Decorated to Death

by Dean James

  Perhaps what I had heard during my eavesdropping at the pub had unsettled me more than I thought it had. I was very fond of Giles, and I enjoyed our professional relationship. Giles was an exceptionally competent assistant and certain aspects of my working existence had improved greatly since he had come to work for me.

  Giles made it very clear on a regular basis, though, that he hoped for more than a professional relationship with me. I found him very attractive, and I had admitted to myself that he could be more to me than just an assistant. I had continued to hold him at arm’s length, however, because I couldn’t envision a closer relationship with him without making him acquainted with the truth about what I really was. Therein lay the rub.

  How would Giles react if he learned he was attracted to a dead man? I had once gone through the same thing, with my mentor Tristan Lovelace, the handsome and charming vampire who had introduced me to life after death. I had already fallen in love with Tris when he told me the truth about himself, and being devastated by the death of a dear friend from AIDS, I saw existence as a vampire as a way to put myself beyond such a hideous disease.

  Giles, though, might react completely differently, and I would find my comfortable existence in Snupperton Mumsley at an end. The thought of giving up this cottage, which was now very much my home, depressed me.

  Crikey, but I was getting maudlin! What on earth was the matter with me?

  By making a concerted effort, I shut everything else out and began writing. Immersing myself in the troubles of my characters was an excellent panacea.

  ***

  I worked steadily for several hours, and around five-thirty I switched off the computer and sat back with a feeling of contentment. I had Marianna and Charles right where they belonged, in each other’s arms. The end. Time now to relax for a bit, then get ready to face the big event at The Book Chase.

  A few minutes before seven, nattily attired once again, I made my way from Laurel Cottage through the cool evening, down the High Street toward the bookstore. Just past St. Ethelwold’s Church, where the business area of the High Street began, I stopped in my tracks. Ahead of me, snaking back about two hundred feet from the front door of The Book Chase, was a queue of people. As I watched, more people arrived to add to the growing, chattering group.

  I knew Zeke Harwood was insanely popular, but I hadn’t expected to see this many people, in Snupperton Mumsley of all places, turn up for a book signing. Momentarily depressed, I doubted they would show up like this for a signing by Daphne Deepwood or Dorinda Darlington, my two fictional alter egos, much less for the historian Simon Kirby-Jones.

  What to do? I considered. I wasn’t about to get meekly in the back of the queue and wait my turn to get inside the bookstore, just to observe the gloating author surveying the rapidly vanishing pile of his book, Tres Zeke: Country Living with Style, being grabbed up by adoring fans. Then I remembered there was another way into the bookstore.

  Retracing my route a few paces, I ducked around the corner of the first shop in the block—a pretentious antique “shoppe,” which had opened a few months ago—into the lane that ran behind the shops on this side of the High Street. This way I could gain access to the bookstore from the rear. Trevor Chase, the owner, would have hired a caterer to serve food and drinks during the event, and the catering staff would no doubt be using the rear entrance.

  As indeed they were. I came through the back door into Trevor’s office as a harassed-looking older man with a sweaty brow pushed a tray of champagne-filled glasses in the hands of a younger man in black pants, white shirt, and black bow tie.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The older man confronted me as the younger one disappeared through the door leading into the front of the bookstore.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said, smiling. “I’m a good friend of Trevor’s, and I’ve come along to see if I can help out.”

  He didn’t look any too happy at my response. “Long as you stay out of my way, mate.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured him. I advanced to the doorway and pushed the door open, pausing a moment to survey what was going on in the front of the bookstore.

  Seated at a table near the front desk, Zeke Harwood gazed with regal composure upon the line of eager fans waiting to have their moment with the famous television personality. Piers Limpley stood beside him, acting as traffic cop, motioning with an impatient wiggle of the fingers for the next in line to approach as the previous supplicant was directed toward the till by one of Trevor’s assistants. Two more of Trevor’s assistants ran the till and bagged up the books, while Trevor floated around the room, chatting here and there with those who were waiting, with remarkable patience, for their moment to approach Himself.

