Docketful of Poesy

by Diana Killian

  “Cheers,” said I, handing him a glass of Chivas Regal. “And don’t worry, I wiped that tumbler myself.”

  “I…wasn’t worried,” he said, looking around bemusedly. “What’s all this in aid of?”

  “Turn about is fair play.”

  He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes very blue, his hair falling over his forehead in damp, gold strands. He had shaved and he was wearing one of the hotel’s guest robes. He smelled distractingly of herbal soap and himself.

  “I like the sound of it. I just have no idea what that means.”

  “It means…it’s my turn to…take care of you.” I wished I sounded less defiant and more…seductive. But I wasn’t used to seducing men. Actually, I wasn’t used to taking care of men, either.

  “Ah. The chocolate mousse is for medicinal purposes?” His mouth was twitching with that old secret amusement as he brought the glass of whisky to his lips, and despite myself, my heart sped up.

  “They didn’t have chocolate hazelnut cake.”

  “What sort of establishment is this?” Peter demanded, glancing around with great displeasure.

  I bit back a laugh. “Do you remember what you served me the afternoon I arrived at Rogue’s Gallery to tell you I thought someone was trying to kill you?”

  His face changed. Softened. “Tea and cake. What a sentimental girl you are, Miss Hollister.”

  I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “I figured you’d prefer whisky to tea.”

  “You figured correctly.” He tossed off the rest of his drink, set the glass aside, and took me unhurriedly into his arms. “You’re glad to see me, then?”

  I was not a woman given to rolling my eyes, but I rolled them then. “Need you ask?”

  “Sometimes, yes,” Peter said quite seriously. He kissed me then, his mouth warm and smoky with the taste of whisky; and I understood, as much as I liked Brian, as attractive as he was, what the difference was. And, alas, it had nothing to do with still wanting Peter for a friend had he been born a woman.

  “So what happens next?” I asked, after Peter released me, and went to find another mini- bottle in the well-stocked fridge.

  “I’m wounded,” Peter said. “I’d hoped you might still have some faint recollection of those few precious —”

  “Not that,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Of course I remember that. I meant, what will you do next? Are you planning to return to the Lakes?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure about that? You haven’t been in a tearing rush to come back.”

  “Things…kept coming up.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed that.” His gaze held mine.

  “I always intended to come back.”

  I was surprised when—abruptly—he let it go. “Lovely. Now we’ve got that settled…”

  He had another drink. We sampled the desserts, chatted, and Peter brought me up to speed—although he would have loathed that term—on how everyone was back in Innisdale. I filled Peter in on my impressions of the Dangerous to Know production.

  “You’re sure you won’t regret passing up your chance to make movies?”

  “Maybe a little, but to tell you the truth there’s a weird vibe on that set. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just not used to Hollywood types.”

  “Perhaps.” He surprised me then. “You’ve got good instincts, though. How’s the book coming?”

  “I think I’m narrowing down my list. Have you ever heard of Laetitia Elizabeth Landon? She was sometimes called the ‘female Byron.’”

  “‘While lingers in the heart one line, the nameless poet has a shrine,’” Peter quoted, surprising me.

  “That’s her, yes. Letty Landon. Anyway, it suddenly occurred to me that in many ways she embodies the poets I want to write about. The ones who really are forgotten, nameless now.”

  “I don’t think L.E.L. has been utterly forgotten. The mystery surrounding her death guarantees her a certain amount of immortality.”

  “For all the wrong reasons. Think about it: at one point she was one of the most popular writers in England, male or female, but I don’t feel I’ve read anything that begins to capture who she really was. It doesn’t help that all the information on her is so contradictory and confusing.”

  I didn’t want to admit that part of what fascinated me was the idea of this brilliant young poetess giving up everything and everyone familiar, journeying across the ocean to a distant and foreign land—all for love of a man she barely knew. He was liable to find the parallels a bit…much.

  Peter’s mouth tugged into a reluctant curve. “So what’s your theory? Was it murder, suicide, or accident?”

  “I don’t have a theory. The real tragedy to me is that the drama of her death overshadows her literary legacy. It’s a shame, because I find her a compelling figure. Maybe because she was so ordinary, so…everywoman.”

  “Every woman is not an influential critic, poet, and celebrated literary figure by the age of twenty.”

  “True. Anyway, I can’t wait to get home and really get to work.”

  He smiled; I listened to the echo of my words, and smiled, too.

  It was well after one in the morning when we finished nibbling and drinking. Peter shrugged off the hotel robe and dropped onto the bed with a small groan of relief. Much more self-consciously, I undressed to my panties and bra and slipped in beside him.

  His arms closed about me, drawing me close, and it was like coming home. The geography of the heart, I thought. Home was not Los Angeles; it was not even the Lake District. It was here with this enigmatic, but still dear, man.

  I wrinkled my nose at the sheer sentimentality of that thought, but there was no point in lying to myself. This was what I had wanted, what I had been waiting for, longing for. It didn’t make sense, but I felt that all was right with my world again.

