Faked to Death

by Dean James

  COPYRIGHT

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Faked to Death

  Copyright © 2003 by Dean James

  ISBN: 9781625178442

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  PRAISE FOR SIMON KIRBY-JONES MYSTERIES

  “Cheeky prose, delicious innuendo and wit, the clever juxtaposition of characters and a preposterous hero result in great entertainment.”—Library Journal

  “Just as much fun as his first book... Dean has a way of poking fun at all the English country house conventions while constructing a true mystery, and the reader has fun right along with him. Give yourself a treat with Faked to Death.”—Charlaine Harris, author of Club Dead

  “A perfect accompaniment to a rocking chair, a shady porch, and iced tea with mint.”—The Houston Voice

  “The fun continues.”—Publishers Weekly

  And more outstanding praise for Dean James and Posted to Death

  “A delightful English village whodunit filled with some of the most eccentric characters you’ll ever run across in a mystery novel.”—The Denver Post

  “A worthy and cozy village mystery you can really sink your teeth into.”—The Houston Chronicle

  “A wickedly funny send-up of the classic cozy British mystery. Dame Agatha would be rolling in her grave, unless she’s already out of it.”—Nancy Pickard

  “Agatha Award-winning author Dean James has penned a chatty charmer of a first book in this new cozy-with-a-kink series. Posted to Death will appeal especially to those who enjoy their murders mixed with mirth.”—I Love a Mystery

  “A delight from start to finish. Everything you could wish for in a British cozy. Simon Kirby-Jones is a charming and intriguing sleuth who puts the village of Snupperton-Mumsley squarely on the mystery map.”—Dorothy Cannell

  “Sure to revolutionize the traditional British cozy and win the hearts of fans everywhere... Quirky villagers, quaint cottages and an intriguing mystery told in the voice of a highly unusual protagonist with a rapier wit combine for a delightful reading experience.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  DEDICATION

  For Tejas D.E. T.F.A.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The year during which this book was written was both the worst and best of my life, and mere thanks aren’t enough to express my appreciation for my family and friends for doing their best to see me through it. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Beyond that, several people deserve special mention. Thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his continued enthusiasm for Simon and his adventures; to my agent, Nancy Yost, for being on my team and who is, thankfully, nothing at all like the agent in this book; and, finally, to Megan Bladen-Blinkoff, Julie Wray Herman, and Patricia Orr, who with unfailing good humor continue to offer support and constructive criticism, no matter how busy they are with their own lives and work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Being dead has its advantages.

  I get much more writing done now that I’m a vampire. When one has not one but two yearly best-sellers to produce, it’s just as well that three hours’ rest per night is sufficient.

  The world of popular fiction knows me as Daphne Deepwood (historical romance) and Dorinda Darlington (hard-boiled female private eye novels). Little do my devoted readers suspect that Daphne-Dorinda is really Simon Kirby-Jones, respected historian, author of acclaimed biographies of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Richard the Lionheart. Nor do they suspect I’m a vampire. And gay.

  Enough of True Confessions. It was writing that got me into this messy business in the first place. A couple of months after that unpleasantness over our murdered postmistress, I was browsing innocently in The Book Chase, my local bookshop, when it all began.

  A rustle of movement from the door intruded on my consciousness. I looked up from a shelf of mystery novels to see a tall twin set bedecked with pearls sailing my way.

  “Dr. Kirby-Jones, I presume?”

  Something rattled; it might have been the windows. I took a step back, but the twin set kept advancing.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage, ma’am,” I told her, my back up against the mystery section.

  “Not to worry,” she assured me, looking down at me. She had an inch on me, and I’m a bit over six feet myself. “No need for all that fancy protocol. I’ll just introduce myself.” She stuck out a meaty paw at me, and I took it, amazed to find that her hand was bigger than mine. “Lady Hermione Kinsale, and very pleased to meet you. Read your work on Eleanor. Quite splendid, I must say.”

  Even though my eardrums were now tender— she had no idea that vampires have exquisitely sensitive hearing—I suppressed any notions of pain for the pleasure of a compliment, no matter how forcefully delivered.

  I wiggled my fingers, relieved nothing had broken. With her height and matching build, she could probably toss me over her shoulder without blinking. I looked at her closely. Someone with her strength could be a vampire. But I didn’t think she was. I’m learning to recognize others of my kind. Just tough as the proverbial old boot, our Lady Hermione.

  Sixty if she was a day, but likely to last another forty years or so.

  “Thank you, Lady Hermione. It’s always gratifying to be recognized for one’s work.” Surely that sounded professorial enough to fit the image.

  “You’re just the man I’m looking for,” Lady Hermione boomed at me. Alarmed, I glanced over at Trevor Chase, proprietor of the bookshop, and he winked broadly behind Lady Hermione’s back. “Had a chap bow out on me for next week, and I need someone with your skills to fill in for him. Heard you were living in the area now, but I didn’t expect to run into you so soon.”

  Trevor was grinning, and I was totally at sea.

