Faked to Death

by Dean James

  Her phone burbled, and Nina frowned at me. She picked up the phone and listened for a moment, then said, her voice extravagant with patience, “Yes, Freddy, tell Ms. Harper that I’m in conference and cannot be interrupted. Like I’ve told you before. She’ll understand.”

  She replaced the receiver in its cradle and threw me a look. “Not a word, Simon.” She picked up a bundle of papers from her desk and made a show of stacking them in front of her. “Now, did you read that manuscript I sent you?”

  “In a moment, Nina. I’ve something more important to discuss with you.”

  “Such drama, Simon. What on earth is the matter?” She leaned back in her chair and regarded me with ill-concealed amusement.

  “I’ll come right to the point, Nina,” I said, already used to her little tactics. “Someone is impersonating me. Or, rather, impersonating Dorinda Darlington. What should we do about it?”

  Nina didn’t appear in the least surprised at my statement, which in turn really didn’t surprise me. Nina likes her clients to think she’s omniscient. “Nothing, at the moment.”

  “You don’t seem all that surprised,” I said, unnecessarily.

  One hand, sporting an expensive diamond-and-emerald ring, waved my comment away. “I’ve already seen the program for the week at Kinsale House, Simon. I’m well aware of who’s going to be there.”

  “I should have known,” I said, chagrined. “I had forgotten that Isabella Veryan, George Austen-Hare, and Dexter Harbaugh are your clients, too.”

  “Yes, they are, and you’d do well to remember how successful they are as my clients.” Nina flashed her ring at me again. “I’ve taken the matter in hand, Simon; never fear. I shall be among the speakers next week at Kinsale House. Lady Hermione has been after me for years, and I finally gave in. I shall be there to look after your interests, along with those of my other clients.”

  Struck by a sudden, horrid suspicion, I regarded Nina for a moment, like a rat waiting to be devoured by a python. “Tell me, dearest Nina, that you haven’t hired this woman yourself.” The latest Dorinda Darlington novel was set to be released in three weeks’ time, and though sales of previous novels in the series had been terrific, growing with each new release, Nina had, from the first time I had met her, insisted they could be bigger and better. At our very first meeting, she had even suggested that I come out of the closet, so to speak, and admit publicly to being Dorinda. I refused point-blank, and she had, thankfully, dropped the idea.

  Nina laughed. “No wonder, Simon, dearest, that you’re such a successful mystery writer. You’re so bloody devious, and you think the rest of the world is as devious as you are.”

  “Coming from you, Signorina Machiavelli, that’s a compliment.” I grinned at her. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Simon, what would I have to gain from such a tawdry stunt?” Nina pouted her lips at me. “The publicity campaign that Huddleston and Stourbridge have planned for the book is more than sufficient to put you high on the best-seller list silly man. Not to mention the fact that it’s a bloody good book.”

  “And you think that’s going to be enough?”

  “I’ve said so, haven’t I, Simon?” Nina thumped the pile of papers on her desk. “About that manuscript I sent you, Simon. Did you read it, as I asked? Do you have a blurb to give me for it?”

  “Yes, I read it, Nina, and I can’t believe you asked me to waste my time on it.” I pulled a sheet of paper from my jacket pocket.

  “What was the chap’s name? Ashford Dunn. Who is this guy?”

  “Didn’t you read the letter and the accompanying material I sent with the manuscript, Simon?” Nina frowned at me.

  I frowned right back at her. “There was a letter, a very brief one, but nothing else in the package except the manuscript.”

  Nina rolled her eyes. “Freddy! I should have known.”

  I hoped Freddy’s other talents made up for his deficiencies as an office assistant. “So what’s the scoop on Dunn, Nina, and why should I have liked his book?”

  “I do wish you had had the articles I wanted you to read, Simon. I don’t have time for this!” Nina thumped her desk again. “Very well, Simon. Ashford Dunn is a young American lawyer, a very attractive young lawyer, who is about to be the biggest thing to hit the legal thriller market since Turow and Grisham.”

  “Nina, surely you read that manuscript you sent me? We can’t be talking about the same person. It’s bloody awful!”

