High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (25 page)

“I love it when he says ‘Och,’ “ Monica said. “Are there any more of these raspberry tarts?”

It was late. Very late now, and the evening had moved off to a surreal distance from Grace. The initial jubilation over her find had now died down to what felt more and more like nervous babble—or maybe Grace was projecting. She sort of wished everyone would stop talking at once and that she could be alone with Peter to … well, just be alone with Peter.

She turned to look at Peter. He looked as tired as she felt. His eyes met hers briefly and she felt warmed.
We did it,
she thought. Or sort of, anyway. Now that they had found the loot, what exactly did they do with it? That had been the topic of conversation for the past thirty minutes.

“It’s very simple,” said Calum. “We’ll do a … a sting.”

This snapped Grace out of her lethargy. She protested, “But that never works. Not even in books!”

“Och, sting’s the wrong word. We’ll set them up. Something simple. We’ll contact this Sweet, tell him we have the cameos and are ready to strike a bargain. Then we’ll tape-record him confessing to the murder of … what was his name?”

“Danny Delon,” reluctantly supplied Grace.

“Delon,” mused Monica. “Now why does that name sound familiar?”

Peter stared at the professor for a long moment.

“And suppose he doesn’t confess?”

“But he will! That’s the psychology of the murderer. They can’t help themselves. They want to talk.”

Peter’s brows drew together. He said testily, “Sweet is an elderly man in poor health. It’s highly unlikely he killed anyone.”

“That could be an act,” Monica pointed out.

Peter seemed to struggle to find a civil response. As none was forthcoming, he didn’t answer, though Monica waited politely for his reply.

Calum waved this exchange away, “Not the man himself, then, but his hired thugs. It’s the same thing for our purposes. We merely need the confession—or his accusation of these others.”

To cut off what she felt sure would be a sarcastic comment, Grace interjected, “We shouldn’t risk the cameos. They should be in a museum. If anything happened to them—” She stared at Peter.

Gazing down at the ten exquisite pieces on the table before them, she wondered why she didn’t consider Peter, given his larcenous history, as one of the threats to the cameos. She recalled the delicate way he had picked each one up in his slim fingers, a touch so light and caressing she had seemed to feel it in her bones even as she watched him. Both Monica and Calum had been afraid to touch the gems. Even Grace was hesitant to touch them again, as though they might disintegrate into mystery and legend. But they had looked right in Peter’s hands; they had looked as though they belonged there.

Each cameo was unique and no doubt of significance to the man who had collected them. Besides the cameos of Byron and Astarte, there was a child’s profile on coral, a relief of the Three Muses on green jasper, a lyre, a Greek warrior, a young girl writing, a dog, another unknown young woman, and another image of Byron.

Would the child Medora Leigh have understood the message of these silent stones? Could anyone now?

“Grace is right,” Monica said, smothering a yawn that seemed to have taken her by surprise. “The cameos are irreplaceable. And after all, we don’t need them. It’s enough to say we have them.”

Not need them? Grace wondered at that. Of course they must go to a museum, they must go into safekeeping where they could be preserved so that others might enjoy them, too, but it would be wonderful to keep them for a while, to study them. To copy them perhaps? She reached for her teacup, although it would take more than caffeine to keep her from sleep for much longer.

“Now there you’re wrong,” Calum said. “Of course we must bring them with us. Sweet will ask to see them first thing. And when he has them in his hands, that’s when he’ll forget to guard his tongue.”

“I suppose this is more of the psychology of the criminal?” Peter asked skeptically. “Is this the kind of thing you write?”

“Och no!”

“Calum writes hardboiled detective fiction,” Monica said proudly, waking up a little. He’s the creator of the Mikey Tong series.”

“I thought he was an Oxford fellow?”

“That’s just his day job. The reading public here is slow to catch on. But Calum’s series is hugely popular in Canada.”

“Canada?”

