I repeated as Peter drew a chair
from another table and sat down next to me. He smelled wonderful.
He’d had a shower and he was wearing the aftershave I loved, a sort
of spicy bay-rum scent.
“It was my…er…stage name.”
“I can see why you’d want to reserve your real name
for your life of crime.” I murmured only loud enough for him to
hear.
“What makes you think Peter Fox is my real name?” he
murmured back.
I admit that shut me up for some minutes. When I
tuned back in, Todd and Pierce were reliving the highlights of
their lives as models. Or rather Todd was reliving them and Pierce
endured with stoicism that would have put those old arrow-riddled
martyrs to shame.
“Do you have acting experience, Peter?” Roberta
asked.
“Hey, maybe you can double for Todd while he plays
you in the film,” I suggested.
His eyes slid my way, but he withheld comment.
“Whatever happened to Chantal?” Todd inquired.
“Er—we’ve rather lost touch,” Peter said vaguely.
Todd shook his head. “Terrific girl. Terrific.” He
met my eyes and winked. “Scottish bird Pierce used to go with. Did
a bit of modeling herself.”
“I believe we’ve met,” I said. Catriona Ruthven,
Peter’s psycho former girlfriend—and partner in his life of
crime—was a homicidal Scottish lass with, from what I’d heard, some
modeling experience. It wasn’t likely something I would ever be
discussing with her. Catriona and I would probably not have been
destined for best friends even if Peter had never been part of the
mix.
“Aren’t we going on for dinner?” Peter asked me as
Todd rose and asked the table who wanted another round. More cast
and crew from the film production company were packing into the
taproom along with the locals who had turned out in hopes of
catching a glimpse of a few movie stars—or who had heard the news
that the production company would be hiring extras.
“We could order food and eat here,” Roberta
suggested. “They must have a pub menu.”
“Oh, why don’t we!” Mona agreed. “That sounds like
fun. I wonder how the vegetable pot pie is?”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Roberta said. “I heard
somewhere that the best food is always pub food.”
“Thass because you’re too drunk to care what you’re
noshin’,” Todd informed her, taking his place on the other side of
me.
Feeling Peter’s look of inquiry, I shrugged. I’d
learned more about him from Todd Downing in five minutes than I’d
learned in three years from the man himself. Besides, I admit the
reminder of Catriona/Chantal hadn’t exactly filled my maidenly
breast with fond affection—especially when I recalled how eager and
determined he’d been to unload me at the nearest hotel.
After the usual debate we ordered a selection of pub
food and more drinks, and the talk turned inevitably to the
following day’s filming.
There was some question as to whether Miles would
arrive in time, as his flight had been delayed in Washington, D.C.
And apparently some cameras and other equipment hadn’t arrived, but
the plan was to forge ahead if possible under Pammy’s
direction.
“What would you think about letting us shoot the
exterior of Craddock House?” Roberta asked. She had been drinking
Irish coffees all afternoon and was enunciating very carefully.
“Well, the interior’s certainly been shot enough,” I
said.
“Very droll, Miss Hollister,” Peter said—but I could
see he was making an effort not to laugh. He said to Roberta, “I’m
afraid that might prove to be disruptive to business.”
“Oh, we’ll pay for any inconvenience,” Roberta
said.
They debated politely, and I listened in on the local
conversation flowing around us. It was all the usual kind of thing:
the results of the annual flower show—I was delighted to hear that
Sally Smithwick, my former landlady, had taken a first in the
fiercely competitive roses division; the news that a woman MP had
bought a house in the area, and the
from another table and sat down next to me. He smelled wonderful.
He’d had a shower and he was wearing the aftershave I loved, a sort
of spicy bay-rum scent.
“It was my…er…stage name.”
“I can see why you’d want to reserve your real name
for your life of crime.” I murmured only loud enough for him to
hear.
“What makes you think Peter Fox is my real name?” he
murmured back.
I admit that shut me up for some minutes. When I
tuned back in, Todd and Pierce were reliving the highlights of
their lives as models. Or rather Todd was reliving them and Pierce
endured with stoicism that would have put those old arrow-riddled
martyrs to shame.
“Do you have acting experience, Peter?” Roberta
asked.
“Hey, maybe you can double for Todd while he plays
you in the film,” I suggested.
His eyes slid my way, but he withheld comment.
“Whatever happened to Chantal?” Todd inquired.
“Er—we’ve rather lost touch,” Peter said vaguely.
Todd shook his head. “Terrific girl. Terrific.” He
met my eyes and winked. “Scottish bird Pierce used to go with. Did
a bit of modeling herself.”
“I believe we’ve met,” I said. Catriona Ruthven,
Peter’s psycho former girlfriend—and partner in his life of
crime—was a homicidal Scottish lass with, from what I’d heard, some
modeling experience. It wasn’t likely something I would ever be
discussing with her. Catriona and I would probably not have been
destined for best friends even if Peter had never been part of the
mix.
“Aren’t we going on for dinner?” Peter asked me as
Todd rose and asked the table who wanted another round. More cast
and crew from the film production company were packing into the
taproom along with the locals who had turned out in hopes of
catching a glimpse of a few movie stars—or who had heard the news
that the production company would be hiring extras.
“We could order food and eat here,” Roberta
suggested. “They must have a pub menu.”
“Oh, why don’t we!” Mona agreed. “That sounds like
fun. I wonder how the vegetable pot pie is?”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Roberta said. “I heard
somewhere that the best food is always pub food.”
“Thass because you’re too drunk to care what you’re
noshin’,” Todd informed her, taking his place on the other side of
me.
Feeling Peter’s look of inquiry, I shrugged. I’d
learned more about him from Todd Downing in five minutes than I’d
learned in three years from the man himself. Besides, I admit the
reminder of Catriona/Chantal hadn’t exactly filled my maidenly
breast with fond affection—especially when I recalled how eager and
determined he’d been to unload me at the nearest hotel.
After the usual debate we ordered a selection of pub
food and more drinks, and the talk turned inevitably to the
following day’s filming.
There was some question as to whether Miles would
arrive in time, as his flight had been delayed in Washington, D.C.
And apparently some cameras and other equipment hadn’t arrived, but
the plan was to forge ahead if possible under Pammy’s
direction.
“What would you think about letting us shoot the
exterior of Craddock House?” Roberta asked. She had been drinking
Irish coffees all afternoon and was enunciating very carefully.
“Well, the interior’s certainly been shot enough,” I
said.
“Very droll, Miss Hollister,” Peter said—but I could
see he was making an effort not to laugh. He said to Roberta, “I’m
afraid that might prove to be disruptive to business.”
“Oh, we’ll pay for any inconvenience,” Roberta
said.
They debated politely, and I listened in on the local
conversation flowing around us. It was all the usual kind of thing:
the results of the annual flower show—I was delighted to hear that
Sally Smithwick, my former landlady, had taken a first in the
fiercely competitive roses division; the news that a woman MP had
bought a house in the area, and the
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