High Rhymes and Misdemeanors by Diana Killian Read Free Book Online Page B

anyone at the farm, and I wasn’t actually harmed, why make a fuss?”
    “I never said that,” protested the constable. “Kidnapping’s a serious offense. If this was a kidnapping and not a—a—?”
    “A what?” inquired Grace. “A prank? They’ve taken my passport and my wallet. And my airline tickets.” And two romance novels, but why confuse the issue?
    P.C. Kenton suddenly brightened. “Perhaps they were terrorists, miss! Did they say anything to indicate they might be terrorists?”
    Grace shook her head. “No. I’m sure they weren’t terrorists.”
    “There are a lot of terrorists about these days.”
    “They weren’t terrorists. They weren’t pranksters either.”
    “Then you must see how it is, Miss Hollister. If they weren’t amateurs and they weren’t terrorists, then the lads who picked you up were pros. They didn’t leave so much as a cigarette butt at that farmhouse. They’ll have worn gloves, everyone does these days. You yourself said you’d only a glimpse of the back of one chap’s head. I just don’t see—we’re not Scotland Yard, miss!”
    Grace gave it up. It was no use asking a village constable to sort out attempted murder and “gewgaws.” The fact was, P.C. Kenton had his hands full with a missing cow and graffiti on a church wall. Grace thought grimly that it had never really been a plan on the part of the kidnappers to snatch her. The farmhouse room had been selected to imprison a man. A man whose wide shoulders would never squeeze though a box-sized window, and whose six-foot frame could never be supported by a half-dead tree. Perhaps, having lost Grace, her captors would return to their original plan of finding Peter Fox.
    Of “icing” Peter Fox?
    Grace set down the mug of tea and rose to her feet. “Thank you for all your help, P.C. Kenton,” she said. “I think you’re right. I think the best thing to do is put this out of my mind and get on with my vacation.”
    P.C. Kenton looked relieved. “That’s the ticket, Miss Hollister. I’m sure those two scoundrels have realized their mistake. They know the police have their description. You won’t be bothered again.”
    Right, thought Grace. The police will be looking for a giant dog and the Queen Mother. Why worry?
    The message on the answering machine of Monica’s friend Calum informed all and sundry that the professor had gone to Scotland for the weekend.
    “Monica, I could murder you myself,” Grace muttered inside the red kiosk. She hung the phone up with a bang.
    Now what? she wondered. Climbing back into the battered mini, she unfolded a road map, blearily studying it. She was not at her best and brightest this afternoon. She had blisters on her feet, scratches on her face. She looked like a bag lady. She felt like something a bag lady would turn up her nose at.
    Surely her “responsibility” to Peter Fox (assuming she had any) ended once she had gone to the police? She had told P.C. Kenton everything she knew, which was not much, and P.C. Kenton informed the chief constable of the county. The matter was now in the hands of the local authorities.
    P.C. Kenton believed Grace was the victim of an elaborate but random tourist mugging. He seemed sure Grace was leaping to all kinds of wild conclusions in connecting Peter Fox’s accident to her own misadventure. And it did sound awfully far-fetched, Grace had to admit. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel and tried to think. She was so tired. She wanted to believe the constable. She wanted to believe it was all over. But she couldn’t quite convince herself.
    They had taken her passport and airline tickets. Why? So she couldn’t leave the country? They had to know that she didn’t have whatever it was they were looking for. Had they taken her tickets and passport for spite? Was this the reaction of the thwarted criminal mind? Grace sat up.
    So now what? She couldn’t get hold of Monica and she couldn’t get hold of Peter Fox. The police told