Docketful of Poesy (26 page)

I shook the thought off.

There had been another time I recalled Mona
mentioning losing her flask. When had that been? I couldn’t
remember, but I was pretty sure it had been in the taproom there at
the inn. And someone…Todd, I thought…had made a joke that Mona must
subconsciously be deliberately misplacing her flask.

Had Norton been there too? I couldn’t remember.

Certainly both he and Todd were aware that Mona
had
a flask. A number of cast and crew carried flasks. It
all came down to whether it had occurred to someone that Mona’s
flask was frequently out of her possession. That the discovery of a
small flask marked “M” might be Mona’s and not Miles’s. I had no
idea if Miles’s flash was monogrammed or not. I had never seen it
out of his possession.

It was such a horrible risk to take with other
people’s lives, reinforcing my belief that whoever had committed
this terrible crime was either totally oblivious to those around
him—or her—or so obsessed with seeing Miles dead, that they simply
didn’t care who got in the way. Which in itself was just another
form of obliviousness.

Who had that kind of motive? Butting heads over
creative differences just didn’t seem to cut it. You’d have to hate
someone an awful lot to kill. Not just that…to risk being caught
and imprisoned.

I glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was supper
time. Just out of courtesy I knew I should really wait to walk down
to Sally’s, as eager as I was to learn whether my sister-in-law had
discovered any useful information.

Picking up another piece of chocolate, I eyed it
thoughtfully. Poison was supposedly a woman’s weapon, but tampering
with brakes suggested the masculine touch to me—sexist though that
sounded.

The phone rang, jarring me out of my sinister
reflections.

Chapter Twenty

“I
have news on Peter Fox,”
Brian said.

We were having dinner again at the Cock’s Crow.
Plaice and chips in a pub—about as casual as one could get, but I
still felt that I was having far too many meals with Brian—for both
our sakes.

“Tell me,” I said.

“He was spotted on a Gatwick security cam—returning
from a flight to Bergerac.”

Bergerac. The home of Cyrano. The capital of
Dordogne—where British ex-pats flocked.
Catriona.

All right. There could easily be other inducements
for Peter to travel to France, especially such a beautiful part of
France, besides wanting to see his psycho former sweetheart and
partner in crime, Catriona Ruthven.

Off hand I couldn’t think of one, but maybe I wasn’t
really trying.

“Was he alone?” I asked.

“Yes. That is, as far as I know. Officially he was
traveling alone. Why?”

Although Brian was obsessed with Peter’s criminal
past, apparently he didn’t know that Catriona was now living in the
South of France. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was only concerned
with Peter and not Peter’s favorite former accomplice. We’d never
really discussed it—Catriona Ruthven being one of my least favorite
topics of conversation.

“I just wondered,” I said. “Why are you tracking
Peter’s movements since he’s not a suspect in the murders of the
February brothers?”

“He has an alibi,” Brian said. “That’s not the same
thing as not being suspect. Any move Peter Fox makes, I want to
know about.”

I ignored yet another implication that I would lie
for Peter. After all, Tracy was helping provide that alibi as well.
“Have you made any progress investigating their deaths?”

Whatever Brian might have answered, I missed because
I was mulling over the abrupt realization that if Peter had gone to
Catriona, I must be correct in my deduction: whoever was trying to
kill him was tied into the ill-fated Istanbul job. Catriona was the
other person most affected—most injured, if I wanted to be fair—by
Gordon Roget’s betrayal.

Besides Roget, Catriona was the only other person who
knew Peter had not double-crossed his mates. She was probably the
only person who could intercede on Peter’s behalf with his former
colleagues. And I was now convinced that the Februarys had been
hired by one of the three remaining crooks.

Except…why didn’t Peter’s former criminal pals just
take care of him themselves? Why hire two apparently boneheaded
local assassins? Why had both attempts on Peter’s life taken place
in broad daylight with lots of witnesses? Were the Februarys really
that dumb or had there been some point to these attempts at public
execution?

