A Study In Murder Read online

  ​“And yet the most important part of any Holmes story are the times sentiment come into play.”

  ​“That’s a point,” I agreed. “That is what made Sir Arthur Conan Doyle such a fine storyteller. He would bring characters in to express the emotional part of the tale, while Holmes strove to be above it all.”

  ​“Are you suggesting Holmes express no sentimentality?”

  ​“There are the moments when Holmes’ mask slips, towards Irene Adler in Scandal In Bohemia, or when he shows his genuine affection for Watson. But I disagree with the biographies that suggest Holmes married Miss Adler during his time in hiding after the death of Moriarty. We must remember, it is his cold, hard logic that always solved the puzzle.”

  ​“So,” the woman went on, “it’s just a puzzle to be solved. I’ve always believed that there was more to Holmes than that.”

  ​The woman approached the stage, and the light fell on her. Tall, lean, with red hair, and wearing a striking green silk jumpsuit that hugged every curve of her well-shaped frame. Her face was not classically beautiful, but it was handsome and strong. Her green eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire as powerful as the one that colored her hair.

  ​There before me stood Sheryl Homes.

  8. Remainders

  Sheryl Homes

  ​I was back in the bar, nursing another drink while trying to calm down. I’d certainly stuck my foot in the hornet’s nest this night.

  ​Great, it wasn’t enough that most of the people at the Northeast Mystery Club hated me; now I’d insulted their first speaker, and it was someone I had recommended they get.

  ​I should’ve shut up, just listened. He’d made some great points and basically told Allen to jump into a lake, which I did enjoy.

  ​But my questions were valid, and the points important. But I could’ve asked them a little less forcefully.

  ​But when I saw Candy looking at him with that gleam in her eyes, it pissed me off. Also, the drink I had before the lecture had relaxed my inhibitions.

  ​And possibly my common sense.

  ​The situation with Mark had gone from bad to worse, and the question and answer session degenerated to an argument between the two of us.

  ​Apparently, he was of the opinion that anything I thought about Holmes was just plain wrong. Meanwhile, I discovered that he was an opinionated bastard who could only see his own narrow view.

  ​To think I had actually looked forward to meeting him.

  ​“Nice job, Sheryl,” I heard a voice say. “You showed that cocky sleazeball who knows Holmes.”

  ​I glanced over to see Allen lift a drink in my direction in a toast.

  ​“Get lost, Allen,” I hissed, and took a delicate sip of my Cosmo, though I wanted to down the whole thing at once.

  ​“You did have some valid points, dear,” a woman’s voice said, and I turned to see Winsley Cunningham next to me at the bar. “I thought you really added to the excitement. However, you might have been a little less…vociferous.”

  ​I moved closer to Winsley and noted she wore a hat that looked like she found it inside an Agatha Christie novel. On her jacket, her jade cameo of Sherlock Holmes reflected the dim light with a jewel-like quality. She had a martini glass in front of her, from which she took delicate sips.

  ​“You’re right, Winsley, I have to learn to control myself a bit.”

  ​“It’s never too late to act like a lady,” she attempted.

  ​I hung my head. “It might be for me. I should find Mark and apologize. Do you know where he is?”

  ​“I believe he went off to dinner with Candy,” she said, and then her attention shifted as Charles Nederlander stepped into the room. “Excuse me.”

  ​I sat at the bar alone and wanted to bang my head against it in the hope that it would knock some sense into it. So, Mark did go off with her just like they’d mentioned when I eavesdropped on them. Great, I couldn’t control my temper, and that tart would spend the night telling him what an awful person I was. I took another sip and hung my head in misery, as I heard Winsley bring Charles close to our part of the bar.

  ​“Really, Winsley, this isn’t the place to discuss this,” Charles told her in a hoarse whisper.

  ​“Randall promised he would be here tonight,” Winsley fired back. “I was supposed to get answers from him.”

  ​Randall didn’t come to the opening night? That was odd as this convention was his baby. On the other hand, I was glad he missed the chance to see me make an ass of myself.

