A Study In Murder Page 3
I turned the card over and hand-scribed was a ten-digit number with a little heart drawn at the end. “I see.”
“If you have some free time today, you should take a look at the Marketplace.”
I smiled. “I looked in. Seems impressive.”
“If you do, make sure you have your badge on. You can go to any of the lectures or presentations—it’s an all-access pass.”
“That’s great.” I attempted a joke, “Is it any help with women?”
She giggled again. “You don’t need any help. But you call me if you need anything. And I mean…anything…at all.”
She took one perfectly manicured finger—red nail polish, of course—and put it under my chin.
I was sure I turned beet red, which amused Candy even more. She leaned forward and put her lips to my ear.
“I just loved your book, Adventure Of The Wailing Banshee,” she murmured. “You captured the Holmes and Watson relationship so well.”
My smile faded, though my embarrassment did not.
“Thank you,” I blurted and waved my plastic key. “See you later…uh…Candy.”
I walked away.
The title she named surprised me. It was indeed a very good Holmes book. I know, I’d read it.
But I didn’t write it.
Sheryl Homes did.
4. First Edition
Sheryl Homes
I arrived at the Hilton on that spring day, stopped out on Avenue of the Americas to look up at the imposing structure, with my small wheeled suitcase by my feet.
The subway ride uptown had been no problem, but now I stopped and drew a deep breath knowing what I was about to face.
It would be an entire day of “friends of Randall,” which meant having to face my ex-husband and his snide comments, seeing people who would do the same, and the pièce de résistance: talking to the annoying blonde bimbo he’d brought into my bed.
I would be a perfect lady and not rip her dyed hair from her head one strand at a time. That would be, of course, after I lifted her in the air and body-slammed her onto the concrete floor.
It was nice to know that I was perfectly under control!
I let go of my homicidal longings and went into the building, knowing exactly where I was going. I had helped arrange the location and I was quite familiar with how the hotel ran conventions. I also had the foresight to get my packet of information ahead of time, and all that was needed was a quick stop at the main desk to pick up my room keys, which I did.
As I rode up the escalator to the mezzanine level, I swept the crowd that was milling about so I would be on guard if approached by friend or foe.
And my eyes fell on a good-looking man.
He wasn’t at all the traditional hunk you see on the cover of a romance novel, but then, who is? He was average height, so I had a good three inches on him. He had a full head of brown hair that was gray in the temples and he had strong features, but more than that, he looked kind.
With a start I realized it was Mark Watkins.
I looked him over again, pleased with what I saw. He was a little chubbier than the last photo I had seen of him, but it made his features fill out nicely. I also thought he would be taller. I’m five-ten, and it is a real turn-on to meet a man I can look eye-to-eye.
But he had an energy around him that pulled my attention. Which was not bad, not bad at all.
As my escalator reached the top, I decided I would go over and introduce myself. I liked his books, and if Gloria was right, he enjoyed mine. Maybe I could get him to write a “pull quote” on my next Holmes book. That would be good as well.
Just as I made up my mind to do so, I noted he was talking to Charles Nederlander, who started to walk away. I hesitated when I saw that Charles was replaced by Jon Kane and the bane of my existence, Candy Poole.
I decided it would be better to approach when he wasn’t surrounded by my foes, and I moved into the crowd and looked away, though I am sure Candy saw me. After all, I was a head higher than almost everyone who was in that room.
I slouched to blend into the crowd better, and moved to the elevators on the far side of the convention lobby, so I could observe.
Watkins talked to Jon and Candy, and Candy kept doing little possessive things as they spoke—touching Mark’s arm and moving into his personal space. What was she playing at? Had I ever mentioned I found Mark Watkins attractive in front of Candy? I don’t think so. In fact, I didn’t know I found him attractive until I actually laid eyes on him.
Just then Winsley Cunningham arrived, and I was glad I’d moved to a safe distance. The last thing I needed was to hear her complaints about Randall. I had enough of my own. Finally, Winsley and Jon moved off, and Candy gave Mark a card and drew close to whisper in his ear as he began to turn red.
I’d had enough.
Mark apparently was another stupid man who thought with his sex organ instead of his brain, and Candy was working her wiles so that he would follow her around like a love-struck puppy. Really, I had hoped the famed Mark Watkins would be a higher form of life, but who was I kidding?
I decided I’d best unpack and get ready for my jog from panel to panel.
I reached the bank of elevators just as a voice called out, “Well, there is one red-hot redhead.”
I turned with disgust to see a familiar face approach. Allen Alexander, or as I called him, “the man with two first names.” He wore a green and gold tweed suit that looked as if he’d mugged a clown. With his greasy hair parted in the middle and slicked back, as well as his pointed features, he was a walking caricature.
I sighed. “Hello, Allen.”
“Looking good, Sheryl. Have you been working out?” He drew close. He was my height, but in this case, it was not appealing.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, so I could punch out creeps who bother me with lame lines.”
