A Study In Murder Read online

  ​We each were to open with a statement, and then the floor was open to questions. It was basically an hour-and-a-half Q&A.

  ​Ms. Cunningham approached Holmes from a scholarly point of view and recommended several works that gave both Holmes’ and Watson’s biography and timeline.

  ​The editor, a short man with a towering intellect, spent his introduction explaining the sort of stories his magazine sought. This was listened to with rapt attention, as many of the attendees were writers who wanted to sell their own Holmes stories.

  ​The Christian writer brought the idea of blending faith with Holmes’ intellect.

  ​Allen got up and stated that Holmes stories were a challenge, as a writer had to get the feel and the atmosphere correct, as well as giving the characters the ability to grow further than Conan Doyle allowed.

  ​Since I had read Allen’s published work, I thought he should follow his own advice instead of writing the claptrap I’d read in his awful book.

  ​I stood, my headache ignored as I faced the audience and gave the briefest of summaries of my speech from the previous evening and sat down.

  ​Ms. Homes stood last and brought up the subject of Holmes’ intellect working at its best when combined with his intuition.

  ​Hands sprang up and Ms. Cunningham recognized a young man in the first row.

  ​“My question is to Ms. Homes. Is stressing the importance of Holmes’ intuition an attempt to ‘feminize’ the great detective?”

  ​“Not at all,” Sheryl said. “Although there is a lot of talk about ‘woman’s intuition’ even in this day and age, I think men are as capable of listening to their inner voice as well. Holmes was a man who did this without the fear of it making him weaker or less manly. I, for one, have heard the suggestion that Holmes and Watson were gay and I disregard it.”

  ​“Yet Holmes never married,” another person spoke out.

  ​“That depends which biography you read,” Ms. Cunningham said.

  ​“And be that as it may, Watson married—and more than once,” Sheryl explained.

  ​“Most biographers agree that Watson married three times,” Ms. Cunningham put in. “And historically, women often died young during the Victorian Age. Especially in childbirth.”

  ​ “Although Holmes eschewed emotionalism,” Sheryl went on, “it doesn’t mean he was less aware of things on an emotional level.”

  ​“That’s a contradiction, isn’t it?” I chimed in.

  ​Sheryl gave me a withering look, which pleased me. I finally had my chance to interrupt her.

  ​“I think,” Allen pontificated from the far end of the table, “that Mr. Holmes is the epitome of contradictions, which is part of the concept.”

  ​“True, that is what makes his character so interesting,” Sheryl said. “On one hand he suggests that he is nothing but a mind, and yet he wallows in depressions, plays the violin with great passion, and loves his friend Watson to the point where he was willing to lay down his own life for him.”

  ​“What does that have to do with intuition?” I shot back.

  ​With a cursory glance to me, Sheryl continued, “It‘s interconnected. Holmes feels and is aware so deeply, yet he hides it behind the facade of his intellect.”

  ​I had to admit she made some good points, but I hardly felt charitable, so I pressed her further.

  ​To say it went downhill from here, yet again, would be an understatement. Without going into details, we each argued with the other’s opinion, and soon it escalated until no voices could be heard but Ms. Homes’ and my own.

  ​On the one hand, it did keep Allen quiet, though I kept seeing him smirking, which annoyed me even more and made me press my points harder.

  ​Finally, Ms. Cunningham, who was pretty spry for an older woman, got between the two of us and told us both to shut up and let someone else speak.

  ​We did, and fumed at each other all the while.

  ​The time passed and more questions were asked, mostly focused on Sheryl and me. I think the audience enjoyed our interplay, and they offered questions aimed to get us going again. Then I would make a point and Sheryl would attack it, or she took a position and I would dismiss it.

  ​Finally, after a few more arguments and snide comments aimed at one another, the session came to an end.

  ​The fellow who wrote the Christian stories all but leaped out of his chair and ran out of the room in his haste to get away from us. Ms. Cunningham made polite noises and left in a huff. Only the editor took a moment to shake both our hands and thank us for “the liveliest panel I’ve been to in years.”

