Docketful of Poesy (14 page)

“Can we have dinner one night?” Brian asked suddenly,
and I turned back to him.

“Well, the thing is —”

“Why should it matter? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course. But Peter and I are moving in
together.”

“Are you?” he inquired blandly. “Because I’d heard
you were staying at the Hound and Harrier with all the other
celebrities.”

I overlooked the “celebrity” crack. “That’s because
Peter doesn’t want me staying here until it’s…safe.”

“I’d like to think he had that much conscience—or
common sense.” There was no smile on Brian’s face. “He’ll never do
it, Grace. I don’t care what he tells you. Or even himself. He’ll
never have you living here with him—let alone marry you. I know
him. I know the breed.”

I reminded myself that Brian was a friend, and that
he was saying these things because he truly cared for me. I said
carefully, “I know you mean well, Brian, but in order for us to
stay friends you’re going to have to accept the reality of my
relationship with Peter.”

“I accept that you love him,” Brian said. “Would you
like to have dinner one evening—merely as friends?”

I thought it over. Irritated at the moment though I
was with Brian, I did like him, and —cynical as it sounds—he was
the closest thing I had to a police contact, and I wanted to keep
track of how the hunt for these gunmen progressed.

“May I call you?” I said. “I’m not sure of my
schedule yet.”

He nodded, and then was called away by a couple of
the crime scene technicians.

Miles was finishing up a short speech to cast and
crew, trying to reassure everyone that there was no danger and that
all was well under control. He made it convincing, but that was
more due to the force of his personality than the logic of his
argument. Although it was still early in the afternoon, he
concluded briskly, “All right, people, I think that’s a wrap for
today. Let’s head back to the hotel.”

“Drinks on me and Miles,” Roberta agreed, and there
were a few halfhearted cheers.

The crew was still packing up as everyone else began
piling into cars for the brief drive back to the village. I went
inside Rogue’s Gallery. There was no sign of Peter. I went upstairs
to his flat. Tapped on the door, which wasn’t quite shut.

“Come,” he called, and I pushed it open.

He was sitting on the sofa, graceful yet somehow
wary, whisky glass in hand. He didn’t drink a lot of whisky, so
perhaps that in itself meant something.

I sat down on the ottoman across from him. “I want to
stay tonight,” I said.

He laughed. Shook his head, took a swallow of
whisky.

“Look, I’m an adult. We’ve been through plenty of
dangerous situations before. You say we’re going to make a go of
it, but —”

“No.”

I stared at him. That flat single word was so unlike
him.

I said, equally curt—and a lot chillier, “Really? Any
particular reason?”

“Use your imagination.”

I studied him for a long moment. I wanted to give
into the luxury of anger, and I probably would have if I hadn’t
understood that he was pushing for that very thing. Nothing like a
good old-fashioned lover’s quarrel to keep me at a safe
distance.

“All right then,” I said finally. “I obviously can’t
insist.” I stood up. “Oh, I almost forgot. Roberta wants to know if
they can film inside Rogue’s Gallery.”

There was a long, speaking silence.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Well, I expect I’ll
see you around.” I was nearly out the door before he spoke.

“Grace —”

Hand on the doorknob, I paused. He said, unusually
awkward, “I’ll ring you.”

I said tartly, “I look forward to it.”

*****

“Thought I was a goner for half a mo,” Todd said
cheerfully for the sixth or seventh time, and drained half his pint
in a gulp.

We had gathered in the bar of the Hound and Harrier.
The entire cast seemed to be crammed into the room, along with a
number of locals who had heard the exciting news of the attack on
the production company—and were now hearing each member of the cast
relive where they had been at the moment the bullets started
flying.

“They did seem to focus on you,” Mona said
thoughtfully. The others examined him with interest.

“Reminded me of the good old days when I used to
wager a few bob on the ponies,” Todd admitted, and everyone
laughed. Shaken Todd might be, but I had to admit he was remarkably
collected about his close call. “Thought for a moment or two I was
done for,” he said yet again.

“You!” Pammy exclaimed. “I thought we were back in
East L.A. for a minute!”

