High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (16 page)

An elderly servant moved slowly from place setting to place setting. As soon as the soup was served Grace understood why getting sauced was a prerequisite for dining at Penwith Hall. The soup was a watery yellow. It tasted as it looked.

Ferdinand called to Grace, “Then you’re not a dealer as well, Miss … Holiday was it?”

“Hollister,” Grace corrected. “I’m working on my dissertation. Poets of the Romantic period.”

This did not strike the noticeable dread into hearts that she had hoped.

“And have you read
my
work, Miss Hollister?” Sweet inquired hopefully, spoon poised before his lips.

From down the table Ferdy made a pained sound.

“I know that you’re the author of
The Last Corsair,
” Grace said diplomatically.

“Ah yes, my account of Byron’s adventures in the East.” Sweet smiled devilishly. “The chapter on Byron’s love affair with Ali Pasha and his son Veli Pasha is a masterpiece!”

“Then you believe Byron was bisexual?”

“Of course! Byron was the supreme sensualist. He wished to experience every nuance of life, to wring from life’s loins every drop of—”

Grace put her spoon down and stared at the tiny silver berries in the centerpiece, tuning out.

“The proof is conclusive,” Sweet finished. “Veli Pasha honored Byron with the gift of a magnificent white horse.”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” Peter’s voice commented from behind the centerpiece. “You know what they say about big white horses.”

The next course consisted of a slab of half-cooked meat flavored with cranberry-ginger chutney. There was a quantity of soggy vegetables, and someone had done something cruel to potatoes.

Sweet kept up his monologue, yet still managed to consume vast quantities of the dreadful food. “I suppose you have been reading that woman! She and her sisterhood want to sanitize Byron, castrate him, wrap him up in turtledoves and sticky sentiment.”

“That’s got to hurt,” Peter put in. Through the silver shrubbery she caught a glimpse of his raised glass. Grace hoped he was not getting drunk. Not that she could blame him.

Following three kinds of moldy cheese, dessert was served: lemon tarts with poached pears—ingeniously made without any kind of sugar or sweetener at all.

Grace considered tipping her dessert plate into the centerpiece but restrained herself.

“Well, you must excuse me,” Ferdy said, rising from the table.

“Yes of course, dear boy,” Sweet replied with patent relief.

When the carved door closed behind the other man, Sweet knocked over his water glass, waving his hand excitedly. “Thank heavens he’s gone! Now let’s stop haggling. How much for it? And I warn you, I won’t be swindled.”

Peter said, “May I ask when Delon contacted you?”

“About a week ago, I suppose. Why?” Sweet said suspiciously, “When did he contact that woman?”

“Around the same time,” Peter said as though he knew it for a fact.

“But surely it’s a matter of—of—”

“Naturally,” Peter said. “Out of curiosity, why did you have him killed?”

The old man’s jaw dropped. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon?”

“It’s one less split,” Peter said. “I’m not objecting. Just curious.”

“But I had no idea! None. Why should anyone kill him? You were the one handling the item.” Sweet turned to Grace. She made a commiserating face.

Peter said cheerfully, “There you’re wrong, I’m afraid. You see, Delon was killed before he could hand off the item.”

Sweet combed his white mane out of his face as though he couldn’t hear through it. “What? What are you saying?”

“We don’t have it,” Grace interjected. She wanted there to be no doubt. Sweet appeared exactly like the kind of wacko who would devise an abduction.

“But that’s … that’s nonsensical! What are you trying to pull?”

“It’s the truth, I’m afraid,” Peter said. “We’re not even sure what the item is.”

The old man stared at them. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh Lord, you had me for a moment!”

As though magnetized, Peter and Grace’s glances locked.

The old man laughed more heartily still. “Name your price! Within reason, of course!”

“That’s very tempting,” Peter remarked.

“And alarming,” Grace put in, thinking aloud.

“It doesn’t alter the fact that we don’t have … It.”

“Bah!” The old man rose, catching the linen tablecloth and nearly dragging the place setting from the table. “Bah!”

“Nevertheless,” Peter responded. His slim fingers played with the sterling napkin ring.

The old man took a turn around the room. Outside the window the night flashed white and then black. The rumble of thunder followed.

“Bah!” Sweet exclaimed again.

“Humbug,” said Peter. He rolled the ring across the table to Grace. She caught it and absently tried it on for size.

“I can’t think,” complained Sweet. “You’re up to something, I suppose. Everyone’s always up to something. That damned Ram Singh has let me get drunk again. He must be up to something. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Oh! Well, actually …” Grace started in.

Peter shot her a warning look.

She shook her head stubbornly.

Peter nodded.

Grace shook her head more forcefully.

“What the hell are you two doing?” Sweet roared. “Save that sort of thing for the privacy of your own home.” With that he banged out of the room.

“What
are
you doing?” Grace demanded. “We can’t stay here!”

“We can’t leave now.”

“Yes we can. We get in the car and start the engine. Hey, presto!”

“My dear girl—”

“Don’t ‘dear girl’ me. I’m a woman, not a girl. A woman who does not plan on spending the night in this house of horrors.”

“Grace, we can’t go haring off without the information we came here for.”

“Yes we can. We can come back in the morning.”

He was staring intently past her head. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly.

“What is it?” she breathed, instinctively glancing over her shoulder.

His lips barely formed the words, “The eyes in that portrait moved.”

Grace froze. “
What?
Are you trying to scare me?”

In a normal voice, he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

Grace pushed back from the table. She couldn’t help an uneasy look at the sallow-faced Cavalier hanging behind her chair. He bore a strong resemblance to Ferdy. Perhaps it was the eyes. Perhaps not.