  I could feel his body relaxing as he slipped into slumber. His breath was light and cool against my face. I listened to the steady, reassuring thump of his heart beneath my ear, the even tenor of his breathing.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Did they say anything?” I asked, and I felt him start into wakefulness.

  “Who?” He sounded half-drugged.

  “The men who attacked you.”

  “As I recall...bang, bang,” he murmured. A few moments later I could tell by his breathing that he slept.

  Chapter Four

  “Guess who’s coming to dinner?” I said, speaking softly into the phone receiver. The shower was still running in the hotel bathroom, but I lowered my voice anyway.

  “The mysterious Peter Fox?” my sister-in-law Laurel inquired gleefully. “I heard. I can’t wait to meet him!”

  “How are they taking it?” By “they” I meant my mother. My dad was the epitome of the relaxed and occasionally absentminded professor of literature—an excellent foil for his highly strung spouse. Not that Dad was a pushover; there was never any doubt who wore the pants in our family.

  “The house is now in session. Nora called for a quorum—which unfortunately took place behind closed doors. I’d have loved to have been the fly on that wall. Your dad seems to be taking it all in stride, but you know Frank. When will you be here?” Laurel was married to my older brother Clark. The mother of two active twin girls, not much threw Laurel off her stride. In fact, most things amused the heck out of her, including, apparently, my love life.

  “Not till this evening. I’ve got a slew of things to do today.”

  “Chicken. Oh, your movie producer friend called. Apparently you’re having lunch with the guy writing the screenplay of your life. And here I thought you were just making it up as you went along.”

  “You couldn’t make this stuff up,” I told her. “Did Roberta leave a number?”

  Laurel recited the number and I jotted it down. “Not that I mind,” I said, “but how is it you’re answering my parents’ phone?”

  “We had a date to go jogging, remember?”


  “No. I’m happy to say I totally forgot about it.”

  Although I had learned to love walking during my stay in the Lake District, I was never going to be a fitness nut, and as far as I was concerned, jogging was an activity mostly popular in one of those inner rings of hell.

  Laurel made tsking sounds.

  I asked, “Where’s Mother?”

  “She’s busy grinding the glass for tonight’s dinner. Is there anything your Mr. Fox is allergic to? I’m sure she’d be happy to add it to the menu.”

  I laughed nervously. “You’re going to be there tonight, right? Just for moral support?”

  “Gracie, we’re all going to be there. I’m surprised Callie isn’t filming it for one of her sociology courses.” Calliope was the college girlfriend of my younger brother, Colin. “Does that poor man have any idea of what he’s getting into?”

  “He’s very brave,” I said.

  “He must be. Turkish prison will seem like a picnic compared to interrogation by Nora.”

  I was not a woman giving to squeaking, but I couldn’t help the sound of distress that escaped me. My heartless sister-in-law only laughed.

  *****

  If one more sales associate told Peter he had “such a cute accent” I was going to commit murder.

  After the first hour I had decided that clothes shopping with the great love of one’s life should be an exercise required of any and all couples intending…coupling. Given Peter’s care and attention to details great and small, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that he was not willing to just grab any old thing off the shelves of such fine establishments as Brooks Brothers and Bloomingdale’s.

  Actually he rather reminded me of me—and is there anything more annoying in one’s Significant Other?

  It was not that he didn’t know his mind or fretted over prices; he knew exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t even look at price tags. But he seemed to be on a kind of quest for the Holy Grail of men’s wear. In fact, the only quick and painless purchases of that morning were a couple of pairs of Levis.

  On the other hand, he was pleasant and polite with sales staff, and left a legion of charmed salesgirls—and boys—in his wake.

  To distract myself I did a little shopping as well, justifying it by the fact that I could hardly go to my lunch meeting in yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt. When I reappeared in Ann Taylor skirt, blouse, and heels I got a slow, approving smile from Peter. I told myself firmly that I was not dressing to please a man; pleasing the man was a mere happy coincidence.

  Peter reached over and untucked the tag I’d overlooked in my collar. Just that brush of his hand against my neck reminded me of that morning, of the sleepy pleasure of waking up together for the first time in many—too many—months. He snapped the plastic tie between his fingers; because he was so lean, so graceful, it was easy to forget how strong he was.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled briefly and turned away, selecting a khaki cotton shirt from a crisp stack.

  “Do you think you should contact Chief Constable Heron?” I asked. He was frowning. How much could there be to object to in a simple khaki shirt?

  Finally Peter transferred his intent gaze from the hem of the shirt to me. “To what purpose?”

  “Well, to let the police know you’re alive.”

  “They know I’m alive. Even that lot can hardly fail to have noticed they didn’t find my body.”

  This seemed a very un-public-spirited attitude to take—and not terribly logical. “They probably want to question you. In fact, I know they want to question you.”

  “That will wait,” Peter said coolly, and seemed to make his mind up about the khaki shirt and—miraculously—an olive pinstripe, too.

  “But they could be finding these men instead of allowing them to get further and further away.”

  “Chief Constable Heron couldn’t find his arse with both hands and an hour to spare,” Peter said bluntly. “And your pet plod DI Drummond is worse.”

  Which pretty well concluded discussion on that topic.

