High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (22 page)

“When I left the police station, I looked for you,” Peter said grimly. “When you didn’t show at the library, I tracked you to the milliner’s and then … you vanished. I tried the sweet shop.”

Grace huffed, “Well, I went to the tarot reader.”

“The tarot reader!” For once he seemed floored.

“It was just … for fun.”

He made a polite sound. “I admit I didn’t think of checking there.”

Grace repeated the bit of conversation she had overheard.

“Charlie Ames,” Peter said thoughtfully. “Now why’s that familiar?”

“Wasn’t Ames the name of the old woman who used to own the farmhouse where the Que—I mean, Sid and Charlie took me? Or no, it was the name of the housekeeper, wasn’t it?”

Peter directed an approving look her way. “I think you’re right. That explains how they knew about a handy and isolated place to stow kidnap victims. As I recollect there was something about a Charlie Ames who was sent up for B and E.” For Grace’s benefit he clarified, “Breaking and entering. Nothing necessarily violent.”

Grace felt her still tender skull. “His friends aren’t so particular. And by the way, Lady Vee confirms that Sid and Charlie are working for Sweet.”

“Did we need confirmation?”

“Certainty is nice,” Grace said.

An unfamiliar blue Mustang was parked outside Craddock House. Beside it stood a brawny silver-haired man. A small blonde woman sat on the hood. They were kissing.

“Ah hell,” muttered Peter.

“It’s Monica!” gasped Grace. They exchanged glances.

Peter pulled up beside the Mustang and Grace practically fell out of the Land Rover.

“Monica? What are you doing here?” She couldn’t help the accusatory note that crept into her voice. “
Where
have you been?”

Monica, the large silver-haired man in tow, went to hug Grace. “Surprise, surprise! Congratulate me. We just got married!”

Grace froze midhug. “You’re … kidding me.”

“Nope.”

The silver-haired man nodded sheepishly at Peter. Peter nodded back.

“Calum Bell?” Grace said doubtfully. She moved to shake hands but was swept into a bear hug.

“Of course it’s Calum,” Monica laughed. “Who else would it be?”

Tom? Grace thought, feeling stunned by Monica’s revelation. More, she felt … unsettled, as though Monica’s jumping the rails had some implication for herself.

“So this is wee Grrrrace.” Calum spoke with a charming Scottish burr. He was about fifty and very handsome. He wore jeans and a Harris Tweed sweater and did not look like anyone’s college professor.

“But … congratulations!” Grace said helplessly.

“You can’t believe it, can you?” Monica chuckled. Grace studied her friend as though they had just met. In a way, it seemed as though they had. Monica was about forty, petite with short blond hair and a laugh like a jolly little boy.

Grace gathered her wits. “It’s just … I’m surprised.” She turned to Peter, introducing him.

Seeming to pick up on her mixed emotions, Peter came to the rescue. “Let’s go inside,” he invited. “I’ll open a bottle and we can celebrate.”

He led the way up the cobbled walk. Linking her arm with Grace’s, Monica whispered, “Oooh! He’s delicious.”

“I’ve never seen a man carry velvet off before,” Monica observed, toying with the cork from the wine bottle.

“Monica, what about Tom?” Grace interrupted. She and Monica were preparing a tea tray in the kitchen while Peter gave Calum a tour of the house. Not the complete tour, Grace was willing to bet.

Monica sighed. “Oh, Grace, Tom was just a … a convenience. Like Chaz.”

“Chaz isn’t a convenience!” exclaimed Grace. “I don’t even know what that means.” She felt defensive although she couldn’t explain why.

“Sure you do. A convenience is an otherwise eligible man who fills in while you’re waiting for the real thing.”

“Why couldn’t the convenience be the real thing?”

“True love, Grace, that’s what I’m talking about. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“Once or twice.”

“I’ll bet Shelley and old Byron and—” Grace rolled her eyes and Monica changed tack. “So tell me about Peter Fox.”