Monica enthused, “Mikey Tong is an Asian American PI. The series is set in the 1930s. It’s like Charlie Chan with ba—”

Peter swallowed his tea the wrong way and went into a coughing fit. Calum slammed him on the back a couple of times.

“He’s very sensitive, isn’t he?” Monica whispered to Grace. “It really is a different culture.”

“I need sleep,” Grace said to no one in particular. “I’m starting to hallucinate.”

When Peter could breathe again he said hoarsely, “We all need sleep. We can’t do anything more tonight.”

“Nonsense!” Calum said. “We can’t afford to lose any more time. Who knows what these rotters might be plotting right now?” The destruction of the Sherlock Holmes volume seemed to have affected him more strongly than the recounting of all Grace’s perils.

“Calm yourself,” Peter drawled. “I’m not going to be rushed into acting before I have a plan.” He and Calum sized each other up with equal parts annoyance.

“Calum, we all need sleep,” Monica put in. “Grace looks half dead.”

“Too kind,” murmured Grace.

Monica coaxed Calum to his feet. “How far back is it to the village?” she asked.

“You won’t be able to find rooms at this hour.” Peter seemed to be sizing them up, perhaps considering their fitness to drive. “Look, you can stay here tonight,” he finally said grudgingly. “The chesterfield makes into a bed. We’ve extra bedding.”

This unexpected hospitality surprised Grace. She cornered Peter when he went to get the bed linens, while Monica and Calum were busy clearing away the remains of their midnight supper.

The scent of crisp linen and dried lavender nearly made her swoon with exhaustion as Peter pulled out immaculate folded sheets. “What’s up?” she whispered.

Peter gave her a crooked grin, albeit a weary one. “Safety in numbers?”

She studied him. “Seriously? Or is it that you think they might be a target?”

Evasively, Peter said, “Let’s just say I prefer to be able to keep an eye on them.” He kissed the bridge of her nose lightly. “Sweet dreams.”

Grace had no idea whether her dreams were sweet or not, she was out as soon as her head hit the pillow, sinking into a deep, goose-down darkness that seemed to dissolve into bright sunshine about five minutes later.

“Rise and shine!” Monica’s voice fluted. “The game’s afoot.”

Grace rolled over and scowled at Monica in the bedroom doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon or something?”

Dressed in jeans and a Fair Isle sweater, Monica chuckled. “Why do you think I’m in such a hurry to get this thing cleared up? Come on, the boys are having a council of war. There’s a pot of hot coffee with your name on it.”

A quick shower later, Grace took her place at the kitchen table. Her partners in crime had apparently been up for a couple of hours. The sofa bed had been stowed away and the others were finishing up what looked to have been a traditional California breakfast: spinach and mushroom omelets, wheat toast and coffee. Grace detected Monica’s expert hand.

“We saved you some,” Monica assured Grace, handing a plate off the back of the stove to Peter.

Peter handed Grace her plate. “Sleep well?” His eyes held hers for just an instant longer than strict courtesy demanded.

“Like the dead.” She settled down beside him, their knees companionably bumping. Inwardly, Grace shook her head at herself. Talk about behaving like a schoolgirl! She reached for her coffee cup.

“Yikes,” said Monica. “I’m not crazy about your choice of words. Especially when you learn what these two have cooked up.”

“These two?” Peter sounded supercilious. “I’m merely humoring Calum by hearing him out.”

Calum frowned. He was not used to having his plans “gang aft a-gley.” “You’ve a better plan, I suppose?”

“No.” Peter sounded untroubled. “And, in your favor, there is the fact that we can’t take the cameos to the authorities without putting ourselves in jeopardy.”

“Now that’s intriguing,” Monica remarked.

“Peter is … known to the police,” Grace confessed. “That’s why they suspect him of killing Danny Delon.”

The newlyweds stared at him with renewed interest. Peter raised his teacup in a little toast.

“Wow.” Monica said.

“Nothing was ever proven in this country,” Grace defended.

