Docketful of Poesy (10 page)

The door to the stockroom was blown open, and I
shuddered looking at it. It was obvious that Peter had escaped with
only moments to spare.

“It’s a miracle that no one was hurt.”

“Yes.”

He met my eyes. “Bullhead Drummond is right about one
thing. It’s probably not a good idea for you to stay at Craddock
House ’til this is sorted out.” He looked away.

I stared at his profile. “What does that mean?”

He gestured to the ruined door and the wreckage
beyond.

“If you don’t have a higher opinion of my courage
than
that
—”

“Grace —” He bit off what he started to say. Instead,
he said quietly, “This has nothing to do with your courage or my
opinions.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. Not if your tone is anything to go
by.” He was smiling one of those practiced smiles, clearly hoping
to avoid a quarrel, and I took sour pleasure in not responding. He
sighed. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. This isn’t
me wriggling out of anything. Drummond’s right. Whoever shot up
Rogue’s Gallery might try again.”

“So you don’t want me to work here either?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want. They hit the shop
in broad daylight. I can’t guarantee that it mightn’t happen
again—and I don’t want you in the line of fire.”

He was making perfect sense; I knew that. I did. If
only I didn’t have the uneasy feeling that perhaps he was glad to
delay our moving in together. I had wondered at how calmly he
seemed to face the prospect of giving up his bachelor’s idyll.

I said shortly, “Great. But according to you the
police haven’t made any progress with their inquiries?”

“No. That seems to lie at my door as well. Had I been
here to personally tell them I have no idea about why someone would
want to kill me, it might have made all the difference.”

It wasn’t funny; it was awful, but I had to hide a
smile at Peter’s acerbic words.

“Apparently no one saw anything—beyond the fact that
the two masked men disappeared in the woods.”

My eyes moved to the blasted door, and I shivered. He
put his arm around me, drawing me close.

“What’s the plan then?” I asked muffled against him.
“We just keep our distance until…what? They try again or they don’t
try again? And if they don’t try again, how long will it take for
you to decide that they aren’t trying again? Are we supposed to
wait weeks? Months?
Years
?”

“It’s not like you won’t have plenty to keep you
busy,” Peter said bracingly. “You’ll be working on this
film—working on your next book—you wouldn’t have time to help out
at the shop anyway.”

I pulled away and stared at him. “I’m not actually
worried about keeping myself occupied. I thought the idea was, we
were going to…well, make a go of it.”

“Live together you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“We are.”

“We are? Together but separately?”

“It’s not for long.” He wasn’t meeting my eyes. “I’m
going to make a few inquiries of my own.”

“Great.” I moved away to the bow window that looked
out over the banks of rosebushes and hedges to the velvety lawn
beyond. “You know, if you don’t want to—if you’re not ready —”

“Grace.” He pulled me back against his side and
dropped a quick kiss on the top of my head. “I’m trying to do the
right thing.”

“I hate it when you try to do the right thing.”

Peter laughed. “Lucky for you then, it doesn’t happen
often.” He let me go, moving towards the door. “Let’s see if we can
get you a room at the inn where your posh movie star friends are
staying.”

“Gee. That sounds like fun. A slumber party with the
Hollyweirdos. Have they already started arriving?”

“
Oh yes.” There was a wealth of
unsaid commentary in those two words.

I could just imagine local opinion. I gestured to the
havoc around us. “You don’t want my help cleaning this mess
up?”

“You’re exhausted, love; and frankly, so am I. I’m
not touching anything tonight.”

Apparently that included me. Was this any way for a
famed roué to behave? Apparently it was. He moved to the front
door, holding it wide, and I followed him out into the overcast
afternoon.

*****

Innisdale had three inns. At my insistence we started
with the least expensive one only to learn it was booked up with
crew members of the Kismet Production Company
.
No room at
the next inn either.

That left the Hound and Harrier, a
three-hundred-year-old former coaching inn locally renowned for its
six highly prized
en suites
, cozy restaurant, lovely
mountain views, and beer garden.

“
I can’t afford to stay here.” Even
as I protested I was trying to calculate whether being foisted on
Peter against his will was really the move I wanted to
make.

