Free Holmes & Moriarty 02 - All She Wrote (MM) by Josh Lanyon Page B

muttered.

    “So you actually did see her fall?”

    Victoria nodded. “That is to say, I saw her roll to the bottom of the steps. I ran to her and saw that she was conscious. I told her to lie still and then I ran up the stairs to sound the alarm.
    Luke had heard her scream too, and he was already on his way down.”

    “That’s why you should carry a cell phone,” Poppy told her.

    Victoria made a face. “I hate the damn things.”

    I considered her story. “Did Anna say anything when you found her?”

    “Just that she’d slipped on the ice. She was in a lot of pain as you can imagine.”

    “Did Luke say anything?”

    Victoria’s brows drew together in an effort at recollection. “I think he asked what had happened. To tell you the truth, it’s all kind of a jumble. I was so shocked.”

    “Could you tell where she’d slipped?”

    “Look at you making like Miss Butternut.” Poppy seemed tickled.

    “Butter with .”

    “Same difference.”

    Why was I wasting my breath? I turned to Victoria who said apologetically, “I didn’t notice. I was only thinking about getting help as fast as possible.”

    Nella said, “We should be getting back or we’re going to be late.”

    Her shuttered expression caught my attention. Generally her face was as open and guileless as a little kid’s.

    “They can’t start without us,” Poppy replied, reaching for the last blue iced cake. “We’re holding the teacher captive.”

    Next came the inevitable tussle over the bill. I was prepared to pay for everyone’s lunch. I had some vague idea that this was what Anna had done back in my day, but to my surprise Poppy graciously insisted on picking up the check.

    “Don’t worry about it.” She brushed aside my thanks. “My old man left me a big fat insurance policy when he kicked off.”

    I recalled that her spouse had died in a drowning accident. I wondered if anyone had thought to investigate possible suicide.

    The bill paid, we trudged out into the elements once more. It was starting to sleet as we piled back into Poppy’s battered Mercedes.

    “Victoria’s the tallest. She should sit in front,” Poppy said when Victoria tried to offer me the copilot position. Victoria looked apologetic, but I was only too happy to yield to her. I squeezed in the backseat with Nella and we had a moment of awkwardness as I had to ask her to shift so that I could find the other half of my seat belt. Having driven into town with Poppy, no way was I risking the return trip without buckling up.

    As we left the parking lot and hit the slushy, crowded streets, Nella said softly, “I’d like to send you my manuscript.”

    “Sure.”

    “How much do you earn per book, Chris?” Poppy questioned.

    “Not enough.”

    “But you get an advance, right?”

    Less at Millbrook House than I was used to receiving from Wheaton & Woodhouse, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not that I liked to think of myself as standing at the transom, cap in hand, but for a while there that had been uncomfortably close to the truth.

    “Yes.”

    “And do you have to pay that back if you don’t sell all the books they print?”

    “Sell through my print run? No. The only way you pay back an advance is if you don’t deliver the book or the deal falls through for some reason.”

    Nella asked, “Can you live on an advance?”

    “If you’re willing to give up eating.” Realizing that I was being a bad author ambassador, I amended, “It depends on the size of the advance and where—and how—you live. I have a large backlist by now, so I earn significant royalties. My advances tide me over between royalty checks.”

    “I’ll say you have a lot of books,” Poppy commented. “I don’t know how you keep them straight. The book-jacket blurbs all sound the same.”

    I sighed and gazed out the window at the picture-postcard landscape gliding past. I was already starting to feel queasy thanks to the walnut-paste sandwiches. Poppy’s