  “That has nothing to do with it, Simon. It’s not the best legal thriller I’ve ever read, but this young man is going to be a huge star. He self-published his first novel when he was a student at some little mid-western American law school, and it sold quite well. An American publisher picked it up and published another one, and he almost made the New York Times list with it.”

  “And so you think he’s poised on the brink of superstardom, just based on that?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism from my voice.

  Nina was practically purring with self-satisfaction as she shared her news with me. “Oh, he is, Simon. I’ve just signed a huge movie deal for him, plus an eight-figure advance for his next three books.”

  “Well, bully for him,” I said, totally disgusted. “But I’m still not going to put my name on one of his books. Besides, if he’s getting that kind of money from a publisher, what does he need my help for?”

  Nina laughed. “I wasn’t trying to help him, Simon. I was trying to help you. Especially since you’ve turned down my other proposals to make your name better known.”

  “I don’t see where getting my name on a book I despised will do me any good.”

  “Fortunately, some of my other clients weren’t quite so picky. In fact, Dexter Harbaugh was quite delighted to help out a rising young star.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised that Dexter Harbaugh wouldn’t mind putting his name on such tripe,” I said. “Even though I must admit that Harbaugh’s books are a cut or two above the swill that Dunn produced.”

  “Swill it might be, but it will sell. Absolutely pots and pots of lolly to be made, dear boy, and I shall enjoy raking it in. Ash wanted to break into the movies, and I’ve done it for him.”

  “And how did you discover such a treasure?”

  “Through a mutual acquaintance who thought Ash has what it takes to make Grisham look like a has-been.” She grinned. “I’d heard that one before, more times than I’d care to count, but once I caught a glimpse of Ash, I decided I wouldn’t mind listening to his pitch.”

  It didn’t take much imagination on my part to figure out which pitch had interested Nina the most. “So the young American lawyer hits the jackpot in London, eh, Nina?”

  Nina affected not to notice the double entendre in my question. “Ash has the right formula, shall we say, and the ability to sell himself to an audience. The rest is just a matter of promotion.”

  I had had enough of Mr. Dunn. “So you say. But going back to a matter more pressing—to me, at least. What about this impostor?”

  “I’ve already told you, Simon. You’ve nothing to worry about I’ll take care of everything.” She flipped her hand at me in a dismissive gesture. “Now, go away and let me get to work.”

  Somewhat mollified, though not completely reassured, I decided I would get nothing further from her. I’d be on my guard during the week at Kinsale House. Nina could be playing a very devious game, or she could have nothing to do with the impostor. Either way, it should prove to be an interesting week.

  ***

  On Sunday afternoon, Giles and I loaded the car with luggage for our week’s stay at Kinsale House and had a minor skirmish over who was going to drive. Giles insisted that he should, because it was what an assistant should do. I arched an eyebrow at that, and he treated me to one of his bad-boy grins. The poor boy drives a veritable antique, which is forever needing some kind of repair, and he can’t resist any opportunity to get behind the wheel of my Jaguar.

  “I don’t doubt that I shall
be the only writer at Kinsale House this week with a chauffeur-cum-executive-assistant who’s a baronet,” I said. “My, how intolerably high in the instep I’ve become.”

  Giles laughed. “You’ve been reading Georgette Heyer again, Simon.”

  Smiling, I handed him the keys and walked around to the passenger side of the car. Settling in and fastening my seat belt, I waited until Giles had adjusted everything to his satisfaction before I spoke again. “I know I needn’t remind you, Giles, that you are not to lambaste the fake Dorinda Darlington the moment you meet her.”

  “I’ll behave, Simon, as I promised you. I understand the need for discretion.” He laughed. “Though I’d far rather threaten her with legal action for attempting to impersonate you. Or rather, one of your alter egos.” He shook his head in disgust. “The sheer bloody effrontery of the woman!”

  “I appreciate your loyalty, Giles, and I do admit that I’m excessively annoyed that someone would do such a thing.” I stared out the window as the Jaguar moved smoothly down the lane through Snupperton Mumsley toward Kinsale House, several miles away. “But we need to get the lay of the land before I decide how to proceed. And Nina will be on hand as well.”

