Docketful of Poesy (11 page)

Todd grinned broadly at all of us. “Sorry, luv.
Didn’t catch your name,” he said to me.

“Grace Hollister.”

“The bird who wrote the book!”

I nodded. He didn’t seem like the type to spend his
free time reading, so perhaps he simply had an excellent
memory.

“But what are you
doing
here?” Roberta
asked.

“Live here, don’t I?” The voice, the accent was
entirely different from Peter’s. The differences were fascinating
because, if I didn’t look directly at him, if I watched him out of
the corner of my eye, I could have sworn it was Peter standing
there.

“You live here?” I questioned. I was pretty confident
I’d have noticed if Peter had a doppelganger. Surely I hadn’t been
gone
that
long?

“Thass right, love. Well, not
here,
” he
hastened to add. “London.”

“But I just left word with your agent yesterday,”
Pammy said, exchanging a look with Roberta.

“Thass right.”

“But…I’m confused,” Roberta said finally, and she was
speaking for all of us. “I thought you were in Vermont or Maine or
somewhere doing local theater or off-Broadway. I thought you
couldn’t join the production for another week or two.”

“Dunno know why you that. Summer’s over, love,” Todd
informed her kindly. “Been on ’oliday, ’aven’t I?” He looked
around, rubbed his hands together. “Who’s ready for another?”

Todd went to get drinks while Roberta said, “I had no
idea he was English.”

“Neither did I,” Pammy said.

“You didn’t?” I questioned. That seemed odd to me.
But then perhaps producers and assistant directors didn’t have much
to do with the casting. Maybe that was just up to the casting
director? I really had a very limited understanding of what
function each member of the production company served.

“He’s definitely English,” Mona said. “You could cut
that accent with a gardening trowel.”

“He doesn’t sound anything like Peter,” I said.

“Doesn’t he?”

“About as much as Ringo Starr sounds like Cary Grant
did.”

“Yes. Well, his showing up early is one piece of good
news, anyway. We can get moving on his scenes right away. That will
make Miles happy.” Pammy turned to ask me about possible changes to
the shooting script. I had to admit that if we were going to move
ahead with Todd’s scenes, I’d want to make a few changes. That was
putting it mildly. Walter’s surreal vision of my life started the
minute “David” entered the picture—literally.

Todd returned with a tray of drinks, which he
distributed cheerfully. Pulling a chair next to mine, he smiled
winningly. “So tell me the story of your life, love. The rest of
it, I mean.” He smiled broadly—very unlike Peter’s crooked grin.
There was something appealing about Downing, something cheeky but
inoffensively friendly.

We chatted more about the films he’d made, most of
them low-budget indie—extremely indie—productions.

“Do you mostly work in the States or here?” I
asked.

“Mmm. Here mostly.” He laughed cheerfully. “Always
enjoy a free ride to the good old U.S. of A. though, don’t I?”

“How did you find out about the part in
Dangerous
to Know
?”

“Me agent. They contacted us.”

“Who did?”

“Kismet Productions.”

I nodded. I had no idea how that worked.

“Bit of a lark, them moving the filming back home,”
Todd said. “’ere I was rushing to get ready for a few months out of
the country, and it turns out —” He raised both arms indicating the
now-packed taproom. Cast and crew members were crowded up at the
bar with locals. Tables were filled. Voices and laughter, the
scrape of chairs and tables rang off the dark wooden beams above
us.

“How long have you been back?” I asked.

“Just got back Friday.”

Which would have been Thursday in the States. The day
Walter had been killed, I thought vaguely. Or was I getting
confused with the time difference? I wondered if he’d heard about
that yet. My question was answered when he said, “I ’eard you lived
in the States now?”

“No, I…I plan on making Britain my home base from now
on.”

But Todd wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the
doorway to the bar, and as I followed his gaze, I saw Peter
scanning the room and crowded tables. He spotted us and moved
forward.

“
Blimey,” Todd exclaimed. “It’s
Pierce!” He jumped up and offered a hand as Peter reached our
table. “’ow’ve you been, mate? Where’ve you been keepin’
yourself?”

Peter blinked, and then like someone in a dream,
offered a hand. Todd pumped it. “Great to see you, mate!”

