Death of a Pirate King (Adrien English Mysteries 4) Read online

  I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, trying to look nonchalant rather than defensive.

  We’d been talking for thirty minutes, which seemed like an unreasonable time to question someone who hadn’t even known the victim. They couldn’t honestly think I was a suspect. Jake couldn’t honestly think I’d bumped this guy off. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Five o’clock.

  Alonzo circled back to the general background stuff that is mostly irrelevant but sometimes turns up an unexpected lead.

  To his surprise and my relief, Jake said abruptly, “I think that’s about it. Thanks for your time, Mr. English. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”

  I opened my mouth to say something automatic and polite -- but what came out was a laugh. Short and sardonic. It caught us both by surprise.

  Chapter Two

  “Gosh, you look terrible!” Natalie exclaimed.

  I batted my lashes. “You always know the right thing to say.” I flipped through the day’s sales receipts.

  I’d acquired Natalie two years ago when Angus, my former bookstore employee, split for parts unknown. After a string of temps I let my mother -- against my better judgment -- persuade me into hiring Natalie.

  Natalie, at that time, was my brand-new stepsis. After thirty-odd years of widowhood, my mother Lisa had suddenly decided to remarry, and with Councilman Bill Dauten had come three stepsisters, in order of appearance: thirty-something Lauren, twenty-something Natalie, and twelve-year-old Emma.

  The Dautens were the nicest family in the world. I kept a watch out for the insidious undercurrents, the clues that all was not as it should be, but nope. Nothing. Okay, maybe Bill overdid the Jägermeister on the holidays and got squirm-makingly sentimental, and I could have done without Lauren and her many crusades -- and Natalie had the worst taste in men I’d ever encountered outside of my own -- but Emma was a pip.

  “Where’ve you been? I was getting worried.”

  I replied vaguely, “It took longer than I expected.” Anything I told her would hit the familial newswire within the hour, and for now I needed this to be an exclusive.

  “Did you have a good time?” She really wanted to know; she really hoped I’d had a good time. This was one of the things that I found hard to get used to in having an extended family. All this friendly interest was nice but it was strange.

  After years of it being just Lisa and me -- okay, actually being mostly just me -- all these interested and involved bystanders made me uneasy.

  I glanced without favor at the boyfriend du jour: Warren Something. He lolled in one of the club chairs near the front desk, looking bored. Straggly hair, emaciated body, and one of those wispy goatees that made me yearn for a sharp razor -- and not so that I could give him a shave. He wore a T-shirt that read Chicks Hate Me. Supposedly he was some kind of musician, but so far all he seemed to play was on my nerves.

  Hiring Natalie turned out to be one of my better decisions. My only problem with her was she kept trying to persuade me to hire Warren.

  “It was okay,” I said. “Aren’t you two going to a concert or something?”

  Warren showed signs of life. “Yeah, Nat, we’re going to be late.”

  “Lisa called four times. She’s really upset you went out so soon after getting discharged. You better call her.”

  I muttered something, caught Natalie’s eye. She chuckled. “You’re still her baby.”

  Warren laughed derisively.

  Yep, I was definitely getting tired of old Warren.

  “I’ll give her a call. Lock up, will you?”

  Natalie assented, and I went upstairs to my living quarters. Years ago I bought the building that now houses Cloak and Dagger Books with money I inherited from my paternal grandmother. At the time I thought it would be something to tide me over until my writing career took off.

  I turned on the lights. The answering machine light was blinking red. Eight messages. I pressed Play.

  “Darling…”

  Lisa. I fast forwarded.

  “Darling…”

  Fast forward.

  “Darling…”

  Holy moly. Fast forward.

  “Darling…”

  Jeeeesus. Fast forward.

  Fast forward.

  Fast forward.

  Fast forward.

  Guy’s taped voice broke the silence of the apartment. “Hello, lover. How’d it go?”

  Guy Snowden and I had met a couple years earlier, and we’d been seeing each other since Jake and I parted ways. I hit Stop on the machine, picked up the phone, but then considered.

  If I called Guy now it wouldn’t be a quick call, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with what I was feeling, let alone his possible reaction.

  I replaced the phone and went into the bathroom, avoiding looking at my hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. I didn’t need a reminder that I looked like something the cat dragged in. I felt like something the cat dragged in -- after he chewed on it for a few hours. My chest hurt, my ribs hurt. Coughing really hurt, but suppressing the cough was a no-no because my lungs had to clear. A truly delightful process.

  I took my antibiotics and stretched out on the couch. Fifteen minutes and I’d call Lisa, and then if I had strength left, I’d call Guy and tell him about the party and Porter Jones and Jake. Guy wouldn’t be happy about any of it, especially the part about Jake. Not that I’d ever really gone much into my relationship with Jake; but Guy, who taught history and occult studies at UCLA, had been a suspect in one of Jake’s murder investigations, and it had left him with not very friendly feelings toward cops in general and Jake in particular.

