CHAPTER TEN
An hour ago, the customs officer asked me the purpose of my visit to London.
“Tourism,” I said.
Judging from Grant’s malaise and the glimpses I caught of him white-knuckling his armrest throughout the flight, I don’t think he’s slept either.
After a long, foggy journey in Lesley’s classic black Jaguar, we finally pull over between a private park and a row of town houses. Lesley announces our arrival with a blast of his custom AHOOGA horn.
“Welcome to home base,” he says proudly.
The house is gorgeous, from its topiaries and huge bay windows to the eclectic grandeur inside. The foyer boasts gleaming tile floors, a big winding staircase, and what looks like an antique grated elevator down the hall. I make a mental note to be impressed by it all when I’m not a zombie.
Lissa shows us to our rooms, jogging up the stairs with more pep than anyone should have at nearly three a.m. It’s a struggle to keep up with her as she rattles off a spiel about the amenities we’ll find—guest pajamas, fresh linens, espresso machines, antigravity chambers, I don’t know.
I’m barely listening, just hoping to catch the words horizontal surface you can crash on.
“Here we are,” she says, stopping halfway down the paneled hallway and gesturing to the doors on either side.
“If you need anything, just give me a shout. Otherwise, rest up. Lots planned for tomorrow!” At Grant’s intake of breath, she puts up a reassuring hand.
“Nothing murdery. Yet. Just briefing, planning, that kind of thing. And a surprise outing! Big fun.” She claps her hands and spins around to bounce back down the stairs, calling back, “Night!”
We stare after her in an exhausted stupor, adjusting to the silence of the hall.
“What do you think her idea of big fun is?” asks Grant.
I mull it over. “A merry-go-round fueled by cotton candy and Coke.”
“The soda or the drug?”
“Yes,” I reply.
When I enter my room at last, I could cry at the sight.
Everything about the room, from the fireplace to the blankets casually draped over a moss-green settee, embodies a sumptuous sort of this old thing?
nonchalance. It’s like I’ve stepped into the Casual Living pages of a very fancy lifestyle magazine.
But it’s the tufted king-size bed that pulls me like a spaceship beam.
I manage to ditch my day-old clothes in favor of the courtesy flannel pajamas, and have every intention of seeking out the toothbrush and face wash but ultimately can’t resist the call of the downy comforter and mountain of pillows.
I flop down like a dollop of frosting on the world’s fluffiest cake, and all bets are off.
· · ·
I’M NOWHERE NEAR rested when I wake, but the first rays of sunlight breaking through my window and whoever is banging on my door do not seem to care.
I open the door to reveal a harried-looking Grant clutching a small legal pad and pen.
He’s in his same clothes, sans blazer, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
But from his slightly damp hair and his clean scent, he appears to have managed a shower at some point since last night.
His frazzled energy tells me it was not a particularly relaxing one.
“Can I come in?” he asks in a rush.
It can’t be much past seven. The power of speech doesn’t generally set in for me until at least eight, so I wearily gesture to the room in invitation.
I trudge to an overstuffed chair by the fireplace and sink into it, tucking my feet up underneath me. Grant ignores the seat opposite me, opting instead to pace back and forth like a competitive speedwalker.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. I figured we should go over the plan for finding Anna now that we’re here.” The words tumble out in a barely comprehensible rush. He wiggles the pen compulsively between two fingers and looks like he might shake out of his skin.
“I see you found the espresso machine in your room,” I yawn. “Anyway, I thought we had that covered? We’ll go to her bookstore event. End of plan.”
“Right. Or,” he says, his eyes somehow bleary and bright at the same time, “we track her down sooner.” He tromps to the other chair and waves his legal pad at me.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I took the liberty of brainstorming every possible way we might reach Anna and tell her she’s perpetuating a life-ruining disaster scenario for two innocent Bostonians. ”
Innocent. “I threw a man out of his car and kidnapped his passenger, and you killed a guy with a cast-iron pan. But go on.”
Grant glares at me, then clears his throat and reviews his notes.
“Number one,” he reads with conviction. “We send her an email.”
He has got to be kidding.
“That’s your top suggestion? Do you genuinely think that hadn’t occurred to me?”
“Well, I—”
“Grant,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“She’s off the grid until she finishes the book.
