Peter closed the door on them and leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing hard and fast, and very quietly, as though he’d run a mile and was still being pursued.
When he’d had a minute to gather himself, he went upstairs. Grace was in the guest room. For a moment he observed her. She was painstakingly packing everything in little uptight bundles that couldn’t breathe. Wedging them in together…
With an effort he controlled himself again.
Grace was staring at him. “What is it? Did they find something?”
“No, of course not. There’s nothing to find.”
“You look…”
He probably looked like he felt: ill. Just the thought of it, the thought of being locked up, confined, closed into a small space. Sweat popped out on his forehead in memory.
“Everything’s fine.”
She did not look reassured, and he did not blame her.
“You moved the body?”
“Last night.”
She pressed her hands to her eyes for a moment. “This is bad: not telling the police, disturbing evidence. We could go to jail for that alone.”
“I know.”
She closed the neatly packed suitcase. Locked it. “I think I should try to locate Monica as soon as possible, and then go to the embassy. They must be able to fix me up with some kind of temporary passport.” She lugged the bag toward Peter, who took it from her.
More curious than anything else, he queried, “What happened to not running away?”
“That was before I was facing jail time.” She tried to imagine Ms. Wintersmith receiving a phone call that Grace had been arrested. The picture this conjured caused her to blurt out, “Given the circumstances, I don’t think I have any choice.”
“I’m not so sure.”
He had to be the most contradictory creature on the planet. One minute he couldn’t wait to get rid of her, the next… A little exasperatedly, Grace questioned, “What aren’t you sure about?”
“Let’s think about this for a moment. Someone kills Delon and leaves him in my home. First, why do they kill him?”
“To get the…the gewgaws.”
“Maybe. Then someone tips the police off that the body is here. Why?”
“To frame you.”
“Yes, but why?”
“To keep you out of the action?”
“I think so, but again, why?”
Grace studied him gravely. “Because he—she—they—think you could be a problem. Or because they didn’t get the gewgaws when they murdered Delon, and they think you have them—it—the object in question. And they want time to find it.”
“Which means someone thinks it’s still here.”
He watched the way her eyes widened; she was a rather pretty girl, although maybe it was an odd time to notice. A bit Victorian-looking with her Dresden doll face, rosebud mouth, wide eyes, and that veil of sorrel hair now done up in a sophisticated roll that made her look older and more conservative.
“In the shop?”
“Maybe. I suppose it’s possible.” He scrutinized her from beneath his lashes. “You see what I’m saying though? All this would indicate that they are watching me and this house.”
“And me.” Grace worked it out. “You think they’ll try for me again, when I leave here?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. My inclination is to let them have what they want.”
“Me?”
His lips twitched. “No. Access to the house. The shop. If Delon hid something here, let them find it. Let them take it. Let them keep right on ‘round the bend.’”
This seemed to breach some suburban ethic. “But you can’t! It’s—it’s—Not only that, suppose they wreck the place during their search?”
“My guess is that they’ll try to be subtle about it. They won’t want us to know that they know that we’ve still got the goods. But if worse comes to worse—” He lifted his shoulders. “It’s insured.”
Grace was staring at him as though he hailed from another planet.
“Besides, Delon couldn’t have had much time to stash the goods. It won’t take them long to find what they’re after.” He loved this house, loved the beautiful, old things he had filled it with, but he had learned the hard way that these things were not important. Life and limb; this was what counted. And in the final instance: life.
Grace was still viewing him with consternation. “But you can’t just let these felons take what they want. You can’t give in to them.”
“I admire your spirit.” Actually he seemed amused by it. It seemed odd to her that someone who so obviously valued material things should dismiss the idea of fighting to protect them.
Grace opened her mouth, but he brushed her objection aside. “We’ll discuss it later.” He checked his watch. “It’s time to open the shop.”
“You’re working?”
“They don’t actually pay me to get knocked over the head and thrown in streams.”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“Do you know anything about antiques?”
“Well, no.”
“It’s your neck. If it were mine…” With a meaningful look he set Grace’s suitcase back inside the guest room.
“But what will the police think? I can’t just—” She was talking to his back.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 17
