Docketful of Poesy (9 page)

“I think it’s a
fabulous
idea,” Roberta
enthused. “It’s going to make all the difference to this film.”

Peter’s eyes met mine. I knew what he was thinking. I
said, “But isn’t it going to be incredibly expensive, moving an
entire film production overseas? All these people? All this
equipment?”

“Location, location, location,” Roberta said
breezily. “It’s the way they used to make movies in the good old
days. Think of Hepburn and Bogie filming in Belgian Congo, Grace
Kelly in Monaco, Audrey Hepburn in Rome.”

“But isn’t this just a little, cheap, made-for-cable
film?” Not that I wanted to belittle the filming of my own
real-life adventures but…well…wasn’t it?

Roberta gave me an odd look. “It works out nicely for
you, doesn’t it? For you and for Peter?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then I wouldn’t worry about it. The head of Kismet
Productions has decided this could turn out to be a commercially
successful project after all. He’s willing to pump a lot more money
into it. That’s great news for all of us.”

I’d assumed Roberta was the head of Kismet
Productions. Apparently not.

She caught sight of Miles coming in the side
door.

“Miles!”

A momentary flash of irritation crossed the
director’s weathered face, but then he walked toward us with a
rueful smile. Mindful of Roberta’s earlier comment, I studied him
curiously. Miles Friedman was not exactly handsome, but he was
certainly attractive in a well-lived way. Medium height, stocky but
muscular, very fit. His eyes were a light, striking green in his
tanned face.

“I know what you’re going to say, Robbie. I don’t
need to hear it right now.” He turned to me. “Hey there, Grace.
Roberta gave me the good news last night.”

I must have looked blank because he said, “About you
agreeing to join our project. The news about Walter was a shock, of
course.”

“And this is Peter Fox,” Roberta said shortly.

“The man, in the flesh,” Miles said cheerfully,
shaking hands with Peter. “What do you think of our fair city?”

“Smog, traffic, concrete buildings: its charms are
nearly irresistible.” Peter was smiling, but there was no question
he meant what he said. True, he had only seen a few of the charms
the city had to offer, but if it had crossed my mind that we might
spend part of any future together in the States, I gave the idea up
then.

“Hey,” Miles began. “We’ll get together one night and
—”

“Miles!” called Pammy. “Places, people! Time is
money. Miles, we need you on the set now.” The plump, red-haired
assistant director moved off, listening intently to one of the
technicians.

Miles excused himself. Peter indicated he would stay
to watch the filming, and with a dark look I followed Roberta, who
was gesturing a little impatiently. “Of course it’s a tragedy about
Walter. So young, so talented.” Roberta sounded like she was
reading from a script. And not a very good one. The speech was
clearly for the benefit of the rest of the cast and crew. “It must
have been horrible for you.”

More horrible for Walter, I thought. I said mildly,
“It was pretty awful.”

“And they didn’t find the driver?” The cat’s-eye
glasses turned my way.

“Not that we’ve heard. And I suppose we would have
because we’d have to testify at any trial.”

Roberta hesitated, and then asked, “Do you think
there’s any possibility that it wasn’t an accident?”

I stared at her. “Why would you suggest that?”

Roberta appeared to be fascinated by the filming
going on across the long-echoing room. “Well, murder does seem to
follow you, doesn’t it? Walter was a pain in the ass, but I can’t
see anyone finding him so annoying they decided to kill him.”

“Well, people may find me annoying, too, but
hopefully no one’s decided to kill me.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you so much as him.” Roberta
indicated Peter with a nod of her head.

For a moment we both observed him—and observed Tracy
muffing her lines and giggling his way. I said, “Peter’s trip was
on impulse. I don’t see how anyone could have known he was
here.”

Still not looking at me, Roberta smiled. “I notice
you don’t argue that someone might want to kill him.”

“He’s made enemies.”

“Haven’t we all?” Roberta did face me then. She
smiled. “But some enemies are more dangerous than others.”

*****

Peter and I were booked to fly out Sunday. I was
packing my books Saturday night when my mother stopped by my
bedroom.

