High Rhymes and Misdemeanors

by Diana Killian

  *****

  “Ram Singh!”

  Grace watched Peter over the rim of her coffee cup.

  He was on the phone chatting with the Innisdale police. So far his end of the conversation had consisted of one-word comments like “What?” and “I—” Now at last things were getting interesting.

  Although, if she were honest, things were already interesting. Peter wore only Levis. Feet and torso were bare and while he spoke to the local authorities he absently scratched his smoothly muscled chest. For some reason Grace found this fascinating—as though she’d never seen well-developed biceps before. Fine gold was sprinkled between pectorals to his navel. Grace’s thoughts were interrupted as Peter hung up the phone.

  “Ram Singh,” she asserted, so that he would know her mind had been on his conversation and not his pecs. “They’re holding Ram Singh?”

  “They caught him red-handed the night before last. The odd thing is they received an anonymous phone message about a prowler even before the alarm went off.”

  “That’s weird. And they’ve no idea who called? Whether it was a man or a woman?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Peter admitted.

  Grace swirled the dregs of tea in her mug as though trying to divine an answer. “Sweet must have sent Ram Singh right after we claimed we didn’t bring the gewgaws. Did they find the cameos on him?”

  “They didn’t say. I’ve got to go down there.”

  “It could be a trap,” Grace said. “I’ll go, too.”

  “That might not be a good idea. We don’t know what he’s revealed to the cops.”

  “He’s mute.”

  Peter’s expression was chiding. “Be serious.”

  “I’m always serious.” Once that would have been almost true. “Ram Singh won’t have told them about Sweet. He doesn’t appear to have anyway. Sweet didn’t seem to know he was gone—although that was probably an act.”

  “I don’t know if it was an act. He probably forgot he’d sent him. He’s nuttier than that cake we ate last night.”

  Peter headed for his bedroom.

  “Now that I’ve got money again, I’ll buy my hat,” Grace called after him. “That way, if they arrest you, I’m right there ready to bail you out. And dressed for the occasion.” She was kidding—at least she hoped she was, but he didn’t seem to be listening. Hurriedly she changed into jeans and a plush, oversize mocha sweatshirt, catching up to him as he walked around to the garage.

  As they drove, flashing in and out of sunlight and shade, she studied Peter’s profile.

  “Are you all right?”

  He gave her a haughty look. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I just notice that the police make you nervous.”

  He was silent. She supposed he was offended, but to her surprise he said, “I have a dislike of confined spaces.”

  “Well, lots of people do.”

  “An intense dislike.”

  “Like claustrophobia?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll do my damnedest to stay out of anything resembling a cell. Or a closet. Or a hatbox. They all feel about the same size.”

  “Is that from being in pri—what happened to you in Turkey?”

  “Got it in one.”

  Grace digested this silently. She would have liked to ask him why he had been imprisoned, but didn’t have the nerve.

  And then Peter changed the subject. “You might try the library when you’ve finished buying your hat. Our librarian is one of your lot.”

  “My lot?”

  “Barmy about the Cumbrian literary heritage.”

  “Sounds like a man of discerning taste and refinement.”

  Peter grinned at that but made no comment.

  They were crossing the little stone bridge and opportunity for further discussion was lost.

  “I’ll meet you back here in one hour,” Peter said, letting her off in Daffodil Street.

  “Meet me at the library,” Grace suggested.

  “Will do.” His eyes looked preoccupied.

  She hesitated. “Good luck.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  She watched him drive down the street and park, then turned and went into the milliner’s shop.

  The dream hat was still there and amazingly enough it was as lovely as she remembered.

  “It looks as though it were made for you,” a shop girl with purple hair and a ring in her nose said as Grace modeled for the mirror. “The leaves are just the color of your eyes.”

  “If only it was made for my pocketbook.”

  The girl shrugged. “You only live once.”

  Taking a deep breath, Grace paid the two hundred pounds and arranged to have the hat shipped back to the States. It was the last of her vacation “mad money.” But then this whole vacation had been a little mad.

  Leaving the shop, she began walking toward the library. All up and down the crowded streets the little shops were open and doing brisk business as the tourist season wrapped up. Grace lingered outside the sweet shop for calorie-laden moments, but reason prevailed. She couldn’t afford to keep a “fat” and “thin” wardrobe while vacationing in a foreign country.

  Her gaze wandered to the big blue hand raised above a small white shop. The palm of the hand read: FORTUNES. There were matching blue plastic flowers in the window boxes, and a blue lacquered door. On impulse, Grace decided to check it out. If nothing else, it would make a good story to tell Peter.

  A bell chimed musically as she stepped inside the blue door. Décor by the Purple People Eaters, she decided, blinking at the plum-colored carpet and gauzy lilac draperies. The lavender walls were adorned with gold-framed pictures of Jesus and a giant astrological chart. What sign was Jesus? Grace wondered.

  Grace cleared her throat. The scent of passionflower incense was almost overpowering. No one seemed to be around but she could hear a radio from behind more gauzy draperies, these spangled with purple sequins.

  “Here now, Charlie,” a woman’s voice said. “You’re taking a hell of a risk coming back here. Suppose someone recognizes you?”

  “No one’s going to recognize me. Not after all these years.” Grace had opened her mouth to call hello, but she knew that voice, the man’s voice.

  “Don’t lose your nerve, Anna.”

  For a moment she stood motionless, unbelieving. The man in the dog mask. Sid’s partner.

  It was a small world after all. And getting increasingly smaller.

  The bells rang again. Grace turned.

  “‘Ello, ‘ello,” said Sid. He reached up and turned out the lights.

  “You can’t leave her here!”

  “It’s just for a few hours. We’ll get the van—”

  “And suppose she wakes up and starts yelling her head off?”

  “She’s out cold.”

  “Well, she’ll wake up, won’t she? He hasn’t killed her, has he? And then what?”

  “Just leave it to Sid.”