Docketful of Poesy Page 17

  This was not the conversation I had anticipated having with Peter—not that I had anticipated having a conversation, but if I had thought about it, I’d have pictured him on the defense trying to explain to me why he hadn’t gone to the police with whatever had happened to make him stand me up the night before. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might simply pull the plug because…

  It was getting to be too much work? Because he didn’t love me? Because this was a smoke screen to keep me from pursuing why he was trying to pack me off to the States?

  Anyone of those—or even a combination—might be the real answer.

  I said quietly, “So if I’m not willing to take on faith your assertion that I need to go home and not pester you with questions about attempted and actual murder…then, what? Our relationship is over?”

  “If you’re not willing to take me on faith,” he said equally calm, “Our relationship is over.”

  I felt as if I were staring at a stranger—and I supposed that confirmed at least part of the point he was trying to make. “I take it you’re not planning to stop off and talk to Brian before you head out to wherever you’re going.” I nodded at his Gladstone.

  “I’m not, no.”

  “I see. Well, good luck, then,” I said. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  Something changed in his face. There was an emotion in his eyes I couldn’t quite pinpoint. He said, “I’ll see you out.”

  But I was already moving to the door. “That’s all right,” I replied. “I believe you already did.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Are you all right?” Cordelia asked.

  I turned from watching the rain running in silver rivulets down the window overlooking the wet and glistening gardens of Rothay Manor. “Yes. Why?”

  “Because you’ve been scowling at that soup since it arrived.”

  I made an effort to shake off my preoccupation. When I had returned to the Hound and Harrier this morning I’d found a message from Cordelia asking me to lunch. And because I thought it would be good for her to get out after the trauma of seeing Mona die—and because I thought it would be good for me as well, the awful scene with Peter coming on top of my sorrow over Mona—I’d suggested a nice long drive and lunch at Rothay Manor in Coniston by Ambleside.

  Ambleside is one of the loveliest and most popular destinations within the Lake District. Centrally located, and only about six hours from London, it offers everything from charming shops to rambling lakeside walks—or even a challenging mountain climb. The town predates the Roman occupation, and of course Ambleside was the home of William Wordsworth in the later years of his life. He’s buried beneath a yew tree in the churchyard at St. Oswald’s where the River Rothay flows.

  It was a not a day for sightseeing, though, even if either of us had been in the mood. The drive had been longer than usual due to the dreadful weather, but that too had given me something to think of besides Peter—and murder. Not that the two things were inextricably linked in my mind, although I wasn’t feeling terribly friendly to Peter at the moment.

  Cordelia had been unusually quiet on the drive, whether because she believed I needed all my concentration to keep us from floating off the road into the nearest lake, or because she was still feeling overwhelmed at the previous day’s tragedy.

  I said, “The soup is excellent. I’m just…”

  “I know,” she said, and she shivered. “I’ve never seen anyone dead before. Let alone…die.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head, but then her fawn-like gaze met mine. “She looked at me like she wanted me to help her. She put her hand out.” She stopped, swallowing hard.

  I said, “It must have been very quick. She probably didn’t…” I stumbled a little “…suffer very long.”

  Cordelia nodded, unconvinced. After a moment, she asked, “Why would anyone kill her?”

  “It’s not certain that anyone did,” I said. “It could have been an accident, I suppose.”

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But my view has become warped living here.”

  She giggled shakily, and returned to spooning her passion-fruit sorbet which served as palate cleanser between courses. Then her hand stilled. “They found those men. Did you see in The Clarion that their bodies were discovered—the men who shot at us the other day, I mean.” She shivered. “They’d been killed ‘execution-style’ according to the paper.”

  To my astonishment I heard myself say, “The police think Peter might have been involved.”

  Cordelia scoffed loudly at this notion. “Oh, pshaw!” Despite the tone of teenage cynicism, she sounded so much like her great-aunt, I blinked. “You mean Brian thinks,” she said. Her instant and total repudiation of the idea of Peter’s guilt reassured me. Illogical as that might have been.

  I finished my soup—cream of mushroom with a hint of dill—and my glass of wine.

  Cordelia said, “Why do you think someone would have killed her? She didn’t seem like the kind of person to be murdered.”

  Was there a particular kind of person who got murdered? I didn’t know.

  I said, “Supposedly the basic reasons people kill are greed—maybe that includes jealousy—lust, revenge and fear. Well, and insanity, but I guess you could argue that anyone who resorts to murder is partly insane.”

  “Or accidents,” Cordelia said. “People who are killed by mistake.”

  “You don’t poison someone by mistake.”

  “Well, if you mixed ingredients up. If you were making salad for someone and you mixed up mushrooms and toadstools or something like that. Or if you used some kind of corrosive cleaning fluid and didn’t get it all washed away.”

  I gazed at her in mild horror. “But that would just be an accident.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “Well, but what if you knew about the toadstools, but meant for someone else to eat the salad, only your friend dropped by and ate it instead.”

  I said, “Who are you and what have you done with my dear little friend Cordelia?”

