Docketful of Poesy Read online

  I closed the door, locked it, and undressed. Climbing into bed I briefly examined the pages Walter had written, made a few changes, and faced the fact that barring rewriting the entire script from beginning to end, I was going to have to live with the portrayal of my life as some kind of cheap romantic suspense flick. I put the script aside, and sorted through the books stacked on the night table, including the two novelized biographies of Laetitia Landon: Letty Landon by Helen Ashton, and L.E.L.: A Mystery of the Thirties by D.E. Enfield. I picked up Enfield’s book and flipped through it sleepily. The politely smiling portrait of Landon flashed past.

  There were also two mysteries inspired by Landon’s life, but I’d been unable to find copies of them so far: Eight Weeks by Clyde Chantler, and The Golden Violet by Joseph Shearing, better known as Marjorie Bowen. That was one the many pen names of the prolific Margaret Gabrielle Vere Campbell Long, a fascinating if somewhat enigmatic figure in her own right. Novelist, biographer, dramatist, children’s writer, Bowen wrote over one hundred and fifty novels, many of them tales of Gothic horror and the supernatural.

  Landon seemed the perfect subject for an author, who also seemed unable to find love and unerringly chose the wrong man again and again. Bowen, however, had managed to sublimate the personal for the professional satisfaction of her writing career.

  That night though, I didn’t have the patience for women making tragic choices in their personal lives, so I picked up Feldman’s anthology and browsed the treasury of poems inside until my eyes grew heavy….

  I woke to the sound of muffled talking. The hall light shone beneath the door, and I could hear two voices, male and female. I lay there for a moment blinking sleepily, trying to make out the words. Although I couldn’t figure out what was being said, the tone of voice the two were using was not casual—in fact, something about their intensity got me out of bed and over to the door before I’d really thought about it. Yes, by now the snooping reflex was well ingrained.

  Pressing an ear against the wood I could hear much more clearly.

  “You worry too much,” a male voice said. American, deep, vaguely familiar. Miles? Norton Edam? Neither of them had arrived as far as I knew—unless it was after I’d retired.

  The second speaker responded, “And you don’t worry enough. You just figure everyone else will clean up the mess.” That was Roberta. I recognized her husky tones immediately even though she was keeping her voice low.

  “Don’t lose your head, Robbie. There’s a lot at stake here—for me and you.”

  Quite shamelessly, I went on eavesdropping as Roberta answered, but I couldn’t make out what she said.

  The man answered, “Of course it was an accident. What do you think it was? Murder?” His voice faded.

  I eased open the door and peeked out into the hall. It was empty.

  I waited a few minutes more but heard nothing. I was just starting to close the door when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I waited, watching the head of the stairs, and Tracy appeared. She was wearing jeans and a short, tight leather jacket—the most clothes I’d seen on her yet.

  Feeling very silly I stood motionless, afraid to close the cracked-open door and bring attention to the fact that I’d been spying into the hallway. Tracy never noticed.

  She yawned widely, unlocked her room, and went inside. The door clicked shut behind her.

  I closed my own door and went back to bed, though it was some time before I drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  We began filming the exterior of Rogue’s Gallery at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. By nine o’clock I was sure that show business was no business—for me.

  The day’s shooting started with watching the stuntwoman drive a Mini identical to the one used in the States down the lane, and pull up under the trees in front of Craddock House. I’m sorry to say it was no more fascinating in the English Lake District than it had been in Tehachapi—although the scenery was certainly nicer.

  At least everything was moving swiftly. The stuntwoman was timed and then the drive was filmed. Then it was Tracy’s turn. She replaced the stuntwoman in the car and practiced getting out of the Mini and walking up to the front door of Rogue’s Gallery. She walked like a model strutting down a catwalk, and even though I told myself it didn’t matter, it drove me nuts. No one was going to mistake Tracy for a high school English teacher—unless she was a teacher who supplemented her income in ways guaranteed to go unapproved by the PTA.

