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  A Study In Murder: Homes & Watkins Book One

  Copyright ©2019 Debra Snow & Arjay Lewis

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Cover Design: Marianne Nowicki, PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  Editing: Brandi Aquino: www.editingdonewrite.com

  Published by:

  Mindbender Press

  474 South Main Street

  Phillipsburg NJ 08865

  www.mindbenderpress.com

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  Asylum In The Mind

  Specter In The Mind

  Vengeance In The Mind

  HORROR:

  The Muse: A Novel Of Unrelenting Terror

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  ULTIMATE URBAN FANTASY:

  The Wizards Of Central Park West

  ROMANTIC MYSTERY:

  A Study In Murder

  Murder By Misdirection

  Praise for A Study In Murder:

  “I have the good fortune to read many Holmesian pastiches. One of the best I've seen recently is Debra Snow’s and Arjay Lewis's Homes & Watkins adventures. Not only do they have the flavour of classic Doyle, but they also differ with a splendid sense of humor that provides both mystery and comedy in welcome doses. Recommended VERY highly!!!”

  —Marvin Kaye, Editor

  Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine

  Dedication

  To our Grandparents

  George and Bertha Snow

  Joseph and Elizabeth Stenger

  Thomas and Tulia Jenkins

  James and Mary Lewis

  They helped us to create the lives we have.

  ​“You know my methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected.”

  The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (1893)

  —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  1. Writer's Block

  Mark Watkins

  ​It was the winter of 1887, when the unexpected letter found its way to our rooms at 221B Baker Street.

  ​Holmes had been in one of his melancholy moods of late, as often occurred when the cold weather forced him indoors. Added to this fact was that, although his services were in demand, there was nothing that challenged his unique mind.

  ​Until that letter.

  ​Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought it up with several other envelopes, as soon as the morning post arrived.

  ​Holmes’ trained eye went to it immediately, and with a quick move of his catlike reflexes, he tore it open and perused it as I examined the remaining correspondence.

  ​Holmes rose to his feet, held the letter aloft, and turned to me to say, “Watson, the game is afoot!”

  ​I dropped my hands from the keyboard, shook my head, and muttered, “Utter crap.”

  ​I shut down the word-processor program, then my computer, and gave up for another day.

  ​It was pointless to even try.

  ​I stood and my eyes fell on the full-length mirror in the room that was both my office and bedroom. The one Susie insisted I get her.

  ​I saw her there in my mind’s eye.

  ​“I need something large enough to see if my outfit looks right.”

  ​“You always look beautiful,” I told her.

  ​“Flatterer,” she said with a smile, as I kissed her cheek. “You’re just trying to turn my head.”

  ​I was back in present time, where all that was reflected was a middle-aged man, not thin but not yet fat, about five feet seven, with sandy-gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I needed a shave, and wore pajamas and a bathrobe that was more wrinkles than anything else.

  ​I approached the mirror like an adversary as I examined myself in all my glory. I’d gained weight, with a bit of a belly where there never had been one. I glared into my bloodshot eyes. Too little sleep and too much alcohol.

  ​Susie would be disappointed in me. But she wasn’t here to say so.

  ​The buzzer for the outer door of my building went off.

  ​Who would that be? I thought. I felt it was too early, then I glanced at the clock. It was just past 11:00 AM.

  ​Well, early for me.

  ​I walked to the intercom which stood on the wall, hit the button, and yelled, “Who is it?”

  ​“Mark?” came the garbled reply, made even less intelligible by the cheap speaker. “Hey, babe, it’s Jeff.”

  ​I pushed the other button, which buzzed open the front door so he could enter. If you live in Manhattan, it’s like you’re a prisoner. Everywhere you go you pass through secured areas and deal with surly doormen, whose attitudes often resemble prison guards. This is all for the illusion that you are somehow safer, when on any given night some crazed, strung-out addict could break into your apartment through the one spot you didn’t cage.

  ​I ran a hand through my hair and adjusted my glasses.

  ​Fine time for my literary agent to show up. A thought occurred to me. If I wanted him to stay away, all I had to do was show him the crap I’d just written.

  ​Probably not. Jeff was a friend, and a good one at that.

  ​Besides, I was still considered one of the finest Sherlock Holmes writers of the new millennium. My novels were actually much better than that cliché-ridden garbage I’d just knocked off.

  ​The death of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the most famous of all fictional detectives, Sherlock Holmes, had been a boon to writers everywhere. There were still a good dozen or two of us who knocked out new adventures with regularity for the long-deceased detective. That is, of course, if he had ever lived.

  ​And in my case, they sold quite well.

  ​I’d received good reviews for each of my five novels. Death In The Borley Rectory even got to the New York Times Best Seller list, though it hovered near the bottom in its brief stay.

