?”
    “Er—no. I write the Miss Butterwith series.”
    “Oh.” He sounded doubtful. “The syrup-bottle lady?”
    “That’s Mrs. Butter worth . No relation.”
    “Oh.”
    “Are you a writer?”
    He made the sound that Miss Butterwith would have referred to as a raspberry. “Me? Nah. I’m here with Mindy.”
    “Ah ha,” I said. Mindy, Mandy, Buffy, Trixie. They were all interchangeable. Bright young things with enthusiasm and ambition and occasionally talent, eager to discuss topics like Should You Trust Your Computer’s Word Count? Or What Color Did You Paint Your Home Office?
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    Somebody Killed His Editor
    “You probably know her,” George added.
    “I doubt it.”
    George and I trekked through the vine-covered arbor and cut back between a vegetable patch and another outlying building, probably a smokehouse from back in the days when smoked meats were still accepted in polite society.
    “How many people are trapped here?” I asked.
    “You mean guests?”
    “What a quaint way to put it. No, I