“Yes,” Peter said faintly.

“Pierce?” I said. Mona, Pammy, and Roberta echoed me
like an out-of-step Greek chorus.

“Pierce Fitzroy,” Todd supplied. “Did some modeling
together back in the good old days, eh?”

“Pierce?”
I repeated as Peter drew a chair
from another table and sat down next to me. He smelled wonderful.
He’d had a shower and he was wearing the aftershave I loved, a sort
of spicy bay-rum scent.

“It was my…er…stage name.”

“I can see why you’d want to reserve your real name
for your life of crime.” I murmured only loud enough for him to
hear.

“What makes you think Peter Fox is my real name?” he
murmured back.

I admit that shut me up for some minutes. When I
tuned back in, Todd and Pierce were reliving the highlights of
their lives as models. Or rather Todd was reliving them and Pierce
endured with stoicism that would have put those old arrow-riddled
martyrs to shame.

“Do you have acting experience, Peter?” Roberta
asked.

“Hey, maybe you can double for Todd while he plays
you in the film,” I suggested.

His eyes slid my way, but he withheld comment.

“Whatever happened to Chantal?” Todd inquired.

“Er—we’ve rather lost touch,” Peter said vaguely.

Todd shook his head. “Terrific girl. Terrific.” He
met my eyes and winked. “Scottish bird Pierce used to go with. Did
a bit of modeling herself.”

“I believe we’ve met,” I said. Catriona Ruthven,
Peter’s psycho former girlfriend—and partner in his life of
crime—was a homicidal Scottish lass with, from what I’d heard, some
modeling experience. It wasn’t likely something I would ever be
discussing with her. Catriona and I would probably not have been
destined for best friends even if Peter had never been part of the
mix.

“Aren’t we going on for dinner?” Peter asked me as
Todd rose and asked the table who wanted another round. More cast
and crew from the film production company were packing into the
taproom along with the locals who had turned out in hopes of
catching a glimpse of a few movie stars—or who had heard the news
that the production company would be hiring extras.

“We could order food and eat here,” Roberta
suggested. “They must have a pub menu.”

“Oh, why don’t we!” Mona agreed. “That sounds like
fun. I wonder how the vegetable pot pie is?”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Roberta said. “I heard
somewhere that the best food is always pub food.”

“Thass because you’re too drunk to care what you’re
noshin’,” Todd informed her, taking his place on the other side of
me.

Feeling Peter’s look of inquiry, I shrugged. I’d
learned more about him from Todd Downing in five minutes than I’d
learned in three years from the man himself. Besides, I admit the
reminder of Catriona/Chantal hadn’t exactly filled my maidenly
breast with fond affection—especially when I recalled how eager and
determined he’d been to unload me at the nearest hotel.

After the usual debate we ordered a selection of pub
food and more drinks, and the talk turned inevitably to the
following day’s filming.

There was some question as to whether Miles would
arrive in time, as his flight had been delayed in Washington, D.C.
And apparently some cameras and other equipment hadn’t arrived, but
the plan was to forge ahead if possible under Pammy’s
direction.

“What would you think about letting us shoot the
exterior of Craddock House?” Roberta asked. She had been drinking
Irish coffees all afternoon and was enunciating
very
carefully.

“Well, the interior’s certainly been shot enough,” I
said.

“Very droll, Miss Hollister,” Peter said—but I could
see he was making an effort not to laugh. He said to Roberta, “I’m
afraid that might prove to be disruptive to business.”

“Oh, we’ll pay for any inconvenience,” Roberta
said.

They debated politely, and I listened in on the local
conversation flowing around us. It was all the usual kind of thing:
the results of the annual flower show—I was delighted to hear that
Sally Smithwick, my former landlady, had taken a first in the
fiercely competitive roses division; the news that a woman MP had
bought a house in the area, and the word that police were
attempting to crack down on recent instances of underage drinking
and littering. The attack on Peter’s shop was the worst crime in
Innisdale since…well, since I’d first arrived nearly three years
earlier. Coincidence? I hoped so.

