I watched him being pleasant with my parents, watched the warm welcome they extended him, and I couldn’t help thinking how much simpler my life would be….
“So where are you taking me tonight?” Brian inquired as we walked outside to my car.
“Mélisse on Wilshire Boulevard. And, no, before you ask, it’s not Mexican. Try not to be too disappointed.”
“I am disappointed,” he said. “I suspect some addictive substance in that salsa. But it’s all right, I had tacos for lunch today.”
I laughed, unlocking my car door. Yes, it was very easy with Brian.
Mélisse Restaurant is supposed to be one of the most romantic dining spots in Los Angeles, although this was not why I had picked it. At least I didn’t think that was why I had picked it. While I would never consider myself a foodie, I had gained new appreciation and knowledge of food through my relationship with Peter—and I say this as a woman who has battled her weight since adolescence.
The food at Mélisse is traditional French with a California flair; the wine list is fabulous, and the setting comfortably chic. We were seated quickly. We ordered wine, and Brian asked, “How’s the research coming?”
My mother’s words in mind, I responded, “It’s fascinating.”
“Yes?”
“Absolutely. Maybe I’m crazy but I find research seductive. I think I enjoy it more than the writing, to tell you the truth.” I was supposed to be starting work on a book about the premier female poets of the Romantic period, but so far I’d been unable to whittle down the list of potential candidates to a realistic size.
And right on cue Brian asked, “Have you settled on who you’ll be writing about?”
“Not finally, no. It would be easier to go with the obvious choices: Felicia Hemans, Anna Laetitia Barbauld, Charlotte Smith….”
He’d heard this all a dozen times, of course. He said mildly, “You wouldn’t want to do the easy thing.”
“Ha. It’s not just a matter of doing the easy thing. It’s ground that’s been covered, of course, but well worth re-examining. The thing is…”
I paused; Brian looked inquiringly.
“I feel terrible admitting this, but I don’t feel inspired by these women the way I feel inspired by the works of Byron or Shelley or Keats. It seems disloyal to say it, but it’s the truth.”
“That’s because you’ve a soft spot for villains.”
I shook my head, and Brian said, “All right, remind me why you’re writing this book again?”
I leaned forward on my elbows. Brian put a hand out to steady the table. I do tend to get a little carried away once I get going. “To begin with, it’s incredible to me that as well respected and popular as these women were during their own writing careers, they’re virtually unheard of now. As well-read as I am in the Romantic period, even I’d heard of almost none of them before I began researching this book. They aren’t even listed as minor poets. It’s as though they never existed.”
“Maybe their work doesn’t stand the test of time.”
“But it does. That’s the thing. These are smart, talented, often courageous women who deserve to be remembered for their contribution to literature. They deserve our respect.”
“Is respect a substitute for passion?”
I stared at him. “No,” I said slowly. “It’s not.”
Brian looked a little puzzled, although he smiled. Our server came then and we ordered our meals, I opting for morel-crusted imported Dover sole, and Brian deciding on the dry-aged Cote de Boeuf Roti.
“How was the conference?” I inquired after our wineglasses were replenished and our server had departed once more.
He settled back in his chair. “Today it was mostly discussion of the UNESCO and Unidroit multilateral treaties.”
“Ah.”
Brian grinned. “It’s been interesting, but I admit I’m looking forward to going home. Any idea about when you’re returning to Innisdale?”
Realizing to my surprise that I had come to a decision, I said, “I’m probably going to book my flight tomorrow.” His smile caught me off-guard. “I—it’s time I was getting back. I did hear this afternoon from Roberta Lom, the producer of Dangerous to Know, and she’s invited me out to the set tomorrow. They’re filming in Tehachapi, of all places.”
“What’s Tehachapi?”
“About as far away from the English Lake District as you can get—although it’s apparently very green this time of year. I can’t imagine a small indie film company has much of a budget, so shooting on location is out. I mean shooting on the actual location—not that anyone does anymore. I think everyone goes to New Zealand or Romania nowadays.”
