Docketful of Poesy (29 page)

We fell back onto the soft comforter, and Peter
reached up to snap off the light.

******

When I opened my eyes the next morning, he was
gone.

It was not a surprise, but I still felt cast down
when I reached out to touch the cool empty sheets next to me. Even
the memory of Peter’s proposal—finally—couldn’t nullify my fear for
the future. Gordon Roget aka George Robinson was a much more
dangerous enemy than I had imagined, but the real threat to our
happiness—our future—was the apparently real possibility that Peter
might decide the only long-term solution to the threat posed by
Roget was extermination.

I blamed that on Catriona. Just the thought of her
had my stomach churning with nerves and distress—but I knew that
wasn’t entirely fair. Beneath his charming and occasionally
sensitive exterior, Peter possessed a core of cold steel. He was
capable of ruthlessness—that was how he had managed to survive
imprisonment in Istanbul.

But despite racking my brains while I showered, I
couldn’t see a way both to neutralize the menace of Roget and to
keep Peter from taking a morally irrevocable step. If there were
some means of connecting Peter’s archenemy to the
Dangerous to
Know
production—but I couldn’t see Roget being careless or
foolish enough to have left any loose ends.

It was strange about the Februarys, though. Who had
killed them? Roget? If he were up to committing murder personally,
why hadn’t he killed Peter himself? And why kill the Februarys at
all? For goofing up twice? Or for coming to the attention of the
police? But how would Roget have learned the police were zeroing in
on the Februarys?

I wondered if there were a way I could find out
whether Gordon Roget, aka George Robinson, had an alibi for the
night the Februarys had been killed?

I wished I could go to Brian with what I now knew,
but unfortunately he would probably immediately arrest Peter for
conspiracy to commit murder or whatever they called it over here.
Assuming that Brian even believed me. The story was a bit
convoluted, and I didn’t have much in the way of proof. Mostly it
was speculation and hearsay—since Brian was unlikely to take
anything Peter said at face value.

Still preoccupied, I went down to breakfast, only
remembering when I stepped into the buzzing dining room the
disaster that had befallen the Kismet Production Company.

Apparently Miles and Roberta had officially broken
the news to everyone, because the room was humming like a hive with
talk and whispers. There were more than a few pairs of red eyes and
some angry voices.

There was no sign of Roberta or Miles, but Pammy was
doing a brave job of fielding questions. “The one thing I can tell
you is, as soon as the police give us permission, we’ll be packing
everyone up and getting you all back home as quickly as
possible.”

“Unbelievable,” Tracy commented, buttering a slice of
freshly baked bread. What she found unbelievable was unclear. She
seemed pretty cool compared to everyone else, I thought, watching
her.

Todd nodded a greeting to me as I sat down across
from him. “They’ve pulled the plug.”

“I heard.”

“Nice while it lasted.” He smiled in commiseration.
“Too bad, luv. It would have made a great film.”

“Yes,” I agreed, although a part of me was relieved
that monstrosity would never make it to anyone’s television screen.
The thought of not having to listen to my family shrieking with
laughter at another one of Faith Bolton’s “Why is this
happening
to me!” exclamations even cheered me up a
little.

The thought of my family reminded me that I needed to
get over to Sally Smithwick’s to hear what Laurel had discovered on
her end. I poured coffee and served myself a plate of truffled
scrambled eggs from the buffet.

Tracy was finishing her meal as I sat back down at
the table.

I said, “Roberta mentioned that you and Todd were the
only other cast members hired directly by Mr. Green.”

“Mr. Green?” She frowned. Then her expression
cleared. “Oh, right. Mr. Green. Yes, my agent contacted me about
the part.”

“Didn’t have to audition, did you,” Todd said. “Same
as me.”

Tracy’s eyes slid his way. She said easily, “That’s
right. No audition. It was a done deal.” A moment later she excused
herself and left the dining room.

“What do you think of her?” I asked Todd.

He raised his blond brows—and similar though their
faces were, that simple gesture was so different from Peter’s.
“Nice legs.”

“No, I mean —” The problem was, I didn’t know exactly
what I meant. “Is she a very good actress?”

He laughed.