  “You’re sniffing,” Peter remarked, joining me at the picture window of his living room where I gazed down at the scene below. He handed me a cup of tea.

  “I’m what?”

  He gave a little disapproving sniff. “Like Jane Eyre when Mr. Rochester was telling her things she didn’t like to hear.”

  I laughed reluctantly. He sipped from his own cup. Having spent the previous night getting Rogue’s Gallery in shape to open this morning, he had only risen a short time before the camera crew arrived. He wore only Levis, despite the chilly morning. His hair was ruffled, and he smelled tantalizingly warm and male.

  “Who’s that?” Peter nodded at Miles Friedman striding through the immaculate front garden, cowboy hat on his head, shouting orders as he went.

  “That’s the director.”

  “He looks like it.”

  Miles had arrived during the night—and as I watched him talking to Tracy, I thought I had a good idea whom Roberta had been talking to in the hallway at two o’clock in the morning. “Apparently he’s a Hollywood legend, but not for his filmmaking.”

  He drained his teacup. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’ve an appointment with the aide to the Right Honourable Angela Hornsby.”

  “Who?”

  “Our new neighbor; you can’t have missed the talk last night about our new lady MP. She’s taken the old Monkton Estate.”

  Actually, between jet lag and Irish coffees, it seemed I had missed one or two points of interest. “My goodness, that house sees a lot of traffic. The estate agents should install a revolving door.”

  “Apparently the Honourable Angela is planning to furnish the old place with antiques supplied by local dealers. Very politic of her.”

  “Very. Is she still campaigning or something?”

  He ignored this, giving me a quick kiss and disappearing into his bedroom. I returned to watching the circus below while I listened to Peter moving around, opening and closing drawers and the armoire door.

  I thought again of that odd, disjointed conversation I had heard between Roberta and Miles. Of course it was an accident. What do you think it was? Murder? It seemed to me that the only thing they could have been talking about was Walter’s death. Apparently Roberta feared that it might be something beyond the accident it appeared to be—she had intimated as much to me back in Los Angeles. Could Walter’s death have been the terrible consequence of someone’s attempt to eliminate Peter?

  From the little I’d learned about Walter he didn’t seem the kind of person to inspire murder in the hearts of his fellows. Mostly he just seemed to inspire irritation.

  But unless someone had actually followed Peter to Los Angeles, no one could have known he was there—certainly not in time to arrange to kill him. I knew Peter hadn’t told anyone about his arrival, because I’d been with him from the moment he left the airport. And why would someone bother trying to make an attempt on Peter’s life look like a traffic accident when they hadn’t bothered to make the previous attack look like anything but what it was?

  The police certainly hadn’t seemed to find anything suspicious in Walter’s death—at least, nothing more suspicious than what it was on the surface: a hit and run.

  So…really, the strangest part of all this was that Roberta would leap to the conclusion that Walter had been murdered. Surely that wasn’t the normal first conclusion to draw when hearing of someone being struck by a car? But thinking back on my fading recollection of that overheard conversation, that did seem to be what Roberta feared. U
nless I had entirely misunderstood her, but what else could she have been talking about? Surely a discussion about Miles making advances to his female stars or equipment malfunctions wouldn’t involve the mention of murder?

  I finished my tea, noticing that production seemed to have halted. Miles and Roberta were in conference again, and it looked like another animated one.

  “I’m going downstairs,” I called, and Peter called back something vague.

  Todd was the first person I met in the front garden.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Bad news,” he informed me briefly, his mouth full of some kind of pastry. “The bird playing the Honourable Jacinda ’ad some problem with her passport. She can’t get into the country.”

  “What will they do?”

  A little gust of crumbs flew my way. “Hire local talent, I s’pose.” He didn’t seem worried about it.

  We stood around a while more—a great deal of making a movie seems to involve standing around and waiting—and then Miles and Roberta seemed to come to some agreement. Roberta looked around, spotted me, and approached. The tinted glasses veiled her eyes, but I thought I recognized that expression, and braced accordingly.