  As far as I could tell, no one needed any assistance from me, which suited me just fine. I preferred to lurk in the background. I found a spot behind one of the bookshelves, out of the main line of traffic, after one of the catering staff muttered. “Move your buns, love, or I’ll run ’em over,” while trying to edge past me with a tray full of empty champagne glasses.

  I hoped Trevor wasn’t footing the bill for all the drinks and food the crowd was wolfing down, but perhaps Harwood’s publisher was paying for it. They sometimes will, for an author who sold as well as Harwood.

  Across from me, behind a waist-high range of bookshelves, and not far from where Harwood was signing, Cliff Weathers tone occasionally gave directions to a cameraman who was filming the proceedings. At one point, Cliff glanced over at me, gave a start of recognition, and offered a slight scowl. I beamed back at him, offering him a smile with the highest wattage I could produce, and he blinked and swallowed. He stared at me a moment, then his cameraman elbowed him in the side to get his attention, and he turned away.

  I scanned the crowd. Giles was not present, nor was Lady Prunella. I couldn’t imagine her attending such an event. It would be too far beneath her dignity. I was rather surprised, given how chummy Giles had become with Cliff Weatherstone, that he wasn’t on hand to see how his new friend went about his job. No doubt Cliff would give Giles the details later during an intimate tete-a-tete at Blitherington Hall.

  Here and there I spotted persons whom I recognized as locals, but most of the faces were strange. I supposed that Harwood’s fans had come from miles around to see him. The village hadn’t been this busy in years.

  Thanks to the ill-tempered direction of Piers Limpley, the crowd moved through at a brisk pace. He didn’t allow anyone to linger more than about forty-five seconds before summoning the next person in line. Throughout it all, Harwood kept a frozen smile on his face, saying very little except “thanks ever so much, dear.” Most of those in line were women, but the occasional man twittered just as much as the women were doing.

  After about an hour, the crowd began to thin a bit. Giles squeezed in the door and paused to look around. He couldn’t bear to wait until later to check up on Cliff, after all. As I watched, he caught Cliff’s eye and waved, but to my surprise, he headed toward me through the line of those still waiting.

  “Good evening, Simon,” he said, coming to a halt beside me. “Somehow I thought you might be here, despite your lack of admiration for the author.”

  “Do keep your voice down, Giles,” I hissed in mock-anger. “If some of these people hear you and take you seriously, they might drag me out of here and tar and feather me.”

  He laughed. “Ever the drama queen, Simon. I’ll protect you, never fear.”

  “I’m honored, Sir Giles.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Someone is rather snarky this evening. What’s wrong with you?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why should anything be wrong with me?”

  “Something is,” he said, his tone playful. “But I shan’t belabor the point.”

  As I studied his handsome face, I found my attention wandering toward the pulse of the veins in his neck. I had never noticed how tempting they were. I felt a strong urge to bend my lips to his neck and nibble at them. For a mome
nt I was convinced that I could actually see the blood moving through the veins. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the odd sensation went away. I opened my eyes again, and Giles was looking at me oddly.

  “Are you ill, Simon?” he asked in genuine concern.

  “No, I’m fine,” I insisted.

  “You had the queerest look on your face just now,” he said. “Are you certain you’re not coming down with something?”

  I shook my head.

  A scream of outrage claimed our attention, and we both swiveled in surprise to see what was going on.

  Zeke Harwood, his face and hair spattered with bright green paint, was now standing, flailing his arms about and sputtering.

  “Stop that man!” Piers Limpley shouted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the time everyone in the bookstore overcame the shock of the assault on Zeke Harwood, the man who had dumped paint on the hapless celebrity had barreled out the door and vanished. A couple of the men standing on line attempted to give chase, but people were moving about so, getting in one another’s way, that the attempt was doomed to failure.

