A Study In Murder Read online

  ​“You’re beautiful. Come here and kiss me.”

  ​“Again?” she chuckled and pushed the sheet aside to expose herself completely. “Oh, all right, since it reminds you of our honeymoon.”

  ​I yanked myself out of the memory. I stood there, as my hands shook.

  ​I wanted a drink, badly, but it was far too early in the day, and I was drinking more than I should. I grabbed the envelope Jeff left and walked into the bedroom, where my attention was drawn to my empty, rumpled bed.

  ​Our bed.

  ​This time, I let the tears come.

  2. Frontispiece

  Sheryl Homes

  ​“The Northeast Mystery Conference is only a few days away. I can’t have you backing out now,” whined Gloria in my ear.

  ​“I didn’t know my ex-husband was going to be in charge of everything!” I fumed. “Have you seen the online schedule? He has me running from place to place and room to room.”

  ​“Look, you’re one of the founders of the club, and you know how your husband has his hooks in the group. But why are you whining to me, Sheryl? You know I’m retiring.”

  ​“A fine time to leave me!” I barked into the phone. “Just when I need you.”

  ​“Look, dearie, you’re good,” she explained calmly, “but you need to find a new agent. This convention will have agents storming the place. If you show up at all these panels and stuff, someone has got to notice you—”

  ​“I don’t want another agent. I want you!” I finally admitted. “You’ve built my career, negotiated all my contracts—”

  ​“And my hubby had a heart attack,” she explained patiently. “Dearie, you know I love you, but I’m not getting any younger. I need to get the hell out of New York and be with my man.”

  ​I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the photo of the woman who had been my first agent displayed on the screen. The photo was me and Gloria from a lunch five years earlier to celebrate my first sale. Gloria was a short, slightly chubby woman, gray-haired and bespectacled. In the photo, I towered over her and was the complete opposite with my Irish coloring, green eyes, and flaming-red hair.

  ​I returned the phone to my ear. “I guess since I’d agreed to it…”

  ​“That’s the spirit!” Gloria chuckled. “Besides, I heard that Mark Watkins will be there.”

  ​I exhaled loudly. “Probably another misogynist who is pissed off that a woman is writing Sherlock Holmes books.”

  ​“Not every guy is like that! Jeff Moss is his agent, and he told me that Watkins liked your work.”

  ​“Wow,” I jeered, “what a great review.”

  ​“Oh, now you’re just being pissy!” Gloria grunted. “You know Moss would be a good fit for you. He even knows the genre…”

  ​“Okay, okay, I’ll do the damn convention. But please don’t set me up with an agent I haven’t even met yet.”

  ​“There you go,” Gloria chortled. “I can’t see why people say you’re difficult.”

  ​“Who says I’m difficult?”

  ​“Bye, dearie.”

  ​She ended the call. I stared at the phone for a moment, a little surprised that my agent had dismissed me.

  ​She did have a point though. I was well aware that people said I was difficult. But there were a lot of men in the club who just didn’t like the fact that “Randall’s little wifey” ended up being a better writer than they were.

  ​Especially that weasel, Allen Alexander, who’d been trying to seduce me even when I’d been married to Randall. The fact that my books had done so much better than his pathetic attempts only encouraged his lust.

  ​I could imagine that for him it was all about dominance.

  ​I thought about everyone in the group. We had members who were just glad to come and talk about mysteries. But then we had the triumvirate: the club president, Charles Nederlander, average height with a receding hairline and that pair of half-glasses perched at the end of his Romanesque nose; vice -president Jon Kane, thin, though not skinny, with curly black hair that sported a spray of white at the temples; treasurer and my ex, Randall Lawrence, with those bedroom eyes, full head of hair, and boyish good looks I thought I would never grow tired of.

  ​Turned out, he grew tired of me.

  ​A financial investor and a wannabe writer, and I had the audacity to go out and write a book that did very well.

  ​My mother suggested I not publish, that it would be too hard on Randall’s ego. I thought more highly of him than that.

  ​I’d been wrong.