“Hi,” I said, zipping up my suitcase. “I’m just about
finished.”

She sat down on the foot of the bed and picked up my
copy of Feldman’s
British Women
Poets of the Romantic
Era
, idly flipping through it.

This was the room I had grown up in: walls of the
palest pink, the ornate black iron bed I had slept in since high
school, violet-sprigged drapes and fluffy white duvet. I had grown
up loved and sheltered in this house. My parents had provided every
comfort, advantage, and protection they could afford.

I looked at my mother’s bent head in the gentle
lamplight. There were glints of silver in the red I’d never noticed
before. Seeing them gave me an odd feeling.

“I remember when you went away to college,” she said
suddenly, looking up and meeting my eyes.

I sat down on the bed next to her. “I remember too.
You came to my room the night before I left and told me that if it
wasn’t what I wanted—if I wasn’t happy—I could always come
home.”

“Yes.” She smiled wryly, set aside the Feldman, and
picked up the silk-bound copy of
L.E.L.: A Mystery of the
Thirties.
She smoothed the cover with an absent hand. “But
there was really no question that you were making a wise choice and
that you would be happy. And you have been very happy—and very
successful.”

“You and Dad gave us the confidence to…make the right
choices.”

She nodded. “Are you sure you’re making the right
choice now?”

Was I? There were never any guarantees when it came
to the future, and of course I had qualms about leaving my family,
friends—homeland. But I had no doubt that this was what I wanted to
do. Didn’t that count?

“Yes,” I said. “I am.” And I reached to hug her. She
hugged me back—hard.

When she released me, there were tears in her
eyes.

“I’m glad,” she said. Her gaze held mine as she
handed me the copy of Laetitia Landon’s biography. “But if you
decide this isn’t what you want—that Peter is not the man you think
he is—don’t be afraid to admit you’ve made a mistake.”

Chapter Seven

L
ulled by the summer breeze,
among the drowsy trees...

Ann Radcliffe’s “To the River Dove” drifted into my
thoughts as I watched the swans in the river below glide silently
beneath the arch of the stone bridge where I waited for Peter on
Monday morning.

The Nora Roberts of her day, the author of
The
Mysteries of Udolpho
and
The Romance of the Forest
is
chiefly important—and best known—for her influence on the Gothic
romance. Jane Austen’s
Northanger Abbey
was a parody of
Radcliffe’s work. But she was also a travel writer and a poet.

Unfortunately for my purposes, Radcliffe had lived
and worked in almost total seclusion. She was well educated,
conservative, married, and apparently quite happy to avoid the
limelight. At the height of her fame and popularity, she inherited
a fortune from her father and abandoned writing—much to the lurid
speculation of her public, who preferred to believe the writer’s
tales of Gothic horror had unhinged her own mind.

Oh stream beloved by those with fancy who repose…

Nothing had changed, I thought with something like
relief, watching the lazy blue water glittering in the shifting
afternoon sunlight. Innisdale still looked like the illustration in
a children’s story—or perhaps a very expensive coffee table book.
The white cottages with their dark slate roofs, flowerboxes blazing
with flowers, elegantly untidy gardens lining the narrow streets.
Gentle chimes tolled the eleventh hour from the church down the
lane.

It seemed a million miles from Los
Angeles—geographically and spiritually—but I knew from personal
experience that murder lurked in the most unlikely places—and
hearts.

Before leaving Los Angeles I’d called LAPD to see
whether there was any new information on Walter Christie’s
death—and to make sure there was no problem with my leaving the
country. The detective in charge of the case said that the Datsun
280ZX involved in the accident had been found abandoned several
streets away. The car had been stolen from a used car lot on the
other side of town; the prevailing theory was that the car had been
stolen by joyriding punks, and that Walter had simply been in the
wrong place at the wrong time.

The detective hadn’t had a problem with me and Peter
leaving the country, provided we were prepared to return to testify
or provide depositions if and when needed. He seemed doubtful that
the need would ever arise.

And that was that.

Movement at the other end of the bridge caught my
eye, and I turned to watch Peter’s approach. He strode along,
long-legged and unconsciously graceful, his expression preoccupied,
and I wondered how his meeting with Chief Constable Heron had
gone.

