High Rhymes and Misdemeanors (11 page)

BOOK: High Rhymes and Misdemeanors
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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 craziest plan I’ve ever heard!” Grace exclaimed.

“You need to get out more,” Peter replied quite seriously.

The lowering sky was fading from pewter to lavender as they drove across the little stone bridge into the village of Innisdale. Lights glowed with friendly warmth in windows, the slate roofs glistened black from the recent rain.

“What happy fortune were it here to live,” Grace quoted Wordsworth softly as Peter parked his Land Rover beneath the trees on the street in front of the Hungry Tiger restaurant.

Peter chuckled. He had an attractive laugh. “You wouldn’t last six months, Esmerelda. Off season, the pace here is slow and steady. Very few fax machines and even fewer cell phones.”

“There are worse things.”

“True.”

He came round, opening her car door. No wonder he was so popular with the local ladies, she thought. Those old-world gestures did weird things to a woman’s defenses. It was hard not to respond. Why, at the mere mention of dining out, Grace had jumped back into her floral print skirt and Aran-knit sweater. She had to remind herself that this was not a date.

They went inside the restaurant. It was unexpectedly crowded, and smelled of curry and incense. Sitar music played discreetly in the background.

“Welcome, Peter my friend!” a Liverpudlian accent greeted them. Grace turned around, and there was a bearded man in a coral-pink turban beaming at them. She had to stop herself from exclaiming aloud.

Peter made the introductions, apparently blind to the sinister implications of Ahmed’s headgear.

Ahmed winked at Grace. Perhaps he thought she was scoping him out.

“How do you do?” she mumbled, trying not to stare at the pink turban.

“This one is different, eh, Peter?” Ahmed said.

“A proper little limb.”

Proper little limb?
Like he’d strolled out of the pages of Charles Dickens. Was the man being droll or was he really some kind of anachronism?

They were led through sparkling bead curtains to a dark room where wall murals of tigers and palm trees were just visible in the flickering candlelight.

“Do you think that’s him?” she hissed after they were seated.

“Him who?”

“The man in the turban.”

Peter laughed. “You’re joking. Ahmed?”

“Well, how many people in this village wear turbans?”

Peter opened his menu. “Ahmed doesn’t need to turn to crime; he’s making a killing right here in the restaurant.”

Glancing over the menu prices, Grace had to agree.

Ahmed materialized with two bottles of Cobra beer and some kind of fried potato appetizers. He poured the beer into glasses with a flourish. Grace sipped hers cautiously. It wasn’t bad, though all these foreign beers had the same skunky taste to her.

“What do you recommend?” she asked Ahmed, once again keeping her gaze focused on his face.

“Chicken Malabar!” Ahmed pronounced sunnily. “Is not to be missed. Just like you get at the famous Malabar Junction restaurant in London.”

How far a jump was it from stealing recipes to murder, Grace speculated.

They ordered, Grace going for the Chicken Mal-abar and Peter settling on Prawn Malai Curry. Peter requested another Cobra and Grace decided to keep him company.

She began to cheer up. After all, she was having dinner with a good-looking man who was neither married nor gay. Granted, he was a thief and a liar, but he looked wonderful across the table from her. He wore a soft white shirt beneath a navy and white Kasuri vest, which he had explained, was made from an antique kimono. The dark blue made his hair gleam like old gold and brought out mysterious depths in his eyes. She was not falling for him. She admired him like she would any work of art.

Taking another swig of warm beer, Grace began earnestly, “Hebrew scholars speculate that the Astoreth of the Bible is a compilation of the Greek name Astarte and the Hebrew word
‘boshet’
which means ‘shame.’ That would be in keeping with Hebrew contempt for the goddess cult.”

Peter said, “Yes, I’ve seen her image on ancient seals and tomb reliefs. Sacred lotus in one hand and entwined serpents in the other.”

“Her name comes up a lot in witchcraft rituals.”

“Cor! The Wicked Witch of the West is after us?”

“You weren’t laughing last night.”

“I’m not laughing now. I simply don’t follow a connection between some dusty goddess and Danny Delon getting forty whacks with an ax in my stockroom.”

“You have quite a turn of phrase,” Grace said. That quelling tone worked with the young ladies of St. Anne’s, but seemed to have no effect on Peter. “The only clue we have is the word Astarte.”

“I think there are one or two other indicators that what we’re looking for has cash value on the material plane.” His long lashes threw shadows over his cheekbones.

“What about the man in the turban?” Grace’s eyes strayed to Ahmed speaking cheerfully with two other dinner guests.

“Men in turbans have been known to value cash.”

“You’re an antique dealer; so it seems reasonable to assume that whatever this item is it’s something you could fence.” Briefly she considered the idea that Peter had received property stolen from an ancient tomb and now the priests of that tomb were trying to retrieve their property. Too much Wilkie Collins, she decided, reaching for the potato balls.

The conversation drifted to other things until Ahmed brought their dinners. Then Peter returned to their earlier discussion as though he had been turning Grace’s suggestion over in his mind.