“Uh-oh, I don’t like that meaningful tone. Peter is just a friend. I don’t even know if he’s really a friend. He’s sort of my …”

“Accomplice?”

Grace had already briefly filled Monica in on some of the events of the past few days. It was a highly abridged account, reading more or less like the back cover blurb of a gothic romance: ruthless crooks searching for lost jewels that they believed had fallen into Peter’s possession. Grace left out the Byron connection and Peter’s less-than-savory past. She knew that Monica, with her passion for old crime and mystery movies, would swallow this up without question. Or at least without too many questions. Monica would believe it because Monica would hope it was true.

Monica tossed the cork and caught it, one-handed. “He’s beautiful. You should marry him.”

“
Marry
him? Because he’s beautiful? Besides, he’s not the marrying kind.”

Monica grinned. “He’s smart. He could learn.”

Grace stared at this stranger in Monica’s skin. “Seriously though, Monica. What about your job? What about your life?”

Monica said cheerfully, “I’m starting a new life. It feels wonderful.”

“Since we’re here we may as well help you put this place back together,” Calum offered after they had toasted the newlyweds a couple of times.

Peter hedged politely.

The shop looked better than it had when Grace and Peter returned from Penwith Hall. Somehow, between the time when Grace went missing and his rescue of her, Peter had managed to shovel out most of the broken glass and smashed furniture, although Rogue’s Gallery was still a mess.

“And we can help you hunt,” Monica put in eagerly.

“A grrrand notion,” Calum agreed.

“Oh, well …” Grace began, knowing what Peter’s expression meant.

At the same time, Peter started, “Very kind, but—”

“But you’re not sure the jewels are here?” Monica concluded.

“The jewels? No.” Peter seemed to be about to clarify and then answered, “Delon may not have had them on him.” He added a little irritably, “I’ve no notion why he came back here. I told him I didn’t want any part of it.” The real surprise to Grace was that he answered Monica’s question candidly.

“He probably had them on his perrrrson,” Calum said cheerfully, rolling his “Rs.” “He wouldn’t trust leaving them anywhere, right?”

“Anyway,” Monica said, “Four heads are better than two.”

An odd thought flitted into Grace’s head. What did they really know about Calum Bell? It had been how many years since Monica had last met him? Wasn’t it a huge coincidence that she had bumped into him when she had?

But then reason reasserted itself. Monica had drifted off with Calum before Grace had ever met Peter, before she ever pulled him out of that Kentmere stream. No one could have planned for that. Mentally, Grace shook her head at her own paranoia. Paranoia was Peter’s department; she waited for him to go all secretive and peculiar, but he said wearily, in answer to Monica’s proposal, “Why not? The more the merrier.”

While Peter and Calum took the main floor of the shop, Grace and Monica were awarded the task of bringing order to the library. They spent the next hour or so restacking books on the shelves, climbing up and down the ladder, checking the hollowed books. It was companionable work, punctuated by Monica chattering about Calum and Scotland.

“This could take years.” Monica sighed after a time, handing Grace a leather-bound volume. “Give you a good reason for staying on.”

Grace shot her friend an evil look, but Monica merely chuckled. “Admit it, Grace. You’re having the time of your life. I’ve never seen you so … alive.”

“I’m sure you mean that as a compliment.” Grace levered another book onto the shelf above her head. She couldn’t see Peter, but from her perch on the ladder she watched Calum on the ground floor going through the drawers of a walnut highboy.

She said slowly, “Doesn’t it seem like a huge coincidence that you would run into Calum? It’s been, what? Twenty years?”

Monica shrugged. “Life is made up of coincidences. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Not really.” Or at least, not until recently. She inquired casually, “So, what does he teach? I mean, what’s his field? They don’t really even have ‘dons’ anymore, do they?”

“He’s a Younger Fellow and a Tutor in Creative Writing at Balliol.”

“Balliol? Why is that familiar?”

“Lord Peter Wimsey’s old alma mater,” Monica said. “Calum’s a writer.”

“What does he write?”

