Docketful of Poesy Page 8

  “Then why are you prattling about —”

  “I’m not prattling —”

  He said flatly, “There are no balance sheets—no account books—in love.”

  Love? That shut me up—as it was surely intended to do. I was abruptly reminded of a newspaper article I’d read on the plane coming over. No Love for the Sub-prime Borrower had been the heading. You’d have thought a suitable quote from one of my favorite Romantic poets would have occurred.

  I said, “Do you realize how much this place costs? You either really do love me or you’re desperate to get rid of me.”

  “Yes. And yes.” He said. And before I had a chance to question that second yes, he had ushered me inside. And inside was a madhouse. A well-run, genteel madhouse, but it was obvious that the proprietors of The Hound and Harrier had no idea what they had rolled out the red carpet to.

  Luggage was piled everywhere. The lobby was crowded with weary and irritable Californians.

  “Hi!” Tracy Burke called across a small mountain of Tumi bags. She was beaming hello, but it was for Peter’s benefit not mine.

  He gave her one of those professional smiles, and waved a greeting to Mrs. Zinn, the hotel proprietor. Mrs. Zinn greeted him with even more enthusiasm than Tracy, and Peter moved off to speak with her, leaving the rest of us waiting in line to check in.

  “Do you know they have only six bedrooms with adjoining baths?” Tracy inquired sourly. “And apparently they’re all booked!”

  I made a commiserating face.

  Peter returned a few moments later. “It’s all arranged. I’ll take your bags up.”

  “How on earth did you manage this?” I asked eight minutes and two flights of stairs later as he unlocked the door to a lovely room with dark wood furnishings and yellow rose-patterned draperies and easy chair—and a door leading into a private bath.

  “It’s what you’d call the home team advantage,” he said.

  Fresh flowers, chocolates, color TV, and a big, plush toweling robe. I was apparently being treated to the deluxe package.

  “I don’t know what to say.” And for once I really didn’t.

  “Say thank you.” He kissed me. “Say you’re all right now.”

  “I’m all right now. Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you tonight for dinner.” And with that he was gone.

  Resisting the temptation to dump myself into bed and forget about everything for a few hours, I unpacked my bags, took a quick shower, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and headed downstairs. I found Mona, Pammy, Roberta, and Tracy in the hotel bar drinking Irish coffee. Pammy was all in black, as usual. Roberta wore white cowboy boots and white rhinestone glasses. Mona wore a fringed cowboy jacket. Her hair was in two long braids. Tracy was wearing her usual skinny jeans and a flimsy blue beaded blouse—more beads than blouse. They couldn’t have looked more “Hollywood” if they had set out to make a statement.

  “Where’s Peter?” Tracy asked, spotting me.

  I pretended not to hear her in the fuss of taking my chair and greeting the others.

  “Where’s Peter?” Tracy asked again once I had got myself settled.

  I met her wide blue eyes and decided I really didn’t like her. “We’re meeting for dinner later this evening.”

  She nodded, smiled, as though she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  I ordered an Irish coffee and listened to tales of other shoots and other films. It was interesting of course, like hearing a discussion of life on another planet.

  “Are you planning to make a lot of changes to the script?” Mona asked me, catching me studying one of the framed Punch cartoons on the nearby wall.

  “Me?” I turned back to the table to realize they were all looking at me. “No. I might simplify a few things. Fewer explosions. Fewer car chases —” I caught Roberta’s gaze. “No sinking the Derwent Water steamer.”

  “Poor Walter,” Mona murmured. “Such an unhappy soul.”

  “Was he? I never noticed,” Tracy said, absently staring out the stained-glass window at what could be glimpsed of the street outside.

  Roberta said, “I don’t know how you could have missed it. He followed you around like a puppy.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  The other three laughed—not unkindly, but Tracy said defensively, “He didn’t. Whatever you’re thinking is way off base. He was just…sweet. And shy.”

  “Shy?” Mona seemed to consider this. “He was probably just cautious about trespassing on Miles’s territory.”

  Tracy’s head snapped up. She directed a cold look at Mona. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on,” Pammy said. “He never took his eyes off you. Walter, I mean.”