  Piers Limpley and Trevor Chase were now making vain efforts to wipe the paint away from Harwood’s face, but succeeded only in smearing it all over themselves and him.

  “Good grief,” Giles exclaimed. “Why ever would someone want to do such a thing?”

  I shrugged, watching the proceedings with great amusement. “Too bad, that shade of green is simply not his color. I’d have gone for dark red myself.”

  “Simon!” Giles protested, then couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing.

  Heads swiveled in our direction, and we became the cynosure of many pairs of accusing eyes. Their beloved decorating guru had been most grievously attacked, and here we were, making a joke of it.

  Which was, no doubt, the point of it all. Zeke Harwood had not been seriously injured, I fancied, unless you counted the dent in his dignity. Cliff Weatherstone, I was quick to note, had kept his cameraman filming everything. If they had got a clear shot of the man who had thrown the paint, the police might soon track the culprit down.

  Piers Limpley led the dripping celebrity from the room, toward the back where the bookstore’s loo was located, while Trevor claimed the attention of those milling about, clutching unsigned books.

  “In view of what has just occurred,” Trevor said, his mellow voice roughened by frustration, “I’m sure you will all understand that Mr. Harwood will be unable to continue with the event this evening. We will make every effort, however, to ensure that any of you who still wish to have signed copies of his book will have them. Please see me or one of my staff before you leave. Thank you all for attending, and, again, my apologies for what has happened this evening.”

  A buzz of grumbling arose, and I didn’t envy Trevor and his staff having to deal with the disappointed Harwood fans. Cliff Weatherstone and his cameraman were packing up equipment as I strode over to ask Cliff a few questions. Giles trailed along behind me.

  “Evening, Weatherstone,” I said. I nodded at the cameraman who, intent on taking care of his equipment, paid no attention to us.

  “Good evening, Kirby-Jones,” Cliff said, his voice gruff.

  “Giles. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I decided at the last minute to pop along,” Giles said, offering a sunny smile, to which Cliff responded immediately with a broad smile of his own.

  “Quite a surprising turn of events, don’t you think, Weatherstone?” I claimed his attention. “Has anything like this ever happened to Harwood before?”

  “No,” Cliff said, shaking his head in puzzlement. “And I can’t think why it should happen now, of all times.”

  “Oh, you can’t?” I had my own ideas about that. If Cliff were as angry with Harwood as he claimed to be earlier, when lunching with Giles at the pub, I wouldn’t put it past him to have arranged this little incident. He might be trying to appear regretful, but I could feel strong waves of amusement and self-satisfaction emanating from him. “But I’m sure you got the whole thing on tape, so the police won’t have any trouble tracking down the person who assaulted Harwood.”

  The cameraman cut me a look, then busied himself stowing away the rest of his gear. Cliff cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m afraid we missed that bit” he said, his face reddening under my disbelieving scrutiny.

  “Oh, really,” I said, turning to Giles. “They missed that bit did you hear?”

  “Yes, Simon, my ears are still in perfect working order,” Giles responded with some asperity.

  “Quite a lucky break for Mr. Paint Man, don’t you think?” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

  “Just what are you getting at, Kirby-Jones?” Cliff demanded. Again, the cameraman caught my eyes with his, then looked quickly away. He knew something, but I wouldn’t get it out of him with Cliff standing over him. Something to follow up later, if I had the opportunity.

  “Nothing,” I said airily. “Just remarking upon an interesting coincidence.”

  “Simon,” Giles said, catching at my arm. “Behave yourself, and stop acting as if Cliff were the one who threw paint on the man.”

  “Heaven forfend, Giles,” I replied, throwing my hands up as if to ward off an attack.

  “Really, Simon,” Giles said, “sometimes you are the limit. You truly are.”

  As he stood there, face flushed in annoyance, I once again became aware of the pulse beating so strongly in his neck. I took a step toward him. All I could think about in that moment was placing my lips on that lovely vein of his, feeling the throbbing of the blood against my mouth.

