Docketful of Poesy (20 page)

“There’s something strange about this whole
production,” I told them, warming to my subject. “I spent hours
this morning researching on the Web, but I couldn’t find any
history on the production company, and this film is apparently
their first.”

“That’s not conclusive,” Brian said. “Just because
this is their first project doesn’t mean they’re not
legitimate.”

“But there are all kinds of weird things. Almost no
one really seems to know what they’re doing. Granted, I don’t know
a lot about making movies, but they seem to be making this up as
they go along. I mean, frankly, hiring me as a script doctor was
strange.”

Brian said, “I don’t see anything strange about it.
The script was based on your book. Who better to doctor it?”

“That’s not how it works,” I said. “They should
have—ordinarily would have—hired someone with scriptwriting
experience. Writing a book is a very different thing, especially
since my book was nonfiction. But they practically insisted that I
take this project on.”

“They?”

“Roberta Lom, the producer. And possibly the
director, Miles Friedman, is in on it, too.”

Brian exchanged a glance with the Chief Constable who
was watching me in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. “
In
on
it?”

“
They’re paying me an exorbitant
amount of money to work on this script.”

“And you see that as sinister?”

“I see it as unusual. Improbable. Strange. And even
more strange is moving the production over here after starting in
California. It must be costing a fortune, and this is not the kind
of movie that gets a large budget. There isn’t any possibility of
Kismet making its investment back, I don’t think.”

“Perhaps it’s a tax deduction,” Heron said. “Perhaps
they expect to lose money on it. Perhaps they need to lose money on
it.”

As in the classic film
The Producers?
I
considered the idea, but dismissed it. “There’s something not
right,” I said. “I don’t know that it ties into two accidental
deaths—maybe Walter and Mona really did die accidental deaths—but
something is…off.”

Heron pulled his pipe out, took time to light it.
“You’ve given us something to consider, Grace,” he said politely at
last. “You can safely leave it in our hands.”

*****

Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it!

I was surprised Chief Constable Heron had refrained
from just saying it out loud. Clearly he and Brian both thought I
was paranoid. Or, at the least, borderline hysterical. And I hadn’t
even admitted the worst of my suspicions: that the only reason the
production of
Dangerous to Know
had been moved to the Lakes
was so that I’d have no excuse for not taking part, so that I would
remain part of the project.

Which, even I had to admit, made no sense at all. Not
that I agreed with Peter; I happened to think my first book made a
terrific subject for a film. A documentary would have been
preferable, but as fiction, it wasn’t any worse a subject for a
feature film than A.S. Byatt’s
Possessed.

Still, as little as I wanted to concede the point,
there did seem to be something very wrong with this film
production. And as much as I’d have liked to think that perhaps
Mona had tragically mixed up her herbs, I just couldn’t quite make
myself believe it. Not that I was thinking clearly; I still felt
cold with shock. I’d liked Mona. In fact, she was about the only
cast member I really had liked.

“What did the police ask you?” Roberta’s voice jarred
me out of my reflections. We were packed into the back seat of
Tracy’s rental car. We had all given our statements to the police,
and Miles was driving the four of us back to the inn. He and Tracy
had spent most of the drive speaking in low voices in the front
seat. This was the first comment Roberta had made since we left the
estate.

I answered, “Probably the same questions they asked
everyone. Did Mona have any enemies, did she argue with anyone, did
she seem afraid or nervous.”

“That’s odd,” Tracy said, turning in the front seat
to stare. “They hinted to me that they thought her death might have
been accidental.”

“Same here,” Miles said.

“I think I gave them that idea when I told them what
Mona kept in her flask.”

“But you don’t think it was an accident?” Roberta
asked.

“I have no idea,” I answered, equally terse.

They continued to discuss it amongst themselves, and
by the time we reached the Hound and Harrier they all seemed
convinced that Mona’s death was a tragic mistake. I left them to
reinforce their relief in the taproom, and went upstairs to call
Peter.