  ​I’d been able to write what I considered good books, and I didn’t resort to the popular trick of having Holmes and Watson meet historical figures: Freud, Jack the Ripper, the Prince of Wales, et cetera. I preferred my fiction unsullied by what I always considered a trick: the writer trying to be far too clever for his own good.

  ​Of course, that all happened when Susie was alive.

  ​It was easy with her there to read my work, correct my childish typing or spacing errors, and encourage me along.

  ​Before the cancer.

  ​The knock came at the door and I jumped. I stared at the door for a moment and didn’t quite remember who I expected. I gave a quick glance through the fisheye peephole and undid the three locks to pull open the door.

  ​Jeffrey Moss, literary agent supreme, burst into the room like a runaway subway train.

  ​He walked past my series of built-in bookcases that lined one wall, filled with books from
classics to modern. Although I often read books on an electronic device these days, I still loved the feel and smell of the real thing.

  ​“Mark!” he bellowed, and pushed the shock of his unruly white hair out of his eyes. “Hey, is it okay if I smoke, babe?”

  ​I nodded. Jeff was the only person Susie ever let smoke in this apartment. That rule started when we moved in back in the ‘90s.

  ​God, we were just a couple of kids when we first rented this place, straight out of college. She was such a beauty then, petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with an intellect that made my head go soft and a body that made everything else get hard. I thought I was the luckiest man in the world.

  ​Which, of course, I was.

  ​There was such a sudden lump in my throat, I coughed to clear it.

  ​“I think you know where the ashtray is,” I told him.

  ​“Sure, babe,” Jeff said, and put down his briefcase on the way into my tight kitchen. I always believed that it was supposed to be a hallway that some crazy contractor made into a kitchen when the apartment got subdivided sometime in the ancient past, long before we moved in. Then, years later, the building went condo, which gave me a chance to buy my own apartment for an outrageous sum, as well as continue to pay rent, though it was now called “condo fees.” It was the only apartment I’d ever had in New York City.

  ​Jeff turned on the blower in the hood over the range, lit his cigarette, and took a long hard drag that relaxed him at once.

  ​“Meetings all morning,” Jeff said, his words highlighted with pale smoke. “Couldn’t smoke at all. I tell you, a couple more laws and I’ll move to Canada. I can get marijuana on any street corner, but tobacco will be illegal.”

  ​“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked.

  ​“Checking up on you, babe,” Jeff said, and took another drag. “I see you are still wearing your stylish outfit.”

  ​He looked at me from head to toe, and took in my pajamas, bathrobe, and worn slippers.

  ​“I am wearing different pajamas since your last visit, and I did shave, last Tuesday or Wednesday,” I sassed. I felt a little vexed. If I wanted to stay in my damn pajamas all day, it wasn’t any of his business.

  ​He blew a well-aimed burst of nicotine-laced vapor into the blower and gazed at the floor.

  ​“Babe,” he said quietly. “It’s been two years—”

  ​“Christ, Jeff,” I responded, my voice loud. “I don’t need a damn cuckoo clock—”

  ​“I’m worried about you, all right?” Jeff shot back. His voice exceeded mine easily. In spite of his cigarette habit, all those years he’d spent as an actor still gave him excellent vocal control.

  ​“I’m fine,” I said, and rubbed my face. This was what it was like every time Jeff showed up. “Please don’t start on that, ‘Susie wouldn’t want this’ crap, okay?”

  ​“I get it!” Jeff conceded. “I’ve tried to talk to you as a friend. I won’t do that today.”

  ​“Good.”

  ​“Today I am here strictly as your agent.” Jeff crushed out his cigarette. He stormed over to his briefcase, loudly put it on the table, and opened it. “Your last hardcover, The Crime Of The Casual Crook, was published over two years ago, and the follow-up paperback stopped being printed six months ago.”

  ​“So, no new royalties will be forthcoming,” I agreed. “I’ve put enough away. I don’t have to worry.”

  ​“Look, Mark,” Jeff went on with that I-know-this-game tone he adopts when he wants to wheedle something out of me, “you know the publishing business as well as I do. Unless you come out with a book every year, you’re sunk. Publish or die.”

  ​“Unless you’re John Updike,” I pointed out.

  ​“Even he couldn’t get away with it in this market,” Jeff quipped. “Look, you struggled for so many years with books that didn’t take off—good reviews but no sales.”

  ​“And you got me editing deals on those anthologies,” I affirmed. “I know it, and I appreciate—”

  ​“You finally hit it with the Sherlock Holmes books—approved by the Conan Doyle estate—and I don’t have to tell you, that took a lot of negotiations.“

  ​I exhaled heavily. “I know.”

  ​Jeff was about to go into his ten-minute song and dance about how much tougher it is these days, and how there used to be a lot more money and a lot less competition and so on. I’ve heard it all before, and it just annoys me.

  ​Jeff’s a good agent, and the need to persuade and cajole authors is part of his job. Authors tend to be lazy animals, unless we need the cash.

