Docketful of Poesy (7 page)

Then Peter shoved me inside the Honda and sprang onto
the hood—quick as a cat—and the Datsun shot past, catching my car
door—and Walter Christie—on its right bumper. Christie flew up in
the air like a broken doll, landing face down a few feet in front
of the Honda.

I screamed. The Datsun’s engine gunned as it sped
around another car, just missing oncoming traffic. Cars were
honking, brakes squealing, people on the street shouting as the
Datsun screeched away and disappeared around the corner.

Chapter Five

“A
nd you can’t tell us
anything more than that?” asked the plainclothes police officer for
the third time.

I shook my head. I had stopped shaking, but it was
still an effort to control my voice. “The car seemed to come out of
nowhere. It bore straight down on us—I don’t see how he could have
helped but see the three of us standing here —”

“You said ‘he,’ but you didn’t actually see the
driver?”

“I didn’t see much of anything. Peter—Mr. Fox—pushed
me inside the car just a second before—before the accident.” My
eyes went to the sheet-covered form in the avenue. Walter Christie
had died instantly. My gaze moved to the uniformed officers
cordoning off the street from traffic and bystanders—and then on to
where Peter was being questioned by another detective.

It was Peter who had checked Walter’s bloodied and
crumpled body, and then shook his head, meeting my horrified gaze
as I crawled slowly out of my damaged auto.

Knowing Peter’s antipathy toward law enforcement, I
would have been disappointed but not entirely surprised had he
disappeared following the accident, but he had waited with me for
the police and paramedics to arrive.

“But you recognized the make and model of the
vehicle?” the officer asked.

“My brother had the same car in college. A Datsun
280ZX.”

“Anything else you can think of? Anything at
all?”

I shook my head.

He took my contact information, thanked me, and moved
away. Despite the plainclothes detectives, LAPD was treating Walter
Christie’s death as a traffic accident. And maybe it was an
accident; certainly I would have loved to believe it was just an
accident. After all, the three of us had been standing in a very
busy street during a time of high traffic, and Los Angeles drivers
were not famed for their courtesy or care.

If it just hadn’t been for the fact that someone had
tried to kill Peter forty-eight hours earlier…

I looked over at Peter, and apparently his interview
was over as well. He walked around the police tow truck where two
attendants were busy hitching up my poor mangled Honda, which was
being impounded as evidence.

“All right?”

I nodded, and he put his arm around my shoulders. I
leaned against him, glad of the support. That was one of the perks
of having someone—although if the car had been aimed at Peter, it
was also one of the downsides of having someone.

“We can go,” he said, and he nodded at a waiting
taxi.

Once we were on our way to Peter’s hotel he said,
“You’ve had a shock. Did you want to cancel dinner with your
parents?”

“Nothing less than your death or mine would be
sufficient excuse,” I answered. I wasn’t really sure why I was on
my way back to Peter’s hotel. I should have been heading home,
bearding the lioness in her kitchen, preparing for battle with the
arsenal of cosmetics in my makeup drawer—and my own full-size
hairdryer. But instead I was acting on the almost superstitious
dread that if I let Peter out of my sight, I’d never see him
again.

“She can’t be that bad,” Peter said in the tone of
one thinking aloud. And it was clear who he meant.

“She doesn’t like charming men,” I said. I met
Peter’s gaze. “Well, excepting my father.”

“Right. I’ll try and remember to spit on the floor at
regular intervals.”

Against my will, I laughed.

“And remember to call her Dr. Benson-Hollister,” I
said.

He gave me a long, level look.

*****

I’m not the kind of woman who typically fortifies
herself with alcohol, but I had a drink while Peter shaved—as Peter
remarked upon when he wandered out of the bathroom, razor in
hand.

“You really are nervous.”

“I don’t know if I’m nervous,” I objected. “I’d just
prefer to be as relaxed as possible tonight.”

His brows rose. “This sounds promising.”