  I thought about the party at Paul Kane’s. Not that party was exactly the word for the afternoon’s events. I tried to pinpoint exactly when I’d met Porter Jones. Paul Kane, who had been mixing cocktails behind the bar, had introduced us. He’d handed me a glass that had been sitting on the bar for a few minutes, and said, “This is for Porter. My secret recipe.”

  I’d handed the glass to Porter.

  Of course Porter had had a lot of drinks that afternoon. A lot of glasses had passed his way…

  * * * * *

  When I woke, the buzzer was ringing downstairs.

  I sat up, groggy and a little confused by a series of weird dreams. The corners in the room were deep in shadow. Just for a moment it looked like someplace else, someplace strange, someone else’s house. It looked like the home of whoever would live here years after I was gone.

  The clock in the VCR informed me that it was eight o’clock. Shit. I’d stood Guy up for dinner.

  The buzzer downstairs rang again, loud and impatient.

  Not Guy, because he had a key.

  No way, I thought. I started coughing like I’d inhaled a mouthful of dust. Dusty memories maybe.

  I got up, adrenaline zinging through my system like someone had flipped a switch. Heading downstairs, I turned on the ground level lights. I crossed the silent floor of towering shelves and strategically placed chairs, my eyes on the tall silhouette lurking behind the bars of the security gate.

  Somehow I knew -- even before he moved into the unhealthy yellow glow of the porch light. I swore under my breath and unlocked the front door. Pushed the security gate aside.

  “Can I come in?”

  I hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.” I moved out of the way. “More questions?”

  “That’s right.” Jake stepped inside the store and stared around himself.

  The previous spring I’d bought the building space next door, and between the bookstore and the gutted rooms was a dividing wall of clear, heavy plastic. Otherwise it didn’t look too different: same comfortable chairs, fake fireplace, tall walnut shelves of books, same enigmatic smiles of the kabuki masks on the wall. Everything as it was. Me excluded. I had certainly changed.

  I remembered when I’d first met Jake, when he’d been investigating Robert Hersey’s murder. He’d scared the hell out of me, and I wondered no
w why I hadn’t paid attention to that first healthy instinct.

  His eyes came at last to rest on me. He didn’t say anything.

  “Déjà vu,” I said, and was relieved that my tone was just about right.

  It seemed to annoy Jake, though. Or maybe he was annoyed at being forced to remember there had ever been anything between us besides criminal investigation.

  He said flatly, “I want to know what you were holding back when we interviewed you this afternoon.”

  That caught me off guard. “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. I know you. You were hiding something.”

  Now that really was ironic. “You think?”

  He just stared, immovable, implacable, impossible. “Yeah.”

  “I guess some things never change.”

  “Yeah,” he drawled. “Two years later I find you smack in the middle of another homicide investigation. Coincidence?”

  “You think not?” I started coughing again, which was aggravating as hell.

  He just stood there watching.

  When I’d got my breath again, I rasped, “If I were hiding something I guess it was the realization that you and Paul Kane are also already…acquainted.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “Same club, old chap?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You sound jealous, Adrien. And bitter.”

  Did I? The thought startled me.

  “Nah. Just curious.”

  “About?”

  I shrugged. “Not really my business.”

  “You’ve got that right.” He was curt. After a moment he said slowly, “So that’s all it was? You guessed that Paul and I…knew each other.”

  “In the Biblical sense?” I mocked. “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  After we’d parted company he’d called twice when I hadn’t been there to take his call. Or maybe I had been there, but just hadn’t picked up. Anyway, I knew from caller ID who the hang-up calls were from.

  And then, eleven months after the whole thing was over, he’d called and actually left a message.

  It’s Jake.

  Like, did he think I’d forgotten his voice along with his number?

  Silence.

  It’d be nice to talk to you sometime.

  As he himself would have said: Uh-huh.

  Silence.

  Dial tone.

  What did he think we’d talk about? His marriage? Work? The weather?

  “So are we done?” I heard the tension crackle in my voice and knew he heard it too. I didn’t have the strength to keep fencing with him. I didn’t have the energy to keep standing there pretending this wasn’t getting to me, that it wasn’t opening up a lot of wounds that weren’t as well healed as I’d believed.

  He said flatly, “Yeah, we’re done.”

  Chapter Three

  “I don’t believe it,” Guy said. “There’s something wrong with my karma.”

  “Check the expiration date,” I suggested.

  He paused in setting out little white cartons of rice and shrimp in lobster sauce to give me the British two-finger salute.

  “Two words,” I said. “Sounds like duck flu.”

  His smile was reluctant. His eyes, green as the curl of a wave, studied my face and narrowed. “You overdid it today, lover.”

  “I’m out of shape. I find murder tiring.”

  This reminded him of the thing I kept hoping he’d forget. “And of all the cops in all the world, why the hell would that asshole Riordan show up today at Paul Kane’s? It’s fucking unbelievable. I thought he was a lieutenant or something?”

  “He is. I think he knows Paul Kane. It’s a high-profile case. There’s liable to be a lot of media attention.”

  “You don’t honestly think they -- he -- thinks you’re involved?”