His brows arched. “What an appallingly mercenary
wench you are.”

“It’s easy to take a lofty view when you’re not
worried about your finances.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about. Naturally
I’ll pay.”

I stopped mid-step and Peter reached out to keep the
door from swinging back on me. “Why would
you
pay?”

“Must we have this conversation?” He sounded truly
pained. He nodded for me to continue inside, but I balked.

“Yes, I think we must.” I gestured vaguely at the
glimpse of gleaming wooden floors, stained glass windows, and
watercolor paintings before us. “I can’t just…allow you to…pick up
my tab.” That blank, blue stare was having the most ridiculous
effect on me. I knew I was in the right, yet I felt gauche, rude
for pointing out what was surely obvious.

“I thought we were going to ‘make a go of it’?”

“Well, we are.” I was annoyed to have my own words
thrown back at me.

“Then why are you prattling about —”

“I’m not
prattling
—”

He said flatly, “There are no balance sheets—no
account books—in love.”

Love?
That shut me up—as it was surely
intended to do. I was abruptly reminded of a newspaper article I’d
read on the plane coming over.
No Love for the Sub-prime
Borrower
had been the heading. You’d have thought a suitable
quote from one of my favorite Romantic poets would have
occurred.

I said, “Do you realize how much this place costs?
You either really do love me or you’re desperate to get rid of
me.”

“Yes. And yes.” He said. And before I had a chance to
question that second yes, he had ushered me inside. And inside was
a madhouse. A well-run, genteel madhouse, but it was obvious that
the proprietors of The Hound and Harrier had no idea what they had
rolled out the red carpet to.

Luggage was piled everywhere. The lobby was crowded
with weary and irritable Californians.

“Hi!
” Tracy Burke called across a small
mountain of Tumi bags. She was beaming hello, but it was for
Peter’s benefit not mine.

He gave her one of those professional smiles, and
waved a greeting to Mrs. Zinn, the hotel proprietor. Mrs. Zinn
greeted him with even more enthusiasm than Tracy, and Peter moved
off to speak with her, leaving the rest of us waiting in line to
check in.

“Do you know they have only six bedrooms with
adjoining baths?” Tracy inquired sourly. “And apparently they’re
all booked!”

I made a commiserating face.

Peter returned a few moments later. “It’s all
arranged. I’ll take your bags up.”

“How on earth did you manage this?” I asked eight
minutes and two flights of stairs later as he unlocked the door to
a lovely room with dark wood furnishings and yellow rose-patterned
draperies and easy chair—and a door leading into a private
bath.

“It’s what you’d call the home team advantage,” he
said.

Fresh flowers, chocolates, color TV, and a big, plush
toweling robe. I was apparently being treated to the deluxe
package.

“I don’t know what to say.” And for once I really
didn’t.

“Say thank you.” He kissed me. “Say you’re all right
now.”

“I’m all right now. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tonight for dinner.” And with that he
was gone.

Resisting the temptation to dump myself into bed and
forget about everything for a few hours, I unpacked my bags, took a
quick shower, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and headed
downstairs. I found Mona, Pammy, Roberta, and Tracy in the hotel
bar drinking Irish coffee. Pammy was all in black, as usual.
Roberta wore white cowboy boots and white rhinestone glasses. Mona
wore a fringed cowboy jacket. Her hair was in two long braids.
Tracy was wearing her usual skinny jeans and a flimsy blue beaded
blouse—more beads than blouse. They couldn’t have looked more
“Hollywood” if they had set out to make a statement.

“Where’s Peter?” Tracy asked, spotting me.

I pretended not to hear her in the fuss of taking my
chair and greeting the others.

“Where’s Peter?” Tracy asked again once I had got
myself settled.

I met her wide blue eyes and decided I really didn’t
like her. “We’re meeting for dinner later this evening.”

She nodded, smiled, as though she knew exactly what I
was thinking.

I ordered an Irish coffee and listened to tales of
other shoots and other films. It was interesting of course, like
hearing a discussion of life on another planet.

“Are you planning to make a lot of changes to the
script?” Mona asked me, catching me studying one of the framed
Punch
cartoons on the nearby wall.

