Inside the flat, Peter waved her to one of the comfortable oversize chairs. She ignored this, trailing him into the kitchen, watching as he plugged in the electric teakettle.
“Tea?” she said disbelievingly. “We’re going to have tea?”
“If you’d prefer something stronger—?”
“There is a body downstairs with an ax in its chest. Someone scrawled the word ‘Astarte’ in blood on the wall, and you’re concerned with beverages?” Grace’s voice shot up an octave.
Peter’s brows rose with it. “Definitely something stronger for you.”
He brought Grace a brandy. “Drink up, there’s a good girl,” he ordered. “My nerves can’t take another bout of hysterics.”
His nerves? The man didn’t have a nerve in his body.
Grace snatched the snifter and drank the brandy in two gulps that left her gasping beneath Peter’s gaze. “I’m not hysterical,” she informed him. “And even if I am, I have every right to be.”
“Certainly. We’ll hear about that in a minute.” Peter pressed replay on his answering machine. While he listened to the messages he prepared a tray for tea. Watching him, Grace felt as though she had wandered through the Looking Glass. Not even the Queen Mother’s snarl of a voice caused him to turn a hair as he calmly filled a bowl with lemon wedges, placing fragile porcelain cups and cake plates on a tray.
Exasperated beyond belief, Grace hobbled after him into the living room, sinking wearily into a deep, leather chair. He set the tea tray on the curio table.
“Cream and sugar?”
Maybe I am dreaming, she thought foggily. Perhaps it was the brandy kicking in, but she decided to go with the flow. “Please.”
There was something fascinating about such a virile man performing so civilized an act as pouring tea. Grace observed his long brown hands deftly moving the delicate cups. She found herself wondering what those hands would feel like on her body. She tore her thoughts away, shocked.
Distractedly, Grace drank the tea. It was hot and strong and refreshing. She ate some chocolate hazelnut cake, and remembered that she was starving. The last real meal she’d had was now only a reminiscent rumble in her tummy. She had been running on adrenaline and caffeine for the last few hours, and now she was running on empty: physically, mentally and emotionally. She had believed she was too stressed to eat. She served herself another delicious piece of cake.
Peter watched her tuck it away without comment. He served her a second cup of tea, and waited till Grace leaned back in the chair with a heartfelt sigh, before commenting, “Suppose you start at the beginning.”
As coherently as possible, Grace related her adventures. After the brandy, tea and cake, she felt better. Much better. Stronger. Calmer. She did not trust Peter Fox, but oddly enough, she felt safe with him.
He heard her out from beginning to end with only a couple of questions. There is something very flattering about being given a handsome man’s undivided attention. Grace experienced the same tug of attraction she had felt at the Tinker’s Dam.
“Were we supposed to meet that next morning?” she asked as an afterthought, as she wound up her story.
Peter’s lashes lowered, veiling his eyes. He said evasively, “I thought I might do well to check out a couple of things first.”
So all that charm of the night before had simply been to pry information out of her. Grace recalled the feminine voices on his tape machine, the waitresses at the Tinker’s Dam vying for his attention. Whatever happens, she warned herself as though advising one of her girls, you must not fall for this man.
“And what did you learn?”
Peter shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs. He wore denims that hugged every move his lithe body made, and a moleskin shirt of palest baby blue, which played up the color of his eyes and the gold glints in his thick hair. He was not classically handsome, but there was definitely something about him.
Grace, on the other hand, knew she looked like she felt. She needed a shower and sleep. She was still wearing the clothes she had made her cross-country run in, and if her hair did not actually have leaves and twigs in it, her braid was as frayed and tattered as her nerves.
“Tell me this,” he said offhandedly. “Did your constable happen to mention who owned that farmhouse in the middle of nowhere?”
Grace thought it over. “If he did, I don’t recall it. The place had clearly been abandoned for years. But I suppose you’re right. The owner might provide some kind of clue to the identity of those thugs who nabbed me.”
He seemed to have no further comment.
