Read Online Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) by Josh Lanyon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Josh Lanyon
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Victoria said.
“Fibromyass.”
Nella’s nervous giggle floated behind us.
“You think we’re awful,” Victoria said, glancing at me.
“No.” That was the truth. I didn’t care what they said about Rowland’s mother. She probably was a total PitA. That didn’t mean Rowland didn’t love her dearly—I suspected from what I’d read the evening before, he did indeed love her—and it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve that love.
There’s nothing more puzzling than human attachments.
I was preoccupied with trying to think of a way to ask if they suspected anyone of wanting Anna permanently out of the picture. It seemed sort of awkward to bring it up out of the blue. Somehow Miss Butterwith always knew how to segue any conversation into talk of death and disaster. Since I was the hand behind the puppet, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t have the same ability. Everything I thought of was liable to trigger the very thing Anna wanted to avoid.
“Chris could care less,” Poppy said. “You should read the mean things he writes about people.”
“Huh?” I stared up at her.
“I started reading one of your books last night. You’re mean.”
“Mean?”
“The little things you say about people. Those barbed what-do-you-call-’ems? Asides.”
“I’m not mean,” I protested. “Which book was it?”
“ Miss Buttermilk Has a Case or something like that.”
Oh. “ Miss Butterwith Closes the Case .”
“That sounds right.”
I’d been editing that one as things were falling apart with David. It probably was more astringent than some of the earlier books.
“You don’t like people,” Poppy observed.
“Yes I do. I like some people.” Admittedly, I was less and less crazy about her .
“Ignore Poppy,” Victoria told me.
I smiled politely. I had a feeling that was probably easier said than done.
Rowland had widened the gap between us by the time we reached the top level. His bright blue jacket was the only splash of color as he strode across the white lawns.
I wasn’t as out of breath as Nella, but not by much. I really did need to make an effort to get myself in shape again. Not that it mattered, since the only one seeing my shape would be me.
Victoria asked, “Does anyone need anything from the house?”
We all agreed we didn’t need anything from the house and struck off down the side path to the front drive. I remembered the shadowy figure I’d seen walking that way the night before.
That hadn’t been a dream, right? A heavy dinner, a couple of glasses of vino and too many mystery stories in a row?
Overhead, a plane droned high in the granite sky. Ahead of me, Victoria and Poppy chatted about some mutual acquaintance, and a few steps behind, Nella was huffing and puffing.
Yet my overall impression was of how still it was. The snow seemed to swallow sound in a vast white hush. In the distance I could hear the sharp insect buzz of Rowland’s car falling away.
“How long did it take you to get published?” Nella asked.
“A few years.” I smiled faintly at the memory of all those earnest attempts at the Great American Novel. All those passionate and utterly corny stories of coming out and coming to terms. Thank God no one had given them a second look. “I wrote my first novel the summer before I started college.” It was still buried somewhere in a box in my parents’ garage.
“But you didn’t get published until after college?”
“I didn’t get published until I finished my MFA.”
“Do you think you need to complete an MFA to get published these days?”
“I don’t think you ever needed it to get published. I wanted it because…I like structure and organization and it gave me a starting point.”
“I just want to start writing,” Nella said passionately. “I don’t want to wait to start my career.”
I thought about Anna’s plans for Nella. Well, that was life. The thing that happened while you were busy making
“Fibromyass.”
Nella’s nervous giggle floated behind us.
“You think we’re awful,” Victoria said, glancing at me.
“No.” That was the truth. I didn’t care what they said about Rowland’s mother. She probably was a total PitA. That didn’t mean Rowland didn’t love her dearly—I suspected from what I’d read the evening before, he did indeed love her—and it didn’t mean she didn’t deserve that love.
There’s nothing more puzzling than human attachments.
I was preoccupied with trying to think of a way to ask if they suspected anyone of wanting Anna permanently out of the picture. It seemed sort of awkward to bring it up out of the blue. Somehow Miss Butterwith always knew how to segue any conversation into talk of death and disaster. Since I was the hand behind the puppet, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t have the same ability. Everything I thought of was liable to trigger the very thing Anna wanted to avoid.
“Chris could care less,” Poppy said. “You should read the mean things he writes about people.”
“Huh?” I stared up at her.
“I started reading one of your books last night. You’re mean.”
“Mean?”
“The little things you say about people. Those barbed what-do-you-call-’ems? Asides.”
“I’m not mean,” I protested. “Which book was it?”
“ Miss Buttermilk Has a Case or something like that.”
Oh. “ Miss Butterwith Closes the Case .”
“That sounds right.”
I’d been editing that one as things were falling apart with David. It probably was more astringent than some of the earlier books.
“You don’t like people,” Poppy observed.
“Yes I do. I like some people.” Admittedly, I was less and less crazy about her .
“Ignore Poppy,” Victoria told me.
I smiled politely. I had a feeling that was probably easier said than done.
Rowland had widened the gap between us by the time we reached the top level. His bright blue jacket was the only splash of color as he strode across the white lawns.
I wasn’t as out of breath as Nella, but not by much. I really did need to make an effort to get myself in shape again. Not that it mattered, since the only one seeing my shape would be me.
Victoria asked, “Does anyone need anything from the house?”
We all agreed we didn’t need anything from the house and struck off down the side path to the front drive. I remembered the shadowy figure I’d seen walking that way the night before.
That hadn’t been a dream, right? A heavy dinner, a couple of glasses of vino and too many mystery stories in a row?
Overhead, a plane droned high in the granite sky. Ahead of me, Victoria and Poppy chatted about some mutual acquaintance, and a few steps behind, Nella was huffing and puffing.
Yet my overall impression was of how still it was. The snow seemed to swallow sound in a vast white hush. In the distance I could hear the sharp insect buzz of Rowland’s car falling away.
“How long did it take you to get published?” Nella asked.
“A few years.” I smiled faintly at the memory of all those earnest attempts at the Great American Novel. All those passionate and utterly corny stories of coming out and coming to terms. Thank God no one had given them a second look. “I wrote my first novel the summer before I started college.” It was still buried somewhere in a box in my parents’ garage.
“But you didn’t get published until after college?”
“I didn’t get published until I finished my MFA.”
“Do you think you need to complete an MFA to get published these days?”
“I don’t think you ever needed it to get published. I wanted it because…I like structure and organization and it gave me a starting point.”
“I just want to start writing,” Nella said passionately. “I don’t want to wait to start my career.”
I thought about Anna’s plans for Nella. Well, that was life. The thing that happened while you were busy making
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