Free Docketful of Poesy by Diana Killian

quick
drink, and shiver. Catching my eye, she winked. “My own concoction.
Korean white ginseng, juniper berries, red clover, plum flower, and
alfalfa leaves.”
    “It sounds…very healthy.”
    “I wouldn’t drink it otherwise. It’s horrible.”
    “Wouldn’t that defy the whole theory of the
space-time continuum?” We were joined by a nice looking dark-haired
young man. “I mean, you and the original model sharing airspace,”
he said to Mona. I caught a whiff of breath mint and alcohol—mostly
gin.
    “ Grace, this is Norton Edam,”
Roberta said. “He’s playing Gerry.”
    “Gerry” or Geraint Salt was the character named after
the real-life Ferdinand Sweet. For legal reasons, blah, blah, blah.
I was getting a little tired of having it explained to me—as though
I would possibly object to having a firewall of fake identities
placed between me and this project.
    “Apparently I’ve become typecast,” Norton said. “I’ve
played the least likely suspect in my last three films.” He was
slightly pudgy with gentle brown eyes. Attractive in a pleasantly
nondescript way—the type that frequently got cast as either the
most expendable victim or the killer in low budget
straight-to-cable films.
    “At least you’ve had three films,” Mona said. “Has
Tracy done anything besides shampoo commercials?”
    “Meeeow,” Norton murmured.
    “Mona,” Roberta cautioned.
    Mona put a hand up. “I didn’t say a word.”
    Roberta seemed satisfied. “Coffee, Grace?”
    I nodded, and Roberta poured coffee in two Styrofoam
cups. She dumped the appropriate powders in as requested, and
handed a cup to me.
    “So we’re off to jolly old England,” Norton said.
“Cheers.” He raised his cup in mock toast.
    “That’s right. Hopefully everyone’s passports are in
order.”
    Mona said dryly, “Tracy’s is. But I overheard her
worrying about her immunization shots.”
    Norton swallowed his coffee the wrong way, and moved
off making strangled sounds. Roberta shook her head. “You’re
terrible, Mona.”
    “I’m just reporting the news as I heard it.” Mona
glanced at me. “Speaking of news. I heard you were with poor little
Walter when he died.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Mona nodded, but to my surprise didn’t pursue it.
    “Did you know him very well?” I asked.
    Mona laughed and turned to Roberta. “She really is an amateur sleuth.”
    “I was just…making conversation,” I protested
guiltily. I was relieved to see Peter appear in the doorway to the
kitchen.
    “Yowza. Now who is this?” murmured Mona. I had to
admit that Peter did look like somebody. He had whatever it
was that managed to make jeans and a tailored shirt look like
Savile Row.
    “They’re about to start shooting your incarceration,”
he informed me.
    “Been there, done that,” I remarked, and the others
laughed.
    “Coffee?” Roberta inquired of Peter, and once again
she did the honors with the artificial creamer and sweetener.
    We drank our coffee and chatted, and then Roberta
shepherded us off to be introduced to the remaining cast members
who were not immediately involved in shooting the current scene.
Everyone seemed nice enough, if preoccupied. Most commented on
Walter’s death, and everyone had questions about the decision to
shoot on location in Britain.
    “I was wondering about that myself,” I said, as
Roberta finished discussing the day’s shooting script with the
assistant director. “Why are you moving the shooting to
Great Britain?”
    “I think it’s a fabulous idea,” Roberta
enthused. “It’s going to make all the difference to this film.”
    Peter’s eyes met mine. I knew what he was thinking. I
said, “But isn’t it going to be incredibly expensive, moving an
entire film production overseas? All these people? All this
equipment?”
    “Location, location, location,” Roberta said
breezily. “It’s the way they used to make movies in the good old
days. Think of Hepburn and Bogie filming in Belgian