  She giggled. “Little. I wish I was little.” She was in fact very nearly six feet tall, and model-thin—and had not figured out how to use this to her advantage yet. “It’s possible, though, isn’t it? Because Mona really didn’t seem like the sort of person who gets herself done in. Do you suppose they’ll cancel the film now?”

  “Roberta doesn’t want to, but I don’t see how they can help it.” Or perhaps I didn’t want to see how they could help it. I was still trying to decide whether there was any point in staying on in the Lake District if Peter and I were no longer lovers. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a straightforward yes or no.

  Cordelia said, “That’s a pity. I could have used the experience.”

  I didn’t respond to that and she chattered on about acting and school and—eventually—Douglas, the married-but-separated playwright. I listened with half an ear, running through my last conversation with Peter while I poked at my savory crepes with spinach and bacon filling, and watched the windows of the restaurant fog with rain and mist.

  “I think he missed you a lot.”

  It was the silence that followed Cordelia’s words that jerked me out of my reflections. It took me a moment to rewind the last few seconds of her conversation. “Who?”

  “Peter. He didn’t say much, but it was obvious.”

  I couldn’t imagine him saying anything about it, let alone “much.” I hated myself for asking, but I couldn’t help it. “How was it obvious?”

  She shrugged a bony shoulder. “He was just…different. Quiet. Preoccupied. He used to go out walking a lot.”

  “Walking?” I couldn’t picture that.

  She nodded. “Well, until it got to be winter. Then I think he just stayed home and read.” She added neutrally, “I think he expected you to come back sooner. We all did.”

  She was frowning at me from beneath
her dark brows, and something in that look of hers made me feel guilty. I said briskly, “Somehow I can’t picture him moping around.”

  “He wasn’t moping. He was just…quieter.” Yes, her tone was definitely critical.

  “I meant to,” I admitted. “Things just kept…coming up.” I remembered something. “Yesterday at tea your great-aunt mentioned Allegra and Peter. You made a face...”

  Cordelia grimaced. “Oh. Al was over there all the time. They all were. All the ladies of the county. I think Roy Blade finally told her off. That’s why she left, you know. Mr. Blade told her she was making a nuisance of herself, and she got offended and went on a holiday cruise.”

  “I see.” Which was a sweeping overstatement. I was floundering, trying to picture our biker librarian telling one of our favorite aristos—a woman he was rather sweet on himself—to stop pestering the local ex-jewel thief with her attentions.

  Cordelia laughed. “I expect that’s why Peter really wanted you back, so you’d scare the femme fatales off again.”

  “Just a poor helpless rabbit hypnotized by all those snakes,” I said dryly, but I admit I was feeling more uneasy by the moment.

  “He missed you, Grace. We all did. He just missed you more.”

  The candor of that left me with nothing say.

  *****

  When I returned to the Hound and Harrier that evening, I learned from the girl at the desk that Miles had been discharged from the hospital that afternoon. Roberta and the others were in the bar, and the mood seemed much more cheerful than that morning’s. Roberta waved and called out to me as I was trying to slink past the doorway. As I didn’t want to continue the hostilities, I went to join them.

  Norton nodded in greeting. He still looked very under the weather. Pammy didn’t look particularly well either.

  “What are you drinkin,’ luv?” Todd inquired, getting to his feet.

  “Gin and tonic,” I said. I didn’t think I would ever drink Irish coffee again.

  As Todd moved off, my thoughts returned to the Februarys trying to kill him in mistake for Peter—unless the Februarys had been hired to further disrupt the production? But no, that couldn’t be, because they had first attempted to kill Peter before Dangerous to Know had even moved to the Lake District.

  And yet it was one more strange connection between Peter and this film.

  Twice the Februarys had tried to kill Peter and failed. Was that because they weren’t very good at killing people? Or were they not really supposed to succeed in their attempts on Peter’s life? In which case, what purpose was served by these attacks? Attacks that could have injured or killed many people. Surely this spoke to a uniquely ruthless mentality?

  “The police were looking for you, Grace,” Tracy said maliciously, interrupting my reflections.

  “Not very hard, apparently.” The others laughed, though I was quite serious. “Any word on Mona’s death?”

  “No.” That was Pammy. She looked very grim.

  “Not that they’re saying,” Roberta said. “But it’s the weekend. I suppose the crime lab or whatever they call it here is closed ’til Monday.”

  “Were you able to get through to your home office?”

  Her face tightened. “No. But it’s the weekend.”

  Norton, who I now realized was not under the weather so much as quietly smashed, looked up from his glass and said, “I’m leaving as soon as the cops give us permission.”

  Pammy groaned and put her face in her hands.

  “You have a contract,” Roberta reminded him.

  “I don’t care. I’m flying home as soon as they say we’re free to go.”

  “Look. We’re all still upset. Let’s not make any rash decisions until we’ve had time to consider.”

  He stared at her in disgust, shook his head, and returned to brooding over his glass.