He stepped back and held up his hands. “Whoa, Sheryl, take it easy. I was just giving you a compliment.”
“Which is only a little less creepy than any other suggestions you’ve made over the past few years. What do you want, Allen?”
He moved in close again, as if wanting to impart a secret, or perhaps to peek at my bosom from a better angle. “Did you hear Mark Watkins is the speaker tonight?”
I sighed and wanted to step back so he wasn’t in my personal space, but it only doubled my anger that I even had to, so I stood my ground. “Yes, I know. I also know that you think he ripped you off.”
“Yeah? Well, Death In The Borley Rectory is a complete copy of my book, A Crime Of Passion. It follows my plot line completely.”
I shook my head. “Borley Rectory takes place in a different year than yours, and it takes place—oh that’s right—at a rectory. Meanwhile, your book took place at Buckingham Palace.”
“You can’t convince me otherwise,” Allen ranted. “I could understand that one, but when he stole my notes—”
I exhaled heavily, as I fought the desire to clock this lunkhead. “How could he have stolen your notes?”
“All I know is he comes out with The Case Of The Casual Crook, which was my story completely.”
“Allen, seek help. You are insane, do you know that? Insane.”
“Maybe I am, but I noticed he stopped writing Holmes books the same time I did. Coincidence?”
I looked at the floor and wondered if I was ever going to get away from this creep. “Look, Allen. You had one Holmes book that was published—”
“Didn’t do as well as his knock-off,” Allen whined.
“Well, if he did steal your book, the winner was the reading public, because they got to read a work by a gifted writer and a skilled craftsman. Talents you will never be accused of possessing.”
“Man,” Allen said, exasperated. “You’re pretty cranky. You’re not having your period, are you?”
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I had reached the limit and could feel a black rage rise in me. I turned away to face the elevator. “Leave me the hell alone.”
“Whoa, Sheryl, stay calm. This conference is for the Northeast Mystery Club, and you know I am a member, right?”
“Of course you are,” I noted snidely.
“And we are sharing a panel on Thursday.”
This made me turn to face him. “You’re kidding! You wormed your way onto my panel?”
“Wormed-shmurmed. I published a Sherlock Holmes story—”
“Unauthorized,” I spat.
“Public domain,” he shot back. “And as an expert, I am putting my two cents in,” he sneered, and with a wave turned to go.
“Your two cents wouldn't buy a penny. You are no expert, and having slogged my way through your novel, you are certainly no writer.” I threw my shoulders back and got into the elevator, which took me to the 12th floor.
According to the paper holder the front desk had given me, my room was 1234. The holder contained a pair of the flat plastic key cards the size of a credit card. This was the standard practice.
Out of the elevator, I walked a bit down the hall, where I unlocked my room and stepped in.
It was a nice room with a good-sized bathroom and closet at the entranceway. This opened to a bedroom with a king-sized bed and a writing desk near the phone.
I put my small suitcase on the metal stand I took from the closet and began to take clothes out of the case and put them in drawers or hang them up.
I also checked my supply of latex gloves, shoe covers, and plastic zipper bags, putting a couple of pairs of gloves into my small handbag along with my magnifying glass. I also made sure my fingerprint powder and other necessities were undamaged.
If you are going to write about detectives, I’ve always felt you should be prepared to play the part.
I would need some distraction, because I might end up spending all of my downtime here in the room if my encounter with Allen was a preview of what was to come.
I looked at the bed and was suddenly overwhelmed by a depression so profound I needed to sit down. Thirty-four years old, unmarried, no children, and it looked like there would be none.
I knew that would be okay, biological clock aside. It’s just I never thought it wouldn’t happen.
Watching my parents my entire life, I just expected I would settle down, marry, and have a child or two, like my mother did with me and my sister, Jenny.
My mother was an artist, created amazing paintings, and several times a year traveled for art shows, while Dad struggled to figure out how to prepare meals and run the house while she was gone.
But they loved each other and were committed to their marriage, each other, and us. It had been a great way to grow up.
Suddenly, my phone was in my hand, and I was pressing the button for my mom.
“Hello,” came out of the tiny speaker.
“Mom, it’s Sheryl,” I gulped.
“Yes, dear, how are you?”
I found tears were in my eyes. “I need a pep talk, Mom. I’m at the convention and all of Randall’s friends are here. I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Is that slut with him?” my mother fumed.
This was a surprise. My mother never used words like “slut” and I found I laughed out loud.
She always knew the right thing to say.
I told her about the convention and how I felt so alone, and she listened and then gave the appropriate encouragements. Ten minutes later, I finished the call, feeling much better.
I retrieved my envelope and pulled out a small magazine. It was emblazoned with “Northeast Mystery Conference” in fancy lettering. There was a logo of the letters seen through a stylized magnifying glass.
I went through it and read up on the five days of lectures, speeches, book signings, and panel discussions. There were some Holmes ones including: Heard Vs Carr: Who Wrote New Holmes First; Conan Doyle and Holmes, A Study in Opposites; Was Moriarty Actually Neitzsche?