  ​Allen stepped to the doorway and said, “Thanks, Ms. Homes. It was a pleasure to see someone who is a real writer tell our overblown comrade a thing or two!”

  ​And he left.

  ​The room was empty and Homes and I remained in our seats, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  ​“Well,” Sheryl broke the silence. “I suppose you have that tramp waiting for you.”

  ​“Candy is a lovely girl,” I defended, though it was halfhearted. I couldn’t shake the odd feeling about what had occurred the previous night.

  ​“So you think,” Sheryl fumed, still not looking at me. “But I’ve known her longer.”

  ​“Afraid of an attractive woman?” I taunted.

  ​“Not at all. In her case, it’s personal,” Sheryl said, and she faced me, her green eyes afire. “Did she mention she slept with my husband?”

  ​“Your…husband,” I repeated.

  ​“Ex-husband now!” Sheryl rose and walked to the door as I remained in my seat, my jaw agape.

  ​She reached the door and stopped. “Maybe I should thank you. Last I heard, Randall and Candy were still an item. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him who she was with last night.”

  ​I stood as she stormed out.

  ​I sat back down and thought it through.

  ​Candy slept with Randall Lawrence? She’d neglected to mention that little fact.

  ​I headed out of the conference room, which was beginning to fill with members of the next panel, and made my way to the mezzanine. I went quickly to the welcome booth, only to find Jon Kane manning the counter, with a middle-aged lady who wore a badge that named her “Alice.”

  ​“Mark,” he said, his voice registering delight. “Great speech last night! How did the panel go?”

  ​“Sheryl Homes and I almost came to blows,” I reported, “but the editor of Sherlock Holmes Magazine said it was the liveliest panel he’d ever been to.”

  ​“Well, that’s something! Marvin tells it like it is,” he said, an eyebrow raised. “How can I help you?”

  ​“I’m trying to find Candy.”

  ​“Not here right now,” Jon said and grabbed a clipboard, which he scanned quickly. “She’s supposed to be helping set up a PowerPoint display for tonight’s speaker.”

  ​“Oh,” I said weakly, then I pushed on. “I heard Candy was involved with Sheryl Homes’ ex-husband?”

  ​“Randall?” Kane said and frowned. “I wouldn’t know. Randall is a charter member of the club—one of the founders. I knew that he and Sheryl got a divorce about a year back.”

  ​“Amicable?”

  ​“I understand it was quite messy,” Jon said. “As far as Candy, we are both on the conference planning board, but I honestly don’t know her socially.”

  ​“Ah! Well thanks, Jon,” I said.

  ​“Oh, Mark!” Jon looked at his watch. “Isn’t it time for your book signing? I have you on the schedule.”

  ​I slapped my head, not a bright move with the remains of my headache. “You’re right! I’ve got to go!” I turned and headed into the vast conference room.

  ​As I drew closer to the signing booth, I saw a short line that waited for me.

  ​I passed the “YE OLDE MYSTERIOUS TOBACCO SHOPPE” booth and stopped quickly. I suddenly realized I didn’t have the pipe I borrowed from him. I’
d left it on the podium the previous evening, when Sheryl Homes interrupted my speech.

  ​Hypno was running some kind of pick through her hair as I approached.

  ​“Hey, Mark,” John greeted, and indicated the line that waited for me. “Seems like you are pretty popular.”

  ​“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry, I uh—seemed to have left the pipe in my room.”

  ​“Not a problem,” John dismissed, his one eye on my face and his other aimed in the distance. “I sold the other two I had in stock. But I do have a customer for the third, so bring it to me no later than tomorrow.”

  ​“I will,” I told him and headed for my line. The first person, a thin, dark-haired young man, watched me sit and pull a pair of pens out of my pocket. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  ​“No problem, Mr. Watkins.”

  ​“Who should I make it out to?”

  ​He told me his name, and as I wrote he said, “So what's with you and Ms. Homes?”

  ​I almost gouged his copy of Death In The Borley Rectory I had started to autograph.