  Giles laughed. “With Freddy the boy toy in tow, one presumes?”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t mind an hour or two alone with Freddy,” Giles said in mock salacious tones.

  “I don’t think he plays for our team,” I said, smiling, “though I do admit he’s rather luscious. As long, that is, as he keeps his mouth shut.”

  “He is rather stupid, isn’t he?” Giles shook his head. “All his brains are in his—”

  “Now, Giles,” I interrupted, “no catty remarks like that around Nina, you hear me?”

  He rolled his eyes at me, which meant that the Jag began drifting toward a hedgerow along the lane. Giles swore under his breath and righted the car.

  “I debated whether we should actually stay at Kinsale House this week,” I said. “I’m beginning to think, yet again, that we should have refused Lady Hermione’s offer of rooms. I might feel more comfortable coming home each evening.”

  “Now, Simon,” Giles said, mocking my earlier tone, “that just wouldn’t do. One cannot turn down the offer of a week at Kinsale House.”

  I snorted rudely. “You mean you wouldn’t be able to rub your mother’s nose in it if we weren’t staying there.”

  “Just an added benefit,” Giles said airily.

  “At least, if we’re right on the spot for the whole week, I can keep an eye on pseudo-Dorinda more easily.”

  “Exactly,” Giles said. “We have to watch your interests, Simon, and no better way to do it than to be right there, scrutinizing her every move.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to work so hard on my behalf, Giles,” I said, teasing him.

  His left hand strayed from the wheel and rested for a moment on my right knee. I let it stay there for a moment, then tapped it lightly with two fingers. “Keep your mind on your driving,” I said, perhaps more sharply than I had intended.

  Unrepentant, Giles gave my knee a quick squeeze before he put his hand back on the wheel, where it belonged. I sighed and stared out the window again. Giles frequently takes the opportunity to remind me that he finds me attractive and would welcome a more personal relationship. He is far too attractive for his own good, and he knows it; but thus far I’ve managed to resist his wiles, keeping our relationship firmly (or mostly firmly) on a business footing.

  One of these days, however...

  Fortunately for the sake of my wavering resolve, the lane to Kinsale House came into view, and Giles turned the car into it. As we drove onto the forecourt, we could see that another car had arrived before us. Dingleby, the butler, was assisting the driver from her car, a nondescript-looking Golf. Giles stopped the Jag a few feet behind the other car and shut off the engine. We alighted, and Giles stepped forward to offer his assistance to Dingleby.

  The driver of the Golf, a plump, motherly-looking woman of fifty-odd—emphasis on the odd—appeared to have brought even more luggage than Giles and I between us. I stared in fascination as suitcase after suitcase was extracted from the car. How on earth had she managed to fit them all in there?

  While Giles and Dingleby piled the suitcases beside the car, the driver walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She leaned in and, as I craned my neck to see, appeared to be extracting a child from a car seat.

  In haste, I moved forward to assist her, but I came up short as I realized what she was holding.

  Cradled in her arms was a rather frowzy purple bunny. I watched, a bit stunned, as she stroked and petted the stuffed animal and spoke to it in low, soothing tones.

  “There, there, Mr. Murbles, Mummy knows you don’t like long drives, but we’re here, aren’t we, dearest? And soon we’ll be in our room, and you can hop about to your heart’s content and forget about being all cooped up in Mummy’s horrid old car all the way from London. Won’t that be lovely, dearest?”

  Something sounding suspiciously like a snicker had emanated from Giles’s direction, and I was hard pressed not to laugh myself. I had encountered a few eccentrics in my time, but this woman was angling for some sort of prize.

  Not in the least abashed by my rather uncouth stare, the woman smiled at me and held out a hand. The other, needless to say, had cradled the cranky Mr. Murbles close to her ample bosom. “How do you do?” she said as I clasped her hand. “I’m Patty Anne Putney, and this is my dear friend, Mr. Murbles.”