“Not that relaxed,” I amended, smiling. I was
thinking that even a few weeks ago it would have been hard to
picture this scene of comfortable—well, mostly comfortable,
intimacy. Peter seemed comfortable enough, anyway, but he was
probably used to women littering his hotel rooms. I was not
un
comfortable, which was promising, considering how little
we knew about each other. Oh, we knew the important things,
granted—but I meant the getting along together day-after-day
things. Things like who preferred which side of the bed, whether
alarm clocks and/or wake up calls were really necessary, whether it
was still permissible to make love after the alarm clock or wake-up
call had rung—those little details had yet to be worked out.
Admittedly, the working out was part of the fun.

Studying him now: a white towel around his lean
waist, electric shaver—which I had already learned he detested—in
hand, I said, “If you don’t mind, I don’t think we should mention
Walter Christie’s accident to my family.”

Peter arched one winged brow. “That’s quite an
oversight.”

“I know. It’s just that my family might think that
this accident…wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t an accident?”

“Right.”

I didn’t trust that smile of his. I said
carefully—there was really no diplomatic way to put it, “They—well,
my parents—actually, my mother feels that you’re —”

“A bad influence?”

“Dangerous to know.”

He was still smiling. “She has a point, doesn’t she?
Three murder investigations aren’t likely to endear me to the
maternal bosom.”

“No.”

“How does the paternal bosom feel?”

“Dad tends to take the long view.”

“How long a view would he prefer? Me on the other
side of the Atlantic?”

I laughed. “He hasn’t said. He’s not as quick to
judge people.”

“Ah.”

“Remember to call her
Doctor
Benson-Hollister.
Don’t call her Mrs. Hollister. And
don’t
call her Nora.”

“Got it,” he said quite mildly. “Both times.”

“I know.” I added uncomfortably, “It’s not like it
sounds. I love my mother. I admire my mother. I
enjoy
my
mother. We usually get along beautifully. It’s just hard for her to
understand some of the choices I’ve made in the last two
years.”

“But then it’s hard for you to understand some of the
choices you’ve made,” Peter said gently, and I stared after him as
he sauntered back to the bathroom, relaxed as ever.

*****

It was raining by the time we reached my parents’
house. “I think it’s a good omen,” I said to Peter as we got out of
the taxi.

“Remind me not to have you tell my fortune,” he
replied, and maybe he had a point. It was one of those California
cloudbursts; hard, driving rain that the streets and gutters
weren’t built to handle. Despite my protests, Peter was already
shrugging out of his mac, and holding it over me as we splashed up
the sidewalk past Colin’s Jeep, and then past Clark and Laurel’s
minivan parked in the driveway.

Lights shone brightly behind drawn curtains in the
trim 1940s-style cottage. I could hear voices from behind the door.
When my family gets together it’s a bit of a crowd.

Rather than using my key and walking in on a
conversation I might not want to hear, I rang the doorbell.

“This is the house you grew up in?” Peter asked,
glancing out from the shelter of the brick portico.

I nodded.

“Has the neighborhood changed a lot?”

Compared to a small English village at the back of
beyond: radically. For Los Angeles County? Minutely. “Not a lot.
New neighbors on the left and across the street. That’s about it,”
I said slowly. “You never talk about your childhood or your
family.”

A little muscle tightened in his jaw. “I don’t, do
I?” He flicked me a quick look from under his lashes. “Mine aren’t
happy memories.” His gaze turned to the door although I hadn’t
heard anything. “I’ll tell you one day.”

The door opened and my father stood there. He hugged
me, and then turned, offering Peter his hand.

“Peter. Good to meet you.”

“Sir,” said Peter, sounding about as formal as I had
ever heard. My father was smiling, though—his usual wide, warm
grin—and as I met his eyes, he winked.

That was the first of a succession of fleeting images
that made up my memories of that evening: Peter meeting my
brothers; Callie and Laurel’s faces; Peter studying the photo
gallery of me and my brothers growing up; Peter meeting my giggling
nieces, Amelia and Charlotte—proving that women under the age of
ten were just as susceptible to his charms; Peter meeting my
mother—proving that she really had managed to immunize herself
against those same charms.

