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reviews_and_ramblings
Somebody Killed His Editor by Josh Lanyon Release Date: June 16, 2009
Publisher: Samhain Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-60504-585-6
Publisher Link: http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/somebody-killed-his-editor
Amazon Kindle: Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1
Amazon: Somebody Killed His Editor
Blurb: The road back to bestsellerdom can be deadly. Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1. Thanks to an elderly spinster sleuth and her ingenious cat, Christopher Holmes has enjoyed a celebrated career as a bestselling mystery writer. Until now. Sales are down and his new editor is allergic to geriatric gumshoes. On the advice of his agent, he reinvents his fortyish, frumpy, recently dumped self into the sleek, sexy image of a literary lion, and heads for a Northern California writers conference to try and resurrect his career. A career nearly as dead as the body he stumbles over in the woods. In a weirdly déjà vu replay of one of his own novels, he finds himself stranded in an isolated lodge full of frightened women—and not a lawman in sight. Except for J.X. Moriarity, former cop and bestselling novelist. The man with whom he shared a one-night stand—okay, maybe three—long ago. The man who wants to arrest him for murder. A ruthless, stalking killer, or a hot, handsome ex-lover. Which poses the greater danger? It’s elementary, my dear Holmes!
Excerpt:
Now what? I tried to think. Admittedly, my powers of reason seemed slightly dimmed. My head felt like it was being used for an anvil. Boom, boom, boom. Was that a hangover or high blood pressure reaching critical mass?
I stumbled down the porch steps and walked around to the back of the lodge. It seemed a very long way.
A dark and wet and silent long way.
Not that darkness or wetness or silence ever did anyone any harm—which is what I kept telling myself as I walked, feet pounding the pathway. The night seemed to swallow the sound of my footsteps, which is why when I heard something—a furtive noise from the patio around the corner ahead of me—I froze.
What…was…that?
Metal on cement. The scrape of a chair? Who the hell would be sitting out on the patio in this weather at this time of night?
I opened my mouth to call out—but something stopped me.
I listened.
No voices. Nothing but the lonely sound of the wind through the aspens. And yet…
Something changed. The stillness took on a listening quality. I felt with uneasy certainty that my approach had been heard, that someone was standing around the corner waiting for me—even as I stood waiting, heart banging away against my ribs, sweat chilling on my skin.
I took a soft and careful step backwards.
A funny shiver ran down my spine. My bad feeling suddenly gave way to a wave of sick fear.
Instinct? Alcohol? Or sheer cowardice?
I turned and sprinted back down the path the way I had come.
Pausing at the point where the walkway branched off, I braced my hands on my thighs and gulped in air. I really needed to get back into shape—if it killed me.
I listened.
Anything?
Nothing.
I was being a total goof. And yet…the night seemed too quiet. There was something unnatural about the silence. Something alert. Attentive.
And standing out here on this walk I was completely exposed, completely without protection. I looked around myself, and spotted the old vine-covered arbor a yard or so down the other walk. Since it was the only real concealment in sight, it wasn’t much of a decision.
I ran down the other walkway and slipped into the pitch darkness of the arbor. I waited. The wind filtered through the vines and latticework, cold breath on the back of my neck.
Footsteps were coming down the path. Brisk steps but…quiet. Not stealthy, but not the normal beat of approaching feet.
I flattened myself against the vines, my fingers sweaty on the warm metal of the poker. Even assuming I could manage to clobber someone with this—was I ready to bash someone’s head in?
What if someone wrested it out of my hand and used it to bash me?
The footsteps paused. A silhouette loomed at the mouth of the tunnel. Huge, black, menacing. It seemed to block the entranceway. My heart stopped—which was all right because time stopped with it.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink.
My hand gripped the poker so hard my fingers ached.
I waited for what seemed a lifetime, and then at last the silhouette withdrew. The footsteps moved softly away.
I expelled a long shaky breath.
What the hell had that been about? Why hadn’t I spoken up? Why had I acted like a…a criminal? Like I was guilty? Like I had something to hide? Talk about paranoid. Talk about too much imagination.
But I wasn’t talking. I was still standing there very quietly, barely breathing, waiting.
And waiting. I waited until I was damn sure he was gone. Then I gave it another five minutes.
It began to rain again. The drops slipped through the vines and lattice and fell in wet plops on my head.
And still I waited, shivering with nerves and cold.
Finally, when I was too miserable to hold out any longer, I crept out of the arbor and took a look around.
No sign of anyone. I scanned the empty pasture.
There was nowhere to hide on that empty flat stretch of land—that was the good news. The bad news was that in seconds I would be crossing that empty flat stretch with nowhere to hide.
I started running, pounding across the sodden weeds, trying not to sprain an ankle or fall in the mud—because how damsel in distress would that be? I zigzagged across the field, hopping puddles, managing not to trip in any ground squirrel holes.
There was a bright side. Assuming I lived through this weekend I was probably going to see some serious weight loss. I hadn’t had this much physical activity in years.
As I reached the cabins, I veered to the left, making a detour toward J.X.’s. Number six he’d said. It sat still and silent in the pattering rain.
I banged on the door.
No response.
I whaled away with the poker a couple of times.
Nothing.
Not again. What was the matter with these people? Were they all wearing earplugs or what?
J.X. couldn’t be that deeply asleep. No one could.
I had a sudden unwelcome memory of his face half-buried in a pillow next to me…
I mean, for crying out loud. I was having more flashbacks than a Vietnam vet in a seventies action flick. The minute I knew J.X. was totally unavailable I couldn’t stop obsessing about him. What the hell was my problem?
“Moriarity,” I yelled.
Nothing.
He wasn’t inside. He couldn’t be. No one could sleep through the ruckus I was making.
Was J.X. the person who had followed me into the arbor?