  “That is not true,” Tracy said shortly. “Just drop it will you? I never said more than a dozen words to the guy.”

  None of them said anything for a minute, and then Mona and Roberta caught each other’s eyes and started giggling in a way reminiscent of the little darlings at St. Anne’s Academy for Girls. Pammy joined in a moment later. I wasn’t surprised when Tracy told them—without particular heat but in anatomical detail—what they could do to themselves, and left the table.

  Mona, Pammy, and Roberta eventually dried up. “You must think we’re awful,” Mona said to me, while Roberta sipped her third coffee.

  “Oh, no,” I said cheerfully. They could lampoon Tracy for all I cared. “Are Miles and Tracy in a relationship?”

  “Define relationship,” Roberta said. “If you mean has Miles slept with her, yes. I can’t think of a woman on the set Miles hasn’t slept with.” She added belatedly, “Except you, of course, and that’s probably only a matter of time.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. What I was thinking was, Roberta? Mona? Pammy? All of them?

  “Oh, Miles can be very charming when he tries,” Mona assured me. She winked.

  Roberta giggled at whatever she read in my expression. “In fact, he reminds me of your delicious Mr. Fox. Brothers under the skin.”

  I considered this thought without pleasure. “Has Miles ever been married?” I asked.

  “God, no,” Roberta said.

  “Actually…” Mona said, and Pammy and Roberta stared at her. “He was married. Years ago. When he was first starting out.”

  “You’re kidding. I never knew that,” Pammy said.

  “Her name was Elise…” Mona frowned, trying to remember. “I don’t remember the last name, but she was an actress, naturally. It lasted about a year and a half. She gave up acting—and Miles—and went back to the midwest.”

  “Wow,” Roberta said. “That’s amazing.” Meeting my gaze, she said, “Miles is sort of a legend in Tinsel Town. “

  “Wow is right,” Mona said. But she was staring at the doorway to the taproom.

  We all looked at the man who stood there. For a moment I thought it was Peter. Then he turned our way, waved and moved toward us. It was not Peter, but he could have passed for Peter’s brother. Peter’s twin brother.

  “Wow,” I said.

  Chapter Eight

  “Todd?” Pammy said doubtfully, half-rising. She waved to the man weaving his way through empty tables with that easy grace so like Peter’s. “Todd Downing?”

  “Thass right, luv.” He nodded at all of us. Up close the resemblance was less striking. He was actually classically better-looking than Peter, but his face lacked the character, the intelligence of Peter’s. I could have been a little biased, though.

  Roberta leaned across, offering a hand. “Roberta Lom. I’m producing Dangerous to Know.” She made the rest of the introductions quickly. Todd Downing—as if we couldn’t have guessed—was playing Peter/David in the film.

  “Dangerous to Know. Great title, that. Sounds like a sexy thriller,” Todd said. This was a sore point with me. I had wanted that very title for my book, but the publisher had determined it was overused and that it sounded too much like a sexy thriller, and had gone with Daughter of Time instead. Which m
eant my work was going to be forever ordered in mistake by readers looking for the famous mystery by Josephine Tey.

  Todd grinned broadly at all of us. “Sorry, luv. Didn’t catch your name,” he said to me.

  “Grace Hollister.”

  “The bird who wrote the book!”

  I nodded. He didn’t seem like the type to spend his free time reading, so perhaps he simply had an excellent memory.

  “But what are you doing here?” Roberta asked.

  “Live here, don’t I?” The voice, the accent was entirely different from Peter’s. The differences were fascinating because, if I didn’t look directly at him, if I watched him out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn it was Peter standing there.

  “You live here?” I questioned. I was pretty confident I’d have noticed if Peter had a doppelganger. Surely I hadn’t been gone that long?

  “Thass right, love. Well, not here,” he hastened to add. “London.”

  “But I just left word with your agent yesterday,” Pammy said, exchanging a look with Roberta.

  “Thass right.”

  “But…I’m confused,” Roberta said finally, and she was speaking for all of us. “I thought you were in Vermont or Maine or somewhere doing local theater or off-Broadway. I thought you couldn’t join the production for another week or two.”