  ​“I’m not his keeper,” Charles murmured as he ordered a drink.

  ​“No, you’re his partner,” Winsley insisted. “And I am your biggest investor. I would suggest you become his keeper and make him meet me as he promised. I will have my own accountants go through the dealings of your entire company with a fine-toothed comb. Do I make myself clear?”

  ​“Very, Winsley. Look, why don’t I buy you a drink and we can talk—”

  ​I glanced up to see Charles put his arm carefully to Winsley’s back and guide her away from me to a nearby table. They continued to talk quietly, but I could no longer hear them over the noise of the bar.

  ​I ordered some bar food, so that I would have something in my stomach and stopped at the second drink. I also found I wondered about Randall’s absence.

  ​I had been one of the founders of the New York chapter about five years earlier, with Charles, Jon, and Randall. This was before I wrote my first Holmes book. I had gotten the crazy notion that since my maiden name sounded the same, I might have some insights.

  ​I guess it had been a good choice. I had been selling steadily and getting attention with critics and readers alike. But then Candy, who was a member of the club, showed up in my bed with her parts wrapped around my husband. The divorce drove a wedge between me and the others.

  ​At this point, Mark Watkins probably sympathized with Randall, after I’d come out as the bitch-goddess tonight and shot down his Q&A.

  ​Having finished eating, and knowing I had several panels in the morning, I decided it was time to head upstairs. Fortunately, no one had bothered me while I ate, but after the show I had given, everyone was probably avoiding me.

  ​I headed to the elevator and took it up to the twelfth floor and my room. Once in there, I pulled a bottled water from the minibar to counteract the alcohol I’d consumed, but I needed some ice.

  ​Making sure my plastic key was in the pocket of my jumpsuit, I took my plastic ice bucket and wandered out into the hall. There was a small alcove near room 1230 that had the ice machine. I heard the machine going and knew someone was filling their bucket. As I walked through the open doorway, a man turned from the machine, and without standing up completely or looking where he was going, almost walked face-first into my bosom!

  ​“What are you doing?” I shrieked.

  ​He fell back in surprise, his ice bucket slipped from his hands, and frozen cubes went flying.

  ​On the floor sat Mark Watkins.

  ​I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to yell at him for not being aware of where he was going. My sarcastic side won.

  ​“It would be you!” I sniped, not liking my own tone. “I guess they stuck all of us on this floor.”

  ​“I was just getting some ice,” Mark explained as he got up and gave a glance at the mess. “I’m not the one who snuck up on you.”

  ​“I didn’t sneak!” I fumed. Why did this man always make me so angry!

  ​“Well, I didn’t know you were there,” he stated, and put his bucket back under the machine to refill it.

  ​“Is that an apology?” I pressed.

  ​“I have nothing to apologize for. You startled me.”

  ​“You should be more careful.”

  ​“Look, Ms. Homes,” he said with that tone of voice you use when talking to a child, “we are only here for a long weekend. It would seem we are of two different minds. Perhaps it would be b
est if we just avoided each other.”

  ​He grabbed his ice bucket and began to go. Suddenly, I felt like a heel.

  ​“Wait,” I said and gently caught his arm. “I’m…sorry about…about what I did during your speech.”

  ​He turned to face me. His eyes met mine, and I was surprised. There was something about his eyes that made me feel like he was caressing me.

  ​I went on, but my mouth felt clumsy. “I really just wanted to ask some questions, and then it escalated. I behaved badly. It was a good speech and I had no right…”

  ​I trailed off and released his arm; my eyes moved to the floor. What could I tell him? That I’d acted like an ass? That seeing him with that blonde bimbo made me want blood?

  ​“That’s nice of you to say,” he replied, and I could hear actual compassion in his voice.

  ​“I mean it.” I lowered my head to gaze at him.

  ​He looked at me with a combination of understanding and acceptance, and I had a feeling I’d not had for over a year. I felt warm. Worse, I felt all gooey inside. I wanted to pull him into a hug.

