Faked to Death

by Dean James

  “Giles Blitherington, may I present Miss Violet Glubb, my new cleaner. Vi, Giles Blitherington, my assistant.”

  Having gained control of his amusement, Giles advanced into the room and offered his hand politely to Violet. “How do you do, Miss Glubb? It’s indeed a pleasure.” He offered her one of his killer smiles, and I could see Vi starting to melt right in front of him.

  Giles is a handsome devil, and he knows it, but his charm is such a natural part of his character that it’s effortless. He is no more interested in women than I am; he’s rather more interested in Yours Truly, which he makes known as frequently as he believes he can get away with it. I have thus far resisted his blandishments, because I’ve no idea how he’ll react when—or should I say, if—he discovers that I am one of the living dead.

  I cleared my throat, and Violet turned her attention back to me. “Giles assists me with my research and writing, Violet. He keeps my work existence organized. I am counting on you to help me keep the rest of my existence clean and tidy.”

  She giggled again. I supposed I would eventually grow used to it, but giggling females were not high on my list of Things I Can Abide. Especially since the frequency of giggles seemed inversely proportional to IQ levels, and Violet’s IQ was drop-ping rapidly.

  “They told me down at the pub you was a writing gentleman, Mr. Kayjay. I don’t read much, me- self, unless it’s Barbara Cardand. She writes such grand love stories, dun’t she?” She sighed rapturously, remembering, I supposed, one of those grand Cartlandian tales. I tried not to shudder.

  “If you like love stories, Vi,” Giles said, throwing a wicked grin in my direction, “I’m sure Mr. Kayjay will give you a copy of one of his favorites by Daphne Deepwood. I’ve heard she writes really grand love stories, too, though I’ve not read them.”

  Violet’s eyes grew big. “Really, Mr. Kayjay? That’d be a fair treat, that would.”

  I arched an eyebrow in Giles’s direction. “Yes, Vi, I might have a spare copy in my office.” Since I am Daphne Deepwood, and well Giles knows it, I did have more than a spare copy or two in my office. But if Barbara Cartland were Violet’s idea of a grand love story, she might find one of my historical romances a bit too long and complicated for her taste. Far be it from me, however, to disdain a potential fan.

  While Giles entertained Violet, I went to my office to find a copy of the latest Daphne Deepwood offering, Passion in Peru, which was still riding high on the best-seller list I took great satisfaction in seeing the rows of my books upon the shelves. Daphne Deepwood had penned five books thus far, and number six was in the works. As Dorinda Darlington I had published four private-eye novels, featuring a tough female shamus. Under my own name I had published two well-received biographies of medieval queens.

  One of the advantages of being dead was that I required little sleep, and I spent a lot of time writing. I was even thinking of launching a new pseudonym, under which I would write cozy English village mysteries. At the rate I was stumbling over dead bodies since settling in Snupperton Mumsley, I figured I might as well make good use of my own misadventures in sleuthing.

  Violet accepted the copy of Passion in Peru happily, and I asked Giles to show her through Laurel Cottage. “If you need anything in the way of cleaning supplies and so on, Vi, just let Giles know. He will give you money, or purchase them himself for you. Whichever works best for you.”

  “Ta, Mr. Kayjay,” Violet beamed at me. “I can get things at the shop on my way here, if need be. It’s right on me way.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Then we’re agreed, Tuesday and Friday afternoons?”

  Violet nodded. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Kayjay.”

  “Off you go then,” I said, smiling as she prepared to follow Giles around the cottage. I retreated to my office and shut the door. I was about halfway through the latest Deepwood opus and determined not to slack off, as I am occasionally wont to do during the mid-book doldrums.

  I was deep into a mad chase on horseback through the Kent countryside when Giles broke through my concentration. I turned to scowl at him.

  “Sorry, Simon,” Giles said, backing off a bit. I can appear quite fierce without meaning to, and from the look on Giles’s face, I had evidently made him a bit nervous.

  “What is it, Giles?” I tried not to sound annoyed. “I wouldn’t interrupt you when you’re working like that, Simon,” Giles said, reproach in his voice, and I relented, giving him a brief, conciliatory smile, “but you did say to remind you about getting ready for the big event this afternoon.”

  “What?” I frowned, trying to recall the event to which he referred.

  Giles shook his head. “Honestly, Simon, if I weren’t here to keep you organized, what would you do?” He approached my desk, pushed my desk calendar toward me, and pointed. I peered at it “Lady B. Tea. Harwood etc.” I read that aloud, then groaned.