We were all getting a bit tipsy reliving our
collective close call—there was nothing like shared danger to build
a bond, though; and there was a real sense of camaraderie that
evening. Or I’d had more to drink than I realized.

“All those yoga lessons finally paid off,” Roberta
told Mona. “I’ve never seen anyone outside of a circus wrap
themself into such a tiny ball.”

“I think I invented a new move,” Mona admitted. “The
Praying Yank.”

This got another round of laughs, especially from the
locals.

“Of course this is old hat to you,” Roberta said to
me.

“Not really!”

And Mona said to Roberta, “Could someone shooting at
you ever become old hat?”

“I just can’t imagine what they would have wanted,”
Roberta said. “Other than Todd dead.” She eyed me speculatively,
and I knew she had not forgotten Todd’s striking resemblance to
Peter. I was relieved she didn’t comment on it.

“Is the production insured?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“You’re not thinking this is somehow tied to the
film?” Mona questioned.

“Not really, no.”

“Although we
have
had a string of bad luck,”
Mona added.

Roberta didn’t answer. I followed her gaze to a small
table in the corner where Miles and Tracy were sitting together,
their heads very close. True, the room was crowded and noisy, but
there was something in their body language that indicated more than
audio difficulties.

Mona noticed the focus of our attention and turned as
well. “Why am I not surprised? She’s just the type he likes.”

I almost said, “Female?” but managed to bite my
tongue in time.

Roberta smirked. “You mean she looks like you a few
years back?”

“A few years? Don’t bother being tactful, dear. It
doesn’t suit you.” Mona met my eyes and grinned. “That’s right;
Tracy could almost pass for my kid sister.”

“Or daughter,” Todd offered helpfully—not noticing
the little blink Mona gave at this unsolicited candor. He pointed a
finger at each of us, counting us off apparently. “Who’s ready for
another?”

“Me,” Pammy said. “I’m getting plastered tonight.
Don’t anyone try to talk me out of it.”

“I’ve had enough,” I said. “I need to get some work
done tonight.” Although, frankly, the last thing I was in the mood
for was to go upstairs and start reading about how Laetitia Landon
had thrown away a successful writing career for a man who didn’t
want her—and might have ultimately murdered her.

Todd rose unsteadily, making his way through the
crowd to the bar. I excused myself and left the taproom.

In the lobby I spotted Norton Edam, the actor playing
the Gerry Salt/Ferdy Sweet character, checking in. He caught sight
of me and waved me over. He had the dazed and haggard look that
comes from a transatlantic flight with efficient cocktail
service.

“I heard there was a shooting on the set today.” He
fumbled his wallet over to the girl behind the front desk, spilling
out credit cards and photographs on the counter. “Was anyone
hurt?”

I shook my head. “Fortunately, no. How was your
trip?”

He described it in exhaustive detail, shuffling his
cards and photos back into his wallet. The girl pushed the room key
to him, and he turned away.

“You missed this one,” I said, picking up the
snapshot that had slipped between the edge of the desk and Norton’s
sleeve. I showed him the picture of a young woman. He glanced at it
and nearly snatched it out of my hand—which made me look at it a
little more closely. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was a picture
of Tracy. She did seem to have a powerful effect on the gentlemen.
I didn’t understand it myself.

Starting up the stairs, I was surprised to find
Norton at my side. At my questioning look he said, “What I really
want now is about eight hours of lying flat on my back without some
kid screaming his lungs out two rows behind me.”

I shuddered in sympathy.

“The girl at the desk told me the bathroom is down
the hall from my room.”

“That’s not unusual in these older hotels,” I said
guiltily.

“This country!” he said, and that was his last
comment until I paused to let myself into my room, whereupon he
muttered, “Good evening,” and went along on his way, suitcases
banging against the dark wooden paneling in the narrow hall.

Locking the door, I switched on the light. The room
was pretty and cozy—and about as lonely as the planet Venus, which
I could see twinkling between through the drapes. I moved over to
the window, gazing out at the blue-black night.