  ​“Well, we’re both on a panel tomorrow,” he stated and smiled at me. “Perhaps we can try again.”

  ​“That’s a good idea.” I felt like I was grinning like an idiot.

  ​“Good night, Homes,” he added with a nod.

  ​“Good night, Watson,” I said. Then, realizing my mistake, I slapped my hand to my head. “Wat-kins. I meant Wat-kins.”

  ​“It’s fine,” he chuckled and walked past me. I found I watched his rear end and had to admit, for a middle-aged guy, he still had a damn fine butt.

  ​I was about to get my ice when Mark stopped and knocked on 1230.

  ​Candy opened the door.

  ​I slipped into the doorway of the alcove, but I could still see Candy at the door. She was wearing a negligee that wasn’t completely transparent, but mostly, all red silk and short to show off her legs and taut little body. Behind her, I could see flickering yellow candlelight, casting shadows of the furniture in the dark room.

  ​Mark went in, as my blood ran cold. I put my bucket under the chute and yanked it down to get ice. In my vehemence, the bucket filled instantly and excess ice fell out and around the room as I cursed under my breath.

  ​I went back to my room, and instead of my planned water, I pulled a bottle from the minibar and gulped down an airplane-sized bottle of tequila.

  ​The bastard made me like him, possibly even made we want him! How dare he do that when he was about to go bang that homewrecking hellion.

  ​I cursed and vented until I wore myself out, then I undressed and went to bed, hating Mark Watkins the entire time.

  9. Galleys

  Mark Watkins

  ​My room was spinning as consciousness returned. I tried to sit up, which made me incredibly nauseous, so I lay back again.

  ​“Candy?” I moaned and lifted my head just enough to peer around the room.

  ​The drapes were open a crack and sunlight poured in to illuminate my computer bag on the desk. I lay back and tried to figure out just how my bag ended up on Candy’s desk.

  ​I fought the vertigo, slowly rose and glanced about, taking in the whole room. I could see my small overnight bag next to the television.

  ​My body did not quite follow the directions from my brain, but I got myself to stand and moved slowly into the bathroom, where I found my toiletries laid out on the sink.

  ​This wasn’t Candy’s room; this was my room.

  ​I paused to try and figure out how the hell I got here.

  ​I thought back to the last thing I remembered. The final images that came to mind were Sheryl Homes as she looked at the floor apologizing, then I recalled Candy in her lingerie as I went into her room. Then I had a cognac Candy poured for me, and I soon found it hard to speak, and with Candy’s encouragement, I lay down on the bed.

  ​After that, nothing.

  ​I looked at myself. I only wore my boxers and socks, but nothing else.

  ​I poured a cup of water from the sink and greedily drank it. I used the facilities, while leaning against the wall to stabilize myself.

  ​In the closet, I found my good suit neatly hung on a hanger. Looking in the pockets; my wallet and cell phone were where they belonged; also my cash and credit cards; nothing was missing.

  ​My house keys were not in the jacket pocket. I looked over to the nearby dresser. They were there in plain sight next to the two hotel key cards I had received in my “welcome” package.

  ​My headache grew worse and I returned to the bed to lie down, still unable to recall how I got there.

  ​I rolled over to glance at the clock by my bed, which read 11:59.

  ​As the light poured in my window, it could only mean that it was almost noon. By my reckoning, I had been out for over twelve hours.

  ​The panel I was scheduled to appear at started at one.

  ​Groggily I rose, grabbed the phone, and called room service to bring up a pot of coffee and a continental breakfast.

  ​Then I gingerly moved to the bathroom, put on a shower, and got under it. When I felt dizzy, I slammed the water to cold, which was a shock to my system but cleared my head pretty effectively.

  ​When I got out of the shower I felt a little better.

  ​As fast as I was able to, I got on a shirt and pants, which made me decent enough when I heard the knock at my door and the cry of “Room Service.”

  ​I opened the door to the waiter, who carried a small tray into the room, then gave a dirty look at my computer bag as it took up the desk. I instructed him to put the tray on the dresser.

