Docketful of Poesy (2 page)

“Grace, your father and I have made a point of never
interfering in our children’s lives, but I can’t say we’re pleased
to discover that you’re seriously considering committing yourself
to a man with a criminal record.”

Of course, I had known this chat was coming from the
moment I set foot on American soil, and for one cowardly instant I
wished I’d revealed a little less of Peter’s background to my
concerned parents. But I’m a firm believer in honesty being the
best policy—besides, it was a sure bet that the visiting Detective
Inspector Brian Drummond, whom I’d been seeing while he was in
town, would have been only too happy to fill my family in on the
more colorful aspects of Peter’s history.

With the uncanny mind-reading ability that had
terrified me and my brothers in our formative years—not to mention
generations of students in her Women’s Studies courses—my mother
said, “What time is Brian picking you up?”

“A quarter to seven. The seminar ends at
four-thirty.”

Brian, an expert in art and antiquities theft, had
arrived a few days early to attend an Interpol-sponsored
international conference on cultural trafficking. The conference
had been postponed several times, but finally his trip coincided
with my visit home in a way that seemed fortuitous from his
viewpoint and that of my parents.

Whether in reaction to Peter Fox’s criminal past, or
on the basis of his own merits, of which, true enough, he had many,
Brian had already received the stamp of approval from my nearest
and dearest.

That last sounds like I was being forced to see Brian
against my will, and of course that’s not true. I liked him—a lot.
I found him very attractive and very good company.

“He’s an attractive young man,” Mother said.
“Intelligent, presentable, politically conscious.”

“Yes,” I said noncommittally.

“He’s certainly very interested in you.”

“He’s a long way from home,” I said. I could feel my
mother’s gaze, but I kept my own glued to the flowered Harker
Pottery casserole that had once belonged to my grandmother.

It was a very pretty dish, though not particularly
valuable—something I had learned working at Rogue’s Gallery
Antiques with Peter. One of the more useful—and law-abiding—things
I had learned. Another thing I had learned was the importance of
family and treasured traditions. Which is why I didn’t object when
my mother continued, “I can’t pretend that your father and I are
pleased with some of the things you’ve told us about this…Peter
Fox.”

Even I had to admit Peter didn’t well, look good on
paper. “If you were able to meet him…”

“Well, that would be up to him, wouldn’t it?” Mother
said. “If he’s genuinely interested in building a life with you, I
would think he would be willing to make the effort to meet your
family.”

There really was no answer to that; I would hardly
strengthen my position by admitting that I couldn’t picture Peter
in this country or this house. Let alone this kitchen.

“How many criminal investigations has he dragged you
into?” Mother continued.

“He hasn’t dragged me into anything,” I countered.
“In fact, from the minute I met him he tried to discourage me from
getting involved in these...these adventures. But if I hadn’t
gotten involved there would have been no book and no documentary,
so it isn’t all a bad thing.”

My mother looked unconvinced.

And the truth was, I wasn’t entirely convinced
either. It had been roughly two and a half years ago that I visited
the Lake District researching the Romantic poets for my doctoral
thesis, and became involved in a bit of literary skull-duggery.
With that involvement had come involvement of another kind: a
romantic liaison with Peter Fox, antiques dealer and former jewel
thief. Peter claimed to have turned over a new leaf, but not
everyone in his murky past seemed to have got the message. Which
wasn’t likely to endear him to my friends and family—and even I had
to admit that the fact that Peter’s kisses turned my bones to water
and my brain to mush wasn’t exactly an endorsement for sane and
healthy living.

“I understand the power of sexual chemistry,” my
mother said in that voice as cool and clear as astringent, “but I
speak from experience when I tell you that nothing is more
important to a successful marriage than respect and shared
interests.”

I had a sudden, vivid childhood memory of lying in
bed listening to the quiet murmur of my parents’ voices—and the
surprising sound of my mother giggling. “I know you and Dad have
been very happy, and of course I want that for myself. I do respect
Peter and we do share many interests.”

“Amateur sleuthing?” my mother inquired tartly.

“More than that, Mother.”