  Since I had apparently overlooked the appropriate chapter in my Emily Post, I had no idea whether I should try to shake the bunny’s paw. One would so hate to be rude to a stuffed animal, after all. I settled for a bright smile and a nod. “Delighted to meet you both. I’m Simon Kirby-Jones, and this is my assistant, Giles Blitherington. Giles, do come and meet Miss Putney and Mr. Murbles.”

  While Giles was doing his best to keep a straight face, I glanced at Dingleby. I would have sworn he winked at me, but perhaps I imagined it. I suppose he had met Miss Putney and her dear friend before.

  “And what do you write, Mr. Kirby-Jones?” Belatedly, I realized that Miss Putney had addressed me.

  “I’m a historian, Miss Putney, and my specialty is medieval England. Lady Hermione was kind enough to invite me to Kinsale House this week to talk about historical fiction.”

  “How delightful!” She beamed at me, but Mr. Murbles was not in the least impressed. “I do believe I have read your biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine. Such an amazing woman, was she not?”

  She couldn’t be all that potty, I decided. “I do hope you enjoyed it, Miss Putney. Yes, she was extraordinary.” I smiled modestly. “And of course, I am very familiar with your work. What mystery reader hasn’t thrilled to the adventures of Miss Edwina Aiken and Hodge? Such a clever notion, an amateur sleuth assisted by her pet rooster.” Rather rudely dubbed by some as the “cock who...” series, the Hodge books had found an annual home on the bestseller lists on both sides of the Atlantic. No matter how twee some might find them, Miss Putney wrote with undeniable verve, and the books had their own peculiar charm. I had, after all, read three or four of them, so I must confess myself something of a fan.

  After having met the author and her dear friend Mr. Murbles, though, I had a new appreciation for the conversations in the books between Miss Aiken and Hodge. I guess they weren’t tongue-in-cheek after all.

  Miss Putney beamed at me. “How kind, Mr. Kirby-Jones. How very, very kind of you.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” Dingleby spoke, “but if you don’t mind, Lady Hermione awaits you in the drawing room.”

  “Of course, Dingleby,” Miss Putney said. “Mr. Murbles can’t wait to see his dearest Auntie Hermione again, can you, my pet?”

  Giles was suddenly overcome with a coughing fit as Miss Putney swept by him to follow Dingleby up the steps into Kinsale House. Trailing in her wake, I shook my head at Giles.

&nbs
p; “I’ll help Dingleby with the luggage, Simon,” Giles called after me.

  It would probably be just as well that Giles wouldn’t be present to witness the no doubt touching reunion between Mr. Murbles and “Auntie” Hermione, though I was determined not to miss it myself.

  I followed Miss Putney and her dearest through the front door of Kinsale House and through the hall to the drawing room. As we approached the door, it opened violently and almost hit Miss Putney and Mr. Murbles.

  The man who barreled through the door came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Miss Putney. “Bloody cow!” He spat out the words.

  Miss Putney slapped him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sound of that slap reverberated through the hall, and I winced at the sharpness of it. I waited and watched to see what would happen next.

  “Pig!” Miss Putney spat the word at the man she had just assaulted.

  “If you ever do that again,” the man said, his voice low and vicious, “I will take that absurd rabbit of yours and disembowel it.”

  “Oh, Dexter,” Miss Putney moaned, clutching Mr. Murbles tightly against her bosom, “not even you could be that hideously cruel! You mustn’t ever touch Mr. Murbles with anything but loving kindness.” While Miss Putney crooned and stroked her bunny, I examined her adversary with renewed interest. This, then, was the semi-legendary Dexter Harbaugh. Dust jacket photos usually showed him in profile, his face shadowed, fedora pulled low, as befitted the author of a series of dark, cynical crime novels.

  About six feet tall, lean, and fiftyish, he exuded meanness. Vampires are as sensitive to strong emotion as they are to sounds, and Dexter Harbaugh fairly dripped with nastiness. Not that this surprised me in the least, after having read three of his books. It seemed to me he hated everyone and everything, and his sleuth, Osgoode “Buster” Jones, lived up to his nickname in every book, thrashing and punching his way to a solution to each case. Few characters reached the end of a Harbaugh novel without a collection of bruises—those who weren’t killed or maimed, that is.