You just figure everyone else will clean up the mess.” That
was Roberta. I recognized her husky tones immediately even though
she was keeping her voice low.
“Don’t lose your head, Robbie. There’s a lot at stake
here—for me and you.”
Quite shamelessly, I went on eavesdropping as Roberta
answered, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
The man answered, “Of course it was an accident. What
do you think it was? Murder?” His voice faded.
I eased open the door and peeked out into the hall.
It was empty.
I waited a few minutes more but heard nothing. I was
just starting to close the door when I heard footsteps on the
stairs. I waited, watching the head of the stairs, and Tracy
appeared. She was wearing jeans and a short, tight leather
jacket—the most clothes I’d seen on her yet.
Feeling very silly I stood motionless, afraid to
close the cracked-open door and bring attention to the fact that
I’d been spying into the hallway. Tracy never noticed.
She yawned widely, unlocked her room, and went
inside. The door clicked shut behind her.
I closed my own door and went back to bed, though it
was some time before I drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Nine
W e began filming the exterior
of Rogue’s Gallery at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. By nine
o’clock I was sure that show business was no business—for me.
The day’s shooting started with watching the
stuntwoman drive a Mini identical to the one used in the States
down the lane, and pull up under the trees in front of Craddock
House. I’m sorry to say it was no more fascinating in the English
Lake District than it had been in Tehachapi—although the scenery
was certainly nicer.
At least everything was moving swiftly. The
stuntwoman was timed and then the drive was filmed. Then it was
Tracy’s turn. She replaced the stuntwoman in the car and practiced
getting out of the Mini and walking up to the front door of Rogue’s
Gallery. She walked like a model strutting down a catwalk, and even
though I told myself it didn’t matter, it drove me nuts. No one was
going to mistake Tracy for a high school English teacher—unless she
was a teacher who supplemented her income in ways guaranteed to go
unapproved by the PTA.
“You’re sniffing,” Peter remarked, joining me at the
picture window of his living room where I gazed down at the scene
below. He handed me a cup of tea.
“I’m what?”
He gave a little disapproving sniff. “Like Jane Eyre
when Mr. Rochester was telling her things she didn’t like to
hear.”
I laughed reluctantly. He sipped from his own cup.
Having spent the previous night getting Rogue’s Gallery in shape to
open this morning, he had only risen a short time before the camera
crew arrived. He wore only Levis, despite the chilly morning. His
hair was ruffled, and he smelled tantalizingly warm and male.
“Who’s that?” Peter nodded at Miles Friedman striding
through the immaculate front garden, cowboy hat on his head,
shouting orders as he went.
“That’s the director.”
“He looks like it.”
Miles had arrived during the night—and as I watched
him talking to Tracy, I thought I had a good idea whom Roberta had
been talking to in the hallway at two o’clock in the morning.
“Apparently he’s a Hollywood legend, but not for his
filmmaking.”
He drained his teacup. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’ve
an appointment with the aide to the Right Honourable Angela
Hornsby.”
“Who?”
“Our new neighbor; you can’t have missed the talk
last night about our new lady MP. She’s taken the old Monkton
Estate.”
Actually, between jet lag and Irish coffees, it
seemed I had missed one or two points of interest. “My
goodness, that house sees a lot of traffic. The estate agents
should install a revolving door.”
“Apparently the Honourable Angela is planning to
furnish the old place with antiques supplied by local dealers. Very
politic of her.”
“Very. Is she still campaigning or
was Roberta. I recognized her husky tones immediately even though
she was keeping her voice low.
“Don’t lose your head, Robbie. There’s a lot at stake
here—for me and you.”
Quite shamelessly, I went on eavesdropping as Roberta
answered, but I couldn’t make out what she said.
The man answered, “Of course it was an accident. What
do you think it was? Murder?” His voice faded.
I eased open the door and peeked out into the hall.
It was empty.
I waited a few minutes more but heard nothing. I was
just starting to close the door when I heard footsteps on the
stairs. I waited, watching the head of the stairs, and Tracy
appeared. She was wearing jeans and a short, tight leather
jacket—the most clothes I’d seen on her yet.
Feeling very silly I stood motionless, afraid to
close the cracked-open door and bring attention to the fact that
I’d been spying into the hallway. Tracy never noticed.
She yawned widely, unlocked her room, and went
inside. The door clicked shut behind her.
I closed my own door and went back to bed, though it
was some time before I drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Nine
W e began filming the exterior
of Rogue’s Gallery at seven o’clock on Tuesday morning. By nine
o’clock I was sure that show business was no business—for me.
The day’s shooting started with watching the
stuntwoman drive a Mini identical to the one used in the States
down the lane, and pull up under the trees in front of Craddock
House. I’m sorry to say it was no more fascinating in the English
Lake District than it had been in Tehachapi—although the scenery
was certainly nicer.
At least everything was moving swiftly. The
stuntwoman was timed and then the drive was filmed. Then it was
Tracy’s turn. She replaced the stuntwoman in the car and practiced
getting out of the Mini and walking up to the front door of Rogue’s
Gallery. She walked like a model strutting down a catwalk, and even
though I told myself it didn’t matter, it drove me nuts. No one was
going to mistake Tracy for a high school English teacher—unless she
was a teacher who supplemented her income in ways guaranteed to go
unapproved by the PTA.
“You’re sniffing,” Peter remarked, joining me at the
picture window of his living room where I gazed down at the scene
below. He handed me a cup of tea.
“I’m what?”
He gave a little disapproving sniff. “Like Jane Eyre
when Mr. Rochester was telling her things she didn’t like to
hear.”
I laughed reluctantly. He sipped from his own cup.
Having spent the previous night getting Rogue’s Gallery in shape to
open this morning, he had only risen a short time before the camera
crew arrived. He wore only Levis, despite the chilly morning. His
hair was ruffled, and he smelled tantalizingly warm and male.
“Who’s that?” Peter nodded at Miles Friedman striding
through the immaculate front garden, cowboy hat on his head,
shouting orders as he went.
“That’s the director.”
“He looks like it.”
Miles had arrived during the night—and as I watched
him talking to Tracy, I thought I had a good idea whom Roberta had
been talking to in the hallway at two o’clock in the morning.
“Apparently he’s a Hollywood legend, but not for his
filmmaking.”
He drained his teacup. “I’ve got to get dressed. I’ve
an appointment with the aide to the Right Honourable Angela
Hornsby.”
“Who?”
“Our new neighbor; you can’t have missed the talk
last night about our new lady MP. She’s taken the old Monkton
Estate.”
Actually, between jet lag and Irish coffees, it
seemed I had missed one or two points of interest. “My
goodness, that house sees a lot of traffic. The estate agents
should install a revolving door.”
“Apparently the Honourable Angela is planning to
furnish the old place with antiques supplied by local dealers. Very
politic of her.”
“Very. Is she still campaigning or
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