“Wait just a minute,” she responded to Peter’s reticence, “it’s your fault I’m involved in this. I have a right to know what’s going on. If you know, you need to tell me. You owe me that much.”
Peter sat forward, putting that husky, beguiling voice to good use. “I know. I do apologize. But trust me on this, Grace; the less you know, the better.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Grace glared at him. “The more I know, the better my chances of protecting myself. That’s just common sense. Quit carrying on like someone out of…of Sax Rohmer, and tell me what’s going on!”
Peter had drawn back warily at this unexpected attack. Now a faint smile curved his wide, rather mocking mouth. “Actually, I haven’t a clue what’s going on,” he admitted. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Swell.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Tomorrow you’ll be on a plane heading back to the States.”
“I wish.” She sighed, leaning back in the butter-soft leather upholstery, and added, “It’s going to take the consulate a couple of days to issue me a replacement passport. I can’t afford to buy new plane tickets. I don’t even know if I can get my old tickets replaced.” She rubbed her head as though she could stimulate her thought process. “Who was that man downstairs? Did you know him?”
After a moment, Peter said reluctantly, “His name is—was—Danny Delon. He’s a petty thief. Strictly small-time.”
“What nice friends you have.”
“He was more of an acquaintance.”
“Then what was he doing in your secret passage?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Do you have an idea of who killed him?”
“No.”
“Or why?”
“No.”
“You must have some idea.”
Peter looked annoyed. “This interrogation technique might work wonders with the belles of St. Mary’s or wherever the hell it is—”
“St. Anne’s.”
“—but I don’t appreciate it.”
“I don’t appreciate being slapped or having guns pointed at me or being run off the road or kidnapped. What is it those men wanted in exchange for me?”
Peter gritted his teeth. “I do not know.”
“You must have some idea. They said, ‘ask your mate Delon.’”
“Unfortunately, he’s not talking. As you may have noticed.”
Years of dealing with devious adolescents had equipped Grace with a built-in lie detector. Peter Fox was good—a born liar in fact—but Grace knew what that slant of eyes to the left meant. He might not be lying, but he wasn’t telling the complete truth.
She asked tartly, “And I suppose Astarte is the name of the person who killed him?”
For one fleeting second he actually seemed to consider trying it on. He replied shortly, “You know as well as I do Delon never lifted a finger after that ax was planted in his chest.”
Grace swallowed a lump in her throat. “So what does Astarte mean? Is it a warning?”
“I suppose so. I don’t know. About a week ago Delon came to me with a story of a valuable something he’d managed to lay his hands on.”
“Something stolen?”
“That would be a safe bet.” Peter’s left brow rose in a gesture Grace was beginning to recognize as characteristic.
“What did you do?”
“I told him I thought he was in over
his head. I told him to get rid of the goods.”
“And instead someone got rid of him. Who? Mutt and Jeff? The Queen Mum?”
Peter said crossly, “Would you stop calling that bloke the Queen Mum? It’s distracting.”
Grace was not listening, busy tabulating facts. Fact: Danny Delon, a small-time hood, brought stolen goods to Peter Fox. Fact: Peter Fox did not want to contact the police; not when someone tried to kill him, and not even when he found a corpse in his home. These facts did not add up to a very flattering portrait of Peter Fox.
“Why can’t you go to the police?” she inquired.
“I prefer to handle this my own way.”
“Dead bodies in the secret passage all in a day’s work for you?”
The blue eyes gleamed with dislike. Grace prodded delicately, “Are you…er…?”
“Known to the police?” Peter finished dryly. “Yes, Miss Hollister, in a manner of speaking, I am. Which is why I didn’t want any part of Delon’s find, intriguing though it sounded.”
“You’re a crook?” Grace abandoned tact.
“No, I’m not a crook!” Peter rose and then seemed to have nowhere to go. Restlessly, he prowled the spacious room. No further explanation seemed forthcoming.
A crook with tender feelings? Grace prodded, “Then what?”
Peter stared out the window at the black silhouette of woodline. He said finally, “It was over five years ago, but…” He sighed. “Take my word, I cannot go to the police.”