  ​I paused, then finished with my signature. “Nothing. We just see Sherlock Holmes in different ways.”

  ​As I handed back his book, it was my fondest wish that I would not hear about Ms. Homes again for the rest of the conference.

  10. Kill Fee

  Sheryl Homes

  ​I sat in the bar of the hotel, with a glass of white wine in front of me.

  ​After the previous evening, Mark Watkins had not been the only person with a hangover. The shot of tequila I had for a nightcap was certainly not needed after what I had previously imbibed.

  ​And once again, I had gone full bitch-goddess on the man.

  ​What on earth was wrong with me? One minute I’m staring at his ass, the next minute I’m trying to verbally emasculate him.

  ​Was it because it had been a long time since I’d actually wanted a man? And coupled with the fact that he preferred “blonde and brainless” to me?

  ​The bar at that time of day was not busy, but I was sure it would pick up later.

  ​So I sat, annoyed at myself and my life. Someone slid in next to me, and I prayed it wasn’t Allen, or this time I really might get violent.

  ​“I’ll have what she’s having,” a mellow male voice told the bartender.

  ​It was Mark Watkins.

  ​My smile fell, and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I focused on my drink.

  ​“Are you stalking me now?” I grumbled. “Like Allen?”

  ​“I just got out of the signing booth, Jon Kane took his time to relieve me. Then, I tried to locate that pipe I had last night.”

  ​“What happened to it?” I said while staring straight ahead, in an attempt to look disinterested.

  ​“I left it on the damn podium and now it’s gone,” he complained. “I gave the sound man my number.” The bartender placed a glass of wine in front of him, and Mark exhaled as he picked it up. “I don’t want to bore you with that. I just thought…maybe…we should talk,”

  ​Mark took a sip of wine, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. If I did I would just yell at him or cry or do something stupid. Why did he create these feelings in me? I never acted like this or felt like this, not even with Randall when it was good. “Excuse me, don’t you have to find Candy?” I seethed.

  ​He sighed. “Well, I tried,” and he began to rise.

  ​I panicked. “Don’t,” I apologized. “Please.”

  ​He returned to his seat, and I could feel his stare like a weight.

  ​I continued to gaze at my drink. “I don’t know what it is. I keep wanting to just talk to you. Yet, every time I do, I get so angry.”

  ​“Maybe we should just accept the fact that we don’t like each other,” he confided.

  ​“Maybe,” I divulged, and met his eyes, those amazing eyes that made me melt. “It’s just…I mean…I was so looking forward to meeting you.”

  ​“What?”

  ​“I mean it. I loved Death In The Borley Rectory. I couldn’t put that book down.”

  ​This made him smile. “Well, Adventure Of The Wailing Banshee is a great read. I thought you did some wonderful character revelation on Holmes, and yet nothing to cause a serious Holmes scholar to get angry.”

  ​I gave a short laugh, one that removed the layers of tension that had sat on my heart for the last two days. “I couldn’t do anything that would go against the ‘Canon!’ For Sherlockians it is sacred.”

  ​He laughed as well. It was masculine, but at the same time full and deep. “That's what makes our jobs so difficult. We have to write a new story that won’t in any way conflict with what has been written.”

  ​We began to talk—honestly talk. I pointed out several things I loved in his books, and he told me of moments that were his favorites in mine.

  ​We each ordered another drink and moved to a table that offered a little privacy as we spoke about what we liked and disliked about Holmes stories.

  ​He became animated as we spoke, and I could tell that Holmes wasn’t merely an interesting character or a way to sell a book, but one of his passions, like it was for me.

  ​“How did you ever come up with that plot twist at the end of Casual Crook?” I asked.

  ​“Well, that was Susie’s idea and she was—” He stopped cold.

  ​“Are you all right?” I asked, confused by his sudden change.

  ​“Forgive me,” he glanced away, his eyes wet. “I guess you know…about my wife.”

  ​He had such pain in his eyes I couldn’t bear it, and I looked back at my drink. I spoke quietly, “I heard she…passed away.”