“Er…right,” Brian said cautiously. “I thought they simply used computers.”
“Maybe they do. I’m not exactly an expert.” Noticing I was about to monopolize the conversation again, I turned our talk back to Brian’s conference.
Our meals came, and for a brief time we were pleasantly occupied with food. Peter had taught me to give a fine meal the appreciation it’s due, and in fact, he’d have been right at home in this place with its muted, romantic lighting, the gleaming Riedel flatware and Limoges china. Peter valued what he referred to as “life’s little civilities” as much as he respected wonderful food, and my food that night was wonderful indeed: potato gnocchi, king oyster mushrooms, and jus de cuisson truffée. One melting bite of sole, and I realized that Mélisse’s awards and reviews were well earned.
Blinking back the haze of foodie fever, I became aware that Brian was studying me with a rather odd expression on his face.
“Is something wrong?” I glanced at his plate. Potato-leek torte, wild mushrooms, braised Boston lettuce: it all looked perfect to me. It smelled perfect, too.
Brian’s gaze met mine and sheared away. “I have something to tell you, and I’ve been trying to find the right way to say it.”
A chill of premonition slithered down my spine. “What is it? Just tell me.”
“I received a phone call this afternoon from Chief Constable Heron.”
Over the past two years I had come to think of Innisdale’s chief constable as a friend—or at least as close a friend as a copper could be to a woman whose intended was a former villain.
Staring at Brian’s grave face I told myself that if something…bad had happened, Heron would call me directly. He wouldn’t leave it to Brian to break truly bad news to me, would he?
But it was clearly not tidings of great joy about to be delivered.
My heart slamming against my breastbone in silent panic, I sat very still, very straight, waiting to hear whatever this was. “And?” I asked, dry-mouthed.
“Apparently someone tried to kill Peter Fox this morning.”
Did the room’s lighting suddenly dim? I managed, “Is he all right?
Brian hesitated, and I barely felt the pain of my nails sinking into my clenched hands. It was all I could do not to scream at him. He said, after what felt like an eternity, “No one knows. He’s disappeared.”
Chapter Two
Pursued closely by the black van, the blue BMC Mini swerved sharply, spun out, and skidded to a halt in the middle of the muddy side road. The van, narrowly missing crashing into the smaller car, rocked to a stop. Its doors flew open and two men wearing ski masks and waving semi-automatic weapons jumped out and ran to the Mini. They dragged the driver, a tall blonde woman, out of the car.
“Where is he? Where’s David Wolf?” yelled one of the masked men. He shook the woman.
Roberta had informed me that morning that because of possible liability issues all of the characters in Dangerous to Know were getting name changes. Peter Fox was now David Wolf. I was Faith Bolton. Needless to say, this was not a documentary. Maybe it was a dramatization, but I had the sinking feeling that any resemblance to living persons, places or actual events was entirely coincidental.
The man loosed off a short burst of gunfire into the air.
The woman and the other m
asked man stopped tussling and stared at him in astonishment.
“Cut!” yelled a stocky, middle-aged man in a cowboy hat. Director Miles Friedman left the safety of a grassy verge well to the side of the action. “For chrissake, cut! Pammy, what the hell was that?”
Pammy Dickens, the assistant director, put her hands wide in an open shrug.
Miles began to swear lengthily.
“Uh-oh,” murmured Roberta Lom, standing next to me on our vantage point behind the silent camera. The rest of the cast and crew of Dangerous to Know milled about the trailers and equipment stationed on the wildflower-sprinkled hillside. Roberta, the film’s producer, was a tall, sleek, gently aged brunette. She smiled at me—she had a flawless smile. “It’s pretty tedious, isn’t it? Making movies.”