  “Yes, Simon, I know. I know you detest tea at the manor, but this ought to be interesting.” Giles laughed in wicked glee. “Remember who the guest of honor is?”

  Comprehension dawned, as my brain finally cleared of Kentish fog. “Ah, yes, the King of Home Decorating. Hezekiah Call-Me-Zeke Harwood.” I laughed. “Or should I say the Queen of Home Decorating?”

  “The one and only,” Giles said, smiling. “And given the bitchy comments you’ve made about him, surely you wouldn’t want to miss a minute of the festivities.”

  “No,” I said, standing up and stretching. Even my neck and shoulders get cramped from hunching too long over a computer screen. “I imagine he’s even more outrageous in person than he is on television. And some of the travesties he’s wreaked upon those poor folk who’ve agreed to let him redecorate their homes for his program!”

  Laughing, Giles said, “Then we’ll expect you at Blitherington Hall in about an hour. I’m off to see whether Mummy needs help with any last-minute arrangements.”

  “I’ll be there,” I replied, gazing at my computer screen. There was something about that chase scene that wasn’t quite right. Perhaps just a few more minutes.

  “No, Simon,” Giles said. “Save the file, and turn it off. If you sit back down there, we’ll never see you. And Mummy would be so disappointed if you’re not there.”

  Relieved would be more like it, I thought Giles’s mother and I had an uneasy relationship. She resented my giving him a job, which she considered beneath his dignity as “Sir” Giles, Lord of the Manor, and she also feared I had designs on what remained of his virtue. If she only knew that it was he who had designs on mine, the poor dear would no doubt faint dead away.

  “Right you are, Giles,” I said, sighing. I’d leave Marianna and Charles dashing along through Kent for a while yet. They would keep.

  I followed Giles to the front door. “Do you think Violet will work out?”

  Giles paused in the act of pulling on his jacket. He grinned. “She’s taken quite a shine to you, Simon. All the while I was showing her around the cottage, she kept talking about how distinguished and handsome you are, Mr. Kayjay.” He mimicked her voice and her giggle so well I couldn’t suppress a shudder of distaste.

  “I could always tell her, Simon, that you’re spoken for. And by whom.”

  He never lets up, and it wouldn’t do to let him realize that I’ve begun to weaken, ever so slightly. I gave him The Look, as he called it. The one that was supposed to quell him, but which had begun to lose its effect lately.

  “Well, then, Simon, I’ll be off. See you in a while.” Not cowed in the least, he winked before opening the door and heading for his car. I watched him walk away, enjoying the view, then shut the door and leaned back against it.

  All I needed was a moonstruck cleaning lady and Giles competing for my romantic attentions. Times like this I almost wished I did have a coffin to which to retire during the day. So much for the old days, I thought, as I headed upstairs for one of the magic little pills that makes my existence as a vampire free of the need for blood.

  Trusting
that I had timed it right, I arrived at Blitherington Hall some two hours after Giles had left Laurel Cottage. Figuring that a television celebrity of the magnitude of Zeke Harwood would not deign to arrive on time, I had lingered at home, jotting down notes for the village mystery I was contemplating writing. By the time I arrived there were several cars in the forecourt of the Hall, and I parked the Jaguar behind the tatty Golf belonging to the vicar and his wife.

  Giles had managed to talk his mother out of a garden party, with the whole village in attendance, persuading her that a more intimate tea would be the proper event with which to welcome a television celebrity and his entourage. Not to mention that it was far less expensive. I was thankful not to have to bring along sunglasses and a hat to ward off the sun, made necessary by attendance at an outdoor function. Those pills I take make it possible for me to go about in the daytime, as long as I take sensible precautions against the sun. But it’s much easier in the fall, when the sun heads down quite soon in the afternoon. The brisk temperature outside is quite refreshing; to me, at least I think I might have enjoyed the garden party more. At least there would have been more people between me and dear Lady Prunella.

  I clanged the ornate door knocker up and down a few times and waited. Finally the door opened, and I stepped inside.

  “Good evening, Thompson,” I said. “How are you this evening?”

  “Tolerable, Professor, tolerable,” the venerable butler responded in his raspy voice. A rather unprepossessing specimen, and eighty if he was a day, Thompson wavered on thin legs, blinking at me. He should have been retired long ago, but Lady Prunella was far too cheap to pension him off. She could never afford to replace him, because no one in his right mind would have worked for her the past thirty-five years with the devotion that Thompson had displayed.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir,” Thompson said, tottering off in the direction of the drawing room.