Granted, Peter’s felonious friends might not have all
been as potentially murderous as Catriona, but surely they had the
contacts to hire real professionals?

Whoever had hired the Februarys apparently didn’t
know any better—or hadn’t been in a position to pick and
choose.

I said, interrupting Brian’s discussion of forensics,
“Were you able to find out anything about the other members of
Peter’s team in Istanbul?”

He gave me a long, level look. “Yes. Davey Donnelly
was the driver. He died last year in a car smash-up on the M42. The
other two men were Lew Shaw and Martin Collins. Collins is
currently serving time at Franklin Prison near Durham.”

“Are you positive —?”

He said with great patience, “I checked, yes. Collins
is still a guest of Her Majesty’s Prison Service. Shaw—you’ll like
this—entered the St. Mina Monastery in Mariut, Egypt, five years
ago.”

It took me a moment to process what this meant,
because if Brian’s facts were correct—and Brian’s facts were
always
correct—Peter’s former partners in crime were
not
trying to kill him. And how could that be?

As though reading my thoughts, Brian added, “Catriona
Ruthven’s whereabouts are unknown.”

I opened my mouth to correct him, but then bit the
words back. Instinctively I knew Peter would not forgive my
betrayal of Catriona. It wasn’t logical or fair, but I knew it in
my heart. He might not still love her, but a strong bond remained
between them—which was why he had gone to Dordogne.

Though not, apparently, to ask her to intercede with
their former co-workers.

Why then? Because I knew Peter was right: if Catriona
wanted him dead, she’d handle it personally. The only other time I
could remember him trying to contact her was when Hayri Kayaci, one
of the guards at the Turkish prison where Peter had been held, had
turned up trying to blackmail him. Peter had gone to France to warn
Catriona that, in his own words, “the vermin is gnawing its way out
of the woodwork.”

What had he gone to tell her this time?

“So you see,” Brian said, “Nobody in Fox’s past is
out to get him. I think he unwisely used the February brothers in
some deal that went sour. And when they tried to get payback, he
had to eliminate them.”

I raised my gaze from my confused thoughts to Brian’s
intense expression. He genuinely believed what he was saying. He
disliked Peter too heartily, believed too firmly in his guilt, to
see how unlikely that scenario was.

He said softly, “He’s a villain, Grace. An
attractive, charming villain. Why can’t you see it?”

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

I said, “There’s no point saying this to me, Brian.”
I remembered Peter’s words at Craddock House that awful morning. I
can’t keep proving myself to you, Grace. Sooner or later you have
to take me on faith—or admit that this isn’t what you really want.
I felt the curious sensation of prickling behind my eyes. Was that
how it had seemed to Peter? That he was forever having to prove
himself, and never quite reaching some invisible yardstick? Why had
he kept trying? He was the man who said that commitment, steady
relationships, routine had never been his thing, but he had kept
attempting to build those things with me.

Brian reached across the table, covering my hand with
his. “Grace, you know how I feel about you. I can’t stand to see
you tear yourself up over that worthless swine.”

“Stop.” I tried to say it gently, sliding my hand out
from under his. “You can’t say these things to me and expect us to
continue being friends. I love Peter. I trust him. I have faith in
him.” I said it firmly, as though these were my wedding vows, and I
thought that if I ever got to the point of marrying Peter, these
would
be my wedding vows because these were the things I
expected of him as well.

“I have to say them,” Brian said, “because I can’t go
on just being your friend. I feel too much for you.”

We stared at each other across the crowded tabletop.
The half-eaten fish and chips, the vinegar bottle and salt shaker,
the red-and-white-checked tablecloth: what a place for friends to
part.

“If it wasn’t for Peter Fox…” he said.

“I don’t know that that’s even true,” I said,
although I suppose it was. If it hadn’t been for Peter I probably
would have fallen in love with Brian. But it was too late now, and
“love” was a pale word for what I felt for Peter.

So maybe I did understand a little about why Laetitia
Landon had been willing to risk everything, and even when things
didn’t work out the way she planned, she had continued to see the
grand adventure in her choices.

