Twice…
Yes, surely two sets of masked gunmen were not after Peter? So it had to be the February brothers both times. Which didn’t say much for their success rate. But putting that aside for a moment, since Peter had been convinced he didn’t know the Feburarys, and they had no reason to want him dead, one obvious possibility was that someone had hired them to eliminate Peter.
And even Peter had admitted that three other people who might conceivably think they had a legitimate grudge were his three former criminal associates from the fateful Istanbul job.
I could see Peter deciding to lie low for a while, but I just couldn’t believe that he’d disappear without a word to me. Not when he’d followed me all the way to the States. So what did that mean?
I had no idea what it meant. And it was late, and I was tired, and I already been through one of the worst days of my life. One thing I did firmly believe: Peter was well able to look after himself. So there was nothing to be gained working myself into a state. A bigger state than I was already in.
Resolutely, I told myself I would wait to hear from Peter, and until then I would refuse to give into nerves and dread. I took a long, long hot shower, and crawled into the large, very comfortable bed. I picked up my copy of Letty Landon and determinedly began to read. I turned pages for some time, but my gaze kept straying from the yellowed paper to rest unseeingly on the cabbage-rose drapes closing out the world from my literary cocoon. I stared at the flowers and the box of chocolates on my dresser.
Peter loved me. I knew that. We had been through enough over the past couple of years that I did know—believe—that he loved me. But I was also experienced enough to know that love doesn’t necessarily conquer all.
Letty Landon, case in point. Following the abrupt end of her engagement to John Forster, who apparently couldn’t resist telling his side of the scandalous story—such as it was—to everyone who would listen, Letty, at the height of her writing powers and popularity abruptly made the decision to marry the governor of Cape Coast Castle in West Africa and leave behind everything and everyone she knew, for a foreign and dangerous land. All for a man who had likely concealed the fact that he was already unofficially married to a local native woman—a man who might have ultimately murdered his troublesome English bride.
Despite my research, I didn’t really feel that I’d come to know Laetitia Landon. It was difficult getting a real handle on her motivations from reading the Enfield and Ashton biographies. Both writers took such an unsympathetic and deprecating view of the poetess—both her work and her character.
In fact, both biographers claimed Letty was creatively burned out and personally disgraced by the time she retreated to what was then called the “Dark Continent.” I was surprised by my own defensive reaction to their conclusions. At thirty-five Letty had certainly reached an age when an unmarried woman was officially considered “on the shelf”, but despite the rumors that surrounded her, she was still welcomed in polite and literary society, she was still a notable celebrity, and she was still continuing to produce commercially successful prose and poetry.
Clearly something beyond her childhood fascination with the place must have motivated her choice to depart for Africa, especially since Governor George MacLean was such an unprepossessing specimen. Did she really flee because she couldn’t stand to be gossiped about or to bear the indignity of spinsterhood? Surely somewhere in all of Great Britain there was a quiet corner where she was unknown—and a man willing to marry a still attractive and gifted woman?
Laetitia Landon remained an enigma to me—and to her biographers, I suspected.
One again, I studied the portrait of her in L.E.L.: A Mystery of the Thirties. Letty smiled vaguely across the decades.
I think I’d half hoped that my sleep would be disturbed by a phone call from Peter, but no call came.
The next time I opened my eyes it was morning, and wan, rainy daylight spilled through the parting of the draperies. It was after ten o’clock in the morning, but the lateness of the hour didn’t matter. Even if it had not been the weekend there would be no filming today. In fact, I suspected that the production of Dangerous to Know might now be halted once and for all.
I dressed and went downstairs. As I walked past the lobby heading for the dining room,
Roberta was hanging up the pay phone—the only long distance line available to the guests of the inn.
“How’s Miles?” I asked.
She shoved her dark curls back with an impatient hand. “Apparently that stupid cowboy hat saved his life. Apparently God looks after fools, drunks, and men with no clothes sense!” She seemed more frazzled than relieved. “He’s got a mild concussion. They’re keeping him for observation until this afternoon.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
She looked at me like she didn’t understand the words. Then she blinked. “Yes. Of course it is. It’s wonderful.” She stared at the phone again.
“Is something wrong?” I added, “I mean, besides all the obvious things that are wrong.”
She gave me another of those deer-in-the-headlights looks, then she said, “I have no idea what to do. When they release her body—Mona’s, I mean—we’ve got to get her back to the States. Her daughter is asking when that’s going to happen. I have no idea!”
I had no idea either, but I knew the place to start. “I can talk to DI Drummond for you.”
She nodded. I had the feeling she wasn’t really listening to me. I asked, “Was Mona married?”
“Divorced. She has two daughters I think.”
I waited to see if she wanted to add anything, but she turned away and began dialing the phone again.
Making my way to the dining room, I found the mood there as dismal as the weather on display out the wet-streaked windows. Todd and Tracy were sharing a rasher of bacon between them. A few members from the crew and production team sat quietly talking and eating at other tables.
Todd waved me over. “’eard anything, luv?”
“Miles is going to be all right.”
“We already know that,” Tracy said. “You’re friends with the police. What do they have to say about Mona?”