  ​“Shall I pour, sir?” he said.

  ​I shook my head, added a sizable tip to the slip he handed me, and he was off.

  ​I poured the coffee, slopped some cream into it, and drank it.

  ​By 12:40, after two cups of coffee, I was feeling more like myself but still cotton-headed. The only comparison I could think of was the feeling I would get the morning after I had taken a cold remedy. This left me sleepy, dopey, as well as several other whimsical dwarves.

  ​I successfully got completely dressed, forced down a muffin, grabbed one of the key cards, and was out the door with ten minutes to get to my panel.

  ​I was grateful I’d located the conference rooms the previous day, as I made my way to the second floor. The ache in my head had settled to a dull throb.

  ​“Hey, Watkins,” a snide voice said as I approached the door to the meeting room.

  ​I groaned. “I’m having a bad day, Allen. Please don’t make it worse.”

  ​“Whassamatter, can’t take it when someone asks you a few tough questions?” he said, smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

  ​“Not interested,” I retorted.

  ​“Oh, I was just glad to be there. I have to hand it to you, you ripped off a pretty good speech from somewhere.”

  ​“You’re too kind,” I snarled.

  ​“But, man, did Sheryl Homes take you down a peg. She really proved that you don’t know squat.” We entered the room and he whispered, “I think she’ll be my new best friend.”

  ​He went around me and up the two steps of an elevated platform, where the other members sat behind a table. With care, I walked up the steps and moved to the last remaining seat.

  ​Right next to Sheryl Homes.

  ​She gave me a glance and her expression grew hard.

  ​“Have a good time last night?” she muttered in an undertone.

  ​I peered at her in puzzlement.

  ​“I saw you go into Candy’s room,” she went on, still in a low voice. “And now you show up here with a hangover.”

  ​I’d thought I’d carried myself so well! I challenged her, “What makes you think I have a hangover?”

  ​“Simple! First of all, I watched you last evening, and your natural tendency is to move quick and decisively. Today, your movements are slow and deliberate. Secondly,
your eyes are a bit bloodshot, though it would take a trained observer to notice. Finally, yesterday you were dressed immaculately. Today you got ready in a hurry and carelessly.”

  ​“Careless in what way?”

  ​“For one thing,” she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper, “your fly is open.”

  ​Once again, I turned beet red, and with a glance to my left and right, I zipped myself as subtly as I could manage, hoping the tablecloth on the table in front of me hid the move from the audience.

  ​“I could go on,” Sheryl sassed, pleased with herself, “but I believe we’ll be starting soon.”

  ​She was correct. The room rapidly filled up with people. I was sure many of them were at my lecture the previous night, and as Ms. Homes was here, they came to see if our battle would move into round two.

  ​I looked at the other end of the table to see Allen Alexander smirking at our little exchange.

  ​I bit my lip, adjusted my glasses, and tried to focus on the matters at hand.

  ​I thought after our meeting at the ice machine she might be nicer. And yet, for me there had been a moment, when she looked down at the floor and murmured her apology that she looked so beautiful and so vulnerable, that all I wanted to do was take her into my arms.

  ​Why did I keep seeing her that way? Next to me sat the real Sheryl Homes, a know-it-all that no man in his right mind would give a second thought.

  ​Then again, her observations had been dead-on.

  ​And very Holmesian.

  ​The moderator rose, and I recognized Ms. Cunningham. She was in another Chanel-style suit and looked very classy. I couldn’t help but notice that the Holmes cameo was absent from her lapel.

  ​“I am Winsley Cunningham, and I am a charter member of the New York branch of the Northeast Mystery Club,” she said. “I teach the history of Sherlock Holmes at the New School. I am grateful to have such a turnout—”

  ​She quickly introduced the members of the panel, which besides Homes and me consisted of the editor of the Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, a writer who wrote a semi-religious adventure that had Holmes seeking proof of the divinity of Jesus Christ, and the final member was Allen.