She had the grace to look down at the vegetable
swamp.

“Are you able to share your work with him?”

“Yes. That is, he…listens.”

My mother fixed me with her all-seeing gaze. “But
does he share your passion?”

“For poetry? He understands it.” As much as anyone
who wasn’t a fellow academic could understand my obsession for the
written word.

“You know what Joubert said. ‘Only choose in marriage
a man whom you would choose as a friend if he were a woman.’”

The picture that conjured held me silent for the
second time that afternoon.

******

“
You look smashing!” Brian said a
few hours later when I opened the front door to my parents’
home.

Brian looked rather smashing, too, in his dark suit;
I wasn’t used to seeing him so formally attired. He generally wore
jeans and a blazer on duty. Pristine jeans, mind—I even suspected
him of pressing them—and beautifully cut tweed blazers.

“Thank you, sir.” I accepted the peck on my cheek
automatically.

Surreptitiously, I studied him. It’s always
interesting seeing that reflection of yourself in the people that
your nearest and dearest want to set you up with. Brian was about
my age, medium height and trim as a Marine. His hair was dark and
his eyes were that shade of blue that looks mostly gray. In some
ways he reminded me of Chaz, my other longtime, family-approved
significant other. Brian was a bit edgier, and a lot more
stubborn—er, forceful—than Chaz, but they shared similar values and
world view. I suppose I shared those, although I’d hitched my star
to a former criminal and ladiesman.

“
New dress?” Brian inquired. He was
very good about noticing that kind of thing.

I shook my head. “It’s been in storage with the rest
of my things.”

“It suits you. Very feminine. The green brings out
your eyes.”

Yes, it was difficult; Brian made no bones abut the
fact that he was interested, that for him it was not just
friendship. He never overstepped the boundaries, but he didn’t
pretend either. He wasn’t a man for playing games. That was one of
the things I liked about him. But then, I liked many things about
him.

I watched him being pleasant with my parents, watched
the warm welcome they extended him, and I couldn’t help thinking
how much simpler my life would be….

“So where are you taking me tonight?” Brian inquired
as we walked outside to my car.

“Mélisse on Wilshire Boulevard. And, no, before you
ask, it’s not Mexican. Try not to be too disappointed.”

“I
am
disappointed,” he said. “I suspect some
addictive substance in that salsa. But it’s all right, I had tacos
for lunch today.”

I laughed, unlocking my car door. Yes, it was very
easy with Brian.

Mélisse Restaurant is supposed to be one of the most
romantic dining spots in Los Angeles, although this was not why I
had picked it. At least I didn’t think that was why I had picked
it. While I would never consider myself a foodie, I had gained new
appreciation and knowledge of food through my relationship with
Peter—and I say this as a woman who has battled her weight since
adolescence.

The food at Mélisse is traditional French with a
California flair; the wine list is fabulous, and the setting
comfortably chic. We were seated quickly. We ordered wine, and
Brian asked, “How’s the research coming?”

My mother’s words in mind, I responded, “It’s
fascinating.”

“Yes?”

“Absolutely. Maybe I’m crazy but I find research
seductive. I think I enjoy it more than the writing, to tell you
the truth.” I was supposed to be starting work on a book about the
premier female poets of the Romantic period, but so far I’d been
unable to whittle down the list of potential candidates to a
realistic size.

And right on cue Brian asked, “Have you settled on
who you’ll be writing about?”

“Not finally, no. It would be easier to go with the
obvious choices: Felicia Hemans, Anna Laetitia Barbauld, Charlotte
Smith….”

He’d heard this all a dozen times, of course. He said
mildly, “You wouldn’t want to do the easy thing.”

“Ha. It’s not just a matter of doing the easy thing.
It’s ground that’s been covered, of course, but well worth
re-examining. The thing is…”

I paused; Brian looked inquiringly.

“I feel terrible admitting this, but I don’t feel
inspired by these women the way I feel inspired by the works of
Byron or Shelley or Keats. It seems disloyal to say it, but it’s
the truth.”

“That’s because you’ve a soft spot for villains.”

I shook my head, and Brian said, “All right, remind
me why you’re writing this book again?”