  “Grace, do you think if you were to ask Peter very, very nicely he might consider letting us shoot inside Rogue’s Gallery?”

  “I don’t think I have that much niceness in me,” I said.

  She waved that aside. “It would save us so much time and money because either we’ve got to scout another suitable interior location or we’ve got to build a set, and none of them are going to be nearly as perfect as…well, the real thing.”

  “But you already knew that.” I was genuinely puzzled. Though they were ostensibly on a shoestring budget, Kismet Productions seemed to have unlimited funds when necessary for things like moving the filming overseas. Roberta and Miles seemed to be reasonably experienced in some ways, but in others…they seemed to be making it up as they went along. It was all so odd.

  “Yes,” Roberta said. “And we can make it work if we have to, but it would be so much nicer all around if we could actually shoot in there.”

  “Peter will never go for it,” I told her.

  “Why not? We pay well. Very well, as you can testify.”

  “Money isn’t an issue for Peter.”

  She smiled a tight little smile. “Money is an issue for everyone. Take it from me.”

  We fell silent as the filming recommenced. I could feel her buzzing with unspoken annoyance at my uncooperativeness, but I didn’t have to ask Peter to know that never in a million years would he okay filming inside Rogue’s Gallery. He hadn’t been thrilled about them filming the outside.

  “Oh, for chrissake!” Miles suddenly yelled. “Cut!” He began shouting as a red Mercedes drove down the lane and pulled up beneath the trees on the other side of the road. “Pammy! Pammy, you’re supposed to have these cowboys under control!” And to the cowboys in question, “You’re not crosswalk attendants for chrissake! You’re supposed to be blocking traffic! What the hell’s going on?”

  Pammy clicked off her walkie-talkie and trotted over to deal with the latest crisis.

  “We couldn’t stop him!” yelled Ted—one of the crew who also functioned as a stuntman. “Says he’s working for the government.”

  The entire set stood in silence as an elegant young man carrying a briefcase got out of the Mercedes and walked quickly up the flagstone steps toward the shop, deprecatingly eyeing the cameras, crew, and milling cast members staring back at him. Bells jingled as he stepped inside the shop.

  “Get that road blocked off!” Miles roared. “I don’t care if you have to park one of the vans across it. This would never happen in L.A.!”

  “We’ve got it under control, Miles,” Pammy called over her shoulder.

  The crew moved to cordon off the road, and I winced, imagining Peter’s view on that.

  While the crew was busily cutting off all access to the shop, the assistant director ran inside, verified that no one would come out, and Tracy and Todd began filming a scene where Peter and Grace argue over who knew what, and then fall into a long passionate kiss. Originally the scene was supposed to take place within Rogue’s Gallery, but the decision had been made to move it to the front garden.

  Tracy began running her dialogue—most of it things I would never have said if my life had depended on it—finally ending, “But you can’t just let these miscreants take what they want. You can’t give in to them!”

  “Miscreants.” As if! Walter Christie had formed the most singular notion of the way I talked.

  “I admire your spirit,” Todd said in character as Peter. He cocked a brow—and for an instant he truly seemed to be channeling Peter. “In fact, I admire many, many things about you, Faith Bolton!”

  He swept Tracy into a passionate embrace and they began kissing each other in a way that frankly looked more like space aliens devouring an enemy species.

  The rest of the cast and crew observed silently until finally Todd broke away gasping for breath. “Blimey!” he said, and there was laughter and a smattering of applause. Miles yelled, “Cut,” and everyone looked sheepish. Tracy was grinning widely.

  It was strange to me how disjointed the filming process was. Going by what Roberta had told me, half the scenes were to be filmed out of order. And imagine trying to act out an intimate moment with a giant camera just a few inches away—not to mention all those lights and all those interested observers. It was amazing to me than any actor could keep his focus or that any film had even a semblance of ambiance or mood.

