Murder in Pastel by Josh Lanyon Page B

hoping to have the cove to myself, but I noticed Brett lurking under the dock a few yards away. Seeing me, he ducked back behind the piles. That suited me. I didn’t want to talk to Brett. I started for the water. But Brett stepped out and beckoned me over imperiously.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked accusingly when I was within earshot.
    “Swimming.”
    “You never swim this time of day.”
    “Sometimes I do. What’s it to you?”
    “Are you spying on me?”
    “Are you nuts?”
    Seeing that I was pissed, he said quickly, “I’m kidding, Kyle.” He looked at his watch. As I turned away, he said, “Where are you going?”
    “I’m going to swim.”
    “Can’t you swim some other time?”
    “Who are you waiting for?”
    “No one.”
    I snorted and turned away.
    “Wait.”
    I waited none too patiently.
    “You may as well keep me company.”
    “I’m not in the mood.”
    “What did I do?” He sounded genuinely hurt. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the wind ruffle it up.
    “Nothing. I came to swim.”
    Brett wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch again. His expression changed; I couldn’t tell if it was irritation or disappointment. He seemed to relax though. He questioned suddenly, as if the thought had only occurred, “Did Cosmo keep a journal?”
    “No.”
    “What about letters?”
    “He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t hang on to things.”
    Brett looked like he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth. Cosmo had kept nothing that didn’t relate to current business transactions. He had an excellent memory. Perhaps he relied on that.
    “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Cosmo never left Steeple Hill?”
    “Huh?” I said intelligently.
    “If he left, why wouldn’t he come back? He always came back, right?”
    “Maybe he will some day,” I said, not believing it. “If he’s still alive. Maybe he planned to, but…” I shrugged.
    “You told me you thought he was dead.”
    I said reluctantly, “I do.”
    “You think he died after he split. Suppose he died before he could leave?”
    “What? But that’s…” I gestured confusedly. The thought had honestly never occurred, and I didn’t like it now. “His body,” I expostulated. “What about his body? It would have been found if he’d drowned or fell or…”
    “I’m not talking about an accident.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Shit, use your brain, Kyle. What kind of mystery writer are you? Why would he leave right then? Didn’t you ever ask yourself?”
    I put into words for Brett what no one had put into words for me, but what I knew everyone believed. “I think my getting sick was the last straw,” I said. “He wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. I think he cared for me but it was too much responsibility. And then my getting sick—it was obvious right away there was a problem with my heart. It was just too much for him, I think.”
    “You think he’d walk out without a word? Without a note? Without a change of clothes?”
    “Who says he didn’t have a change of clothes?”
    “Did he?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t in noticing shape. He never took much when he split. He was used to roughing it. Living off the land. Living off his friends.”
    Brett leaned back against one of the thick posts supporting the dock and lit a cigarette. “It doesn’t make sense. If—”
    The post gave way behind him. As Brett staggered back, the dock seemed to collapse in slow motion, crashing down upon him. I jumped to the side, tumbling out of the way, and came up staring in disbelief.
    The center portion of the dock lay on the sand; Brett pinned beneath. He was alive, because he was yelling his head off, but he was as shocked and scared as I was—and in a lot more pain. The old planks were heavy, and besides the splinters and jagged pieces of wood, there were thick nails suitable for crucifixion jutting out everywhere.
    I dragged off one plank as thick as a railway tie, and Brett screamed,