  ​Coming home and finding slim, blonde Candy Poole in my bed with him…

  ​I looked around my large downtown condo. This had been one of the perks of divorcing Randall—I got enough to buy this place. Right on West 4th Street in Manhattan, it was an expensive piece of real estate, but Randall was quite wealthy, and my lawyer was a shark.

  ​But I had to admit, it still hurt.

  ​I grabbed the heavy glass paperweight off the nearby computer desk and felt an overwhelming desire to throw it across the room.

  ​I squeezed it until the feeling passed. It would be a stupid thing to do. Toss the heavy ball of glass and it might shatter or break something else. A year since the divorce and I’d only finished unpacking completely two weeks ago.

  ​I should have quit the stupid club. How could I move on with my life if I was still surrounded by the same people? It was odd, they all encouraged me when I started, even Randall. They all liked my early drafts of the novel. It was when I got an agent and sold the book that it all changed. And then it hit the USA Today best seller list, and I was suddenly the enemy.

  ​Even with Randall.

  ​He went out of his way to make snide comments, especially when I was writing. In defense, I ended up writing in coffee shops or when he was at work.

  ​I was coming home from a great writing session, feeling that high a writer gets when they know they’ve done good work. I was excited to tell Randall about how well it had gone, share that with him. Then talk to him about his day while I made dinner, and perhaps we could crack open some wine and get naked. At the time, he hadn’t touched me for weeks.

  ​I had come through the door, quietly, because if Randall was on the phone or busy at the computer, I didn’t want to distract. It was when I put my purse down that I heard the first moan.

  ​It was obviously a woman’s cry of pleasure. I froze for a moment, as I took off my coat silently. Then the idea occurred to me that maybe Randall was watching porn on his computer. I smiled as I thought it might be fun to catch him, and then make his fantasy come true.

  ​But as I headed back in the apartment, the moans got louder, and I heard Randall moaning as well.

  ​Could computer speakers make such realistic sounds?

  ​I reached the open doorway to the bedroom—my bedroom—and the image of naked and buxom Candy Poole atop equally naked Randall was like a slap in the face.

  ​They were going at it quite loudly, and I stood in shock as they both climaxed, right there, right in front of me as if I didn’t matter. During his orgasm, Randall turned to look at me, with that woman on top of him, and their anatomies still entwined. He glared at me as if to say, “See how easily I can replace you?”

  ​I left that night and never went back, except to pack. I spent the next few weeks in Westchester with my parents, but every night I would see Randall looking at me with that combination of loathing and dismissal.

  ​ Both Randall and Candy would be at this upcoming convention. I would have to see that little airhead smirk at me, knowing she was bedding my husband, while I had been alone for over a year-and-a-half. And Randall would look down on me dismissively.

  ​But Gloria was right, I had agreed to it. I would have to be the grown-up and focus on meeting agents, doing panels, and not letting any of those people get under my skin.

  ​I sat down and began to write. If I didn’t have a life that made sense, I could at least
write about Sherlock Holmes, who could always make sense from the smallest clue.

  ​3. Printer's Errors

  Mark Watkins

  ​Weeks later, showered, shaved, and dressed well, I arrived at the Hilton New York in Midtown Manhattan.

  ​Spring was in the air, adding delightful odors to the scent of the city. I thought about walking but opted for the short subway ride to 57th Street & Seventh Avenue. Then I strolled to the hotel on the Avenue of the Americas and 54th Street.

  ​Inside, I passed through the large lobby that had a “pseudo-rotunda” area in the center. The ceiling was designed in an enormous circle, decorated in gold leaf or gold paint, I couldn’t tell the difference.

  ​Toward the back of the hotel, I took an escalator to the mezzanine level to collect my name badge and schedule. Coming off the escalator, I glanced into the huge convention room known as the Rhinelander Gallery. It was filled with booth after booth, all separated by pipe and drape, and bore a sign at the door proclaiming it “The Marketplace.”

  ​I headed for the registration booths laid out along the hallway. There, I got on the line for attendees, where several people were behind the counter organizing badges and helping arrivals.

