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  “And then what do you plan on doing with him?”

  He was no longer meeting my eyes. “We’ll decide when the moment comes.”

  “I can’t believe you’re even considering —”

  He shut me up in the most pleasantly effective way possible, his mouth covering mine in a warm, gently insistent kiss. I gave into it, I let him silence me because I missed him, and because it was too late at night to begin trying to untangle this Gordian knot.

  We fell back onto the soft comforter, and Peter reached up to snap off the light.

  ******

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, he was gone.

  It was not a surprise, but I still felt cast down when I reached out to touch the cool empty sheets next to me. Even the memory of Peter’s proposal—finally—couldn’t nullify my fear for the future. Gordon Roget aka George Robinson was a much more dangerous enemy than I had imagined, but the real threat to our happiness—our future—was the apparently real possibility that Peter might decide the only long-term solution to the threat posed by Roget was extermination.

  I blamed that on Catriona. Just the thought of her had my stomach churning with nerves and distress—but I knew that wasn’t entirely fair. Beneath his charming and occasionally sensitive exterior, Peter possessed a core of cold steel. He was capable of ruthlessness—that was how he had managed to survive imprisonment in Istanbul.

  But despite racking my brains while I showered, I couldn’t see a way both to neutralize the menace of Roget and to keep Peter from taking a morally irrevocable step. If there were some means of connecting Peter’s archenemy to the Dangerous to Know production—but I couldn’t see Roget being careless or foolish enough to have left any loose ends.

  It was strange about the Februarys, though. Who had killed them? Roget? If he were up to committing murder personally, why hadn’t he killed Peter himself? And why kill the Februarys at all? For goofing up twice? Or for coming to the attention of the police? But how would Roget have learned the police were zeroing in on the Februarys?

  I wondered if there were a way I could find out whether Gordon Roget, aka George Robinson, had an alibi for the night the Februarys had been killed?

  I wished I could go to Brian with what I now knew, but unfortunately he would probably immediately arrest Peter for conspiracy to commit murder or whatever they called it over here. Assuming that Brian even believed me. The story was a bit convoluted, and I didn’t have much in the way of proof. Mostly it was speculation and hearsay—since Brian was unlikely to take anything Peter said at face value.

  Still preoccupied, I went down to breakfast, only remembering when I stepped into the buzzing dining room the disaster that had befallen the Kismet Production Company.

  Apparently Miles and Roberta had officially broken the news to everyone, because the room was humming like a hive with talk and whispers. There were more than a few pairs of red eyes and some angry voices.

  There was no sign of Roberta or Miles, but Pammy was doing a brave job of fielding questions. “The one thing I can tell you is, as soon as the police give us permission, we’ll be packing everyone up and getting you all back home as quickly as possible.”

  “Unbelievable,” Tracy commented, buttering a slice of freshly baked bread. What she found unbelievable was unclear. She seemed pretty cool compared to everyone else, I thought, watching her.

  Todd nodded a greeting to me as I sat down across from him. “They’ve pulled the plug.”

  “I heard.”

  “Nice while it lasted.” He smiled in commiseration. “Too bad, luv. It would have made a great film.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, although a part of me was relieved that monstrosity would never make it to anyone’s television screen. The thought of not having to listen to my family shrieking with laughter at another one of Faith Bolton’s “Why is this happening to me!” exclamations even cheered me up a little.

  The thought of my family reminded me that I needed to get over to Sally Smithwick’s to hear what Laurel had discovered on her end. I poured coffee and served myself a plate of truffled scrambled eggs from the buffet.

  Tracy was finishing her meal as I sat back down at the table.

  I said, “Roberta mentioned that you and Todd were the only other cast members hired directly by Mr. Green.”

  “Mr. Green?” She frowned. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, right. Mr. Green. Yes, my agent contacted me about the part.”

  “Didn’t have to audition, did you,” Todd said. “Same as me.”