The answering machine picked up. I checked the clock
on the night table. It was nearly nine-thirty, but Peter rarely
went to bed before midnight. His sleep patterns were erratic at
best, and he hadn’t mentioned going out for the night.

In fact, he had mentioned he would see me that
evening.

Which could be construed as an invitation. Did I
really need an invitation? Weren’t we going to be “making a go of
it” any minute? Whatever that meant to him.

I washed up, tidied my hair, changed my clothes, and
tried phoning again. Again it went straight to the machine.

I began to get irritated. I didn’t want to be on my
own that night—not after the trauma of the day. And I wanted to
talk my suspicions over with Peter. I wanted him to either reassure
me that I was imagining things or convince me that I was justified
in fearing the worst.

Could he have been held up at the Honourable Angela’s
this late? It seemed unlikely, even given his masculine charms and
the susceptibility of middle-aged ladies.

Had he made other plans for the evening? It was
possible, but one thing about Peter: he was scrupulous about
keeping his bookings straight. No doubt a skill developed in order
to make his life of crime more manageable. No, he might have been
held up, but he wouldn’t forget our plans for the evening, and he
wouldn’t cancel them without a word.

Not that I really needed to wait for Peter to
reiterate that I was welcome in his home. After all, I had a key.
Both to Rogue’s Gallery and Craddock House. And he’d said he would
see me that evening….

I recalled Cordelia’s guilty, uncomfortable look at
tea—it seemed a lifetime ago—when Lady Vee hinted that Peter hadn’t
really expected me to return to the Lake District. That he had
resumed his old ways.

I never thought of myself as particularly insecure,
but something about Peter and his history of relationships—which
always struck me as more on the lines of a romantic epic—made me
uncharacteristically hesitant to assert my…rights. “Rights” didn’t
even seem like the proper word for my position in Peter’s life. It
was all so undefined, and I hated things to be left undefined.

Rising from the bed, I began tossing clothes and
makeup into my overnight bag. After I’d tossed in my books on
Laetitia Landon, I tried phoning one last time.

And again it went straight to the machine. I didn’t
leave a message. At this point I was liable to sound desperate.

Instead I carried my bag downstairs, sneaking past
the taproom where the mood, even from the doorway, seemed grim. I
realized I would never be able to think of Irish coffee again
without being reminded of Mona.

Letting myself out of the inn, I walked across the
grass, a light frost crunching beneath my shoes, my breath smoking
in the wintery night air. The car park was filled, moisture beading
windshields and the tops of cars. I’d parked down at the end near
the little copse that separated the car park from the footpath
leading to the river.

It was very quiet. I could hear the street lamps
buzzing through the rustle of the trees, and the distant trumpeting
of the swans on the river—and someone groaning.

It was an eerie sound, freezing me in my tracks.

“Is someone there?” I called.

Silence.

Of course, in books and films it’s always so annoying
if the protagonist doesn’t instantly run for help at the first sign
of something out of the ordinary, but in real life none of us do
that. No one wants to appear foolish or cowardly. It’s one thing if
there’s a tangible threat, but just a little groan? Especially when
the groan sounds like someone or something in pain?

After an undecided heartbeat, I started down the long
line of cars, keys clutched between my fingers weapon-like,
checking to see if someone had hit a dog or if an elderly person
had fallen.

I saw the cowboy hat lying just beyond the front
fender of Tracy’s rental car—and I knew immediately.

Hurrying down the aisle of fenders, I leaned over the
silver hood, and there lay Miles Friedman face down in the gravel.
Even in the stuttering lamp light I could see the dark, wet patch
on the back of his head.

I knelt down, putting my hand to his throat, feeling
for the jugular, and I could feel a faint pulse tripping away
beneath my fingertips.

He moaned again, and I nearly overbalanced in my
surprise.

“Miles, can you hear me?”