  ​A striking blonde approached in a long-sleeve, turtle-necked, red dress. It was fashionable while showing off every remarkable curve. Her hair was coiffed to frame her face, she was neatly made-up, and wore red lipstick that matched the ensemble.

  ​“And what’s your name, sir?” she asked in a breathy voice reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.

  ​“Mark Watkins,” I said, and her eyes grew large.

  ​“Really,” she replied, as if I had just made her day. She looked me over and then added, “The writer?”

  ​“Yes,” I said, and tried to look modest. Of course, in my jacket and open collar, I’d dressed for the role.

  ​“Wow!” she said with a throaty whisper. “I’m a big fan.”

  ​“Really?”

  ​“I want to be sure to catch your speech.” She rose, then glanced both ways to make sure no one was nearby. She leaned close to my ear and said, “I’m in room 1230. Maybe you could autograph something of mine later.”

  ​She leaned back and giggled wickedly.

  ​“Wha-what do you have in mind?” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

  ​“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she chuckled suggestively.

  ​“I’d be…um…happy to.”

  ​“I’ve got to find Mr. Kane,” she said. “He wanted to know the minute you arrived.”

  ​She walked out from behind the booth. “You wait right here,” she said, then added, “By the way, I’m Candy.”

  ​Thinking quickly, I said, “I’m sure you’re twice as sweet.” Then realized what a lame line it was.

  ​She giggled anyway. “You’ll just have to find out. Let me get Mr. Kane.”

  ​She traipsed off, and I realized that although her dress was long-sleeved and high-necked, it had a big circle open in the back exposing flawless skin. I also enjoyed the view of her active posterior as she sauntered away.

  ​“She’s quite a girl, don’t you think?” a man said to my left.

  ​I turned and my eyes found the speaker. He was above average height with a strong chin and receding hairline. A pair of half-glasses hung on his nose, and his Brooks Brothers suit and tie gave him an aura of success and competence.

  ​“Hmmm?” I said, and then glanced after Candy. “Oh yes, lovely young lady.”

  ​He reached out his hand, and I could see that he wore one of the badges for the conference. Each badge was color-coded, and his was a reddish tone that signified he was staff.

  ​“Charles Nederlander,” the man announced in a deep voice as I shook his hand. “I’m the president of the club. Been a big fan of mystery all my life.”

  ​“Are you a writer?”

  ​“Hell, no,” he conceded, “I’m a lawyer, but I admire writers and know how to put events together.”

  ​“Thanks for having me.”

  ​“My pleasure. My vice-president, Jon Kane, handles the talent,” he bragged. “Did you know Willow Rose is the Friday night speaker?”

  ​“How did you manage that?” I said, impressed. I loved her work.

  ​“Jon’s a miracle worker that way. I have to be honest. He told me that when he spoke to your agent, it didn’t look like you would do it.”

  ​I shrugged.

  ​“I’m glad,” he confirmed, and then looked past me. “Oh, Candy found Jon. I’ll let the two of you get acquainted.”

  ​Nederlander wandered off in the direction of the large convention room. I noticed that Candy watched him go, and I got the impression she didn’t care for him.

  ​I turned as the pair drew near. The man was taller than Charles, over six feet, thin, with curly black hair with white on his temples.

  ​“Mr. Watson?” he inquired.

  ​“Wat—kins,” I corrected.

  ​“Oh, sorry,” he apologized as he gave my hand a firm shake. “It’s just I’ve read your books—”

  ​“And you were convinced that I truly am John H. Watson, MD,” I said as I returned his grip. “Happens all the time.”

  ​“Of course. I’m Jon Kane.”

  ​“My agent told me to look for you.”

  ​“So glad you decided to join us,” Kane expressed and turned to Candy. “Could you get Mr. Watkins his package?”

  ​She gave a nod and, with a flirty wink to me, reached behind a counter.

  ​“I see you met Charles, the financial half of this endeavor,” Jon affirmed. “Don’t be surprised if he asks you to sign some of his books, which are all first-editions. Personally, I think that’s the only reason he’s involved—to increase the value of his own collection by bringing in his favorite writers.”