“Me?” I turned back to the table to realize they were
all looking at me. “No. I might simplify a few things. Fewer
explosions. Fewer car chases —” I caught Roberta’s gaze. “No
sinking the Derwent Water steamer.”

“Poor Walter,” Mona murmured. “Such an unhappy
soul.”

“Was he? I never noticed,” Tracy said, absently
staring out the stained-glass window at what could be glimpsed of
the street outside.

Roberta said, “I don’t know how you could have missed
it. He followed you around like a puppy.”

“No, he didn’t.”

The other three laughed—not unkindly, but Tracy said
defensively, “He didn’t. Whatever you’re thinking is way off base.
He was just…sweet. And shy.”

“Shy?” Mona seemed to consider this. “He was probably
just cautious about trespassing on Miles’s territory.”

Tracy’s head snapped up. She directed a cold look at
Mona. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“
Come on,” Pammy said. “He never
took his eyes off you. Walter, I mean.”

“That is
not
true,” Tracy said shortly. “Just
drop it will you? I never said more than a dozen words to the
guy.”

None of them said anything for a minute, and then
Mona and Roberta caught each other’s eyes and started giggling in a
way reminiscent of the little darlings at St. Anne’s Academy for
Girls. Pammy joined in a moment later. I wasn’t surprised when
Tracy told them—without particular heat but in anatomical
detail—what they could do to themselves, and left the table.

Mona, Pammy, and Roberta eventually dried up. “You
must think we’re awful,” Mona said to me, while Roberta sipped her
third coffee.

“Oh, no,” I said cheerfully. They could lampoon Tracy
for all I cared. “Are Miles and Tracy in a relationship?”

“Define relationship,” Roberta said. “If you mean has
Miles slept with her, yes. I can’t think of a woman on the set
Miles hasn’t slept with.” She added belatedly, “Except you, of
course, and that’s probably only a matter of time.”

“I don’t
think
so,” I replied. What I was
thinking was,
Roberta? Mona? Pammy? All
of them?

“Oh, Miles can be
very
charming when he
tries,” Mona assured me. She winked.

Roberta giggled at whatever she read in my
expression. “In fact, he reminds me of your delicious Mr. Fox.
Brothers under the skin.”

I considered this thought without pleasure. “Has
Miles ever been married?” I asked.

“God, no,” Roberta said.

“Actually…” Mona said, and Pammy and Roberta stared
at her. “He was married. Years ago. When he was first starting
out.”

“You’re kidding. I never knew that,” Pammy said.

“Her name was Elise…” Mona frowned, trying to
remember. “I don’t remember the last name, but she was an actress,
naturally. It lasted about a year and a half. She gave up
acting—and Miles—and went back to the midwest.”

“Wow,” Roberta said. “That’s amazing.” Meeting my
gaze, she said, “Miles is sort of a legend in Tinsel Town. “

“Wow is right,” Mona said. But she was staring at the
doorway to the taproom.

We all looked at the man who stood there. For a
moment I thought it was Peter. Then he turned our way, waved and
moved toward us. It was not Peter, but he could have passed for
Peter’s brother. Peter’s twin brother.

“Wow,” I said.

Chapter Eight

“T
odd?” Pammy said
doubtfully, half-rising. She waved to the man weaving his way
through empty tables with that easy grace so like Peter’s. “Todd
Downing?”

“Thass right, luv.” He nodded at all of us. Up close
the resemblance was less striking. He was actually classically
better-looking than Peter, but his face lacked the character, the
intelligence of Peter’s. I could have been a little biased,
though.

Roberta leaned across, offering a hand. “Roberta Lom.
I’m producing
Dangerous to Know
.” She made the rest of the
introductions quickly. Todd Downing—as if we couldn’t have
guessed—was playing Peter/David in the film.

“Dangerous to Know
. Great title, that. Sounds
like a sexy thriller,” Todd said. This was a sore point with me. I
had wanted that very title for my book, but the publisher had
determined it was overused
and
that it sounded too much like
a sexy thriller, and had gone with
Daughter of Time
instead.
Which meant my work was going to be forever ordered in mistake by
readers looking for the famous mystery by Josephine Tey.