“Could you tell who it was?” she asked softly as they mounted the grand staircase.

“From the eyeballs?”

“I’ll bet it was that Ram Singh.”

Peter didn’t answer. Perhaps he was saving his breath for the climb back. It wasn’t a bad idea.

When they finally staggered into their room Grace announced, “I knew it! They’ve searched through our luggage.”

“What makes you think so?”

“My suitcase was on the left and yours was on the right. Now mine is on the right and yours is on the left.”

“Maybe the maid moved them.”

“What maid?”

“True.” He considered and then dismissed this. “Well, if they searched our gear, it’s natural enough.”

“We have different ideas about what is natural when staying in other people’s homes.” She picked her suitcase up. “What do we do now?”

“Get some sleep.” He was going through his suitcase.

“Sleep?”

“Unless you have another idea?” He winked at her in that maddening way. How he could flirt under these circumstances—but apparently it came as naturally to him as breathing.

“Uh, no. No.” She studied the antique bed. “It probably has spiders.”

“Very probably.” He glanced at her critically. “I’d get comfortable if I were you.”

“Comfortable?”

“Warm.” He was pulling a black sweater over his shirt. No yellow silk jammies tonight.

“Oh.” Grace grabbed her jeans and sweater and headed for the industrial-sized bath.

When she came out again Peter had turned the lights down. He was lying on the bed. She could see the outline of his body in the fireplace glow. She hesitated in the doorway.

“Come ahead. I won’t bite.” His voice sounded lazy and amused.

With great self-consciousness she crossed the wide expanse of cold floor and gingerly climbed into the galleon-sized bed. The mattress was feather and seemed to melt away under Grace’s hands and knees. The velvet coverlet smelled dusty.

Her hand planted into something soft. She withdrew it hastily.

“Sorry.” She slipped under the covers beside him. She could just make out his features in the flickering light.

Peter’s mouth twitched. “You seem a little tense. Is it the spiders or me?”

Grace laughed uncertainly. “Do you suppose it’s haunted?”

“The bed?”

“The Hall.”

“Come here, Esmerelda.” He stretched out his arm.

Grace scooted over and gingerly laid her head on his shoulder. He smelled pleasantly masculine, of soap and lambs’ wool and a light spicy aftershave. She could feel him smiling. She could feel the lean strength of his body cushioning her.

Oddly enough the fact that they both wore jeans and sweaters seemed more erotic, not less. The thought of warm bodies, smooth bare skin, nakedness beneath the clothing …

“Better?”

She nodded.

For long moments they lay listening to the occasional pop of the fireplace, the rain against the windows.

Her stomach gurgled. “I’m starving.”

“We could raid the kitchen.”

“I’m afraid to find out what goes on back there.”

“Good point.”

Silence.

Grace’s brain seemed to be in overdrive. “Did you know that due to a genetic tendency toward obesity, Byron had to diet? He periodically starved himself with soda water, biscuits and cathartics.”

She felt his silent laugh.

The wind moaned drearily down the chimney.

“So you never married?” Grace asked.

The silence held a surprised quality, or maybe it was just that Grace was amazed at herself. Her uncharacteristic nosiness had to be due to finding herself sharing this man’s bed, even in this weird circumstance.

“No.”

“You don’t seem much like the marrying type.”

“Is there a type?” He sounded dry.

“I just meant that you have so many lady friends.”

He seemed to be reflecting aloud. “There was a girl once. A woman, rather. We probably would have killed each other eventually.”

“Oh?”

She felt rather than saw his smile. “She had red hair and the temper to match. Lovely red hair, like a fox’s.”

Grace discovered she had no desire to hear anything more about the woman with fox-colored hair. She was just making conversation, in any case, and wasn’t really interested in picturing the woman who might one day snare Peter Fox. She deliberately summoned up the memory of Chaz and their model relationship, which was based on mutual interests and respect and friendship.

It was annoying that Chaz’s face, in memory, seemed the tiniest bit fuzzy.

As though reading her thoughts, Peter said suddenly, “Tell me about the boyfriend. Chip, is it?”

“Chaz?”

“Ah. Chaz.”

“It’s short for Charles.”

“Yes? And what does Chaz do?”

“He’s a professor of mathematics at St. Anne’s. St. Anne’s is where I teach.”

“Right.” He yawned, turning his head away. “What’s he like?”

“He’s … nice. Reliable. He’s an excellent teacher.” Grace tried to remember. All at once Chaz seemed like someone that she had known a long time ago in another life. “We share the same interests.”

After a pause, “And those interests are?” Peter sounded drowsy, like someone who was only half-remembering his cues.

“We like … Masterpiece Theatre and Irish music. We saw the Chieftains in concert the last time they were in Los Angeles. We like Sunday morning brunch at the Odyssey.”

It suddenly seemed important to remember all the things she and Chaz shared. Peter was silent.

“In the summer we always get season tickets to the Hollywood Bowl. Usually we go with Tom and Monica. Monica is the friend I came over with. Tom is her boyfriend. He teaches P.E. at St. Anne’s. And in the winter the four of us play bridge every Tue—”

She was interrupted by a gentle snore.

When she woke up all hell was breaking loose.

The room was in complete darkness. Glass was breaking, furniture smashing. For a moment Grace thought it was an earthquake. She sat bolt upright. She realized she was in a strange room.

Then she picked out the human sounds from the rest of the racket: grunting, hard breathing, the frightening sounds of fists on flesh. About the same instant she remembered where she was, she realized Peter was no longer in the bed.