“Oh dear. So, like, how much more of the entire story are you concealing from us?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Grace said. “Sorry. It’s just kind of awkward.”

“Uh,
ye-ah,
“ Monica said, slipping unconsciously into Valley Girl Speak.

“Murder?” Calum inquired gravely of Peter.

“Theft. Stealing jewels. Diamonds mostly.”

Calum’s hazel eyes lit. “You could be of grrreat help to me in my research.”

“That’s a comfort.”

“Well, you’re straight now. What’s the problem?”

“The coppers don’t believe I’m straight.” He handed Grace the pot of crab apple jam.

Grace chimed in, “The local police received an anonymous phone call telling them Peter was involved in Danny Delon’s death. They’ve questioned him twice. If we show up with these cameos they’ll be sure he’s guilty.”

“I don’t know that that follows,” Monica objected.

“It’s not something I want to take a chance on,” Peter told her.

“That’s why we need a confession,” Calum said triumphantly. “It’s the only way to clear Pete’s name.”

“It’s too dangerous. For Peter, I mean,” Grace protested. She heard herself and reddened. She sounded like his mother. A sideways glance showed Peter silently laughing at her. It was funny that she already knew him well enough to know when he was laughing inside.

Calum nearly knocked the toast rack over in his enthusiasm. “But it’s not! This Ali Baba or whatever his name is, is locked up. The other two are on the run. We can handle one old drunken sot.”

“But you’re just assuming that Aeneas Sweet is behind it all. After all, it could be Lady Vee. It could be—”

“It could be that Hell’s Angel librarian,” Monica agreed. “That guy gives me the willies.”

“The—?” Calum looked highly amused and for a wee moment distracted. Monica giggled and the two of them kissed over the creamer.

“Actually, I think Blade belongs to Satan’s Slaves,” Peter’s eyes met Grace’s. He made an exaggerated V of his eyebrows at Calum and Monica’s breakfast smooch, and Grace had to bite back a laugh. “I think we can rule him out.”

“Why?”
That was Monica, unembarrassed and focused once more.

“Because his story makes sense. It matches up with what we already know. “Lady Vee isn’t physically capable of killing someone with an ax and Al isn’t the type. They aren’t murderers. Or murderesses.”

“That’s what everyone always says about murderers,” Monica said exasperatedly. “ ‘He was such a sweet man!’ How many times have you heard that one?”

“It’s the psychology, dearrr heart,” Calum told her. “The psychology is wrong. Now here’s what we do. We call up this Sweet—”

Grace interrupted, “Who says Sweet even has a phone? We never saw one.”

“He has a phone,” Peter said. “He called twice while you were being held by Lady Vee. He wanted to make a deal.”

“But he knew we didn’t have the cameos.”

Peter’s smile was wry. “But we did have them, and it appears that Sweet knew it.”

Grace absorbed this silently.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have lift off.” Monica popped the last bite of toast into her mouth.

“What do you think this collection is worth?” Grace nodded at the metal briefcase on the floor of the Rover. It felt heavy against the toe of her boot.

“It’s priceless.” Peter sounded grim. “The Astarte piece is probably tenth century. The Byron likeness alone …” He didn’t finish it. He didn’t have to.

Grace stared out the windshield. The moonlit road scrolling before them was colorless as parchment, the twisted shadows cast by the tall trees seemed to manifest themselves in mysterious Greek letters. Once more they were en route to Penwith Hall.

“Do you know what Byron’s last words were? Before he slipped into that final coma.”

“I’ve had better days?”

She bit her lip. “No. He said, ‘Now I shall go to sleep.’ ”

“Seems a little anticlimactic.”

“He’d gone riding in the rain, taken a chill and fallen into a fever. The doctors had bled him till, and I quote, ‘His blood ran clear.’ They literally drained the life out of him.”

“You’re starting to depress me,” Peter said. “Do you know what Oscar Wilde’s famous last words were?”