  “Writers’ Week at Kinsale House: surely you’ve heard of them?” Lady Hermione didn’t pause for a response. “Well known, they are, and you’d be an asset. The topic for next week’s conference is the crime novel, and we need someone with your credentials to speak on historical mysteries. You’ll be just the ticket.” She turned and headed for the door. “See you for tea on Thursday afternoon at Kinsale House, and I’ll explain what you’re to do.” The door shut firmly behind her, and the building seemed to breathe with relief.

  After spending a few moments with Lady Hermione, one quite sees how the British amassed the world’s largest empire.

  Trevor burst out laughing. “Oh, Simon, my dear fellow, if only you could see your face.”

  “What was that?” I glared at him.

  “Lady Hermione Kinsale, only surviving offspring of the eighth earl of Mumsley, and patroness of the arts. In this case, of writers.” Trevor paused to relight his pipe. “A bit eccentric, but well meaning.”

  He puffed a fragrant cloud of smoke into the air, and I sniffed appreciatively.

  “And now I’m simply supposed to appear at her writers’ thingy?” My tone was indignant, but in truth, my little middle-class American self was tickled by the notion of spending time with the daughter of an earl. Even vampires can
be snobs.

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage to enjoy yourself,” Trevor assured me. “After all, what could happen at a writers’ conference?”

  I should have realized that Trevor had no gift for prophecy. Had I but known! Instead, I chatted with him for a few minutes longer, handed him a stack of books to ring up, then went merrily on my way back down the high street of Snupperton Mumsley to Laurel Cottage, my home of the past several months.

  Inside, I carefully put away my hat, gloves, and sunglasses (even though I can go out during the day thanks to some special medication, it doesn’t hurt to protect oneself as one can), then went into my office. Giles Blitherington, my handsome young secretary (or Executive Assistant, as he now labeled himself), called out from his smaller office next to mine, “Simon, did Trevor have that new book on the Anglo-Saxon church that I wanted?”

  Putting the stack of books I’d brought home down on top of a pile of papers, I sat down behind my desk. “Yes, Giles, he did.”

  I glanced up as Giles appeared in the doorway. I picked up the book he wanted and held it out to him. He advanced toward me and reached for the book. His deep-blue eyes glowed with pleasure as he grasped it. I do like a man who gets excited over a book!

  Not to mention the fact that Giles is also devilishly attractive. He doesn’t know it, but he’s the model for the hero in Daphne Deepwood’s next masterpiece of historical fiction. That auburn hair and hunky build of his are perfect for a romance novel hero, but unlike Giles, my fictional Athelstan likes women. I much prefer the original the way he is, though it wouldn’t do for him to know that.

  “So what’s new with Trevor?” Giles said, settling into the chair opposite my desk. He ran his hands back and forth over the book. He was dying to dig into it to find the material I needed for the current book, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity for a quick gossip. “Still head over heels with his young mechanic?”

  I frowned severely. “I can’t imagine why you’d think that I’d ask Trevor any such thing.” Giles laughed, because he knew me much better than that. I grinned. “Yes, he professes to be quite happy with the young man’s handiwork. But I have something far more interesting to tell you!” Quickly I related my encounter with Lady Hermione Kinsale.

  Giles whistled. “Simon, what a coup! My mother will be positively eaten up with jealousy. She has been trying for years to get Lady Hermione to notice her, but Mummy simply isn’t arty enough for her.” Lady Prunella Blitherington, Giles’s mother, is more of a snob than I would ever dare to be, and her reaction to the news that Giles was going to work for me occasioned quite a little scene. Since then, she and I have managed to get along quite well, as long as we stay out of each other’s way. I chuckled at the thought of her reaction to this news. If I’d needed any further inducement to accede to Lady Hermione’s royal command, this was it.

  “Why, Sir Giles,” I drawled, using his title, which normally he avoided, “I had no idea, when I first came to Snupperton Mumsley, that I’d be moving in such exalted circles. You’ll have to tell me all about how to behave around the daughter of an earl so I don’t embarrass myself.”

  “Just be your usual elegant, witty, and debonair self, Simon, and you won’t have a single problem.” Giles winked at me as he stood up. I waved him back to his office to work.

  I actually employ him because he’s very good at keeping me organized and helping me with my research, but the fact that he’s charming is a distinct plus. Humming happily to myself, I settled in to work.

  ***

  Two days later, standing at the impressive front door of Kinsale House, I recalled Trevor’s assurance: “What could happen?” Indeed!! said to myself as I lifted the heavy, ornate knocker. Kinsale House was a monstrous pile, a mishmash of Georgian refinement and Victorian Gothic excess that would give an architectural historian nightmares. Obviously one or more previous earls of Mumsley had had more money than taste.

  I banged the knocker against the massive oaken door for the second time. Almost at once the door slid open, and before me stood a man I presumed was the butler. He wore the proper attire, but the ring in his septum and the spiky bleached-blond hair were not quite what I had expected. He had the face of a moody pop star and the build of a footballer. I had the sudden notion that he might feature in an upcoming novel of mine.