Not exactly the way I’d planned it when I’d decided
to return to England and Innisdale. I sighed and moved over to the
little writing table where I’d stacked my books, picking up my
notes on Laetitia Landon and thumbing through them.

At sixteen, Landon had first come to the attention of
the reading public as the anonymous author of a poem called “The
Michaelmas Daisy” in the popular
Literary Gazette
. More
poems followed by the mysterious lady L.E.L., and the
Gazette’s
subscriber list grew by leaps and bounds. The
public couldn’t get enough of her, and Landon was in the first
flush of creative fever. Her output was tremendous. In addition to
her weekly appearances in the
Gazette
, she published in
reviews, annuals, and periodicals. She produced numerous volumes of
her own poems—as well as several novels. By the age of only twenty
she was famous—considered one of the premier poets of her day.

At thirty-six she was dead.

And now she was virtually forgotten. Two dismissive
fictionalized biographies and an enormous body of work no one
remembered were all that remained of L.E.L.’s passionate literary
legacy. And sadly, her story was not unique. Most of her female
contemporaries, hailed in their own day, had suffered the same
fate.

I thought of the stanza from “Lines of Life” written
at the height of Landon’s popularity when she was twenty-seven:

I think on that eternal fame,

The sun of earthly gloom,

Which makes the gloriousness of death

The future of the tomb —

Chapter Eleven

“T
he show must go on!” Miles
announced with ruthless cheer Wednesday morning.

He strolled among the crowded tables of the dining
room where most of his morose cast sat hunched over their
breakfasts, wincing at Miles’s booming greeting, coffee and teacups
clutched in trembling hands.

The Kismet Production Company had made quite a night
of it, and when I had fallen asleep sometime after midnight their
voices and laughter were still filtering up through the floorboards
of my room.

Needless to say, no one was particularly bright-eyed
and bushy-tailed this morning—and one or two faces actually lost
their color at the offer of kidneys and black pudding along with
more recognizable breakfast fare.

I drank my tea and absently spooned up my hazelnut
yogurt, reading over the day’s shooting script. Today we were
filming scenes with Todd, Mona, Tracy, and Norton. The writer and
collector Aeneas Sweet had been entirely eliminated from the
screenplay. Roberta had explained to me that Lady Ree’s character
was actually a composite of Lady Vee/Venetia Brougham and Aeneas
Sweet, which I supposed sort of explained what Mona as Lady Ree was
doing in some of the final scenes of the script. It didn’t explain
why she was apparently going to be taking part in a shoot-out, but
I was beginning to realize that unless I was prepared to rewrite
Walter Christie’s screenplay front-to-back, I was going to have to
accept a fair bit of poetic license. To put it politely.

Once again we were going to be shooting outdoors, and
I reminded myself to grab a sweater before we left the inn. It was
what the Irish called a soft morning, silvery with dew, flowers and
grass glistening, and a gentle white mist rolling across the fields
and meadows.

“Chop-chop, people,” Pammy called, briefly poking her
head in. “We’ve got a movie to make!”

A few rude comments were addressed to the empty
doorway.

“Has anyone seen my flask?” Mona asked.

This was greeted by amusement.

“Do you think someone’s after your secret ginseng and
juniper berry elixir?” Roberta inquired, surfacing from behind a
several day’s old issue of
Variety.

“I don’t know how you can drink that crap,” Tracy
offered. In deference to the drop in temperature she was wearing a
long-sleeved cotton shirt that still left her flat, goose-pimpled
tummy bare to the elements. She was wearing quite a lovely
belly-button ring, and I sincerely hoped that Cordelia would not
immediately want one of her own.

“The body is a temple, my child,” Mona retorted
breezily.

“Thank God I’m an atheist,” Tracy said, reaching for
her coffee.

“Is Pammy keeping you up-to-date? Does the script
look okay?” Roberta leaned across to ask me.

“Uh…yes,” I replied, reflecting that “okay” was
really relative. We talked briefly about the day’s schedule, then I
got up to fetch my sweater, nearly bumping into Norton on his way
into the dining room.

“When are we leaving for location?” he asked.