  “Dunno know why you that. Summer’s over, love,” Todd informed her kindly. “Been on ’oliday, ’aven’t I?” He looked around, rubbed his hands together. “Who’s ready for another?”

  Todd went to get drinks while Roberta said, “I had no idea he was English.”

  “Neither did I,” Pammy said.

  “You didn’t?” I questioned. That seemed odd to me. But then perhaps producers and assistant directors didn’t have much to do with the casting. Maybe that was just up to the casting director? I really had a very limited understanding of what function each member of the production company served.

  “He’s definitely English,” Mona said. “You could cut that accent with a gardening trowel.”

  “He doesn’t sound anything like Peter,” I said.

  “Doesn’t he?”

  “About as much as Ringo Starr sounds like Cary Grant did.”

  “Yes. Well, his showing up early is one piece of good news, anyway. We can get moving on his scenes right away. That will make Miles happy.” Pammy turned to ask me about possible changes to the shooting script. I had to admit that if we were going to move ahead with Todd’s scenes, I’d want to make a few changes. That was putting it mildly. Walter’s surreal vision of my life started the minute “David” entered the picture—literally.

  Todd returned with a tray of drinks, which he distributed cheerfully. Pulling a chair next to mine, he smiled winningly. “So tell me the story of your life, love. The rest of it, I mean.” He smiled broadly—very unlike Peter’s crooked grin. There was something appealing about Downing, something cheeky but inoffensively friendly.

  We chatted more about the films he’d made, most of them low-budget indie—extremely indie—productions.

  “Do you mostly work in the States or here?” I asked.

  “Mmm. Here mostly.” He laughed cheerfully. “Always enjoy a free ride to the good old U.S. of A. though, don’t I?”

  “How did you find out about the part in Dangerous to Know?”

  “Me agent. They contacted us.”

  “Who did?”

  “Kismet Productions.”

  I nodded. I had no idea how that worked.

  “Bit of a lark, them moving the filming back home,” Todd said. “’ere I was rushing to get ready for a few months out of the country, and it turns out —” He raised both arms indicating the now-packed taproom. Cast and crew members were crowded up at the bar with locals. Tables were filled. Voices and laughter, the scrape of chairs and tables rang off the dark wooden beams above us.

  “How long have you been back?” I asked.

  “Just got back Friday.”

  Which would have been Thursday in the States. The day Walter had been killed, I thought vaguely. Or was I getting confused with the time difference? I wondered if he’d heard about that yet. My question was answered when he said, “I ’eard you lived in the States now?”

  “No, I…I plan on making Britain my home base from now on.”

  But Todd wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the doorway to the bar, and as I followed his gaze, I saw Peter scanning the room and crowded tables. He spotted us and moved forward.

  “Blimey,” Todd exclaimed. “It’s Pierce!” He jumped up and offered a hand as Peter reached our table. “’ow’ve you been, mate? Where’ve you been keepin’ yourself?”

  Peter blinked, and then like someone in a dream, offered a hand. Todd pumped it. “Great to see you, mate!”

  “Yes,” Peter said faintly.

  “Pierce?” I said. Mona, Pammy, and Roberta echoed me like an out-of-step Greek chorus.

  “Pierce Fitzroy,” Todd supplied. “Did some modeling together back in the good old days, eh?”

  “Pierce?” I repeated as Peter drew a chair from another table and sat down next to me. He smelled wonderful. He’d had a shower and he was wearing the aftershave I loved, a sort of spicy bay-rum scent.

  “It was my…er…stage name.”

  “I can see why you’d want to reserve your real name for your life of crime.” I murmured only loud enough for him to hear.

  “What makes you think Peter Fox is my real name?” he murmured back.

  I admit that shut me up for some minutes. When I tuned back in, Todd and Pierce were reliving the highlights of their lives as models. Or rather Todd was reliving them and Pierce endured with stoicism that would have put those old arrow-riddled martyrs to shame.

  “Do you have acting experience, Peter?” Roberta asked.

  “Hey, maybe you can double for Todd while he plays you in the film,” I suggested.