Monica looked vague. “You wouldn’t have read any of his work.”

Grace filed that evasion away to examine later. “And he’s never been married?”

“Of course he’s been married.” Monica seemed amused at the notion. “He’s divorced with one child. A son. Sixteen years old. He lives in Scotland with his mother. The son, I mean. I’m not sure if Calum’s mother is still living.” She cocked her head, handing Grace another oversize edition. “Are you really as shocked as you seem, Grace?”

“It’s just that this all happened so fast. How well can you know each other?” What do you know about
him?
That was what she really wanted to ask.

“I know what I need to know,” Monica said. “Calum makes me happy.”

There didn’t seem to be an answer to that. Grace was happy for her friend, of course, but she felt uneasy as well. Perhaps it was simply that Monica’s rejection of her life—a life so similar to Grace’s—forced Grace to examine her own situation.

After another two hours they had cleared—and searched—only a few feet of landing. The empty shelves towered above them while the walkway still appeared to be knee-deep in books. Not even the highest shelves had been ignored. It was as though Ram Singh had deliberately swept every book off the shelves. Was there a reason for that? Was it sheer destructiveness or had there been some method to this apparent madness? Did Ram Singh know something about where the cameos had been hidden?

No, more likely he had come across the stack of hollowed books while he was trashing the rest of the shop. The same thought would have occurred to him that occurred to Grace: the hollowed-out books would make a dandy hiding place. Probably this same thought would have occurred to Danny Delon, too, if he had come across the stack of hollow books, but there was no way of knowing if he had or had not.

How much time had Danny had before his killer found him? Was he aware that he was being pursued? Did he stash the cameos in the first available hiding place or had he opportunity to look around and find a suitable niche?

There seemed to be miles yet to cover when Grace excused herself and retired from the field to start dinner. By then the men had joined Monica on the landing and were helping her restock the shelves.

Peter Fox’s kitchen was beginning to feel as familiar to her as her own, Grace realized as she browned garlic and crushed pepper in olive oil. She could hear Monica and Calum’s laughter drifting along the hallway, followed by Peter’s lazy voice. Feeling herself smiling, she shook her head. Yes, she was growing way too comfortable here.

She added anchovy fillets to the pan. She couldn’t hope to compete with Peter’s culinary feats, but she did have a trick or two up her sleeve, and Spaghetti Puttanesca was her secret weapon.

While the tomatoes simmered in their liquid, she settled on the sofa and pulled out a sheet of paper to jot down notes. Sometimes seeing a thing written out made more sense. Besides, she wanted to distance herself from Monica’s well-meant but unsettling insinuations.

Chewing the end of her pen, Grace told herself that at least now they knew what the item was that they were looking for, so progress
had
been made. Even if it didn’t feel like it.

So far they knew for sure that they had two buyers for Byron’s gewgaws: Aeneas Sweet and Venetia Brougham. Could anyone else be involved? There was no way of knowing who Danny Delon might have contacted.

Allegra was involved, but she seemed to be working with her aunt. Grace wondered about that. The Hon. Al seemed so … inherently indifferent, it was hard to picture her aiding and abetting the lunatic fringe. Perhaps she had been drawn in because of Peter’s connection?

Ferdy—er—Philip Sweet might also be involved, and he would make a great Least Likely Suspect, but it was obvious Sweet was keeping his nephew in the dark—and why feign otherwise? The animosity between Ferdy and his uncle made it highly unlikely they would partner in anything.

There were other players of course, but they seemed to be taking the role of henchmen. Mutt and Jeff were definitely in the employ of Lady Venetia. Charlie and Sid were working for Aeneas Sweet; but this was according to Lady Vee, who might be mistaken. Charlie and Sid might be working for themselves.

Grace tapped the pen against her chin, thinking. But no, they had said something about “The Man.” Grace wished she could remember exactly what had been said. So much had happened during the past week, her memories were no longer crisp. She should have written her thoughts down long ago, but she had not expected sleuthing to become a full-time occupation.