  Tracy and Todd went through the scene again, kissing each other with nearly as much fervor the second time around. Miles yelled irritably to cut and print, and it was time to break while the cameras and equipment were repositioned on the far side of the garden. Tracy and Todd each had a costume change. Todd disappeared inside one of the trailers being used to haul equipment.

  Tracy, her next outfit draped over her arm, tapped on the door of Rogue’s Gallery. She tried the handle and the door swung open with a cheerful jingle of bells. “Hello?” she called. “Anyone at home?” She slipped inside, closed the door

  I looked down at the shooting script. I reminded myself that it would be silly to be disturbed by Tracy’s transparent behavior; Peter had had a lifetime of that. If anything, he’d likely find her a pest.

  “Grace!” someone shouted from behind me.

  I turned—accurately, we all turned—in time to see a young, very blond woman in thigh-high boots hoofing down the road, eluding the crew members trying to keep her back.

  I had to admit it was the voice I recognized, because the woman looked like no one I knew.

  “Grace!” she yelled again, sprinting away from her pursuers. “It’s me!”

  “Cordelia?” I hurried across the lawn, waving off the crew members moving to intercept my young friend. “What are you doing here?” A foot or two from her, I blinked, taking in the long blond hair, Egyptian-style eyeliner, and scarlet leather boots. On the bright side, she wasn’t wearing anything with skulls on it, and that was an improvement from the last time I’d seen her.

  “I heard you were back!” We hugged. “I’m down for the weekend.”

  “Down from where?”

  “Chiswick. London. I’m attending the Arts Educational School until I’m old enough for RADA in July.”

  “RADA? The acting school? I thought you were going to be a writer?”

  “I am. A writer and an actress.” She offered a sunny smile.

  It was hard to imagine Lady Vee sanctioning a career on the stage, but at the same time she had never had a lot of time or energy—or patience—for her seventeen-year-old great- niece. Which is how I’d ended up spending so much time with Cordelia Dumas. At first it had been something along the lines of paid—well, bribed—chaperone, but eventually I’d grown fond of the kid. She was smart and funny—insecure and boy-crazy too, but those were things I planned on helping her grow ou
t of.

  We chatted for a few moments and then I noticed that Tracy had still not come out of the shop, and I suggested that Cordelia and I go inside so we could continue catching up upstairs.

  I spotted Tracy immediately. She had changed into a very short, pink, gauzy dress—rather pretty if you didn’t mind wearing your slip in public. She looked up from a display of Victorian chimney pots as Cordelia and I entered. I nodded politely. She smiled with her mouth, but her eyes stayed cool.

  At the far end of the shop I could see Peter with the elegant young man seriously discussing a human-sized pair of plaster, scrim, and horsehair angel wings mounted on the wall. The wings were from an old abbey, and Peter had them astronomically priced. It looked to me as if he finally might be about to make a sale. I moved down another aisle with Cordelia where I could keep unobtrusive watch on both Tracy and Peter.

  “Who’s that?” Cordelia whispered, nodding to where Tracy stood still frowning over chimney pots.

  “That, my dear, is the new and improved Grace Hollister.”

  Cordelia giggled. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  “Speaking of which…”

  “Oh, it’s for a role in Uncle Vanya. But I like it.”

  I protested—knowing I sounded like I’d been boning up on the Official Guide to Adulthood, “But your own hair is so beautiful.”

  Cordelia tossed her head—and the artificial golden locks. “I know. I feel like a change. It’s a woman’s prerogative.”

  “So are tattoos and permanent makeup, but I’m telling you now, not every prerogative is worth exercising.”

  Cordelia just giggled. “Who are we spying on?” she whispered. “Him or her?”

  “We’re not spying on either of them,” I whispered back. “What an idea!” I could hear the elegant young man talking to Peter about dates. Apparently the lady MP was getting married in the near future. Peter jotted down some notes. He was being more polite than usual, so I knew the MP was going to be the proud owner of some very fine and very expensive pieces of furniture in addition to the magnificent angel wings.