“Is she a very bad actress?”

“Not the worst I’ve ever seen,” he said
generously.

I thought this over. One thing I was pretty sure of:
I didn’t believe Todd played a knowing part in any conspiracy. He
had been hand picked to be part of this production, which meant he
had a role to play—and I didn’t think it was that of “David Wolf.”
I said slowly, “How well did you know Peter? Back in the old days,
I mean?”

Todd shrugged. “We rubbed along all right. Did a lot
of shoots together where they wanted brothers or lookalikes.” He
reached for his cup. “Don’t think anyone really knew Pierce—was
really close to him, other than Chantal.”

Chantal? Right. Catriona’s youthful alias. “How did
you get on with Chantal?”

He grinned that cheeky grin. “Now
there
was a
bit of all right!”

I said, “Would you have any reason to want Peter
dead?”

“What?” The tea sloshed out of his cup onto the
table. He gaped at me.

I put a hand up quickly. “I mean, could someone
conceivably make it look like there was an old grudge between you
and Peter? Did you ever have a run-in —?”

“’
ad lots of run-ins, luv.” Todd
looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Nothing serious, mind. Butted
’eads a few times, ’sall. It was mostly the drink. I drank a fair
bit in those days.”

As opposed to now? Oh Lord.

“Did you know a man by the name of Gordon Roget?”

He frowned into some faded distance. “Dunno. Maybe. A
friend of Chantal and Pierce’s, was ’e?”

“Yes. Very likely.”

He smiled. “Are you playing Sherlock ’olmes, luv?
Recognize the signs.” He tapped his forehead. “Seen a lot of
detective films.”

The theory that had come to me was so labyrinthine I
could hardly credit it, but if it were true that Gordon Roget had
financed a fake film production in order to camouflage murdering
Peter, then handpicking Todd to provide the handy scapegoat wasn’t
so far out.

I remembered Peter talking about Roget’s originally
coming up with the idea for stealing the Serpent’s Egg from Topkapi
Palace. Initially Peter had thought the idea absurd and outrageous,
but ultimately they had been successful—maybe because it
was
such an outrageous idea. Equally outrageous had been Roget’s
double-cross of his criminal partners, yet he had been successful
in that as well. And this murder plot had that same byzantine
handprint all over it.

But how did I prove any of it?

The only immediate thing I could think of was going
straight to Angela Hornsby and telling her what I knew. If she
believed me, that would probably send Roget back into flight.
Unless she already knew of her lover’s unsavory past…but that
seemed unlikely. The Honourable Angela just didn’t seem like the
type to condone murder.

I said, belatedly answering Todd, “Not really
sleuthing, no. But if I were you, I’d be careful to have someone
with me all the time.”

His face lit up—apparently this wasn’t nearly the bad
news I’d thought it might be. In fact, Todd seemed flattered. “You
think someone will try and snuff me?”

I replied, “No, I think someone will try to frame you
for murder.”

******

Sally was in her garden when I arrived at the
vicarage to phone Laurel back. She sent me inside, and I left her
dividing forsythia.

I’d forgotten the time difference, and my brother
Clark was none too thrilled to be awoken at three o’clock in the
morning.

“For God’s sake, Grace. You scared the hell out of
us,” my mild-mannered brother said for the third time. “We thought
something had happened to you.”

“Sorry, I just forgot the time difference,” I
apologized yet again—this time to static. Then Laurel got on the
phone sounding equally groggy, but less annoyed about it.

“No, really,” I assured her. “Everything is fine on
this end. Did you find something out?”

“Yes, but it’s not what you thought. Miles Friedman
was married to a TV actress named Elise Andrews. The marriage
lasted just over two years. They divorced and she moved back to
Minnesota. And she’s still there. She owns a gourmet cookie
company. She’s apparently hugely successful—and she’s definitely
still alive.”

“You’re kidding.” Not that I begrudged Elise Andrews
her wealth, health, and happiness, but I had been convinced that
the answer to who wanted Miles dead had to do with his romantic
past, and for some reason—I wasn’t even sure why now—I’d been
certain his single stab at matrimony was a factor in it.