  “Good day, sir.” He waved me in. His voice was rich and well modulated. He looked barely thirty, but he had the manner of a man twice his age. “You must be Dr. Kirby-Jones. Lady Hermione awaits you in the morning room, where tea is being served.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, following him. “And you are...”

  “Dingleby, sir.” He flashed a brief smile over his shoulder. Oh, yes, most interesting.

  “Ah, Dingleby, thank you,” Lady Hermione trumpeted when she caught sight of us. “Do come in, Dr. Kirbyjones. You are most delightfully prompt.”

  I had stuffed my ears with cotton wool before leaving Laurel Cottage, and Lady Hermione’s voice was now muted to an acceptable level.

  Lady Hermione patted a spot beside her, and I tried to make myself comfortable on the hideously overstuffed Victorian sofa. Next to Lady Hermione, occupying a similarly frightful matching chair, perched a mousy woman with the large, frightened eyes of a rabbit facing a deadly snake. She watched me nervously, as if I were about to swoop across Lady Hermione and ravish her on the spot. Lady Hermione waved negligently in her direction. “My companion and secretary, Mary Monkley.”

  Mary nodded tentatively. “How do you do, Dr. Kirby-Jones?” Her voice came out in a whisper. I had to focus closely to be able to hear her. Perhaps prolonged exposure to Lady Hermione’s loud voice and bombastic manner had so unnerved her that she responded to everyone like this. I could sympathize.

  Lady Hermione shoved a cup of tea at me, and I did my best to keep the tea from sloshing onto my trousers. Drat! I held the cup and saucer in one hand while I dug in a pocket for a handkerchief with the other. As I was mopping up the tea from my lap, Lady Hermione, to whom a soggy lap was apparently of little consequence, proffered a plate of biscuits. I muttered a “No, thank you,” as politely as I could, and Lady Hermione dropped the plate onto the table. As the plate hit with a loud thunk, Mary Monkley jerked as if she had been struck. I was surprised the plate hadn’t shattered on impact.

  “Now, to business,” Lady Hermione said. “Doubtless you are well acquainted with the Writers’ Week at Kinsale House.” She actually paused for a brief moment before sweeping on. Giles had filled me in on the pertinent details. Lady Hermione had quite a good reputation for her writers’ conferences, but I wondered how many of the attendees needed to take a cure for their shattered nerves by the end of the week. “It’s quite fortunate that you live nearby, Dr. Kirby-Jones. We’ll put you on the list of permanent speakers.”

  Lady Hermione beamed at me while I struggled to reply to this signal honor through a mouthful of tea. “You may thank me later, Dr. Kirby-Jones. As for next week’s conference, as I told you, the theme is the crime novel, and we very much need someone with your expertise to speak on researching and writing the historical crime novel.” She stuck out a hand toward Mary Monkley, and that hapless creature gave her several pieces of paper. Lady Hermione glanced over them, nodded approvingly, then gave them to me.

  “Here’s a schedule of the week’s events, plus a list of our attendees. Your list of topics and assignments for one-on-one critiques is there, too. Before you go, Mary will give you the manuscripts you are to read.” She actually paused for a breath, but before I could marshal my thoughts to reply, she swept on. “As you’ll see, it’s a small but select group. Intensive instruction and discussion—that’s our hallmark.”

  She went on in the same vein, but I was no longer paying close attention. I had glanced down at the list of attendees and was thunderstruck at the inclusion of one name. According to the list, Dorinda Darlington was one of the week’s featured authors.

  Maybe Lady Hermione had dug up my deeply g
uarded secret, which I doubted.

  Or maybe an impostor was trying to take advantage of my anonymity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Some agents might as well be vampires—of the old bloodsucking variety, that is. Others, like my English agent, Nina Yaknova, are pit bulls, although with her designer suits, elegant coiffures, and incandescent smile, Nina looks more like a cover girl for Vogue than the ruthless “best in show” scrapper she really is.

  The morning after tea at Kinsale House, I caught a morning train from nearby Bedford up to London and arrived at Nina’s office in Bloomsbury at the unfashionably early hour of nine. Nina’s assistant took one look at my face and quelled his habitual rude greeting and instead motioned me straight into Nina’s office. I was in no mood to put up with the boy toy’s jealousy. If he had even an ounce of brains, he would have figured out by now that I’m not in the least interested in Nina as a potential bed partner. But Nina didn’t hire him for the size of his brain.

  “Sometimes, Simon,” Nina said, her lip curling in annoyance as she beheld me in her doorway, “you’re simply too, too American.”

  “I know I’m early, Nina, darling,” I drawled as I seated myself in the ugly modern (read uncomfortable) chair Nina keeps for visiting clients. She doesn’t like anyone to stay too long; it interferes with her work.

  This was only the third time I had met with Nina face-to-face. My American agents had arranged for her to handle my work in the United Kingdom, assuring me that she had a solid reputation for developing her clients’ careers and getting them consistently favorable contracts. The list of Nina’s clients had impressed me, and among the list were a number of the top popular fiction writers. I was delighted to be included in so distinguished a list, though Nina sometimes disconcerted me with her manner of doing business.