  “Simon!”

  The sharp tone of Giles’s voice recalled me to my senses. I shook my head as if to clear it. What on earth was the matter with me?

  “You’ve gone all over queer, Simon. Are you certain that you’re not ill?” Giles watched me with concern and not a little alarm, his irritation supplanted.

  “My dear boy, I’ve been all over queer since I was fifteen,” I told him, attempting to make a joke of it. Giles rolled his eyes, while behind me I could hear the cameraman sniggering.

  “Really, Simon,” Giles said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. I turned back to Cliff Weatherstone. “Is Piers Limpley reporting this to the police, do you think?”

  Weatherstone shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t think so. This isn’t exactly the kind of publicity that our Zeke cares for. He’d look a right prat wouldn’t he, if this made it onto the telly.” He couldn’t suppress a grin at the thought of that.

  “Then you’d better hope that the footage you shot doesn’t get out of your hands, and into the hands of someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use it to embarrass the man.” I paused. “But perhaps you didn’t get any shots of him with green paint all over him, since you missed getting the man who assaulted him.”

  Weatherstone glared at me, while the cameraman straightened up. He opened his mouth and began talking, but his accent was one of those nearly impenetrable ones from the north of England that I have yet to master. The gist of what he had to say was, I gathered, that while he hadn’t caught the miscreant on tape, he did have some footage of Harwood in the green, as it were.

  “Then you’d better guard that tape,” I advised him. He winked back at me.

  “If you’re quite done telling us how to do our jobs, Kirby-Jones,” Weatherstone said, icicles dripping from every syllable, “I think we’d better get back to Blitherington Hall. We have more prep work to do for tomorrow’s filming.” Jerking his head to indicate that the cameraman should follow him, he stalked out of the bookstore.

  “Why do you dislike him so, Simon?” Giles asked, a curious expression on his face.

  “He’s far too slick for my tastes, dear boy,” I said airily. “And I’m convinced he knows more about the little brouhaha tonight than he’s letting on.”

  “First of all, Simon, I’m not your dear boy, as y
ou’ve made abundantly clear on any number of occasions, so stop patronizing me.” Giles fairly spit the words at me. I had never seen him so angry. “Second, I happen to think Cliff is rather a nice bloke, and devilishly attractive. You’re being petty and offensive, and you know it.”

  To say I was taken aback at the vehemence of Giles’s defense of his new inamorato would be an understatement. Giles’s infatuation with the man must be more serious than I had guessed. Surely he wasn’t that shallow, to fall for a pretty face and a swaggering manner? Perhaps I had misjudged him after all.

  “Sorry, I’m sure, Giles,” I said, in a tone far milder than I thought I could manage. “I do beg your pardon.”

  “As well you ought,” Giles said, still huffy with me. “In view of everything that is planned for tomorrow at Blitherington Hall, I’m afraid I must ask you for another day’s leave. I had better be on hand to keep an eye on everything.”

  I hoped I hadn’t annoyed him so much that he wanted to quit his job with me. Time to offer an olive branch, it seemed. “Certainly, Giles. I had been going to suggest that myself. Your mother will need you tomorrow, and I had already decided that we both deserved a break from work.” I hesitated a moment, for once uncertain of his reaction. “I had even thought I might come along and observe, if you don’t think I’d be in the way. I’d love the opportunity to observe how the television crew works. It could come in handy for a book one of these days.”

  His handsome face had softened at my apology. He reached out and squeezed my arm. “You’re always welcome at Blitherington Hall, Simon, you know that I might need you on hand to keep me from throttling my mother, who’s bound to make a complete nuisance of herself.” He grinned at the thought.

  “I’d be delighted, de..., um, Giles,” I caught myself in time.

  “See you tomorrow morning, then, about ten-ish?”

  “Yes, that sounds good,” I said. He smiled at me again, genuine warmth in his face this time, then made his way out of the bookstore.