  ​He just didn’t understand. Susie was more than a wife. She was my editor, as well as my number one fan.

  ​I wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories for her.

  ​She was the biggest Conan Doyle fan on earth. It was a delight to watch her face as she read my novels and enjoyed every morsel like a fine meal.

  ​I’d tried to tell Jeff that the idea of writing another book, another Holmes book, would just be too hard if I couldn’t see her brown eyes peer at me over her glasses, and her insights into my characterizations.

  ​“Look, Jeff,” I blurted out. “I can’t do it. Not right now. I’ve…tried…really I have. But all I can produce is junk of the worst order.”

  ​“Babe,” he continued, “you’ve got to keep trying. For Chrissake, you’re a great writer. And a great writer should write!”

  ​“Yes,” I grumbled, and I felt my face flush hot with embarrassment. Jeff usually never praised my talents, and pushed me to always improve my technique. For him to suggest that I was a great writer was unheard of.

  ​“You need to get out, babe. Marsha keeps telling me to have you over for dinner again.”

  ​“And invite over another one of her single friends, like the last time?” I shook my head.

  ​“She can’t help it.” He shrugged. “There are a lot of single women in this city, and you are quite a catch.”

  ​“I-I can’t,” I said. Since Susie was gone that part of me was absent. I used to look at women all the time—not to do anything about it, just to look. Since Susie died, I didn’t have the interest. “Besides, I get out—I buy groceries.”

  ​He yanked open my refrigerator, which was quite sparse.

  ​“Okay,” I snapped. “I go out to eat.”

  ​“Mark, you need to get out of this damn condo and do something. Meet people, experience life.”

  ​I tightened my jaw as I felt tears stab my eyes.

  ​Experience life? I thought. With Susie in the cold, cold ground?

  ​I wish I had just died with her. It would’ve been so much simpler.

  ​“Whatever,” I snarled, annoyed that it was a pretty lousy comeback for a writer.

  ​“Tell you what, Mark. I got a deal for you.”

  ​“Look, Jeff, I just don't want to—”

  ​“Hear me out, babe. A mystery conference is coming up.”

  ​“A fan con? Those things are such a pain—”

  ​“It’s here in town. They want you to participate.”

  ​“What are you talking about?”

  ​“The Northeast Mystery Conference. They want you to be a featured speaker—and they are willing to pay.”

  ​“I don’t know—”

  ​“Think about it. It’s just five days next month, here in town. You give a lecture the first night, Wednesday, and sit on a panel on Thursday.”

  ​“A panel?”

  ​“Yeah, a panel of writers who do Holmes stories.”

  ​“Oh great!” I snorted. “Do you know how much dreck there is out there? Why do I want to be associated with that?”

  ​“For one thing,” he said, his voice far too chipper, “I know for a fact that Sheryl Homes is a participant.”

  ​I paused as his words sunk in.

  ​“You’re kidding.”

  ​“Not in the least, babe.”

  ​Sheryl Homes was my number one competitor in
the genre of Sherlock Holmes books. Like me, she also had the approval of the Conan Doyle estate.

  ​I’d read her books. They were good and a great read. In the last four years, her books inspired me on my own work. She was not yet at best-seller status, but I was sure she would be soon. Her writing just got better and better.

  ​What I knew about her was this: she lived in New York, was married, and if her book jacket photo was any indication, was a fine-looking lady.

  ​The chance to actually meet her, eye to eye? Well, from what I’d heard, she was a good three inches taller than me, but close enough.

  ​“Okay,” I proclaimed, surprised by my sudden decisiveness, “sign me up.”

  ​“That’s great, you won’t regret this,” Jeff prattled, and he pulled out a manila envelope from his briefcase and put it on the table. “This is just what you need, babe.”

  ​“I don’t know about that…”

  ​Jeff made his way to the door, undoubtedly on his way to a meeting, or off to annoy a writer, or kiss up to the next publisher on his list.

  ​“You go to this, you’ll get ideas. Put ‘em down on paper and we are on our way to another best seller. I can feel it in my bones.”

  ​We said our good-byes and Jeff went out the door with one final, “You won’t regret it!”

  ​Jeff was wrong. I already regretted it.

  ​I’d done conventions before, and they are long, dull endeavors. The only reason I’d done them in the past was that they gave me a chance to get away with Susie to a hotel room.

  ​ The image of a naked Susie as she held a flimsy sheet from the hotel bed up to her neck appeared in my mind.

  ​“What is it about you and hotels, Mark? At home we make love once a week. We get to a hotel and you want it twice a day!”

  ​“It reminds me of our honeymoon.”

  ​“Hmmm. That’s the right thing to say,” she said, and lowered the sheet to expose her breasts. “You don’t mind that I’m a hell of a lot grayer and plumper than when we got married?”