A Study In Murder

?“So, where do you get your ideas?”

?I didn’t need to see his face to know it was Allen Alexander.

?I knew him well—a nut who thought I’d stolen his stories. I swallowed my annoyance and went on. “Inspiration comes in many forms. You have one idea that connects with another, and then another, until a tapestry begins to appear. Sometimes, it is through hard work, and other times an idea hits the writer like a bolt of lightning.”

?I smiled, as he didn’t have a comeback.

?“Holmes’ inimitable mind and logic also is a great inspiration,” I continued. “It allows the writer to get in that ‘space’ where a combination of unique circumstances can be seen in an entirely new light.”

?“Is it your assertion,” a female voice rang out, “that Holmes’ logic was his only ability? Don’t you consider his intuition as part of the mix?”

?I turned and gazed into the darkness where I thought the voice originated.

?“I think we’d all agree,” I said, unable to see who asked the question, “Holmes himself would disregard anything that reeked of emotionalism or sentiment. He often told Watson that he was a brain and nothing more.”

?“And yet the most important part of any Holmes story are the times sentiment come into play.”

?“That’s a point,” I agreed. “That is what made Sir Arthur Conan Doyle such a fine storyteller. He would bring characters in to express the emotional part of the tale, while Holmes strove to be above it all.”

?“Are you suggesting Holmes express no sentimentality?”

?“There are the moments when Holmes’ mask slips, towards Irene Adler in Scandal In Bohemia, or when he shows his genuine affection for Watson. But I disagree with the biographies that suggest Holmes married Miss Adler during his time in hiding after the death of Moriarty. We must remember, it is his cold, hard logic that always solved the puzzle.”

?“So,” the woman went on, “it’s just a puzzle to be solved. I’ve always believed that there was more to Holmes than that.”

?The woman approached the stage, and the light fell on her. Tall, lean, with red hair, and wearing a striking green silk jumpsuit that hugged every curve of her well-shaped frame. Her face was not classically beautiful, but it was handsome and strong. Her green eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire as powerful as the one that colored her hair.

?There before me stood Sheryl Homes.

8. Remainders

Sheryl Homes

?I was back in the bar, nursing another drink while trying to calm down. I’d certainly stuck my foot in the hornet’s nest this night.

?Great, it wasn’t enough that most of the people at the Northeast Mystery Club hated me; now I’d insulted their first speaker, and it was someone I had recommended they get.

?I should’ve shut up, just listened. He’d made some great points and basically told Allen to jump into a lake, which I did enjoy.

?But my questions were valid, and the points important. But I could’ve asked them a little less forcefully.

?But when I saw Candy looking at him with that gleam in her eyes, it pissed me off. Also, the drink I had before the lecture had relaxed my inhibitions.

?And possibly my common sense.

?The situation with Mark had gone from bad to worse, and the question and answer session degenerated to an argument between the two of us.

?Apparently, he was of the opinion that anything I thought about Holmes was just plain wrong. Meanwhile, I discovered that he was an opinionated bastard who could only see his own narrow view.

?To think I had actually looked forward to meeting him.

?“Nice job, Sheryl,” I heard a voice say. “You showed that cocky sleazeball who knows Holmes.”

?I glanced over to see Allen lift a drink in my direction in a toast.

?“Get lost, Allen,” I hissed, and took a delicate sip of my Cosmo, though I wanted to down the whole thing at once.

?“You did have some valid points, dear,” a woman’s voice said, and I turned to see Winsley Cunningham next to me at the bar. “I thought you really added to the excitement. However, you might have been a little less…vociferous.”