But there were other mystery writers and characters, with a panel on Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone, Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe, and even a comical look at the famed Philip Marlowe in book and film.
It was going to be a rather thorough program. I hoped so. I had been in on the early plans before I became persona non grata.
I double-checked the time for Mark Watkins’ opening night lecture and noted I was listed for a panel discussions with him the next day.
I wondered when I would actually make the acquaintance of Mr. Mark Watkins.
5. Backlist
Mark Watkins
In the afternoon, I traveled uptown to my condo to retrieve clothes and toiletries, then I wandered about the hallways of the hotel to locate the correct conference rooms.
Once I was sure of which rooms I would visit tonight and tomorrow, I decided to take some time to explore the booths in the big convention room, like Candy had suggested.
I went to the mezzanine, and with my badge proudly displayed, went into the large open ballroom: “The Marketplace.”
It was more impressive than my cursory glance had given me earlier. Using pipe and drape, the room was divided into numerous booths for the individual vendors.
It was amazing just how much stuff there was. One stall was filled with books and DVDs; the next was beautiful handmade weapons: swords, knives, and even a cudgel.
One of the booksellers had mint-condition magazines that dated back to the 1920s. Lurid drawings emblazoned the covers of such provocative periodicals as Real Detective and Murder Magazine. In the time these stories were published, they were scandalous, but by today’s standards, they were pretty tame.
The good guys always won, crime didn’t pay, and the murderer was always captured.
Then again, who was I to judge? The most necessary part of any Holmes story was that the master detective always caught the malefactor, much to the chagrin of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
I found a booth marked by a sign: “YE OLDE MYSTERIOUS TOBACCO SHOPPE.” The man behind the table displayed a marvelous supply of tobaccos and pipes of every sort and shape. There was a perfectly handsome, hand-carved, curved pipe.
I read the small sign under it:
Ser Jacopo Calabash
Reg price $475
Conference special $380
I decided I would not take up smoking this year.
“Watkins, eh?” the man behind the table said.
I glanced at my name badge and then into the eyes of the merchant. He was heavy set, tall, and muscular, with a head of wild hair, and one eye that looked off to the right at all times.
“That’s me,” I responded.
“You the writer?” the man wondered, and gave a grimace I hoped was supposed to represent a smile. “Doing the opening lecture tonight?”
“Right on both counts,” I disclosed and held out my hand.
His right arm stayed by his side, and he crossed over his body with his left to give my hand a quick shake.
“Pardon the arm,” he explained. “Had a stroke a year ago. Still doesn’t operate quite the way it used to.”
I nodded sympathetically. This explained his grimaces and misaimed eye.
“You speak quite well, though.”
“Got lucky there,” he clarified, and again grimaced in that rather frightening way. “Didn’t affect my speech at all. Can you beat that?”
“Lucky,” I commented.
“Yeah, but I had to leave my old occupation because of it.”
“Really? What did you used to do?”
“Security.”
I smiled. “I was a security guard for a while.”
“Yeah, I read that on one of your book jackets or something,” he said. “I wasn’t that kind.”
“Oh?”
&n
bsp; His left hand mimed typing on a keyboard in midair. “Yeah, I was cyber security, software ’n stuff. Of course, now I focus on tobacco.”
“Do you like it?”
“Nothing but the best!” he said, and walked over to the display in front of me. “So, you gonna talk about Sherlock Holmes tonight?”
“It is my area of expertise,” I insisted with a modest shrug.
“Well, here, take that pipe with you.” The man gestured to the Calabash pipe.
I picked it up and turned it over in my hand.
“Well, I—I’m actually going to rebuke some of the standard ways Holmes has been portrayed in film.”
“Perfect! That pipe can illustrate your point.”
I glanced down at his name badge, which had a green background to signify that he was a merchant and bore the name John Stewart.
“Wait,” I considered, “you want me to use your pipe to suggest Holmes would never use it? Isn't that bad for business?”
“It’ll get the product right in their faces. I guarantee it will sell it. G’wan, take it.”
I turned the pipe over again. It would indeed make a good prop.
“Where do you want this, Stew?” a female voice announced.
I turned to see an Amazonian woman approach with a plastic bin on her shoulder. She was at least six feet tall, though John still had an inch or two on her. But she was a striking and phenomenally well-put-together lady with curly, short, brunette hair. Her outfit was tight leather pants, a black tank top, and a leather vest that showed her amazing physique, as well as very developed arms.
“Right back here is fine, Hypno,” Stewart told her, as he indicated one of the tables.
“Hypno?” I questioned.
The statuesque woman gave me a dismissive glance.
“My full name is Hypatia Norris,” she offered, with a throaty voice. “But John likes to call me Hypno—”
“Or sometimes just ‘Hips,’” John snorted. “She helps me out. Couldn’t run the place without her.”
“You couldn’t find your dick without me,” Hypno mocked with a smirk as she put the bin behind the table.