  Tracy’s eyes slid his way. She said easily, “That’s right. No audition. It was a done deal.” A moment later she excused herself and left the dining room.

  “What do you think of her?” I asked Todd.

  He raised his blond brows—and similar though their faces were, that simple gesture was so different from Peter’s. “Nice legs.”

  “No, I mean —” The problem was, I didn’t know exactly what I meant. “Is she a very good actress?”

  He laughed.

  “Is she a very bad actress?”

  “Not the worst I’ve ever seen,” he said generously.

  I thought this over. One thing I was pretty sure of: I didn’t believe Todd played a knowing part in any conspiracy. He had been hand picked to be part of this production, which meant he had a role to play—and I didn’t think it was that of “David Wolf.” I said slowly, “How well did you know Peter? Back in the old days, I mean?”

  Todd shrugged. “We rubbed along all right. Did a lot of shoots together where they wanted brothers or lookalikes.” He reached for his cup. “Don’t think anyone really knew Pierce—was really close to him, other than Chantal.”

  Chantal? Right. Catriona’s youthful alias. “How did you get on with Chantal?”

  He grinned that cheeky grin. “Now there was a bit of all right!”

  I said, “Would you have any reason to want Peter dead?”

  “What?” The tea sloshed out of his cup onto the table. He gaped at me.

  I put a hand up quickly. “I mean, could someone conceivably make it look like there was an old grudge between you and Peter? Did you ever have a run-in —?”

  “’ad lots of run-ins, luv.” Todd looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Nothing serious, mind. Butted ’eads a few times, ’sall. It was mostly the drink. I drank a fair bit in those days.”

  As opposed to now? Oh Lord.

  “Did you know a man by the name of Gordon Roget?”

  He frowned into some faded distance. “Dunno. Maybe. A friend of Chantal and Pierce’s, was ’e?”

  “Yes. Very likely.”

  He smiled. “Are you playing Sherlock ’olmes, luv? Recognize the signs.” He tapped his forehead. “Seen a lot of detective films.”

  The theory that had come to me was so labyrinthine I could hardly credit it, but if it were true that Gordon Roget had financed a fake film production in order to camouflage murdering Peter, then handpicking Todd to provide the handy scapegoat wasn’t so far out.

  I remembered Peter talking about Roget’s originally coming up with the idea for stealing the Serpent’s Egg from Topkapi Palace. Initially Peter had thought the idea absurd and outrageous, but ultimately they had been successful—maybe because it was such an outrageous idea. Equally outrageous had been Roget’s double-cross of his criminal partners, yet he had been successful in that as well. And this murder plot had that same byzantine handprint all over it.

  But how did I prove any of it?

  The only immediate thing I could think of was going straight to Angela Hornsby and telling her what I knew. If she believed me, that would probably send Roget back into flight. Unless she already knew of her lover’s unsavory past…but that seemed unlikely. The Honourable Angela just didn’t seem like the type to condone murder.

  I said, belatedly answering Todd, “Not really sleuthing, no. But if I were you, I’d be careful to have someone with me all the time.”

  His face lit up—apparently this wasn�
�t nearly the bad news I’d thought it might be. In fact, Todd seemed flattered. “You think someone will try and snuff me?”

  I replied, “No, I think someone will try to frame you for murder.”

  ******

  Sally was in her garden when I arrived at the vicarage to phone Laurel back. She sent me inside, and I left her dividing forsythia.

  I’d forgotten the time difference, and my brother Clark was none too thrilled to be awoken at three o’clock in the morning.

  “For God’s sake, Grace. You scared the hell out of us,” my mild-mannered brother said for the third time. “We thought something had happened to you.”

  “Sorry, I just forgot the time difference,” I apologized yet again—this time to static. Then Laurel got on the phone sounding equally groggy, but less annoyed about it.

  “No, really,” I assured her. “Everything is fine on this end. Did you find something out?”