“Well, you weren’t totally wrong,” my sister-in-law
said. “The reason Elise and Miles got divorced was because he
apparently had a fling with a barely legal teen actress by the name
of Jonnie Alison. She starred on a show called
Dusted
. It
was about a witch who worked as a housekeeper for a cop with three
adorable children.”

“I
loved
that show,” I said.

“Me too. Clark said you weren’t allowed to watch it.”
Laurel smothered a yawn unsuccessfully. “Anyway, it sounds to me
like Jonnie Alison was a fragile kid to begin with, but from
everything I read, and Callie and I read
a lot
—believe me,
you owe us big time—Jonnie had a problem with pills and alcohol.
And getting in the emotional deep end with Friedman was probably
the worst mistake she could have made.”

“She committed suicide, didn’t she?”

“Probably. It was ruled accidental death, but the
tabloids never let go of the suicide theory, and in all honesty,
they were probably right. She washed down a bottle of Valium with
half a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

“Oh, God.”

“Anyway, Jonnie Alison was her stage name. Her real
name was Noreen Edam.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“How can I help you, Grace?” Brian asked formally,
when I was shown into his office. After leaving Sally’s I’d headed
straight for the police station. I’d asked for Chief Constable
Heron, but he was not in, and I braced myself to face Brian.

I could see by his expression that it was going to be
as uncomfortable as I’d feared. He was as cool and distant as he’d
been when we first met just over six months earlier. He had been
writing when the door opened, and he gestured with his pen to the
chair in front of his desk.

Of course I understood that some of this was hurt on
his part—and an injured ego—but he did care for me. I knew…because
I cared for him as well.

I sat down in the chair. “I think I know who killed
Mona, and I believe it really was a mistake.”

He looked singularly unimpressed. “Go on.”

And go on I did. Brian listened politely to my
information about Jonnie Alison and her ill-fated affair with Miles
Friedman, about her overdose death, and the fact that Jonnie Alison
and Noreen Edam were one and the same.

“That’s all very interesting,” Brian said when I’d
finished. “But it’s hardly enough for an arrest. We need more than
a motive.”

“But you
have
more. Norton hates Miles. He
makes no attempt to conceal it, and he’s obviously guilt-stricken
over Mona’s death.”

Brian inquired, “And was it obvious to you that he
was guilt-stricken before you heard about his sister’s overdose? Or
did you merely believe he was upset about Ms. Hotchkiss’s death
like everyone else?”

Ms. Hotchkiss? It seemed strange to think of Mona so
formally. I bit my lip. He did have a point. I hadn’t placed any
sinister significance on Norton’s obvious upset until I had deduced
that he killed Mona. I was reinterpreting his behavior now—which
didn’t change the fact that I was convinced I was right.

“I don’t think he’s just upset, I think he’s
borderline distraught.”

“Maybe he’s afraid for his life,” Brian said evenly.
“After all, there’s a killer loose on your set. The Hotchkiss woman
was definitely poisoned. Her flask contained enough potassium
cyanide to wipe out the entire cast and crew.”

“It’s more than that. I know it is, Brian.”

He appeared unmoved. So I told him about the brakes
on Miles’s car failing twice before we had left the States.

“Have the brakes on Friedman’s rental car been
tampered with here?” he asked.

“No. But they wouldn’t be. We all drive together to
and from location. There would be no way of knowing who might be in
the car with Miles. Norton’s not a homicidal maniac. I think he’s
suffering horribly over killing Mona.”

“Before you go around stating that as fact, were the
brakes on Friedman’s car examined?”

“I don’t know.”

He sighed—and not patiently. “So again, this is
speculation. There’s no evidence that Friedman’s brakes were
tampered with, and there’s no evidence that he was the intended
victim of the poison the Hotchkiss woman ingested. You’re assuming
that this is the case.”

“I’m not assuming that Miles was hit over the head.
Someone attacked him after Mona died.”

“He wasn’t killed though, was he?”

“Only because there wasn’t time. I walked outside and
interrupted Miles’s attacker.” Despite my good intentions, my voice
was rising slightly.

And Brian’s voice rose in answer. “He could have been
the victim of a mugging.”