I said, surprising myself with my own testiness, “I just woke up. I haven’t talked to the police this morning. Sometimes I go entire days without talking to the police.”
She gave me a long, narrow look. Todd laughed. “All on edge, that’s our trouble!” He pushed the plate of bacon my way. “’ave some breakfast, luv.”
I shook my head, nauseated by the greasy pile of meat. British bacon is more like ham or Canadian bacon. I prefer my bacon in crisp paper-thin strips. The way God intended.
“I’ll have some tea in a minute.”
Todd said confidentially, “What everyone really wants to know is —”
“Are we canceling the production?” finished Tracy.
“I haven’t heard.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Roberta said from behind me.
We all jumped guiltily, although our doubt was reasonable enough, given the number of catastrophes.
Todd and Tracy were, of course, relieved and happy—in an appropriately subdued fashion. I studied Roberta curiously. “Do you have anything to say about it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t the investors or the board of directors at Kismet have the final word about this string of bad luck and tragic deaths?”
“There hasn’t been any bad luck—other than the deaths.”
“I think Miles might disagree with your idea of bad luck.”
“You think people don’t get mugged in California?”
So that was the theory of choice for the attack on Miles? That he had been mugged? In a village that hadn’t had a mugging in five years? I didn’t particularly want to argue with Roberta, but I simply couldn’t believe she was still intending to proceed with the production. I said, “Just from a practical standpoint, you’re now talking about repla
cing two of the original cast members. Or were you hoping to hire Lady Vee to play herself in the film?”
“Believe me, it won’t be difficult to find an elderly out-of-work British actress in this country,” Roberta replied. “We’ll just have to reshoot Mona’s scenes.”
Tracy put in flatly, “What do you care? You’re picking up a paycheck. Your book is being filmed. I would think you’d be glad that Kismet is committed to this project.” Her gaze was blue and gelid.
All three of them stared at me with various degrees of distrust.
I said, “The contents of Mona’s flask haven’t been analyzed yet. You’re all assuming that she overdosed on—on alfalfa sprouts or something, but what if she didn’t?”
“You think someone would kill Mona?” Roberta looked at me with incredulity. “Did you know Mona? Why would anyone want to kill her? What would the reason be?”
“Maybe someone with a grudge against the production?” Todd offered doubtfully. The other two rounded on him in exasperation. He shrugged. “Saw a film like that once.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that Mona finds her missing flask in the lobby and the next time she drinks from it she conveniently falls dead?”
“Nobody knows for sure she died from drinking what was in the flask!” Roberta said. “The police are assuming that. She might have had a stroke or some kind of seizure. She might have had an allergic reaction to something at the tea party.”
Either Roberta had a gift for self-deception like no one I’d ever met before, or I really was becoming paranoid.
Tracy was watching me with narrowed eyes. “Mona was always losing that flask. Why should yesterday have been any different?”
Since this was the very thing I’d brought up to the police, I was surprised that I had apparently come up with an answer. “Maybe that’s why someone chose to poison her that way. Mona was the oldest member of this production. She knew everyone, knew everyone’s history, everyone’s back-story. Maybe she knew or had learned something about someone here.”
“What?” asked Todd.
“Who?” asked Tracy.
Now that I didn’t have an answer for, so I was surprised to hear myself say, “Maybe she knew who killed Walter.”
The silence was deafening. I had the impression that everyone in the dining room stopped eating to stare at me. Not so much as a clink of glass or scrape of fork on china penetrated that hush. But of course that was my imagination. No one actually stopped eating or talking except my three companions. The listening stillness emanated from them. From one of them in particular, but I couldn’t quite figure out who. In fact, I wasn’t sure a moment later whether I had imagined that strange, quiet moment.
Roberta had gone so white, I wondered whether she was about to faint. “What are you saying?”
I said slowly, feeling my way to the truth of it, “It’s possible, isn’t it? Walter was killed in an unsolved hit-and-run. Everyone assumes it was just an accident or that —” I glanced at Roberta. “— someone else, such as Peter, was the intended victim. But what if Walter was the target? What if he was murdered?”
Tracy sighed and pushed her chair back. “I don’t know what you’re smoking, Grace, but I hope it’s usually more fun than this. I’m going to go get my nails done. Will someone let me know later on if we’re canceling the production? I’ll need to let my agent know.”
She walked away, passing Norton on his way into the dining room. He looked ghastly as he took a seat at our table. Pale, blue-jawed, eyes rimmed in red. He looked like the expendable cast member hiding A Guilty Secret in a schlocky thriller.
Roberta said furiously, keeping her voice low with an effort, “Why would anyone kill Walter? What would the motive be for killing Walter?”
Todd watched us in fascination, Norton in horror.
“I don’t know. I’m saying, isn’t it a possibility? Couldn’t one thing be connected to the other?”
“No, they couldn’t. Because there’s nothing to connect.” Roberta also pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make. I’m trying to save all of our jobs for us.”
In the wake of her departure, I turned back to Todd and Norton. They stared back at me. After a moment, Todd said cheerfully, “Sure you won’t have some bacon, luv?”
