Docketful of Poesy (32 page)

“I don’t know if he believed me,” Peter said. “I
think he was hoping to watch me outsmart myself and fall into his
trap. Although he did say something about no one being mad enough
to make up such a story.”

“He’s a good man,” I said.

Peter was smiling at me.

“What?”

“Perhaps you didn’t notice. Twice he said, ‘So
that
was Catriona Ruthven?’”

“Oh, no,” I said. “You can’t mean what I think you
mean. There’s no way
Brian
would fall for your psycho
ex-girlfriend. She’s a villain!”

He just continued to smile in that maddening way.

“It’s unthinkable,” I said.

He said blandly, “She’d be very good for him.”

I was shaking my head, repudiating such a notion. “I
don’t want to think about it.” I was too tired to think about it,
frankly, but…I had to admit that during the carriage house mop-up
that night, for the first time ever, I’d had the odd feeling that
Brian had only been peripherally aware of me.

Starting up the stairway to the flat I said, “What
happens if they don’t catch Roget?”

“I don’t think there’s a chance in hell they’ll catch
Roget.” He sounded very weary.

I glanced back, and he said, “It doesn’t matter.
They’ve got Tracy, and if last night was anything to go by, she’ll
spill everything she knows in the interests of a reduced
sentence.”

“But does she know everything?”

“She knows enough to clear me of any suspicion of
murder.”

I wasn’t convinced of how much talking Tracy would
do. Regardless of who had been pulling the strings, it was evident
that Tracy had been the trigger woman. According to Brian, Interpol
had matched her profile to that of an international hit woman.
While she had failed to kill Peter, it looked likely that in a fit
of exasperation she had eliminated her erstwhile partners, the
February brothers—the night I had revealed that police scrutiny had
fallen upon them.

So much for my feminine instinct. The irony was that
all those times I had imagined Tracy was making romantic advances
toward Peter, she had actually been trying to get him alone long
enough to kill him. I suspected she had been a little attracted to
him, though, because she had certainly taken her time trying to
dispatch him.

We reached the flat; Peter unlocked the door, pushing
it wide. Sunlight illumined the long, lovely room. The grandfather
clock against the wall, the curio chest before the red leather
sofa, the telescope facing out the picture windows that framed the
dark woods and purple-shadowed mountains beyond: all seemed
untouched, unchanged. I truly felt that I was coming home. But
was
this my home?

“Is that it then?” I asked. “Have we seen the last of
Gordon Roget and the Serpent’s Egg?” Have we seen the last of
Catriona? I wondered.

When he didn’t answer, I turned to face him. He was
studying me quizzically.

“Is this where the story ends?” I asked, and my voice
was softer than I intended.

His mouth curved in a slow smile, and without moving
consciously I was somehow across the room and in the warm circle of
his arms. He gazed down at me, and his eyes were bluer than the
bluest of the lakes.

He said, “Some stories don’t have an ending,
Esmerelda....”

Epilogue

“What’s this?” I asked as Peter offered a large,
square, beribboned box he had fished out from beneath the bed.

It was Tuesday afternoon following after the arrest
of Tracy Burke—and the escape of Gordon Roget. Peter and I had
slept late, then woke and talked, made love, and talked some more.
And then he had apparently remembered the parcel beneath the
bed.

The silver-wrapped box was far too large to contain a
jewelry case. I took it and shook it gently. He winced.

“Does every girl get a prize?” I inquired, plucking
at the large white bow. “Or have I been especially good?”

His mouth twitched, but something in his eyes told me
to—just this once—shut up.

“Open it,” he said.

I pulled the white silk bow, and it slipped loose,
pooling on the sheet. I gently peeled back the foil paper. The box
inside was simple and white. I opened it, moved aside the
star-spangled tissue paper. My fingertips found something cool and
pointed. I reached in and lifted out what I took at first to be a
fragile statuette: Two bisque doves nestled beneath a wire arch of
tiny seed pearls, pale pink stones, and silvery velvet leaves.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “What is it?” And then I knew
what it was. I met his eyes. “It’s a wedding cake topper.” I felt a
prickle behind my eyes.

Peter cleared his throat. “Circa nineteen twenty,” he
said.

One of the doves held a ring in its delicately formed
beak. I freed the ring. It was a delicate twist of gold and
diamonds and tiny smoky stones—of cairngorm perhaps. Just the color
of the tarns and lakes when the evening sun burnished them.

He took the ring from me and slipped it on my left
hand.

“How does that fit?” he asked.

“It fits perfectly,” I said, and kissed him.

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Diana Killian please visit
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