  “No.”

  Guy poured wine for himself and mineral water for me. He sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat, scowling. “You don’t plan on…”

  “No. I don’t.”

  He relaxed a little.

  I said, referring to the murder case where Guy and I first met, “When you talked to the cops about Garibaldi, you kept me out of it, right?”

  “As much as was possible.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that Detective Riordan had a pretty good idea of where I got my information.” He studied me. “He didn’t push it, and neither did I since you’d asked me to keep you out of it. I couldn’t help noticing…”

  “What?”

  “He has this little muscle in his jaw.” Guy gestured to his own lean, tanned jaw. “And every time your name came up, the muscle moved.”

  “It was pretty much a permanent twitch by then.”

  Guy didn’t laugh.

  I reached my hand across the table. “Hey. Guy, I’m sorry this is bringing back bad memories for you. I’m not involved. I have no intention of getting involved.”

  He took my hand, but he was still not smiling.

  “You’re not the one I’m worried about. I don’t trust that bastard Riordan.”

  * * * * *

  Lisa phoned as we were lying in bed watching Michael Palin’s Palin’s New Europe. Actually Guy had been watching, and I had been dozing. Ever chivalrous, Guy took the bullet for me.

  Gratefully, I listened to his side of the conversation.

  “He’s fine, Lisa. He’s right here. Just having an early night.”

  Poor Guy. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Did my mother think we were in separate rooms? Sleeping in bunk beds? I lowered the TV volume with the remote control. The TV in the bedroom was Guy’s idea. He found watching TV together more companionable than reading -- not that we spent a lot of sheet time in intellectual pursuits.

  “Yep, he’s taking all his meds.”

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  Guy’s eyes laughed at me.

  “He’s eating. He’s resting. He’ll give you a call tomorrow. I give you my word.”

  I raised my brows at this. Guy raised his own in reply.

  Folding my arms behind my head, I stared at the streetlamp shining behind the lace drapes over the window. Not that I would have admitted this to anyone, but my lack of energy scared me. I knew it was normal after pneumonia, like the sore ribs and the ugly cough, but the fatigue and shortness of breath brought back unpleasant memories. As had the hospital stay.

  When my number came up, I wanted it to be lightning-bolt fast. I sure as hell didn’t want to end things struggling for breath in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and stuck full of needles.

  “Sweet dreams,” Guy cooed and leaned over to replace the handset on its hook.

  “I owe you, man.”

  “She’s a doll, really.”

  “Mm. Bride of Chucky.”

  He chuckled and bent over me, his breath light and cool as his mouth touched mine. “Say the word and I’ll make running interference a permanent part of my job description.”

  I kissed him back lightly.

  “No?” He raised an eyebrow.

  I sighed.

  “What’s it take to convince you I’m here for the long haul?”

  “Maybe I’m just too set in my ways,” I said. “I’ve been living on my own a long time.”

  “You’re thirty-five, Adrien. It’s not like your best years are behind you.”

  They felt behind me, I thought, with my heartbeat fluttering in my throat as it did more often now. But I couldn’t tell Guy that. I couldn’t tell anyone that.

  “You know I love you,” Guy said. “Right? So what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m the problem.”

  “No. You just need time.” He kissed me again. “That’s okay, lover. You take all the time you need.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Monday, Natalie and I were having a little debate about inventory loss control -- Natalie taking the view that stealing books was not really a crime so much as a cry for help -- when De
tective Alonzo showed up with Jake in tow.

  “Can we talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. English?” Alonzo asked over the din of power tools from behind the plastic curtain.

  I looked at Jake. His face gave nothing away.

  We went back to my office. Jake leaned against the wall as though he were strictly there in some official capacity as observer in a training exercise for Alonzo.

  Alonzo said, “We were wondering if you’d had a chance to remember anything else after you made your statement yesterday.”

  “You mean like, did I remember I killed Porter Jones?”

  He smiled, a genial cat to a smart-ass mouse. “Something like that.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He looked interested. “What’s that mean?”

  I’d been debating since the evening before whether to mention the thing about handing Porter his drink before we went into lunch, and I concluded that it would be easier -- safer -- to have it out now. I said, “It means that if he was poisoned, then I think there’s a possibility I handed him the drink that killed him.”

  “You think he was poisoned, Mr. English?”

  “I think I’d have noticed if he’d been shot or stabbed.”

  Alonzo looked toward Jake as though seeking confirmation. “You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  His black brows drew together.

  “I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that the coroner’s preliminary findings indicate that Mr. Jones was poisoned.”

  “I see.” And I thought I did.

  “We’ve found the glass that was probably used to administer the poison. It was broken in a bag of trash, but there was enough to lift fingerprints.”

  “Let me guess. Mine.”

  “Jackpot,” said Detective Alonzo. He did seem to enjoy his work.

  I reminded myself I’d been through police questioning before and that I had nothing to hide. “I did say I might have inadvertently given him the poison. I passed him his glass right before we went into lunch. There should be other prints on the glass as well.”