I yawned. The flicker of light on water and the
honeyed warmth of March’s variable sunshine made me sleepy despite
faithfully popping Airborne and No-Jet-Lag tablets on the long,
long flight from Los Angeles; I’d been fantasizing about bed and
breakfast—in that order—since we’d landed at Heathrow many hours
earlier. Peter had been intent on getting home, and I, to my
surprise, had felt much the same.

It was the first time we’d really traveled any great
distance together, and I’d found it an eye-opener. For one thing it
was the first time I had ever flown first class.

“How did it go?” I asked, as Peter reached me.

“As you’d expect.”

I tucked a limp strand of hair behind my ear. “Well,
that’s cryptic.”

“Your would-be swain DI Drummond seems to feel that
any attempts on my life are the result of my misspent youth—and
probably well deserved.”

“He didn’t really say that.”

Peter’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Oh, but he did.
Very direct, your Brian. No beating about the bush. No tactful
hints, no time wasted on diplomacy —”

“He’s not ‘my’ Brian,” I felt obliged to point
out.

“No, but he wishes he were.” Putting his arm around
me, Peter dropped a light kiss on the bridge of my nose. “You look
very peaceful standing here watching the river.”

“I’m half-asleep. Do they have any leads? Any ideas
about who the shooters were?”

“It didn’t sound like it.”

“But didn’t the witnesses in your shop see
anything?”

“It’s difficult to notice details when guns are going
off around you.”

I quoted Kipling’s “If”. “‘If you can keep your head
when all about you are losing theirs…’”

“You probably don’t fully understand the situation,”
Peter concluded dryly, and I laughed.

We walked the short distance back to Peter’s Land
Rover and headed through the woods to Craddock House. Peter was
silent during the drive, and I wondered exactly what had been said
in his meeting with the police.

The woods were still somber despite the first
daffodils. The bronze tints of the dead bracken and yellowed moss
hinted at the coming warmth of spring and summer, but the winter
grass was still deep and the blue shadows were long across the lane
as we sped in and out of sunlight.

When Craddock House at last appeared before us I was
reminded of the first time I had seen it —and for a moment it
looked untouched. It was still the most beautiful house I’d ever
seen: dormant vines and a few budding flowers stark against
whitewashed walls and silver slate roof. Weathered brick chimneys
stood sharp against the clouds, diamond-shaped windowpanes glinting
in the fitful sunlight.

It did indeed seem as if I were coming home. But as
we pulled up outside I noticed the ground floor windows boarded up,
and the crime scene tape.

I followed Peter up the flagstone walk, waiting while
he unlocked the door, watching him disarm the security system. My
gaze kept straying to the bullet holes pockmarking the walls, the
broken pottery, the knocked-over furniture. I could easily imagine
the panic, the terror of those few moments when the gunmen had
burst in and started shooting.

“Who reset the alarm system?” I asked, talking myself
away from the mental image.

“Mrs. Mac.”

Mrs. Mac was Peter’s charwoman. She wasn’t exactly my
idea of a reliable employee, but she did seem manically devoted to
Peter and his interests. But then he was the kind of man who
inspired mania in all kinds of people. For all kinds of
reasons.

“You really don’t have any idea —?”

He said, suddenly angry, “No. I’ve no bloody idea why
someone wants me dead. D’you think if I did, I wouldn’t have dealt
with it by now?”

What did that mean? It sounded a little ominous. I
didn’t have a chance to comment—assuming I had a suitable
comment—because Peter looked up at the ship’s figurehead hanging
from the tall vaulted ceiling.

“Goddamn it.”

I stared at the splintered hole blown in the mahogany
mermaid’s midriff.

“Oh, no…”

He strode through the aisles of furniture, taking
swift inventory of the damage. I followed more slowly, wincing at
the destruction. Some of it had been done by the gunmen, some of it
had probably occurred when Peter’s customers had scrambled for
safety, and some of it had probably happened during the subsequent
police investigation. Peter was not popular with the local law.