I’ve already tried reaching her on every possible platform—Instagram, email, LinkedIn, a Wi-Fi tech support forum I’m pretty sure she posted in a few years ago.
Nothing. Trust me, you can skip everything on that list that involves contacting her online. ”
He huffs out a breath and turns back to his list, silently flipping one page, then another, then another.
“Okay,” he finally says. “We comb through her old books for clues to where she hangs out.”
“They all take place in fictional towns,” I say, adding, “Or so I’m told.”
“Then let’s hire a real private investigator to find her.”
“Do you have private investigator money?”
“Fine!” he says, dropping his notebook on the ground as he gets to his feet.
“Then we call her agent. Or her editor. Publicist. Housekeeper. And if they won’t pass along the message, we call her.
There are only so many London-based phone numbers, right?
Statistically, we have to guess it eventually. ”
I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume this one is just the sleep deprivation talking.
After a moment, the hope evaporates from his eyes, and he slumps on the bench at the foot of my bed. I can’t help but feel a twinge of pity.
“Look, we are not out of luck here,” I say.
“We know exactly where she’ll be next week, and we’ll be able to tell her everything.
Until then, by all means, call all the numbers you want.
But we need to be ready for whatever else happens.
” I get up and walk Grant to the door. He’s markedly less energetic than he was when he walked in.
“For you, that means being on your story-predicting A game. And for me, right now, that means at least two more hours of sleep.”
· · ·
LESLEY’S STUDY IS warm and cozy in that quintessentially English way that makes me wish I were a mystery novelist or an old-timey reporter clacking away on a typewriter.
It’s all dark wood and emerald-green walls, a fire crackling in the hearth, perfectly mismatched armchairs.
And, of course, shelf after shelf of books.
It’s a comfy, literary dream. Probably Grant’s idea of heaven.
Although looking at him now, maybe it’s more like his personal hell. He’s hunched on the couch, staring at the coffee table as if it killed his entire family.
I focus on the assorted baked goods laid out on the console table. Lissa’s been in and out with tea and coffee and trays of breakfast foods. All things considered, it could be a lot worse.
“Croissant?” I hold one up to Grant in offering. He doesn’t look at me and gives just the barest shake of his head. “Scone? Fruit cup? Charcoal from the fireplace?” He looks up, brows knit, and I shrug. “You’re so clenchy. I figured we might as well get a diamond out of the deal.”
“Forgive me for being clenchy. I’m a little stressed.”
“Why?” I ask innocently, just to watch his face warp with incredulity.
The mahogany doors bang open, and in saunters Lesley, arms wide. He takes a few steps into the room and stops, holding his pose.
“Yoo-hoo,” he declares. I know instinctively that this is a man who has announced himself at social events by proclaiming, The party has arrived.
I take my seat beside Grant while Lesley moseys to the armchair opposite us, and Lissa bustles in soon after. She hands Lesley a cup of tea and two pills.
“Bit of breakfast to wash it down?”
Lesley looks dubiously toward the spread. “No, no, I’m not very—”
“I didn’t make it,” she says. “It’s from Murphy’s.”
“A muffin, please and thank you.”
She snorts as she assembles a plate. “He hates my cooking.”
“I do not!”
“And he’s a terrible liar,” she says. Lesley throws up his hands in defeat, and she mimes throwing a muffin at his head.
“Right,” Lesley says, clapping his hands together. “Now that we’re all here, we might as well jump in.”
He recaps our mission, giving an overview of what we can expect over the coming weeks.
The great news, according to Lesley and Lissa, is that Mr. Page only tags members who’ve posted in the group before.
That means as new murders get announced, we’ll be able to deduce not only where and when they’ll take place but also the very likely how.
“For instance,” says Lesley, “let’s say Mr. Page calls on a Mr. Joe Murderington.
Joe’s response points to next Friday at a corner pub in Islington.
If we look back through the archives, we’ll see that all of his previous posts indicate a string of poisoning murders targeting businessmen in pubs.
Bam. Next Friday, the Pint-Poisoning Punk strikes again. ”
“Serial killers tend to have a type,” says Lissa.
“Some sort of agenda, driving them to kill certain people. Maybe Joe was an office loner whose colleagues never invited him to after-work drinks, for instance. If we can work out a killer’s typical target, you can act the part and put yourselves in the crosshairs. ”