“A little,” I admitted. They had been working since seven o’clock that morning, rehearsing each leg of the car chase at half speed, verifying the “choreography,” then rehearsing again, and then finally shooting at full speed. It was four-thirty now, and as far as I could tell they were only about three-quarters of the way through the scene.
Of course all kinds of things could spoil a scene: the extraneous noise of a diesel truck changing gears on the freeway behind the hills, the cries of a hunting hawk—or things that affected the continuity of a shot like jet trails in the sky.
“That’s one reason I try to avoid visiting the set during shooting.” Her eyes were hazel behind decorative cats-eye glasses. She studied me curiously. “What’s it like seeing a chapter of your own life acted out?”
“It’s interesting,” I said politely. What I was thinking was: Are you serious?
Never mind that it had been autumn and England—and this was winter and obviously Southern California. Never mind that my attackers had been wearing funny Halloween masks, and that the only gun in sight had been a handgun—terrifying for all that, but hardly the mini arsenal the movie bad guys were carrying. No, what really irked me was that I, a medium-sized, thirty-something woman with auburn hair and a fairly decent brain, had been replaced by a tall, thin, platinum blond twenty-something whose dialogue mostly consisted of lines like, “But why is this happening to me?”
A documentary this was most certainly not.
“It wasn’t so tedious yesterday,” said the slim young man with the wispy goatee on my left. Walter Christie was the film’s screenwriter; which was enough to jaundice my view of him. Interestingly, Christie seemed equally unenthusiastic about meeting me—and less inclined to hide it. “You heard about the brakes going out on Miles’s car last night?”
“That was a close call,” agreed Roberta. “I take it the Jag is back in the shop today?” She met my inquiring look. “That vintage Jag is Miles’s pride and joy. He’d just taken it in for a tune-up, so you can imagine how livid he was.”
“The brakes went out?”
“On the Grapevine. Not a road you want to try to tackle without brakes, but Miles was lucky. A trucker saw what was happening and maneuvered his rig in front of the Jag. He was gradually able to slow it down and then finally bring it to a stop.”
“That was lucky.”
The three of us watched the cowboy-hatted director shouting, “Ted, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to fire that thing. Why the hell is it even loaded?” He continued to rant and rave.
“I thought it added to the scene,” the hapless stunt man said.
The director went on yelling while other crew members scurried around looking harassed. “You’re a stuntman. You’re not an actor. You’re not paid to think! For chrissake!” He relieved his feelings at length, ending, “ Okay, people, back to one!”
Walter muttered, “Cinéma Vérité for Dummies.”
“Now, now,” murmured Roberta.
“How’s the camera rig in that car doing?” Miles called, and one of the cameramen gave him thumbs-up.
Miles threw something uncomplimentary over his shoulder, striding back to where the rest of us stood. He pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and took a swig. The stunt people, actors, and crew resumed their positions.
“Miles,” Roberta called, “what about all those skid marks where they practiced turning off the highway onto the dirt road?”
Miles put his flask away and turned back to the deserted highway streaked with myriad skid marks on the faded road. “Don’t waste my time with that stuff, Robbie. We can fix it in post.” He glanced upwards at the somber gray sky. High above, predatory black specks could be seen circling. “Perfect,” he muttered.
“Miles is winging in the rain,” Walter commented, sotto voce.
Roberta, who had stiffened at Miles’ dismissive tone, smiled unpleasantly. Without looking at Walter, she murmured, “Remind me again of how many screen credits you have, Walter?”
He reddened, and shoved his hands in his jean pockets. Shoulders hunched, he moved away down the line of watching crew members, dollies, and lighting hardware.
“Twerp,” Roberta remarked to no one in particular. Catching my eye, she said, “I guess we seem a little uncivilized compared to academia?”
“Oh no,” I assured her. I didn’t bother to say that some of my most treasured moments in academia made the World Wrestling Federation seem civilized.
“Places! Quiet!” shouted the assistant director. She spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie.