“You’re a smart woman in everything but this.”

It was painful because I liked Brian; I hated to lose
his friendship, especially now when I felt more than a little cast
adrift between my old life and my new.

I said, “Whom we love isn’t a logical choice, Brian,
or you’d have picked someone other than a woman already in love
with another man. It’s not as though I led you on or ever pretended
to feel more than I do.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “I don’t know who
I feel worse for: you or me. There doesn’t appear to be a happy
ending in either of our futures.”

I was afraid he was right about that. After a moment,
he said, “I’ll drive you back to the inn.”

*****

Todd was by himself in the bar at the Hound and the
Harrier. The television in the corner was on, a news program
playing softly in the background. Todd sipped what looked like
whisky and watched the TV. He glanced up with something like relief
when I sat down across from him.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Sunday night. Maybe they’re all
catchin’ up on their beauty sleep.”

“Are we filming tomorrow?”

“Far as I know.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

He studied me. It was strange because superficially
he looked so much like Peter—and yet he was so different once I
started analyzing him feature by feature. “Whole gig is queer if
you ask me.”

“I do want to ask you, as a matter of fact,” I said.
“It’s not my imagination, is it? This is a very strange
production?”

“Yeah. Strange hardly cuts it, luv.” He sipped his
drink. “Never seen anything like it. No location manager, no stand
ins, no second unit. And ’alf the crew doubling for the other
’alf.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “’s mad, thass what it
is.”

“The screenwriter isn’t usually on the set once the
filming begins, right?”

“Right.”

“Have you ever worked with Miles or Roberta or anyone
in this production before?”

“Nah. Never met any of ’em before this. ’eard about
Miles, naturally.
Virtual Ninja.
Great film, that.”

“Because I heard the two of you arguing one
morning.”

He looked blank.

“You said something like you both knew who was
calling the shots or who wasn’t.”

“Oh.” He repressed a cheeky grin, and took another
sip. “Yeah. Didn’t like the way he was filming the scenes, did I?”
He raised a dismissive shoulder. “Deliberately kept shooting my bad
side just to get
her
good side.”

I had to stop and work that out. “I didn’t realize
you
had
a bad side,” I said finally.

He turned his left profile to me, waited—apparently
giving me time to analyze the disaster area—then turned back with
an inquiring expression.

I said apologetically, “I can’t really see a
difference.”

“The camera sees a difference,” he assured me,
reaching for his drink again. “Anyway, know it’s your book and all,
luv, but the story is really about Pierce, innit? David, I mean.
Peter.”

“
Ah...” I decided to let that go.
“So you were just discussing the way Miles was choosing to shoot
you and Tracy?”

“Pretty much.”

“And what did you mean about Miles ultimately not
being in charge?”

The blue eyes were quizzical. “’eard quite a bit,
didn’t you, for someone who just ’appened along?”

“Your conversation caught my attention because
Walter, the original screenwriter, said something very similar
about Miles and Roberta not having final say on anything.”

Todd considered this. “Yeah, well. Wasn’t hired by
either of ’em, was I? The call came direct to my agent. Didn’t have
to audition or anything. Got the impression someone else was
pulling the strings behind the scenes. Someone who wished to remain
anonymous. You talk to Roberta? Never produced a film in her life.
She’s an actress.”

Silently, I absorbed this. Mona had mentioned that
she had met Roberta when they were both still acting, so I wasn’t
totally shocked to hear it. “Do you know that for a fact?”

He nodded. “Mona told me. Mona knew everyone, didn’t
she? Said Roberta admitted it to her when she hired her. They’d
known each other donkey’s ears, see?”

“So Mona was hired by Roberta. Do you know if there
were other actors who were handpicked the way you were?”

“Dunno.”

My attention was caught by the television. There was
local news footage of Angela Hornsby making some kind of speech to
a group of people in Wellies and plaid jackets. Todd and I watched
for a few moments while the MP on the screen graciously did the
honors and officially opened a local gardening center.