High Rhymes and Misdemeanors

by Diana Killian

It was late.

  Grace was sleeping when they reached Rogue’s Gallery. Her neat little head rested comfortably against his shoulder.

  Peter parked and glanced down. She was the tidiest girl he’d ever met; that gorgeous riot of auburn hair always coiled or braided or tied back. Sensible little shoes on her well-grounded feet. Cute little spectacles on her prim little nose. Small, stubborn chin at odds with that cupid’s bow mouth; she looked a bit like a cameo herself.

  Which was all beside the point, the point being…well, he wasn’t sure what the point was. He kept remembering her in that black dress. He kept remembering the feel of her body lying against his, her scent. She was, to quote her dead poets, something of a help and something of a hindrance. Now that he knew what Delon had been hawking, he didn’t need her. In fact, better for her to get clear and stay clear.

  Not that she would be easy to shake. On the topic of The Great Romantics, Miss Hollister herself was a little bit of a fanatic.

  Peter shrugged his shoulder and Grace mumbled protestingly.

  “Rise and shine, Esmeralda.”

  She rubbed her face against his arm, sat up and yawned—covering it with a polite hand.

  “Where are we?”

  “H—back at Craddock House.”

  “That was fast.” She leaned forward staring out the windshield. “Hey, something’s wrong!”

  Peter followed her gaze. Distracted by—well, who knows by what—he had merely glanced at the shop, seeing what he had expected to see. Now he noticed, despite the darkness and the overhanging trees obscuring the view, that the shop window appeared to be boarded up.

  “Bloody hell!” He got out of the Rover and Grace got out with him. “Stay here,” he ordered.

  “Whatever happened, it’s over and done,” Grace pointed out, “if someone’s got around to patching the place up.”

  She was right—which was one more aggravation he didn’t need.

  Peter strode up the walk. The night was cold and heavy with the scent of flowers. Dew sparkled on the grass and limned the leaves in silver moonlight.

  As they reached the shop they could see the bow window was boarded but the front door was intact. Yellow police tape indicated a crime scene.

  Peter unlocked the door, switched on the light. Behind him, Grace gasped.

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh no,” was putting it mildly. It looked like the proverbial bull had been let loose in a china shop. Legs kicking the air, the merry-go-round horse lay on its back in a bed of smashed pottery and broken masks. Shelves had been knocked over—along with about everything else in the place.

  Hundreds, no thousands of pounds worth of damage. He felt light-headed for a moment. It wasn’t so much the money as the wanton destruction of all these beautiful, fragile things.

  Books had been tossed over the balcony above; they lay with pages spread wide like shot birds.

  “Oh Peter,” whispered Grace. Her eyes looked huge and green. Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown… She put her hand on his arm and he had the craziest desire to turn to her for comfort.

  Instead he pulled away, stepped over a smashed Prince of Wales chair and made his way to the stockroom.

  To his relief, the shelf guarding the passageway was still standing, the hidden door, still sealed. His intruder must have been stopped before he made it this far.

  “It can’t have been the same person who killed Danny Delon,” Grace said. “He didn’t know about the passage.”

  Or he had gone in through the front door of the flat. Peter turned and nearly knocked Grace over.

  Steadying her, he moved her aside, headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “The intruder must have triggered the alarm when he broke in,” Grace said from downstairs. “The police must have grabbed him before he could—”

  Before he could break into the flat.

  The door was still standing, still locked tight. Thank Christ. Sanctuary was still his. For a moment Peter stood there, his hand resting against the lacquered door.

  Then he unlocked the door, pushed it wide. Everything was as he had left it.

  “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry,” Grace’s voice drifted up to him. She kept saying that. Oddly, it didn’t bother him. It was almost a comfort to have someone else there to share this disaster.

  He went through the rooms and everything was as they had left it the day before. Grace’s spectacles still lay on the curio table. Her green jumper hung on the back of a chair—and that seemed right, too.

  He went into the kitchen and pressed play on the answering machine. Grace joined him, putting the kettle on.

  “Your insurance will cover this, right?” she asked.

  A tinny unfamiliar female voice interrupted. “Grace? It’s me, Monica. Who’s this Peter Fox? Where the heck is Innisdale? Grace, I’ve got some news. You’re not going to believe it. I don’t know if I believe it. But I want to tell you, not a machine. I’ll ring back.”

  Click.

  At his shoulder, Grace groaned. “Why can she never leave a number?”

  The machine beeped again and Chief Constable Heron’s voice filled the silence.

  “Mr. Fox, this is Chief Constable Heron. We’ve been unable to reach you regarding the damage to your property. Please contact us when you get in.” He looked over at the clock.

  “It’s too late tonight,” Grace interjected. “The morning is soon enough to deal with this mess. There must be something I can do. Can I make you something to eat?”

  There was something vaguely funny about that but he couldn’t think what.

  “I need a drink.” He went into the other room, poured a stiff one.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Grace had out a tin of Belgian chocolate and was heating cocoa.

  “You should eat something,” she told him. She was mothering him. He couldn’t remember that ever happening before. His dear old mum had certainly not thought he needed mothering.

  “I’m fine.”

  She cut a slice of fruitcake, rich with nuts and rum and set it before him.

  “Who do you think it was?” she asked, sitting down across from him.

  “Not Mutt and Jeff.”

  “Our friends the kidnappers?”

  “I’ve got to phone the insurance company.” Peter swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He welcomed the burn. “Sid,” he said abruptly. “Sid something. Hall maybe. I knew I’d seen him before.”

  “Seen who? Who’s Sid Hall?”

  “A little hoodlum with big ideas. The bloke you call the Queen Mother.” Absently he picked up his fork.

  “Sid.” Mentally she matched the name with the little brute she so well remembered. “I remember overhearing him say something about crossing ‘The Man,’” Grace said, carving herself a wedge of cake. “Do you think they could be working for Sweet?”

  “It would explain what they were doing crawling around inside the walls of Penwith Hall.” He rubbed his forehead wearily.

  “Do you think they found it?” Grace asked tentatively. “The set of cameos?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  She covered his hand with hers. A small, soft and unexpectedly strong hand. “It’ll be better in the morning,” she said.

  The heavy-lidded eyes studied her for a long moment, as though he were seeing her for the first time.

  “You could be right,” he said.