It seemed to be business as usual at Rogue’s Gallery. Tourists came, they saw, and were conquered. Peter was an effective salesman. He flirted lazily with the women and rattled off appreciating values to doubtful husbands.
Late morning, a van rolled up filled with old furniture, the result of Peter’s recent buying trip. So at least he had not lied about that. Grace watched him unpack assorted pieces of china and pottery, a stack of fashion magazines from the 1920s, and various tables and chairs in all sizes and styles. Much of the antique business seemed to consist of tables and chairs.
Grace couldn’t understand him. She felt they should be searching the premises for the item Danny Delon had died for. Especially since Peter had indicated he didn’t plan on mounting any great resistance. How long could it take to find the item with both of them hunting? Granted, it was awkward not knowing what they were hunting for. And there were so many places to hide in Craddock House and Rogue’s Gallery. Then again, maybe Peter was right. If they were being watched, then perhaps there was some sense in pretending to carry on as though everything were normal. She just didn’t know. She tried to think how she would advise one of her girls, but frankly she hoped none of her girls was ever dumb enough to get into a situation like this.
Since Peter didn’t require her help downstairs, she returned upstairs to his living quarters, changed out of her skirt and blouse and into jeans and a T-shirt. She unpacked her suitcase and put her things away in the cherry-wood armoire in the guest room.
She wasn’t sure at which exact point during her conversation with Peter she had made her mind up to stay. Or, more exactly, to postpone leaving. She was certainly afraid of the police and of getting involved in any kind of scandal, but she was even more afraid of bumping into the Queen Mother and his partner. (Or even Mutt and Jeff.) And it was difficult to get real protection from the police without revealing the extent of Peter’s involvement—which she didn’t want to do. It was pretty clear to Grace that Peter was not popular with the local fuzz.
So she told herself, as she emptied her suitcase, that her decision was of a purely practical nature. Grace prided herself on being practical. She dismissed the idea that perhaps there was some little tiny part of her that was sort of enjoying having an adventure.
Her bags unpacked, Grace decided to occupy herself by searching the Internet once more. Peter could scoff all he liked, but men in turbans indicated cults to her. This time she concentrated on the religious aspects of Astarte.
Astarte, aka Ashtoreth, Ishtar and Athtart, was a Phoenician fertility goddess worshipped around 1500 B.C.
Considering how often her name showed up in connection with occult-related sites, Grace wondered if her hunch about cults wasn’t correct.
Astarte was the goddess of the Evening Star, of love and of war. And she was one of the earliest aspects of the Great Mother.
“What else is there?” Grace wondered aloud, clicking on a link.
The link opened on the image of a naked woman riding a horse. She wore a horned crown and brandished barbaric weapons.
“Hello, Muddah,” murmured Grace, and jotted down notes on a legal pad.
The sun made a brief appearance in the early afternoon, traveling slowly across the floorboards. The shadow of the wisteria outside the windows dappled the white walls. It was so peaceful that it was hard to believe only two days earlier she had been held prisoner in a dirty, drafty abandoned farmhouse.
She was leaving another message on Calum Bell’s answering machine when Peter carried in her lunch tray. Shepherd’s pie made with chicken and vegetables, and a cold lager.
“I suppose you don’t have any diet cola?” Grace inquired, eyeing the lager with misgivings.
“You suppose correctly.” He glanced at the computer. “Having fun?”
“On a scale of one to ten—ten being kidnapped— I’m having the time of my life.” Grace pushed her specs up on her forehead. “How’s business?”
He shrugged. “It’s a living.”
“A very nice one by all appearances.” She sampled a forkful of mashed potato topping. She recognized hints of Parmesan and buttermilk. If only this man would use his talents for good instead of evil.
His grin was wicked. “Do I detect a note of disapproval? Do you suspect I’m living off my ill-gotten gains? I assure you, I’m strictly legit these days.” He glanced at the phone receiver. “Who were you calling?”
Did he not trust her?
Grace explained once again about Monica running off to Scotland. “I don’t think they could track her, but I’m not sure. Maybe Calum’s neighbors know where he’s staying. Or maybe they’ll break into Calum’s flat and find some clue to tell them where they’ve gone.”
“Ease up,” Peter advised. “You’re flooding the engine.” He considered her troubled features. “I thought all you Yanks carried cell phones.”
A mouthful of potato made it hard to articulate. Grace swallowed and got out, “That’s just an ugly urban legend.” She ignored the memory of the cell phones that both she and Monica did carry when on home soil.
He shrugged and said, apparently untroubled by the thought of other people in danger, “You’ve done what you could. When they get back she’ll know where to find you.”
Peter only stayed to chat another moment or two. Grace could see that he didn’t expect her to find anything, but was relieved to have her out of his hair. Spurred on by the desire to prove him wrong, she kept on at the computer until it was getting dark.
Dusk was falling when she finally heard the last car drive away in the Cumbrian evening. This was followed by Peter’s quick light tread on the stairs. The living room lights came on and with them the stereo and the restless beat of The Waterboys once more. It was strange hearing music that she knew from another time in her life. She recognized the song: “Be My Enemy,” and the remembered lyrics brought a reluctant grin. Something about finding goons on one’s landing and thieves on one’s trail and nazis on the phone—at least they didn’t have to worry about Nazis dialing in. Something to be grateful for!
You be my enemy and I’ll be yours.
Love in the twenty-first century, Grace thought. She tried to imagine Keats or Shelley or Byron penning rock lyrics. After all, they had sort of been the equivalent of rock stars in their own era.
She logged off the computer, pulled off her glasses and joined Peter in the kitchen where he was having a beer and staring out the window at the indigo tarn and the dark woods beyond.
“Buy you a drink?” he offered, holding up the bottle.
“Er—no thanks.” She was conscious that tonight she would sleep under this man’s roof again. It would be easier if she wasn’t so maddeningly aware of him. “Do you want to know what I found?”
“Sure. But later. Let’s eat out tonight.”
“Is that wise?”
Peter drained the last of his beer and said, “The important thing is to keep up a normal front. We don’t want anyone watching us—cops or crooks—to see anything out of the ordinary.”
“That in itself is suspicious with what’s been going on here,” Grace pointed out.
As though she hadn’t spoken, Peter said, “What are you in the mood for? There’s a marvelous little Indian place down the road.”
“You hope they’ll break in!” Grace accused.
He studied her quizzically.
“And don’t give me that look!”
Peter felt his jaw as though checking his “look.” “Let’s examine this from a practical standpoint,” he said. “Our friends are convinced that whatever they’re after is here. Myself, I think Danny probably was smart enough not to walk around carrying the item on his person, but these chaps aren’t going to give up on the idea till they’ve had a chance to check for themselves. Since they won’t take no for an answer, and since someone—one of us, I fear—might get injured trying to prevent their search, I say we give them enough time and plenty of space to make sure for themselves.”
“That is the c
raziest plan I’ve ever heard!” Grace exclaimed.
“You need to get out more,” Peter replied quite seriously.
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 18