*****
Driving out to Craddock House an hour later I was forced to concede that Mona had not seemed like someone who knew another person’s potentially fatal secret. True, she seemed to know every member of the cast’s life history, but she seemed neither like the kind of person who made moral judgments nor went around blabbing. Nor had she appeared to be the possessor of dangerous knowledge. In fact, it would be harder to find anyone more relaxed and comfortable than Mona on the last afternoon of her life.
I pulled up outside Craddock House and sat watching while the rain ticked down on the Citroen—leaking in the poorly sealed windows.
The shop was dark. There was no sign of anyone at home upstairs. No lights, no smoke from the chimney. I told myself I hadn’t expected it, that I would have been dismayed if Peter had been there and hadn’t contacted me, but it was still somehow daunting.
I saw no indication that the police were watching the house waiting for Peter’s return, but I supposed they could be hiding in the woods with binoculars. And if Brian was out there I hoped rain was trickling down the back of his neck.
At length I got out of the car, opened my umbrella, and ran up the flagstones to the door of Rogue’s Gallery. I unlocked the door, and let myself into the shop, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. I could see a platoon of little tin soldiers, an old ship’s wheel, and a gentleman’s top hat sitting on a hatbox marked B. Basile, Brussels. For some reason these items struck me as terribly poignant as I stood there in the silent, empty shop listening to the rain.
Why had I come here? I wasn’t even sure. I suppose I wanted to see if I could find some hint of where Peter might have gone—as unlikely as it was that he’d carelessly leave a copy of his escape itinerary—or an extra airline ticket.
If Peter wanted me to know where he was, he’d have told me. If he were able. And if he weren’t…
But I refused to believe that. Peter was the most self-sufficient person I’d ever met.
After a moment I shook off my apathy and went upstairs. Using my key to let myself into Peter’s living quarters, I closed the door behind me—and instantly realized there was someone in the flat. Floorboards squeaked. In Peter’s bedroom, a drawer slid open and a moment later, closed.
Heart pounding, I stood there—caught between fear and hope. In the end, hope won. I started softly across the floor. I hadn’t taken more than a step or two when the outline of a man filled the bedroom doorway.
For a moment Peter and I stared at each other. His eyes were blue as the heart of a flame. I’d never seen that look on his face. He looked…terrifying somehow: his face hard with tension, his mouth thin and unsmiling—and those blazing eyes.
“I…” For once I ran out of things to say.
He didn’t exactly relax, but the fierce lines of his face eased. “I was coming to see you.”
Was he? He was carrying his black Gladstone bag. He was going away.
I said, “Then you know the Februarys are dead?”
He looked blank for a moment. Then, if possible, his face grew more implacable. He said, “I want you to go home, Grace. I want you to go back to the States.”
Whatever I’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that. “You’re serious?”
“Never more so.” He certainly looked serious. Grim as death.
“Do I get an explanation?”
“Not just yet.”
“Really?” I began to get angry. “But someday? Maybe in a decade or so when you make another trip to the States?”
He said curtly—and his tone was as foreign to me as his expression, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, I’ll try not to be.” I added, “But you
have me at a disadvantage here. I thought we were going to —”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he interrupted. “This has nothing to do with us! Surely I don’t have to explain that to you?”
“You sure as hell need to explain something to me!” I yelled. “You just disappear for a day and then you calmly show up and tell me to go back to California, and that you’ll explain it to me the next time you’re in town. Do you realize the police think you killed the Februarys?”
“I didn’t even know they were dead,” he said, all at once sounding perfectly calm. “Look, I know I’m being…rather mysterious. Can you not just this once trust me?”
I gaped at him—there’s probably no other word to describe my open-mouthed and indignant stare. “This once? When have I not trusted you? Maybe it would be easier to trust you if you’d let me know what’s going on. Something has obviously happened.”
“Yes, something has happened. And no, you don’t trust me.” He smiled, but it was a peculiar smile. “You love me, but that’s not quite the same thing, is it? I can’t keep proving myself to you, Grace. Sooner or later you have to take me on faith—or admit that this isn’t what you really want.”
I felt like something had rushed out of the darkness and thrown me to the ground. Where had this come from? What were we really talking about? Suddenly everything I cared about seemed to be at stake, and I hadn’t even realized my dreams were on the table.
My mouth felt dry, my heart tripping against my breastbone as I choked out, “Maybe what you mean is, this isn’t what you really want.”
He shook his head. “You were gone six months.” And then his gaze met mine. “Would you have come back if I hadn’t followed you?”
“I was booking my flight that week.”
That strange smile again. “But you didn’t. Even after I arrived it took you a few days to actually buy the airline ticket.”
I opened my mouth to argue this, to explain why…but I couldn’t seem to find the words. I knew he wouldn’t believe me.
Peter said quite gently, “I think this is the truth. The romantic in you would like to believe you can be happy here away from your home and friends and family. But I think the pragmatic Miss Hollister who lives deep down inside knows that you can’t be happy without trust, and you can’t trust someone you don’t know—and I don’t think that even now you feel that you know me well enough to trust me. And I don’t believe that you ever will.”
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