Miles, who had been scowling through the lens of one of the cameras, straightened up. “I want to get some wide profile shots this time around.” Catching my eye, he winked with practiced charm. “Enjoying yourself, Ms. Hollister?”
“It’s a whole new world,” I assured him.
Which was certainly true, if not exactly what the director was asking. I was trying to enjoy myself, but anxiety over Peter was a constant presence in the back of my mind. Brian’s information had been sketchy. Two masked men with shotguns had burst into Rogue’s Gallery in the middle of the afternoon, and opened fire. Luckily no one had been hurt—primarily because the gunmen had a specific target, and that was Peter Fox. They had ignored the screaming, terrified customers, going after Peter with deadly purpose. But Peter had made it to the stockroom in time, slid the bolt on them, and escaped through the passage concealed behind the shelving units. It had not taken the gunmen long to blast through the stockroom door, but long enough. By the time they burst in, it was empty; and whoever they were, they were unacquainted with the secrets of Craddock House and Rogue’s Gallery.
The gunmen had departed, and not long after, the police had arrived. Eventually they had uncovered the entrance to the passageway, but there was no sign of Peter. He had simply disappeared.
“There was no sign that he was…hurt?” I had asked, swallowing on the word.
“Nothing to indicate it,” Brian had reassured me.
And certainly Peter had sounded healthy enough when we’d spoken on the phone, and that call had taken place hours after the shooting at Rogue’s Gallery.
I watched, unseeing, as the van and car reversed and disappeared down the empty highway, followed by a truck with a camera crane mounted on a platform.
“What the hell is going on? Has anyone here ever worked on a film before?” Miles cried. “Pammy, tell them to hold up, we don’t need to reshoot that part!”
The assistant director chased after the truck, screaming into her walkie-talkie.
“What was it like?” Roberta asked suddenly. She nodded after the disappearing vehicles. “Being abducted, I mean.”
“Terrifying.” I said.
She eyed me curiously. “And it all happened like it did in the book?”
“Yes.” If anything, I had toned down actual events for the book. The tentative beginnings of romance with Peter: that had definitely been missing from the book.
As though reading my mind, Roberta said, “And Peter Fox, the antiques dealer and
ex-jewel-thief, that was all true, too?”
“That was true.”
“Truth really is stranger than fiction?” There
was something in Roberta’s tone….
My eyes met hers, and Roberta licked her lips. “He sounds yummy,” she said, and I blinked. It couldn’t possibly work long-distance, could it: that magnetism Peter seemed to hold for the opposite sex?
“Uh, yes. He had his yummy moments,” I said, and could have kicked myself.
“What does he think about this film?”
I said honestly, “I think he hopes it doesn’t bring a lot of the wrong kind of publicity his way.”
She seemed amused. “Is there a wrong kind of publicity? Not in our business.”
We fell silent as the Mini screeched into view, made its turn—barely—and skidded to a stop, mud spraying beneath its tires. The pursuing van banged into it—hard—and the little car bounced a couple of feet, the stuntwoman inside lurching forward.
“Jeeeez,” one of the crew muttered.
Quietly, Miles ordered, “Keep rolling. Keep…the camera…rolling….”
As before, the van doors flew open and the two stuntmen got out, approaching the mini. They dragged the blond stuntwoman out of the car again.
“Where is he? Where’s David Wolf?”
And that was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wasn’t it? I had waited all day for my cell phone to ring with an update from Brian, but there had been nothing. No news was good news, right? I reminded myself of this—and that Peter was very good at taking care of himself.
I kept running our last conversation in my mind, understanding only after the fact what it was that Peter had called to tell me. And maybe if I had shut up about the damned movie—
But, after all, how could I know? It was Peter’s responsibility to have made me understand, wasn’t it? The fact that he had let me rattle on, choosing not to tell me that he had been the target of would-be assassins, surely said more about Peter’s faulty communication skills than mine?
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