Our meals came and I ate meat pie and mushy peas in a
fog of weariness. Lack of sleep and Irish coffees—viewed askance by
the locals—were catching up with me. I stopped listening to the
chatter around me, only vaguely aware when Peter finally agreed to
the filming of the exterior of Rogue’s Gallery. Mona excused
herself, and finally I conceded defeat and said I was going up to
my room.

Peter excused himself as well and walked me
upstairs.

“You know, you
could
stay the night,” I said
as he unlocked the door to my room. “Think how nice it would be not
having to worry about villains breaking in and shooting you.”

“It would be nice,” he agreed. “But I’ve got a hell
of a lot to get done before I can open tomorrow morning. It’ll be
easier this way.”

“For whom?”

He drew me close, kissed me lightly, and put me away
from him. “Sweet dreams, Esmerelda.”

It had been awhile since I’d heard that pet name from
him. “Sweet dreams,” I echoed gloomily. I could see the sense of
what he was saying, and in fact, I was going to have to take a look
at tomorrow’s shooting script before I could turn in, but it didn’t
make me feel a lot better. Somehow I hadn’t pictured my first night
home in Innisdale with me cuddled up by myself in a hotel bed.

I closed the door, locked it, and undressed. Climbing
into bed I briefly examined the pages Walter had written, made a
few changes, and faced the fact that barring rewriting the entire
script from beginning to end, I was going to have to live with the
portrayal of my life as some kind of cheap romantic suspense flick.
I put the script aside, and sorted through the books stacked on the
night table, including the two novelized biographies of Laetitia
Landon:
Letty Landon
by Helen Ashton, and
L.E.L.: A
Mystery of the Thirties
by D.E. Enfield. I picked up Enfield’s
book and flipped through it sleepily. The politely smiling portrait
of Landon flashed past.

There were also two mysteries inspired by Landon’s
life, but I’d been unable to find copies of them so far:
Eight
Weeks
by Clyde Chantler, and
The Golden Violet
by Joseph
Shearing, better known as Marjorie Bowen. That was one the many pen
names of the prolific Margaret Gabrielle Vere Campbell Long, a
fascinating if somewhat enigmatic figure in her own right.
Novelist, biographer, dramatist, children’s writer, Bowen wrote
over one hundred and fifty novels, many of them tales of Gothic
horror and the supernatural.

Landon seemed the perfect subject for an author, who
also seemed unable to find love and unerringly chose the wrong man
again and again. Bowen, however, had managed to sublimate the
personal for the professional satisfaction of her writing
career.

That night though, I didn’t have the patience for
women making tragic choices in their personal lives, so I picked up
Feldman’s anthology and browsed the treasury of poems inside until
my eyes grew heavy….

I woke to the sound of muffled talking. The hall
light shone beneath the door, and I could hear two voices, male and
female. I lay there for a moment blinking sleepily, trying to make
out the words. Although I couldn’t figure out what was being said,
the tone of voice the two were using was not casual—in fact,
something about their intensity got me out of bed and over to the
door before I’d really thought about it. Yes, by now the snooping
reflex was well ingrained.

Pressing an ear against the wood I could hear much
more clearly.

“You worry too much,” a male voice said. American,
deep, vaguely familiar. Miles? Norton Edam? Neither of them had
arrived as far as I knew—unless it was after I’d retired.

The second speaker responded, “And you don’t worry
enough. You just figure everyone else will clean up the mess.” That
was Roberta. I recognized her husky tones immediately even though
she was keeping her voice low.

“Don’t lose your head, Robbie. There’s a lot at stake
here—for me
and
you.”

Quite shamelessly, I went on eavesdropping as Roberta
answered, but I couldn’t make out what she said.

The man answered, “Of course it was an accident. What
do you think it was? Murder?” His voice faded.

I eased open the door and peeked out into the hall.
It was empty.

I waited a few minutes more but heard nothing. I was
just starting to close the door when I heard footsteps on the
stairs. I waited, watching the head of the stairs, and Tracy
appeared. She was wearing jeans and a short, tight leather
jacket—the most clothes I’d seen on her yet.

Feeling very silly I stood motionless, afraid to
close the cracked-open door and bring attention to the fact that
I’d been spying into the hallway. Tracy never noticed.