Not that Peter had turned on the charm. Not to full
blast, anyway. He was probably the most reserved I’d ever known him
to be. Pleasant, yes, but a little…distant. For the first time I
realized how very far from his home turf he was. He was on defense.
A restrained and understated defense, but defense all the same.

“What will you have to drink, Peter?” Dad asked.
“I’ve got a very nice pure malt scotch.”

“Are you interested in the study of Romantic
literature, Mr. Fox?” Mother inquired.

“Scotch. Neat, thanks.” And to my mother,
“Interested, yes. But I’m not an academic.”

“Did you attend university in England?”

“Briefly.” Peter’s eyes met mine and returned to my
mother.

“Where did you —?”

“Liverpool.”

“Liverpool!” I said, before I could stop myself. I
had to hand it to my mother: she’d elicited as much information
from Peter in two minutes as I’d managed in two years.

My father handed Peter his drink. “What drew you to
the antiques trade, Peter?”

“I like beautiful things,” Peter said, and just for a
moment my parents’ eyes met.

No, he did not fit in. Not like Brian had fit in. And
yet —

“
Oh. My.
God,
” Calliope
whispered behind the kitchen door as she and Laurel dragged me away
from the battlefield. “
He’s
beautiful
.
”

Laurel breathed, “Wow.”

“I don’t want to leave him too long —”

“It’s all right; the boys will look after him.”

And when I was at last able to escape back to the
living room, Peter was sipping scotch and making polite
conversation with my brothers about his recent buying trip to
France.

After what felt like eons of careful small talk, we
moved into the dining room to sit down at the long table where my
family had eaten Sunday and holiday dinners for as long as I’d been
alive. It felt surreal to look down the line of well known and
loved faces and see…
Peter Fox?

In honor of the occasion Mother had prepared
something she called Five Spice Chicken—although I could only taste
one spice: turmeric—and a lot of it.

I watched Peter take a bite. He met my eyes and
chewed. Once. I smiled brightly—hopefully. He chewed carefully and
swallowed even more carefully, but somehow I could tell by the
glint in his eyes that this was something we were going to laugh
over later. It was a reassuring thought.

“Turmeric, ginger, garlic, Chinese five-spice,
and…toasted anise?” Peter inquired of Mother when he had recovered
from that first bite.

She
almost
defrosted. “Why yes, that’s
correct, Peter,” she said, and the rest of us tried not to indicate
anything amiss as she at last let go of the chilly “Mr. Fox” with
which she’d been addressing Peter all evening. “Grace mentioned
that you’re an accomplished cook.”

At last something my mother strongly approved of: men
taking their turn in the kitchen.

“I enjoy cooking,” Peter said. “It focuses the mind
wonderfully.”

My mother smiled politely, clearly skeptical of
whatever Peter might be focusing his mind on.

After dinner I caught my mother sending my father
pointed looks, and a few moments later, with a hint of awkwardness,
Dad invited Peter into his study. Mother commandeered me to help
serve dessert.

“Will we be staying for dessert?” I asked, once
safely behind the swinging kitchen door. “What’s going on? Don’t
tell me Dad is grilling Peter about his intentions?”

Mother ignored this. “I read a review of a new book
on Felicia Hemans this afternoon,” she said, dishing up a lemon
upside-down cake that appeared to have turned inside out. “You
might find it interesting. Personally, I’m not a great fan of
Hemans, but one can’t discount her popularity or her influence on
the premier poets of the day—male and female. Granted, her
domesticated imperialism—sentimental militarism—is a little
unsettling. Especially in today’s political climate.”

“
To tell you the truth I’ve been
thinking about focusing more on some of the lesser-known women
poets.”

My mother said tartly, “That pretty much covers every
woman who put pen to paper during the Romantic period.”

“But some are better known than others. There’s been
a resurgence of interest in Mary Robinson, Joanna Baillie, and
Hemans—there have been one or two well-received biographies and an
annotated bibliography as I recall.”

“
Hemans is far too important a
literary figure to ignore.”

“‘
The boy stood on the burning
deck,’” I quoted sententiously. “She’s hardly ignored. In fact,
she’s about the only female Romantic poet to get any serious press
these days.”