There was no answer, and I rose, staring at the
shadowy corners of the car park, the rows of unmoving vehicles. One
thing for certain,
this
was not an accident, and I was
afraid that if I left Miles even for the time it would take to run
back to the inn, whoever had attacked him might take the
opportunity to finish the job.

Of course Miles’s assailant might be long gone—was
hopefully long gone—but what if not? I gave it a moment’s thought,
then I stepped over Miles and tried jamming my key in the rental
car door lock. As I’d hoped, it triggered the car alarm, electronic
wailing shattering the peaceful night.

Before long one of the waiters from the inn’s
restaurant strode outside. I waved to him, and as he approached,
holding his ears, I shouted and pointed down at Miles.

In a matter of minutes the parking lot was full of
people, and an ambulance had been summoned.

The police were also called, and as Miles was carted
off, still unconscious, to the nearest hospital, I found myself
once again facing Brian across a table.

He looked tired and very grim.

“Do you still think my imagination is running away
with me?” I asked before he had a chance to do more than jot down a
couple of notes on the little blue pad he was never without.

He sighed and put his pen down. “Explain to me once
more what you were doing in a car park at ten o’clock at
night.”

“I was on my way to Craddock House.”

His mouth tightened. “I see. And you heard Friedman
groaning, so instead of going for help —”

I also sighed—not very patiently. “I heard the sound
of something in pain. It could have been an animal for all I knew.
There wasn’t any reason to suspect foul play.”

“No? Yet you’re the one who this very afternoon was
suggesting that Kismet Production Company is the front for some
nefarious activity.”

Was that what I had been suggesting? I suppose it
was, although I hadn’t thought of it in exactly those terms.

“But I didn’t make that connection at that moment. I
just heard what sounded like a groan or a moan, and then I noticed
Miles’s hat lying out in the open. And a moment later I spotted
Miles.”

He knew all the rest of it. “You didn’t see anyone
when you first walked outside? Did you pass anyone? Was anyone
coming inside the inn as you were going out?”

“No.” I thought about it. “I glanced inside the bar
as I was walking past, and I saw Roberta and Todd sitting at a
table.”

“Did you notice anyone else?”

“It was just a split-second look. I barely stopped.
Everyone could have been in there; I just happened to see Roberta
and Todd.”

“And once you left the inn?”

“I didn’t notice anyone. I think I would have because
it went through my mind how quiet it was.”

Apparently that should have been my tip-off that evil
was afoot, because Brian gave me another of those disapproving
looks. I have to admit, however, his next words caught me off
guard.

“Where’s Peter Fox?”

I stared at him, trying to decipher what those words
meant. They couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like.

“I don’t understand,” I said finally.

“It’s a simple question. Where’s Fox? Were you
supposed to meet him somewhere?”

I said slowly and carefully, “I was on my way to
Craddock House. I—tried phoning him earlier and he didn’t answer.
Are you saying he’s—what
are
you saying?”

Brian’s eyes held an expression I’d never seen
before. He said bluntly, “We found the February brothers. They were
in the barn behind their house. They’d been there for several
days—how many we’re not sure yet.”

“They’re dead?” I said. I knew it was a silly
question even as I got the words out of my very dry mouth.

“Oh,” Brian said with a cold smile, “very dead.”

Chapter
Sixteen

O
ne thing I’ve
learned—learned the hard way—is that while people sometimes
disappoint, good poetry never does.

When I finally separated from Brian on that long,
horrible night, I went up to my room and tried one last time to
phone Peter. The phone rang and rang and then the machine picked
up.

I replaced the receiver quietly.

For a long time I sat on the edge of the bed, trying
to make sense of this latest news bulletin from hell. One thing I
had no doubt about: I didn’t believe for one second that Peter had
killed the February brothers. I didn’t even think that Brian really
believed it. He just wanted to convince himself of Peter’s guilt on
general principles—sort of like when the U.S. government goes after
mob bosses for tax fraud. Although, assuming Peter was a killer
because of his larcenous past seemed to me a stretch.