Grace was coiling her hair in a French chignon when Peter tapped on her door.
“Let me do the talking, right?”
“What do I do if the constable asks me a direct question? Pretend to be mute?”
“There’s a thought.” He studied Grace critically, from the pristine white linen blouse to the Laura Ashley print skirt. It was the kind of ensemble Grace typically chose for parent-teacher conferences. She knew she looked feminine and sensible. The kind of woman who did not get involved in police investigations. Frankly, she thought Peter could do better than jeans and a lapis lazuli-colored shirt. Chaz would never wear such a shirt, she reflected. It almost looked like silk.
Peter had punctuated her dressing by calling bits of information to her: Chief Constable Heron had received a phone call from P.C. Kenton relating Grace’s misadventures and her concern for Peter’s safety. When Grace Hollister had promptly disappeared, the forces of law and order were perturbed in their phlegmatic British way.
“We simply need to let them see that you’re all right and everything’s under control.” It was the third time Peter had said this and Grace wondered whom he was trying to convince.
“Everything is not under control,” Grace had to point out.
Peter stalked away from her bedroom door.
Though everything was not under control, against her better judgment Grace was going along with Peter. She knew what she would say to one of her girls running around with a strange man (strange in more ways than one), conspiring to deceive the police force of a foreign country. No one who knew her would believe she was agreeing to this insanity voluntarily: not her family, not her colleagues, not Ms. Wintersmith, headmistress at St. Anne’s, who was grooming Grace to replace her in some far distant future—and certainly not Chaz, who on more than one occasion had praised her “dependability.” Grace found it hard to believe herself.
Of course it hadn’t helped that her morning phone call to the American Embassy had ended in the news that it would take several days to issue Grace a replacement passport—and this was assuming there were no “glitches.” How could there not be glitches in a situation like this one? Glitches were a guarantee. Grace could flee Innisdale, but for the time being she was stuck on this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…
And to top it all off, it wasn’t like Peter Fox wanted her. The fact that he needed her help even to this extent clearly pained him.
From the landing she watched him admit the police. A rosy-cheeked constable started up the long staircase, followed by an older man who looked like he had escaped out of an Agatha Christie novel (right down to the wax on his handlebar mustache). This had to be the chief constable.
“Well, Miss Hollister, it’s a relief to find you in good health.”
Grace shook hands. “Sorry for the mix-up. I didn’t realize anyone was expecting me to turn up at a certain time or place.”
The chief constable shook hands with Peter. “Mr. Fox.” His tone was decidedly cooler.
They settled in Peter’s comfortable living room and the two policemen looked about themselves. The chief constable said, “You won’t mind showing me some ID, Miss Hollister?”
“That’s just it,” Grace said, “The men who grabbed me stole my ID. My passport, my money, everything.”
“Of course. I’d forgotten.” Heron twisted the ends of his mustache and Grace realized he hadn’t forgotten at all. Was it some kind of test?
Peter said lazily, “Perhaps you’d like Grace to recap her…adventures?” Apparently he couldn’t help that tone of voice, but Grace noted it didn’t go over well with the officers of the law.
Heron’s black-cherry eyes rested on Peter’s face. “Hmm. We’ve got it on record. Miss Hollister, you’ve known Mr. Fox how long?”
“About three days.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Peter inquired.
“Just wondering why, after all she’d been through, Miss Hollister would come to you rather than ourselves.”
“I believed Peter’s life was in danger.”
At last Heron looked her way. “Why?” he asked bluntly.
Grace chose her words carefully. “They—well, someone had tried to kill him once. I gathered the only reason they were bothering me was they believed I was involved with Peter.” She began to see the danger in this line of questioning. “They seemed like dangerous men,” she said at last. The young constable smiled at her sympathetically.
“You didn’t trust the police to warn Mr. Fox?”
“I—yes, but I wasn’t sure you would be in time.”
Peter reached across and squeezed Grace’s hand. “I’d told Grace the night before she had a standing invitation.” The sheen of violet silk made his eyes shine like amethysts. “I was delighted she took me up on it.”
Grace smiled feebly. “Yep,” she said.
Heron cleared his throat. “I see.” He glanced at the constable who handed him a sheet of paper. “And what may I ask is this item you were supposed to exchange for Miss Hollister?”
Peter’s thin strong fingers tightened unconsciously on Grace’s. “There was no item.”
“Come, come, Mr. Fox. It’s right here in Miss Hollister’s account of her abduction.” He ran a thick finger along the typewritten sentence.
Grace interjected, “I…might have misunderstood on that point.”
“Why should you say so, miss?”
“Because she was rattled,” Peter said. “These yobbos abducted her, terrorized her—are her listening skills really at issue?”
Peter’s sarcasm had little effect on the stalwart minions of the law.
“No, Mr. Fox.” Heron returned equably. “No, I believe the young lady reported exactly what she heard, and I believe she heard the truth. You have something these villains want.”
Villains? Grace felt her confidence in local law enforcement waning. These gentlemen were so different from the trim, efficient LAPD back home. Plus they seemed convinced that Peter was the biggest threat to her safety.
“I’ve a question for you,” Peter said. “Did you happen to discover the identity of the owner of the farmhouse where Grace was held?”
Heron took this one in stride. “Indeed we have. The house was formerly owned by a Miss Barbara Hopkins. Miss Hopkins was an elderly spinster lady, and when she passed on, she had no relations to bequeath the property to. There was a housekeeper who apparently lived on there for some time, but she’s also long since deceased.”
“What was the housekeeper’s name?”
“Why do you want to know?” Heron asked.
“Mild curiosity. These blokes seemed to know me. I wondered if I might recognize a name that could help the police in their investigations.”
The last bit was said sardonically, but instead of being offended Heron returned quite cordially, “The housekeeper went by the name of Ames. Ring any bells?”
“No.”
“Quite certain of that, Mr. Fox?”
“Granted, life is full of uncertainties, Chief Constable, but I’m fairly certain the name Ames carries no special significance for me.” Peter rose. “If that’s all, Grace and I have some business to attend to.”
“Actually, Mr. Fox, there is one thing more.”
Grace, who had started to rise, sat back down as though the strength had melted from her legs. She looked at Peter. Peter was watching Heron with narrowed eyes.
“And that is?”
“Do you know a Mr. Danny Delon, sir?”
After a moment, Peter said, “He’s a former business acquaintance.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Delon?”
Peter flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve. “Why?”
“Answer the question, Mr. Fox.”
Grace’s heart began to pound so hard she could hardly hear Peter’s indifferent, “About a week ago.”
“That was the last time you saw Delon? You haven’t seen him since your trip?”
“No.”
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Grace inwardly cringed at this lie. Something in Heron’s tone warned that this was not a casual question. That it was, in fact, a trap.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
Peter sounded just right, a little bored, a little impatient. He seemed unconscious of the three pairs of eyes pinned on him.
Heron also rose. “We received an anonymous tip, sir. The caller said that if we searched this house we would find Mr. Delon’s body.”
Chapter Six