“There’s certainly a lucrative market for stolen antiquities,” Peter agreed. “But I’m not a fence.”

“And there are all kinds of sculptures, plaques, glyphs and votive stelae of Astarte. Some of it dates back to the second millennium,” Grace put in eagerly.

“Your reasoning makes sense as far as it goes,” Peter said. “The part I’m having trouble with is your favorite ‘clue.’ That’s an artistic touch that doesn’t fit.”

“Why not?”

“Because most crooks don’t have much sense of humor, let alone a sense of whimsy. Did Mutt and Jeff strike you as the kind of blokes to scrawl messages in blood?”

“No,” Grace admitted.

“What about the other two? The two who grabbed you. They seem like the type to leave cryptic clues?”

She shook her head. “It was meant to frighten you,” she observed.

“It succeeded.” He didn’t look too frightened though, shoveling in prawns and green chilis with a healthy appetite.

They finished their meal and Ahmed brought Kesar Pistar Kulfi, frozen cones filled with a creamy green substance that tasted like nothing Grace recognized. Peter paid the bill and Grace said, “I’m awfully sorry about this. As soon as I can replace my traveler’s checks—”

He said gravely (though his eyes seemed to be laughing at her): “It’s my pleasure. After all, you wouldn’t be in this predicament if not for me.”

“You’ve got that right!” But she couldn’t help smiling.

“It smells like rain,” Peter remarked as they walked out into the damp night. Trees lining the road rustled in the night breeze. Stars glittered above the rooftops and the smell of wood smoke lingered in the air.

Across the street, Grace could see the library. A giant motorcycle was parked at the curb, polished chrome gleaming in the lamplight. A solitary lamp burned inside the library. Did the librarian drive a hog, Grace wondered vaguely.

Peter moved past Grace to get the door of the Land Rover, which was parked a few feet away on the cobbled street. There was a crunch of footsteps on loose leaves, and someone grabbed Grace from behind. A brutal hand clamped across her mouth stifling her scream. She sensed, rather than saw Peter turning back to her.

But Grace had had days to reenact her abduction, to consider all the things she should have done to save herself, and being more than a little tightly strung—and with the benefit of two Cobras coursing through her system—this time she reacted. She jammed her elbow back with all her might into the gut of her attacker. His breath came out in a hot, “Ooouff!” At the same time she clamped her teeth into the palm over her mouth.

“You bitch!” howled her attacker.

But Grace was free. Sprinting a couple of yards down the street, she put a car at the curb between herself and her assailant.

From where she stood she could see Peter still on the near side of the Land Rover. He stood motionless, not reacting to her plight. An instant later she understood why. A man stood in the shadow of the tree. Light from the windows of the Hungry Tiger gleamed off the barrel of the gun he held aimed at Peter.

“Hold it!” he snarled in a voice she remembered only too well. “Take another step and I blast him. And then you.”

“Do I know you?” Peter inquired.

The man laughed. If you could call it a laugh. “Do you?”

“It’s the Queen Mother,” Grace said. Even she had to admit it sounded insane.

“We want the goods Delon left with you.”

“I don’t have ‘the goods.’ I don’t know what ‘the goods’ are.” Even now, Peter couldn’t help sounding a little sarcastic. Grace really wished he wouldn’t.

“A likely story.” QM gestured to his partner who was walking up and down the length of the parked car as though trying to decide from which direction to rush Grace. “Grab her, you git!”

The man started for the hood of the car and Grace darted around to the trunk. The man turned back to his co-thug and shrugged helplessly.

“Listen, mate,” Peter said, “You should have waited to chop Delon. He never had time to tell me what he was peddling.”

“That’s your hard luck. If you want to keep breathing, you’ll find it. Fast. And for insurance, we’ll hang on to your girlfriend here.”

“Yeah, right,” said Peter. “Get under the car!”

For a minute Grace failed to understand he was talking to her. She saw his leg come up like a mule’s kick and the gun went flying out of the thug’s hand and skittering across the pavement.

Absorbing at last what was happening—although she didn’t see the point of crawling under the car—Grace hit the pavement, scuttling under the chassis as the other man lunged for her again.

Instantly she saw her advantage. Her attacker had to lie down to grab her and she could scoot around—painfully but efficiently enough—to kick at his head and arms. And kick, she did.

And scream she did.

“Help!” she screamed. “Fire! Help!”

It seemed hours but it could have only been moments before the door to the Hungry Tiger flew open. Ahmed stood framed in the doorway, surrounded by some of the Hungry Tiger patrons.

“Hey, man!” Ahmed yelled.

Footsteps echoed down the street and were joined by Grace’s attacker who jumped up and ran as well. Rolling over with some difficulty, she saw two dark-clad figures cross the road climb into a black van parked down the street. The van roared into life, pulled a U-turn, and peeled away in the opposite direction without turning on its lights.

A moment later Peter crouched down beside the car. “All right?”

“Yes.” She took the hand he offered and crawled cautiously out. He helped her to her feet. Grace found that she was shaking so hard she needed his support to stand.

BOOK: High Rhymes and Misdemeanors
6.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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