Docketful of Poesy by Diana Killian Page A

word that police were
attempting to crack down on recent instances of underage drinking
and littering. The attack on Peter’s shop was the worst crime in
Innisdale since…well, since I’d first arrived nearly three years
earlier. Coincidence? I hoped so.
    Our meals came and I ate meat pie and mushy peas in a
fog of weariness. Lack of sleep and Irish coffees—viewed askance by
the locals—were catching up with me. I stopped listening to the
chatter around me, only vaguely aware when Peter finally agreed to
the filming of the exterior of Rogue’s Gallery. Mona excused
herself, and finally I conceded defeat and said I was going up to
my room.
    Peter excused himself as well and walked me
upstairs.
    “You know, you could stay the night,” I said
as he unlocked the door to my room. “Think how nice it would be not
having to worry about villains breaking in and shooting you.”
    “It would be nice,” he agreed. “But I’ve got a hell
of a lot to get done before I can open tomorrow morning. It’ll be
easier this way.”
    “For whom?”
    He drew me close, kissed me lightly, and put me away
from him. “Sweet dreams, Esmerelda.”
    It had been awhile since I’d heard that pet name from
him. “Sweet dreams,” I echoed gloomily. I could see the sense of
what he was saying, and in fact, I was going to have to take a look
at tomorrow’s shooting script before I could turn in, but it didn’t
make me feel a lot better. Somehow I hadn’t pictured my first night
home in Innisdale with me cuddled up by myself in a hotel bed.
    I closed the door, locked it, and undressed. Climbing
into bed I briefly examined the pages Walter had written, made a
few changes, and faced the fact that barring rewriting the entire
script from beginning to end, I was going to have to live with the
portrayal of my life as some kind of cheap romantic suspense flick.
I put the script aside, and sorted through the books stacked on the
night table, including the two novelized biographies of Laetitia
Landon: Letty Landon by Helen Ashton, and L.E.L.: A
Mystery of the Thirties by D.E. Enfield. I picked up Enfield’s
book and flipped through it sleepily. The politely smiling portrait
of Landon flashed past.
    There were also two mysteries inspired by Landon’s
life, but I’d been unable to find copies of them so far: Eight
Weeks by Clyde Chantler, and The Golden Violet by Joseph
Shearing, better known as Marjorie Bowen. That was one the many pen
names of the prolific Margaret Gabrielle Vere Campbell Long, a
fascinating if somewhat enigmatic figure in her own right.
Novelist, biographer, dramatist, children’s writer, Bowen wrote
over one hundred and fifty novels, many of them tales of Gothic
horror and the supernatural.
    Landon seemed the perfect subject for an author, who
also seemed unable to find love and unerringly chose the wrong man
again and again. Bowen, however, had managed to sublimate the
personal for the professional satisfaction of her writing
career.
    That night though, I didn’t have the patience for
women making tragic choices in their personal lives, so I picked up
Feldman’s anthology and browsed the treasury of poems inside until
my eyes grew heavy….
     
     
    I woke to the sound of muffled talking. The hall
light shone beneath the door, and I could hear two voices, male and
female. I lay there for a moment blinking sleepily, trying to make
out the words. Although I couldn’t figure out what was being said,
the tone of voice the two were using was not casual—in fact,
something about their intensity got me out of bed and over to the
door before I’d really thought about it. Yes, by now the snooping
reflex was well ingrained.
    Pressing an ear against the wood I could hear much
more clearly.
    “You worry too much,” a male voice said. American,
deep, vaguely familiar. Miles? Norton Edam? Neither of them had
arrived as far as I knew—unless it was after I’d retired.
    The second speaker responded, “And you don’t worry
enough.