  ​Candy pulled out a large manila envelope, which she dutifully handed to me. She gave it to me and then rubbed my arm in a warm gesture as she spoke. “This contains your badge, your information, and your room keys—”

  ​“My room?” I was surprised. “But I only live—”

  ​“Tut, tut,” Jon chimed in.

  ​Did anyone actually say, “tut, tut” these days?

  ​“You are our opening speaker, and no expense is to be spared.” He took my envelope and extracted a small map. “Here is where you’ll give your speech tonight,” he said and indicated the Mercury Ballroom on the third floor.

  ​I glanced at the paper. “I’ll look around the facilities.”

  ​“Excellent! Now, you are participating in the panel tomorrow at one in the afternoon, which will be in the Beekman Room” –he ran his finger to a small meeting room— “on the second floor.”

  ​I nodded.

  ​“Now, after the panel, I set up an hour at the signing booth.”

  ​“The what?”

  ​“The signing booth. People will bring copies of your books to be autographed. After your speech, I was sure there would be a huge demand. You have your hotel room until Monday morning.”

  ​I shrugged. “Anything for the fans.”

  ​“That’s lovely!” he gushed and turned to Candy. “Didn’t I tell you he was first-rate?”

  ​As we finished speaking, a white-haired woman, wonderfully coiffed and wearing what I was sure was a Chanel suit and skirt, strode up to us.

  ​“Jon,” she declared, without a look to me.

  ​“Ms. Cunningham. Oh this is a treat!” Jon greeted her enthusiastically. “I’d like you to meet Mark Watkins. He’s doing our opening night speech—”

  ​“Ah, about Holmes!” She turned to me. I noticed on her lapel was an eye-catching cameo in green with a gold frame. The silhouette on the pin wore a deerstalker hat and held a pipe in his mouth. It was Sherlock Holmes!

  ​“How do you do?” I offered and pointed at her pin. “That’s quite lovely.”

  ​“Isn’t it?” she intoned, with a glance to it. “It’s Jade and cost
a fortune, I’ll tell you that.”

  ​“Nice.”

  ​“I’m Winsley Cunningham, and I believe you are doing my panel on Thursday.”

  ​I glanced at Jon who nodded vigorously.

  ​“I guess I am.”

  ​“Well, that’s lovely. I happen to teach a course on the biography of Sherlock Holmes at the New School.”

  ​It was my turn to nod. Even though Holmes and Watson were fictional characters, it was a popular pastime for Holmesian scholars to make up biographies for Holmes that matched Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s writings and approximated what would be his timeline.

  ​The most famous of these researchers, William Baring-Gould, wrote several books that were now the “accepted” biography from which others based their writings. I found Baring-Gould a great resource and his books a good read, but making Holmes that real always seemed a little creepy to me.

  ​“That’s great,” I said. “I look forward to being on your panel.”

  ​“You’d better be good tonight!” Winsley warned. “I’ve been telling them to have a Holmes speaker for years.” She gave Kane a withering look. “I always thought it would be me…”

  ​Jon gave an embarrassed cough. “Don’t pressure the man, Winsley.”

  ​I jumped in. “It’s fine. I hope to live up to your expectations.” I extracted my plastic card key from the envelope. “I guess I’d better check my room.”

  ​“Good,” Jon said. “Please arrive about a half-hour early to the ballroom so the sound man can put your microphone on. Well, you’re all set then. I have to get back to…” He gestured toward the convention room.

  ​“I need to speak to you, Jon,” Winsley insisted.

  ​“Can we talk as we walk, Winsley?” Jon offered, and he was off in the direction of the convention room with Ms. Cunningham right on his heels.

  ​“I want to know when Randall will be here,” Winsley commanded as they wandered off.

  ​“Oh, Mr. Watkins,” Candy called.

  ​I turned to look at the blonde. As she handed me a business card, she touched my shoulder to draw near and whisper in my ear, “My cell number is on the back.”