  “Well, I’m in for the duration,” Tracy said. “I need this film.”

  “I’ll say. You need any film,” Norton retorted, surfacing briefly.

  Tracy opened her mouth and then closed it. If looks could kill, Norton would have been groping for the knife in his back.

  Todd brought me my drink and took his seat again. “Where’s Peter? The coppers were asking about him, and Tracy said the shop’s closed.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” I answered. “He’s frequently away on buying trips.” I stared at Tracy, who gave me a sweet smile in return.

  “Always was a bit of a scallywag, old Peter.” Todd seemed amused at the idea. “You should have seen him in the old days.”

  I tried to imagine meeting Peter in his criminous old days. I couldn’t imagine that we’d have had a lot to say to each other.

  “How’s Miles?” I asked the table in general.

  “You can ask him yourself,” Roberta said, looking past me. “Miles, what the hell are you doing down here?”

  Miles, one hand steadying himself on the table edge, sat carefully down in the chair next to me. There was a white square of gauze on the back of his head. He smelled rather strongly of antiseptic and hospital. “I can’t relax up there,” he said. “I can’t take naps. I’m not a nap taking kind of guy.”

  He answered the questions about his health brusquely.

  I asked, “Do you have any idea of who attacked you?”

  He started to shake his head, stopped, and said carefully, “No. I didn’t see a thing. I went out to the car to grab my jacket. Next thing I knew I was in an ambulance and some limey bastard was asking me how many fingers he was holding up.” He glanced at Todd. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Todd. He made a rude gesture. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two,” said Miles, clearly not getting it.

  Pammy frowned at Todd. Norton nearly spilled his drink laughing.

  Tracy said, “Miles, are we going ahead with the production?”

  I thought that was an interesting question coming from her. I’d got the impression that they were a couple, but that sounded like they hadn’t spoken since Miles was bashed over the head. So either the romance wasn’t proceeding smoothly or Miles could have given Peter lessons in not communicating well with significant others.

  “Why wouldn’t we?” he answered Tracy shortly.

  He looked to Pammy. She shrugged. He looked to Roberta who said, “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach anyone in New York.”

  New York? I’d been thinking they were based in Hollywood. But I suppose that made sense. The money, the power brokers would be in New York.

  “The answer is yes,” Miles told Tracy. “We’re going ahead.”

  “You don’t know that.” That was Norton, surfacing once again from his alcohol-induced stupor. He held Miles’s gaze challengingly

  Miles retorted, “Let’s put it this way, if I have anything to say about it, we’re not pulling the plug.”

  “The show must go on!” Norton said with sarcasm.

  “That’s right, Edam, the show must go on. We’ve all got to eat. We’ve all got mortgages to pay. What happened yesterday was a tragedy, but canceling the production isn’t going to bring Mona back—Mona was a trooper. She’d want us to carry on.”

  Norton sneered, “What the hell do you know or care about what Mona ever wanted?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “What do you?” Miles returned finally. “I knew Mona for twenty years. How long did you know her?” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small flask.

  “I knew her well enough to —”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Roberta demanded, cutting right across Norton’s low voice. “You can’t drink alcohol with a head injury!”

  “I’m past the point of danger,” Miles said, unscrewing the top to his silver flask. We all watched as he took a swig.

  And as Miles indulged in his teatime cocktail I knew why Mona had died. Or, rather, in whose place she had died.

  Chapter Eighteen

  What I didn�
�t know was why anyone wanted Miles dead.

  I’d heard plenty about Miles’s womanizing ways, but did people really kill each other over that kind of thing? My knowledge of such matters was strictly relegated to reading People magazine in the dentist’s office. True, Mona had apparently tried to kill Miles during—or was it after?—their affair, but since Mona was the one who had died, I didn’t think that was relevant.

  Tracy’s affair with Miles seemed to have cooled considerably, but Tracy didn’t seem like the sort of woman who killed for passion. She didn’t seem to have a passionate bone in her body. She was sexy, yes. Very. Men seemed to find her very sexy, anyway. But it seemed to me that passionate and sexy were not necessarily the same thing.

  Besides, the day of Lady Vee’s tea party, Tracy and Miles were still cooing like lovebirds and feeding each other cake like newlyweds. True, she would have ample opportunity to spike his flask, but by the same token she’d have been unlikely to get the flask mixed up with Mona’s.

  “What an expression you have, Grace,” Roberta commented, her gaze screened by those cat’s-eye glasses.

  “I just remembered what a lot of work I have to do this evening,” I said. “I should go up to my room.”

  “We won’t be shooting tomorrow. It’s Sunday. Stay and have another drink.”

  I smiled, rising. “I don’t think I’d better. I still have to work on my book this evening.”

  Todd said, “Stay, and I’ll tell you about the time Pierce—er, Peter—had a skinful of French champagne and decided to borrow a houseboat on the Seine.”

  “I’m sure Grace has heard all Peter’s stories about the good old days,” Tracy drawled.

  “Oh, I doubt that!” Todd said with a little smirk.