  His eyes slid my way, but he withheld comment.

  “Whatever happened to Chantal?” Todd inquired.

  “Er—we’ve rather lost touch,” Peter said vaguely.

  Todd shook his head. “Terrific girl. Terrific.” He met my eyes and winked. “Scottish bird Pierce used to go with. Did a bit of modeling herself.”

  “I believe we’ve met,” I said. Catriona Ruthven, Peter’s psycho former girlfriend—and partner in his life of crime—was a homicidal Scottish lass with, from what I’d heard, some modeling experience. It wasn’t likely something I would ever be discussing with her. Catriona and I would probably not have been destined for best friends even if Peter had never been part of the mix.

  “Aren’t we going on for dinner?” Peter asked me as Todd rose and asked the table who wanted another round. More cast and crew from the film production company were packing into the taproom along with the locals who had turned out in hopes of catching a glimpse of a few movie stars—or who had heard the news that the production company would be hiring extras.

  “We could order food and eat here,” Roberta suggested. “They must have a pub menu.”

  “Oh, why don’t we!” Mona agreed. “That sounds like fun. I wonder how the vegetable pot pie is?”

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Roberta said. “I heard somewhere that the best food is always pub food.”

  “Thass because you’re too drunk to care what you’re noshin’,” Todd informed her, taking his place on the other side of me.

  Feeling Peter’s look of inquiry, I shrugged. I’d learned more about him from Todd Downing in five minutes than I’d learned in three years from the man himself. Besides, I admit the reminder of Catriona/Chantal hadn’t exactly filled my maidenly breast with fond affection—especially when I recalled how eager and determined he’d been to unload me at the nearest hotel.

  After the usual debate we ordered a selection of pub food and more drinks, and the talk turned inevitably to the following day’s filming.

  There was some question as to whether Miles would arrive in time
, as his flight had been delayed in Washington, D.C. And apparently some cameras and other equipment hadn’t arrived, but the plan was to forge ahead if possible under Pammy’s direction.

  “What would you think about letting us shoot the exterior of Craddock House?” Roberta asked. She had been drinking Irish coffees all afternoon and was enunciating very carefully.

  “Well, the interior’s certainly been shot enough,” I said.

  “Very droll, Miss Hollister,” Peter said—but I could see he was making an effort not to laugh. He said to Roberta, “I’m afraid that might prove to be disruptive to business.”

  “Oh, we’ll pay for any inconvenience,” Roberta said.

  They debated politely, and I listened in on the local conversation flowing around us. It was all the usual kind of thing: the results of the annual flower show—I was delighted to hear that Sally Smithwick, my former landlady, had taken a first in the fiercely competitive roses division; the news that a woman MP had bought a house in the area, and the word that police were attempting to crack down on recent instances of underage drinking and littering. The attack on Peter’s shop was the worst crime in Innisdale since…well, since I’d first arrived nearly three years earlier. Coincidence? I hoped so.

  Our meals came and I ate meat pie and mushy peas in a fog of weariness. Lack of sleep and Irish coffees—viewed askance by the locals—were catching up with me. I stopped listening to the chatter around me, only vaguely aware when Peter finally agreed to the filming of the exterior of Rogue’s Gallery. Mona excused herself, and finally I conceded defeat and said I was going up to my room.

  Peter excused himself as well and walked me upstairs.

  “You know, you could stay the night,” I said as he unlocked the door to my room. “Think how nice it would be not having to worry about villains breaking in and shooting you.”

  “It would be nice,” he agreed. “But I’ve got a hell of a lot to get done before I can open tomorrow morning. It’ll be easier this way.”

  “For whom?”

  He drew me close, kissed me lightly, and put me away from him. “Sweet dreams, Esmerelda.”

  It had been awhile since I’d heard that pet name from him. “Sweet dreams,” I echoed gloomily. I could see the sense of what he was saying, and in fact, I was going to have to take a look at tomorrow’s shooting script before I could turn in, but it didn’t make me feel a lot better. Somehow I hadn’t pictured my first night home in Innisdale with me cuddled up by myself in a hotel bed.