  “Yes, but it’s not what you thought. Miles Friedman was married to a TV actress named Elise Andrews. The marriage lasted just over two years. They divorced and she moved back to Minnesota. And she’s still there. She owns a gourmet cookie company. She’s apparently hugely successful—and she’s definitely still alive.”

  “You’re kidding.” Not that I begrudged Elise Andrews her wealth, health, and happiness, but I had been convinced that the answer to who wanted Miles dead had to do with his romantic past, and for some reason—I wasn’t even sure why now—I’d been certain his single stab at matrimony was a factor in it.

  “Well, you weren’t totally wrong,” my sister-in-law said. “The reason Elise and Miles got divorced was because he apparently had a fling with a barely legal teen actress by the name of Jonnie Alison. She starred on a show called Dusted. It was about a witch who worked as a housekeeper for a cop with three adorable children.”

  “I loved that show,” I said.

  “Me too. Clark said you weren’t allowed to watch it.” Laurel smothered a yawn unsuccessfully. “Anyway, it sounds to me like Jonnie Alison was a fragile kid to begin with, but from everything I read, and Callie and I read a lot—believe me, you owe us big time—Jonnie had a problem with pills and alcohol. And getting in the emotional deep end with Friedman was probably the worst mistake she could have made.”

  “She committed suicide, didn’t she?”

  “Probably. It was ruled accidental death, but the tabloids never let go of the suicide theory, and in all honesty, they were probably right. She washed down a bottle of Valium with half a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Anyway, Jonnie Alison was her stage name. Her real name was Noreen Edam.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “How can I help you, Grace?” Brian asked formally, when I was shown into his office. After leaving Sally’s I’d headed straight for the police station. I’d asked for Chief Constable Heron, but he was not in, and I braced myself to face Brian.

  I could see by his expression that it was going to be as uncomfortable as I’d feared. He was as cool and distant as he’d been when we first met just over six months earlier. He had been writing when the door opened, and he gestured with his pen to the chair in front of his desk.

  Of course I understood that some of this was hurt on his part—and an injured ego—but he did care for me. I knew…because I cared for him as well.

  I sat down in the chair. “I think I know who killed Mona, and I believe it really was a mistake.”

  He looked singularly unimpressed. “Go on.”

  And go on I did. Brian listened politely to my information about Jonnie Alison and her ill-fated affair with Miles Friedman, about her overdose death, and the fact that Jonnie Alison and Noreen Edam were one and the same.

  “That’s all very interesting,” Brian said when I’d finished. “But it’s hardly enough for an arrest. We need more than a motive.”

  “But you have more. Norton hates Miles. He makes no attempt to conceal it, and he’s obviously guilt-stricken over Mona’s death.”

  Brian inquired, “And was it obvious to you that he was guilt-stricken before you heard about his sister’s overdose? Or did you merely believe he was upset about Ms. Hotchkiss’s death like everyone else?”

  Ms. Hotchkiss? It seemed strange to think of Mona so formally. I bit my lip. He did have a point. I hadn’t placed any sinister significance on Norton’s obvious upset until I had deduced that he killed Mona. I was reinterpreting his behavior now—which didn’t change the fact that I was convinced I was right.

  “I don’t think he’s just upset, I think he’s borderline distraught.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid for his life,” Brian said evenly. “After all, there’s a killer loose on your set. The Hotchkiss woman was definitely poisoned. Her flask contained enough potassium cyanide to wipe out the entire cast and crew.”

  “It’s more than that. I know it is, Brian.”

  He appeared unmoved. So I told him about the brakes on Miles’s car failing twice before we had left the States.

  “Have the brakes on Friedman’s rental car been tampered with here?” he asked.

  “No. But they wouldn’t be. We all drive together to and from location. There would be no way of knowing who might be in the car with Miles. Norton’s not a homicidal maniac. I think he’s suffering horribly over killing Mona.”