“Even over something like this?”
“Trust me.” He said it as though he fully expected her to do so.
“What happens if the killer comes back?” Grace speculated aloud, “Now that I think about it, you have four people that I know of wanting to kill you.”
“Not ‘ice’ as in kill,” Peter clarified reluctantly. “‘Ice’ as in diamonds. Ice Fox. It’s an alias. A bit of youthful cheek.”
Even if the Queen Mother and cohort had not planned to kill Peter, someone had. Someone had deliberately put his head underwater. Mutt and Jeff? Someone had certainly killed Danny Delon.
“What about Mr. Delon?” she pointed out. “Was he killed in mistake for you?”
“You’re joking. No one could mistake Danny for me.”
He had a point. It would be like mistaking one of the dwarves for Prince Charming. Even if the murderer had never seen Peter, he had to have a general idea of what he looked like. Had Danny Delon actually been the intended victim? Then why the attempt on Peter’s life? Were the two things not connected? Given Peter’s (she suspected) unsavory past, maybe people frequently tried to knock him off. It would explain his sangfroid about the incident.
Were the “gewgaws” the intriguing “stuff” Danny had got his hands on? Where did Astarte fit in? Where did Grace fit in?
“If Astarte isn’t a person…?”
“I don’t know if Astarte is a person,” Peter informed Grace. He flopped down in a chair and raked a hand through his fair hair. “I doubt it, since I’ve never met anyone named Astarte.”
“Maybe it isn’t ‘Astarte’?” Grace suggested suddenly. “Maybe the murderer was interrupted before he could finish writing out the message.”
Peter studied Grace as though she were from another planet. “Just out of curiosity, what message do you imagine he might have been writing? ‘A-start-e…?’ ‘E’ for what? Elsewhere? As in ‘A start elsewhere might be a good idea’?”
“No, but—oh, all right! It was just a thought.”
Peter shook his head. “What an imagination. You’re wasted teaching dead poets to hormone-riddled adolescents.”
Some connection between dead poets and Astarte clicked in Grace’s brain, but before she could pin it down, it was gone.
“Well, if it’s not someone’s name, and it isn’t part of another message, it must be whatever the murderer was after. Astarte. Maybe you have a statue of Astarte? Or maybe Delon did. Or perhaps the gewgaws, the jewels, are in a statue of Astarte?”
Peter put a hand to his head as though it hurt. “I don’t have a statue of Astarte. I don’t have anything connected to Astarte. I never did have the item, whatever it is. Delon did.”
“But Delon came here. Maybe he brought it with him?”
“In which case whoever killed him has it now, and wrote ‘Astarte’ to warn us off.”
That made sense. Grace liked that scenario. For one thing, it meant the affair was now over—other than the minor detail of Danny Delon’s dead body. She smothered a yawn triggered as much by nerves as fatigue.
Peter said abruptly, “You’re dead on your feet. Why don’t you have a wash and a lie down. I’ll see about…dinner.”
Grace suspected he had been about to say something quite different. She shuddered and said weakly, “I don’t care about dinner. I don’t think I could eat a bite.”
Peter’s eyes fell on what remained of the cake. He said solemnly, “Naturally. But you have to keep your strength up.”
Meeting his gaze, Grace surprised herself with a laugh. Twenty-four hours ago she had believed she would never laugh again.
“You know, Mr. Fox, if you had been honest that first night, you might have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“I didn’t know whether you were involved the first night,” Peter admitted. “I didn’t know what was happening myself. I still don’t.”
“Well, I’m involved now.”
“Not for long. Tomorrow we’ll have you on your way home.”
Grace doubted it, but it was reassuring to hear. With both hands she smothered another of those engulfing yawns.
“Where are your keys?” Peter rose in one of those restless movements that had her overwrought nerves twitching like jumping beans. “I’ll bring up your bags. Where did you park?”
Grace told him, fishing her keys out of her purse. She tossed them to Peter who caught them one-handed.
“The bath’s through there. Towels are in the cupboard,” he informed her on his way out the door.