  “You needn’t announce me, Thompson,” I said, halting him before he had gone more than a few steps. I hated to see the poor old thing run back and forth like this, when he ought to be resting some-where with his feet up and a nice tot of whiskey at hand for relaxation.

  Thompson stopped and turned around. “As you wish, Professor. I’m sure you know the way.”

  “Certainly, Thompson.” I smiled at him, and his lips twitched in response. He lurched back toward the front door to await the next arrival, and I strode on to the drawing room.

  The buzz of several conversations assailed me as I opened the door. There were about fifteen people in the room, including Giles and Lady Prunella, one of our local councillors and his wife, and the vicar and his good lady. Lady Prunella was engrossed in delivering some sort of mini-tirade to the councillor and thus too busy to notice me, and I sidled up to the vicar, Neville Butler-Melville, and his wife, Letty, who stood sipping their tea on the side of the room well away from our hostess.

  They welcomed me with warm smiles. I had worried, after the nasty murder which occurred right after I had settled in Snupperton Mumsley, that they would rather have nothing further to do with me.* Fortunately they held nothing against me, and we had become much better acquainted since then.

  “What a lovely hat, Letty,” I lied. Poor Letty hadn’t the fashion sense God gave a duck, but she did try, however misguided her efforts. I figured I might as well encourage her. Neville was so devoted to her, he never realized how ridiculous she looked. The concoction of feathers and fruit she sported atop her head looked like parakeets having an orgy in the produce section, but it was colorful, if nothing else.

  Letty flushed with pleasure, and Neville beamed with pride. Neville was scrumptious in his clerical kit, as ever the handsome poster boy for the Anglican Church.

  “How’s the latest book going, Simon?” Neville asked. “Didn’t you tell me you were working on a study of medieval queenship?”

  “Yes, Neville, that’s right, and it’s going well, if slowly.” Only Giles among the locals knew that I wrote popular fiction, and I was working on a scholarly book, in between stints on romances and mysteries. At the rate I was going, the scholarly book wouldn’t be finished for another two years, at least.

  Before Neville could launch into a series of tedious questions—he fancied himself as quite the amateur historian—I changed the subject with ruthless speed. “Isn’t it exciting to think of our having such a celebrity in our midst for the next week?”

  “Oh, yes, Simon,” Letty replied with great enthusiasm. “I shouldn’t confess to indulging in something so frivolous, but I do so enjoy watching Mr.

  •Author’s note: Kindly consult Posted to Death for further details.

  Harwood’s program, Tres Zeke. Such a clever name, don’t you think? I’ve taken some of his ideas and adapted them for use in doing some redecorating at the vicarage. And with, though I say it myself, quite lovely results.”

  As Neville beamed approvingly upon his wife, I kept a polite smile plastered on my face. I had seen Letty’s “adaptations,” and they were no more successful than Letty’s attempts to dress herself with some sense of style or taste.

  “Of course,” Letty continued a bit wistfully, “if one had the budget most of Mr. Harwood’s clients seem to possess, it would all go so much more easily, I’m sure.”

  “No doubt,” I said. Most of the persons who appeared on Harwood’s program were already well heeled, or they couldn’t have afforded the hideously extravagant paints and fabrics that Harwood never failed to choose for his work. The program footed half the cost of the redecorating, but it was still an expensive proposition for those lucky enough to be chosen for the program. “I wonder when the man of the hour will deign to appear?”

  Before either Neville or Letty could reply to the sarcasm-laden question, a hush fell over the room. We turned to see what had occasioned the quiet.

  A few steps inside the doorway, accompanied by four people, there stood a man of average height, going bald at the front, dressed in a purple suit with a pink shirt Ignoring the people awaiting him, he surveyed the room, his lip curling upward in disgust.

  “What a dump.”

  ***

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dean James, a seventh-generation Mississippian, is a librarian and Edgar-nominated author of over twenty works of fiction and nonfiction. His nonfiction has won both the Agatha Award and the prestigious Macavity Award. Writing as Miranda James, he is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks series, featuring librarian Charlie Harris and his trusty rescue cat Diesel. He is also the author of The Trailer Park Mysteries, writing as Jimmie Ruth Evans and the Bridge Club Mysteries, writing as Honor Hartman. As Dean James, he’s authored The Deep South Mystery Series and The Simon Kirby-Jones Mysteries. He lives in Houston, Texas, with two cats and thousands of books.

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