Page 15 of The Dead Come to Stay
“To Jo,” she said, raising hers. “For a rousing speech. To Jekyll, for many tourists to come... And to James MacAdams for that spectacular tie.”
Jo tilted her head at the last bit—but Ben was now pointing toward the door. Jo followed his gaze to see MacAdams; he washere, probably to deliver her keys. She decided to take the shot before turning around.
“Jesus!” she sputtered, coughing. It didn’t just burn; it was fire incarnate. It also made her nose run, so she sought for a napkin. By then, MacAdams had crossed the room and taken a seat at the bar beside her.
“Tula’s medicine?” he asked, forcing what looked like an attempt to smile.
“You missed your turn. We’re all empty.” Gwilym seemed about to offer his own shot to MacAdams, but caught a deadly look in Tula’s slate-gray eyes. Down went the liquor, and to his credit, he handled it much better than Jo.
“Good lad,” Tula told him. “And what can we getyou,Detective?”
“A single,” he said, then turned to Jo, presenting keys. “You’ve eaten?”
Still standing, Gwilym’s stare was impossible to ignore. Tula set upon him before he had a chance to open his mouth and ushered him to the kitchen, but that did not make it remotely less awkward. Just less crowded.
“Right.” MacAdams hazarded a glance in her direction. “You’re not still cross with me about the cottage, though? We’re good, aren’t we?”
Were they? Probably. It was always rather hard to tell, but he probably wasn’t inviting her to reason that out. The proper response to these things tended to be “Yes?”
“Good.”
Jo waited for a follow-up. MacAdams drank whiskey.
“Are... you okay?” she asked, finally. MacAdams ran one hand through his hair, which, given the humidity, made it stand on end. Now it was his turn to say the expectedyes, but he didn’t.
“So, Airbnb? I thought you were planning on a freelance career. In editing.”
Jo slow-blinked. Yes, that had been the plan. Except her old clients had indemnity clauses that her ex had worked into noncompete contracts, and authors from other houses didn’t want to pay for external editing when they could get it in-house for free. She’d advertised: “Editor for hire: hyperlexic, speed reading, photographic memory, mental Rolodex of facts to hand.” And so far? The only takers had been romance novelists. And... and...
“I can’t edit romance,” Jo admitted. MacAdams pursed his lips.
“Beg your pardon?”
“That’s the market.” Jo rubbed her forehead vigorously. “I’m a developmental editor, a fact-finder. I can find out who died of what in 1687. I can tell you a LOT about poison plants, Egyptian embalming and how to make your own plywood. But—and this is a direct client quote—Idon’t know what romance requires. And... and...” Jo felt a blush coming, so said the last bit very fast. “And reading steamy sex scenes make me want to jump out a window.”
MacAdams finished his whiskey.
“You’ve done that,” he said. “The jumping out of windows.”
“Just the once,” Jo said.
“Well, I’d like that not to be repeated. Any of it.”
“So, no being chased by a murderer through a burning building. I think I can manage that.”
“Good. I’m glad we got sorted,” he said, and as if by the magic of eavesdropping, Tula reappeared.
“James, I do believe you had some questions for me about your investigation?”
“Do I,” he said, repossessing himself. Then he took out the notepad and clocked out of polite civility. “Last week—did anyone call here looking for a room by the name of Foley? Ronan Foley?”
“Afraid not,” Tula said, shaking her head. “Common enough name in Ireland, though. Through a fistful of barley and you’d hit at least one.”
“Fair. I’ll have Green bring by a photograph, anyway. Just in case. And Jo? I’ll be looking forward to the full details of that statement.”
He tipped the hat he wasn’t wearing and turned around for the door. Jo jingled the keys in her pocket. Was he worried about her? Did she want him to be? She caught a sideways look from Tula. Jo didn’t understand what was being communicated, though, and in a moment he was through the door and gone. Tula shook her head.
“The detective has a newtie,”she said. Jo knew that; she’d stared at it at the tea tent. It was the pictographic sort, yellow stone arch, burst of green above, tall stands of hollyhock below. It reminded her of something.