  “Before you go around stating that as fact, were the brakes on Friedman’s car examined?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sighed—and not patiently. “So again, this is speculation. There’s no evidence that Friedman’s brakes were tampered with, and there’s no evidence that he was the intended victim of the poison the Hotchkiss woman ingested. You’re assuming that this is the case.”

  “I’m not assuming that Miles was hit over the head. Someone attacked him after Mona died.”

  “He wasn’t killed though, was he?”

  “Only because there wasn’t time. I walked outside and interrupted Miles’s attacker.” Despite my good intentions, my voice was rising slightly.

  And Brian’s voice rose in answer. “He could have been the victim of a mugging.”

  “Then why wasn’t he mugged? His wallet was still there, his car keys—his car —”

  He threw down the pen. “Because there wasn’t time! Because you walked outside and interrupted the attack!” His face was flushed with an anger that I knew had nothing to do with what we were discussing.

  “Fine, Brian,” I snapped, rising. “Apparently you’ve got it all worked out. I suppose you think Peter knocked Miles out and poisoned Mona as well.”

  His face tightened.

  I walked toward the door. He said curtly, “I’ll talk to Edam of course. We’re going to be speaking to everyone, naturally. It’s a murder inquiry.” He managed to add, as though the words choked him, “Thank you for this information.”

  *****

  After that encounter it was clear to me that there was no point talking to Brian about my suspicions regarding George Robinson. Which left me…totally at a loss. I couldn’t stand by and let Peter be persuaded into killing someone, but equally I couldn’t contemplate giving information to the police that might result in his arrest. Because if anyone deserved to meet up with Nemesis, it was Gordon Roget. And in this case I believed Nemesis was a red-haired Scottish woman with a very long memory.

  Debating my limited options, I returned to the inn, and ran into Roberta and Tracy in the lobby.

  Roberta hailed me immediately. “Do you know anything about this? We’ve been asked by the police not to arrange any flights home —”

  “Mona was murdered,” I said, and Roberta swayed as though I’d punched her. Apparently I was the only one who went around seeing sinister figures behind every suspicious death.

  Tracy just stared at me with those arctic blue eyes. “Why aren’t the cops questioning us if that’s the case?”

  “I think they’d only just received the autopsy report,” I told her. “I wouldn’t
be surprised if they were on their way over now.”

  “Wow,” she said, flipping her long blond hair behind her shoulder. “This has certainly been one interesting gig.” She sauntered off to the taproom.

  “Oh my God,” Roberta moaned. “How does this work? We cannot stay here for weeks while the police investigate a murder. We’ve got to get these people out of here. Miles and I have spent the entire morning trying to explain to SAG and the IATSE and every other union and the equipment rental companies and the hotel and the airlines what’s going on. We’re going to be ruined. Personally and professionally —”

  “Where’s Norton?” I interrupted.

  She broke off what she was saying, giving me a strange look. “Upstairs packing. I saw him a little while ago. He’s insisting that he’s leaving, that the police can’t force us to stay.”

  “Where’s Miles?”

  She gestured to the bar. “In there. We may as well join him. I could use a drink after the morning I’ve had. And you look like you could too.”

  I let myself be led into the bar, and ordered a round for everyone while I tried to think what to do. Now that Mona’s death had been ruled homicide, I knew the police would be arriving on the scene momentarily. I also knew Brian was too conscientious to ignore everything I’d told him, no matter how angry he was with me, and Norton did not look to me like he could withstand serious police questioning for long; so perhaps all I had to do was keep Norton away from Miles for the next few hours.

  The barmaid delivered the drinks to our table, and Miles lifted his glass and said, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” He had clearly been delivering toasts for a while. So there went Plan B—which was to tell Miles I thought Norton might want to kill him. Even with Miles sober, I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea. I could tell Todd perhaps, and ask for his help. I could even tell Roberta, but I had no way of knowing how any of them might react if, or when I revealed that I believed Norton was a murderer.

  “John Huston you are not,” Roberta told Miles.