I leaned forward on my elbows. Brian put a hand out
to steady the table. I do tend to get a little carried away once I
get going. “To begin with, it’s incredible to me that as well
respected and popular as these women were during their own writing
careers, they’re virtually unheard of now. As well-read as I am in
the Romantic period, even I’d heard of almost none of them before I
began researching this book. They aren’t even listed as minor
poets. It’s as though they never existed.”

“Maybe their work doesn’t stand the test of
time.”

“But it does. That’s the thing. These are smart,
talented, often courageous women who deserve to be remembered for
their contribution to literature. They deserve our respect.”

“Is respect a substitute for passion?”

I stared at him. “No,” I said slowly. “It’s not.”

Brian looked a little puzzled, although he smiled.
Our server came then and we ordered our meals, I opting for
morel-crusted imported Dover sole, and Brian deciding on the
dry-aged Cote de Boeuf Roti.

“How was the conference?” I inquired after our
wineglasses were replenished and our server had departed once
more.

He settled back in his chair. “Today it was mostly
discussion of the UNESCO and Unidroit multilateral treaties.”

“Ah.”

Brian grinned. “It’s been interesting, but I admit
I’m looking forward to going home. Any idea about when you’re
returning to Innisdale?”

Realizing to my surprise that I had come to a
decision, I said, “I’m probably going to book my flight tomorrow.”
His smile caught me off-guard. “I—it’s time I was getting back. I
did hear this afternoon from Roberta Lom, the producer of
Dangerous to Know
, and she’s invited me out to the set
tomorrow. They’re filming in Tehachapi, of all places.”

“What’s Tehachapi?”

“About as far away from the English Lake District as
you can get—although it’s apparently very green this time of year.
I can’t imagine a small indie film company has much of a budget, so
shooting on location is out. I mean shooting on the
actual
location—not that anyone does anymore. I think everyone goes to New
Zealand or Romania nowadays.”

“Er…right,” Brian said cautiously. “I thought they
simply used computers.”

“Maybe they do. I’m not exactly an expert.” Noticing
I was about to monopolize the conversation again, I turned our talk
back to Brian’s conference.

Our meals came, and for a brief time we were
pleasantly occupied with food. Peter had taught me to give a fine
meal the appreciation it’s due, and in fact, he’d have been right
at home in this place with its muted, romantic lighting, the
gleaming Riedel flatware and Limoges china. Peter valued what he
referred to as “life’s little civilities” as much as he respected
wonderful food, and my food that night was wonderful indeed: potato
gnocchi, king oyster mushrooms, and j
us de cuisson
truffée.
  One melting bite of sole, and I realized
that Mélisse’s awards and reviews were well earned.

Blinking back the haze of foodie fever, I became
aware that Brian was studying me with a rather odd expression on
his face.

“Is something wrong?” I glanced at his plate.
Potato-leek torte, wild mushrooms, braised Boston lettuce: it all
looked perfect to me. It smelled perfect, too.

Brian’s gaze met mine and sheared away. “I have
something to tell you, and I’ve been trying to find the right way
to say it.”

A chill of premonition slithered down my spine. “What
is it? Just tell me.”

“I received a phone call this afternoon from Chief
Constable Heron.”

Over the past two years I had come to think of
Innisdale’s chief constable as a friend—or at least as close a
friend as a copper could be to a woman whose intended was a former
villain.

Staring at Brian’s grave face I told myself that if
something…bad had happened, Heron would call me directly. He
wouldn’t leave it to Brian to break truly bad news to me, would
he?

But it was clearly not tidings of great joy about to
be delivered.

My heart slamming against my breastbone in silent
panic, I sat very still, very straight, waiting to hear whatever
this was. “And?” I asked, dry-mouthed.

“Apparently someone tried to kill Peter Fox this
morning.”

Did the room’s lighting suddenly dim? I managed, “Is
he all right?

Brian hesitated, and I barely felt the pain of my
nails sinking into my clenched hands. It was all I could do not to
scream at him. He said, after what felt like an eternity, “No one
knows. He’s disappeared.”