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 Detective 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.”

“The vic’s.”

“Paul Kane’s fingerprints should also be on the glass.”

“Well, it’s his house,” Alonzo pointed out.

Jake said, “The interesting thing is the poison.”

I had avoided looking his way till now. His gaze was impassive.

Alonzo asked, “Do you have a heart condition, sir?”

Jake’s gaze shifted pointedly to Alonzo.

I nodded.

“What medications do you take?”

“Digoxin and aspirin.”

“Digoxin. That’s a form of digitalis, right?”

“Right. It slows and strengthens the heartbeat.”

“You take tablets or injections or what?”

“I take tablets.”

I waited. I knew what was coming.

“You’ll find this interesting. The autopsy results indicate that Mr. Jones died of a massive heart attack brought on by a fatal dose of some form of digitalis.”

They both stared at me.

Two or three murder investigations ago I might have panicked. As it was, I studied Detective Alonzo, perplexed.

“The glass was sitting on the bar for a few minutes. It was crowded, especially by the bar. Any number of people could have slipped something into that drink.”

“How would they know whose drink it was?”

“How would I? Paul Kane picked it up and said it was Porter’s drink. I handed it to Porter.”

“You need a prescription for digitalis, right?”

“No. That is, it’s a cardiac glycoside found in the foxglove plant, which is pretty common.” I thought of Lisa’s house in Porter Ranch surrounded by a classic English cottage garden full of graceful spires of foxglove. “The entire plant is toxic, but the leaves especially so.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I watch a lot of TV.”

“And you’re a mystery writer. I bet you know a lot about poisons.”

“Enough. I’m also a heart patient, so if I was going to poison someone I’d choose something that wouldn’t immediately make me a suspect.”

Detective Alonzo gave Jake another one of those looks as if seeking guidance. None was forthcoming.

“You know, I’ve got to say, Mr. English, I’ve interviewed a lot of suspects, and usually people react a lot differently when they’re questioned in a homicide investigation. Innocent people, I mean.”

“It’s not my first homicide investigation.” I replied. I turned to Jake. “Maybe you should fill him in on how we know each other.”

He didn’t move a muscle. “He knows.”

“Really?” I smiled crookedly. “Everything?”

Not a bat of an eyelash. “Everything relevant.”

He waited for me to say it. My heart sped up as I pictured myself speaking the words, betraying the secret he had protected for forty-two years. I could hurt him every bit as badly as he had hurt me -- and the hurt would be lasting, permanent -- devastating everything he cared about, from his career to his marriage. I could wreck him with a couple of sentences, and he knew it. He could see I was considering it.

He expected me to say it. His eyes never left mine, but there was no asking for quarter. He just…waited. Not breathing.

I said to Alonzo, “Then you know that I understand how this works and that I have confidence in the process.”

Alonzo, who had been looking from Jake to me, put his hand to his jaw like I had sucker punched him.

Jake straightened from the wall and said, his voice unexpectedly husky, “Thanks. I think that’s about it.” He looked to Detective Alonzo who said, “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s it for now. Thanks for your time, Mr. English.”

“What was that about?” Natalie demanded as soon as the front door closed behind Jake and Alonzo. “Were they police?”

“Yeah. It’s just routine,” I told her. “Someone died at the party I was at yesterday, so they’re just checking with people to see if anyone noticed anything suspicious.”

“Oh, wow! You mean, like a murder?”

“Maybe.” I was purposely vague. Natalie is a mystery buff, and she’s often lamented that she wasn’t around to “assist” me the last few times I was involved in a homicide investigation.

“Are you going to investigate?”

“You’re joking, right?”

She seemed slightly puzzled. “No. Oh, hey, a bunch of calls came in for you. Lisa really needs you to call her.” Here she gave me the look that managed to indicate sympathy while still spelling disapproval of me dodging my filial responsibilities. “Your doctor appointment is confirmed for three o’clock. And Paul Kane phoned.”

“What did Paul Kane want?”

Natalie gave a disbelieving laugh. “Adrien, you never said you knew the Paul Kane!”

“I don’t. He’s sort of interested in one of my books.”

“Interested? You mean in the film rights?” Her voice rose on the magic word “film.” I winced.

“He’s just expressed interest,” I said hastily -- and not totally truthfully. “It probably won’t go any further than this.” Her expression was disbelieving. “Did he say what he wanted?” I asked again.

“He didn’t say. But he wants you to call him right away.”

I nodded, returned to my office, and dialed Kane’s number.

I expected to have to go through at least one personal assistant, but Kane himself answered on the third ring. “Adrien, how are you?” He had a great voice. Smooth and sexy. I wondered if he had ever considered recording audiobooks. “I can’t apologize enough for yesterday.”

“Is that a confession?”

“Is that a --?” He laughed. “You’ve been chatting with the coppers. Apparently I’m their number one suspect.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

“No? I did. Look, are you free for lunch? I’ve got something I want to discuss with you.”

All I wanted was to lie down and sleep for an hour or two. I was so damn tired all the time. But I wanted this film to be made. The bookstore expansion was costing a fair bit, and I was still five years away from inheriting the balance of the money left to me by my grandmother.

“I’m free,” I said. “Where would you like to meet?”

“I’m working on the lot today. What about the Formosa Café? Shall we say one o’clock? I’ve a proposition I think you’ll find rather intriguing.”