  ​“Yeah, and I was surprised that this is the first time in two years I forgot about it for a moment.”

  ​I couldn’t stop myself. I reached out and took his hand in a comforting gesture. “That must have been a tremendous loss for you.”

  ​He exhaled. “It was a loss for the stories as well. I haven’t written a word since. Well, not a word I would show to anyone.”

  ​“You will. You have to let yourself grieve.”

  ​“What about you?” He changed his tone, wanting to move to something safer, and he let my hand go. “I understand you’re divorced—and I’ve heard it was rough.”

  ​Suddenly, my anger flared again. “I suppose Candy told you all about it.”

  ​“What?”

  ​I felt my face grow hot. “And you had a good laugh on me, the pair of you.”

  ​“Whoa, slow down, Sheryl. There you go again—”

  ​“What does that mean?” I could feel my jaw grow stiff, as if to ward off a blow.

  ​“You’re jumping to conclusions! I heard about your divorce from Jon Kane after you told me about Candy and your husband.”

  ​“Ex-husband,” I spat, and then I realized he was telling the truth. The first time he’d heard about it had been from me. I took a deep breath and looked to the exit. “You’re right! There I go again. Maybe I shouldn’t have sat down with you.”

  ​“You could always have a drink with Allen Alexander. As of yesterday, he’s your biggest fan.”

  ​I pointed my index finger in his face. “Don’t say that, even as a joke.”

  ​“Sorry,” he confessed, and I could see he was.

  ​“He’s insane,” I added.

  ​This made Mark snort. “Don’t I know it.”

  ​I lowered my voice. “Add to that, he has been trying to get in my pants even before the divorce.” I gave a shudder. “Ew, just the thought makes my skin crawl.”

  ​Mark turned to me and fixed those kind eyes on me. “I honestly didn’t know about Candy and your ex-husband.”

  ​I was ready to let it go, but I felt I was owed one more dig. “Yes and you slept with her. I can’t really expect you to listen to my side—”

  ​“Well, about that—”

  ​“What’s the matter, couldn’t get it up?” I sneered.

  ​For
only a second, I saw a flash of anger appear on his face, and I had to admit it both scared and excited me. Mark seemed like this sweet guy, but there was a fire in him, one that he controlled very well.

  ​“Actually, I don’t know what happened last night,” he expressed in a quiet and sincere tone.

  ​“What?” I blurted in shock.

  ​“I admit I went to her room, and it did seem as if…well…something was about to happen.”

  ​“What does that mean?” I nagged impatiently.

  ​“She was in lingerie, all right?” he bickered, a bit annoyed.

  ​“I know, I saw her.”

  ​“That’s right,” he agreed and gave a nod. “When things…started, I…uh…blacked out.”

  ​“Blacked out?” I repeated.

  ​“And woke up at noon today in my own room. Like you pointed out, I was terribly hungover, yet I only had two glasses of wine last night. Oh yes, and one glass of cognac in her room.”

  ​I reached into a side pocket on my outfit and extracted a tiny notebook along with the short stub of a pencil. I glanced around the room, moved close, and lowered my voice. “Do you think you were drugged?”

  ​“What are you doing?” he wondered.

  ​“I take notes. Go on,” I shrugged.

  ​He considered it for a moment, and then went on. “Well, drugged…seems like the only logical explanation I can come up with.”

  ​“But why would she do that?”

  ​“I have no idea. And I have been unable to locate Candy today to ask her about it. However, I’m pretty sure that I did not sleep with her.”

  ​“You merely wanted to,” I said, and scribbled a few things in the notebook.

  ​He looked down at his hands, and I could see the pain on his face. “Sheryl, I have spent the last two years in my apartment avoiding people. To have an attractive woman throw herself at me—”

  ​“Good for the ego,” I agreed and looked up at the ceiling wistfully. “She probably pursued you because she knew I was a fan.”

  ​“You’re a fan of me?”

  ​“Yes, I always brought up your name at Northeast Mystery Club meetings, despite the ravings of Mr. Alexander. In fact, you were the inspiration to write my first Holmes book.”