  While Peter paid for his purchases I tried calling Roberta Lom once more, and this time managed to get through to her. Roberta confirmed my lunch date with Walter Christie—which I’d been half hoping would be canceled.

  I tried hinting that it was not a good day for power lunches, but Roberta seemed set on the meeting. “It’s the least you can do, Grace, if you’re going to turn down the technical advisor gig. Walter’s very talented but he’s a little out of his depth in this project—and, after all, it is your life.” She made it sound like it was my fault that they were all stuck making this movie. I wanted to point out that any resemblance to my own life was pretty much coincidental, but I refrained.

  In the end it seemed easier to agree to meet with Walter Christie.

  I disconnected the call and turned to Peter, who somehow managed to look both comfortable and masculine holding shopping bags.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  I sighed. “I have a lunch meeting with Walter Christie. He’s the scriptwriter for Dangerous to Know. The producer wanted us to…get our heads together —” I paused at Peter’s expression, knowing exactly what he thought of the term “get our heads together.” The fact was, there was no way to say any of this without sounding like a “right prat” as Peter would put it—and probably would put it before long. “Apparently he’s having problems with the screenplay. Or I guess, more accurately, everyone else is having problems with it, so they want me to…”

  “To—what?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, to tell you the truth. I think Walter is supposed to ask me about some of the things that actually happened and then see if he can incorporate them into the script.”

  “Isn’t the script based on your book?”

  “In theory. Anyway, would you want to come along?” I tried to sound optimistic rather than desperate.

  “I would, actually,” he said, surprising me. “I’d like to hear more about this so-called documentary of yours.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely not a documentary,” I said. “No mistake about that. In fact, it’s not even a dramatization really. At most I think it’s a ‘based on.’ And it’s probably going to be as bad as those kung fu films where the dubbing is off and the sound of fists and feet on flesh resembles wooden blocks hitting each other. That’s right, go ahead and laugh!”

  He was not exactly laughing at me, but his eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

  “But they really are making a movie. I was out there watching them film yesterday. They’ve got sets and catering trucks and stunt people and…Even a terrible, cheap film costs a small fortune to make. From what I gather they’ve sold it to one of those women’s-interest TV channels.”

  “I suppose it’s a good sign that someone somewhere believes women would want to see a film about a female obsessed with poetry rather than shoes and sex,” said Peter.

  “Oh, by the time this film is made I’m sure they’ll have given me a much more glamorous job than a teacher. I’ll be a freelance publicist or a museum curator or a former FBI profiler. Besides, there’s no reason a woman can’t be obsessed with poetry and shoes and sex.”

  “That’s true. You do have an inordinate number of shoes now that I think of it.” He checked his watch. “Right, then. Let’s hear what your Mr. Christie has to say for himself.”

  But Walter Christie had little to say for himself, apparently no happier to be breaking bread with me than he had been to meet me on the set of Dangerous to Know.

  We met him at a trendy watering hole, Pizzeria Mozza on North Highland Avenue, and it was clear that Walter had already been partaking heavily from the Italian wine bar. Brief introductions were made and Walter peered owlishly into Peter’s face. “So you’re Peter Fox. At least they got you right.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Todd Downing. He could pass for your brother.” Walter glanced at me. “You haven’t met Todd yet.”

  “No,”
I agreed. “Todd Downing is playing you in the film,” I explained to Peter. “Or rather he’s playing David Wolf. I guess the names have been changed to protect the innocent, or maybe to protect the guilty. Anyway, Downing has been back east doing some kind of off-Broadway thing.”

  Peter’s expression changed at the mention of Todd Downing; I had no more than registered this when Walter spoke up again.

  “You,” he said accusingly to me, “don’t look anything like Tracy.”

  “Shouldn’t Tracy look like me?”

  From Walter’s expression that was obviously a dreadful idea. Peter met my gaze with raised eyebrows, and I smothered a laugh as we moved to the last table in the filled-to-capacity dining room.

  “Have you worked with Tracy before?” I asked for the sake of something to say.

  “No. You’re a foodie. Try the duck,” Walter advised Peter.

  “I’m a what?”

  “An epicure,” I supplied.

  Peter didn’t look particularly thrilled about his epicurean status.

  “She wrote a lot in the book about what you ate and drank,” Walter said, nodding at me. “I’m not sure what it had to do with anything.”

  “She was very hungry, as I recall,” Peter said.

  “I’ll have the chicken cacciatore,” I told the waitress, ignoring their exchange.

  Peter and Walter ordered, and Walter turned to me. “Sorry to be rude, but I don’t see the point of this.”

  “Lunch?”

  “This meeting.” He finished off the wine in his glass. “I know Roberta and Miles have been talking to you, but I read the book. It was okay. It’s got the bones of a good story, but it’s a little too Nancy Drew, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really,” I said. “The book is nonfiction.” I glanced at Peter who was sipping Sangiovese-Merlot with the air of a man who knows better than to stick his head up while a sniper is on the loose.

  “Whatever,” said Walter. “The thing is, our audience is looking for something with more of an edge, something fresh, something…real.”