Decorated to Death

by Dean James

  I glanced around. Only a few diehard souls were left, still hanging on to their copies of Harwood’s book, vainly hoping he would reappear. Since neither Zeke Harwood nor Piers Limpley had shown themselves in the front of the store again, I assumed that they had made their escape through the back door. Probably they were already back at Blitherington Hall, doing what they could to clean up Harwood in time for tomorrow’s filming.

  I hung around for a bit longer, waiting to ask Trevor if there were anything I could do to help. When Trevor did appear, he waved away my offer, thanking me, but insisting that he and his staff would take care of everything. “I’m sorry for your sake, Trevor,” I said, “that someone made such a mess of things.”

  Trevor smiled wearily. “Despite it all, we sold quite a lot of books, Simon, so it wasn’t a total loss.” He leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And just between you and me, I’m not all that sorry someone gave that idiot what he deserved.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked, inviting further tidbits.

  Trevor shook his head. “He was impossible from the beginning. The table and the chair we had set up for him were wrong and had to be replaced. Then we had the wrong kind of pens for him to sign with. There was a draft. One of my staff was wearing a type of cologne he found obtrusive. On and on and on he went, one complaint after another. And he kept reminding me what an enormous favor he was doing me even to set foot in my little shop, because normally he only signs his books in large stores that can accommodate the thousands of fans who usually show up.” He gritted his teeth. “He let me know it was my fault that there were only about two hundred people here tonight. Evidently I hadn’t done enough to publicize the event to suit His Nibs.”

  “What a jerk,” I said in complete sympathy.

  “I only wish that the cameraman had recorded it all, so I could steal the tape and sell it to one of the tabloids. A right prat that would make him look.” Trevor’s face brightened for a moment at the thought of getting back at the obnoxious author.

  I laughed. “He may yet get his comeuppance, Trevor, and it might be more than a bit of green paint.”

  He joined in my laughter as I bade him a good night.

  I whistled as I walked back down the High Street toward Laurel Cottage. The evening had turned out to be far more entertaining than I had hoped, and tomorrow held promise as well.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Half an hour or so after I had taken my morning pill, I felt better. Yesterday had been rather unsettling, for a number of reasons. My little spats with Giles, those odd sensations of wanting to bite his neck, were strange. I had felt quite unlike my usual self. But perhaps I hadn’t been rigorous enough about taking my pills at proper intervals. The medication worked best, I had been warned from the beginning, when taken exactly as directed. I couldn’t afford a relapse to the old ways.

  I shuddered. The thought of sucking blood and hiding away during the day gave me the creeps. I had better get one of those watches with an alarm, to remind me to take my pills.

  The writing went more smoothly after the pill kicked in, because I felt better able to concentrate. Then, around nine, my concentration began to wander. With a start, I realized I had been listening for Giles’s arrival at the front door.

  But of course Giles wasn’t coming to work today. Instead he was staying at home, playing Lord of the Manor, keeping an eye on Harwood, Weatherstone, and the film crew. I debated for a moment whether to stay home and work after all, or to give in to my curiosity and go to Blitherington Hall to watch the proceedings.

  Curiosity won.

  Shortly before ten o’clock, properly attired against the weak morning sun, I drove the Jag the short distance to the Hall. Thompson answered the knock on the front door quickly, almost as if he had been waiting just for me.

  “Morning, Thompson,” I said, handing him my hat and gloves. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, Professor,” he said. He persisted in calling me this, though I assured him that plain Mr. Kirby-Jones would do, knowing that he’d stick at calling me Simon. Such informality would never pass muster with Lady Prunella.

  “Sir Giles invited me along to watch the filming,” I explained, after assuring him that I too was fine. “Is he about somewhere?”

  Clutching my hat and gloves, Thompson tottered toward a table to set them down. “You’ll find the young master in the library, Professor.”

  “He’s not watching the filming?”

  “No, sir,” Thompson said with a slight frown. “No one is allowed to watch, per Mr. Harwood’s instructions.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said. I had forgotten. Mr. Harwood does his makeovers in secret, then unveils everything on camera. “I don’t imagine that Lady Prunella is very keen on being surprised.”

  Thompson’s lips contracted in a prim smile. “As you say, Professor.”

  I wondered what fireworks I had missed already. “Then I’ll be off to the library, Thompson.”

  “Very good, sir.” He toddled off in the direction of the kitchen, and I wandered down the hall toward the library. I knocked on the door, waited a moment, then opened the door and walked in.

  “I do beg your pardon,” I said, halting abruptly just inside the door. “I had no idea I would be interrupting a private meeting.”

  Giles sat at his desk, poring over some document. Cliff Weatherstone, looking indecently handsome in tight leather pants and an even tighter-fitting shirt, leaned over Giles, one hand casually—or was it possessively?— resting on Giles’s shoulder.

  “Good morning, Simon,” Giles responded, his attention still focused on the papers on his desk. “Cliff and I were just looking over the contract.”

  Weatherstone straightened up, his hand still on Giles’s shoulder, and smiled at me. “Good morning, Professor.”

  “Morning, Weatherstone. The country air must agree with you. I trust you’re enjoying your stay at Blitherington Hall.”

  “Oh, my, yes,” Weatherstone assured me. “Blitherington Hall has certain amenities I hadn’t expected to find. And there’s nothing like country air and a little exercise to make one feel quite pleased with life.”

  Judging by his self-satisfied tone, I had little doubt as to the type of exercise he had enjoyed. And in whose bedroom he had done so.

  Giles had been paying no attention to us. He dropped the papers onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. For the first time he appeared to notice the proprietary hand resting on his shoulder. He pushed back his chair and stood up, forcing Cliff Weatherstone to step away from him. Weatherstone frowned.

  “I cannot say that I am pleased with this bit about secrecy,” Giles said, returning Weatherstone’s frown. “How can we be assured that Harwood won’t make the room into some kind of travesty, just because he would find it amusing to do so?”

  Weatherstone folded his arms, and I watched with interest as the muscles in his arms twitched. He was annoyed, but whether with me or Giles, I could not tell. “It’s all a matter of taste, Giles,” he said. “I really do not think you have anything to worry about Zeke can be capricious, but he wouldn’t deliberately set out to ruin a room.”

  “I sincerely trust not,” Giles said with some asperity, “or there will be the very devil to pay. Neither I, nor my mother, is anyone to be crossed lightly.”

  Weatherstone made a mocking bow. “Of course not, Sir Giles.”

  Giles flushed but wisely chose to say nothing in response to Weatherstone’s bitchiness. Instead he turned to me. “I’m delighted to see you this morning, Simon. As it turns out I might as well have come to work today, because I really can do nothing here. Harwood refuses to allow anyone except his crew into the drawing room, so there’s not a thing for any of us to see.”

  “The day is still young,” I said, smiling. “If you’d like, we can return to Laurel Cottage and attend to some things that need both our attention. I’m sure Cliff here has things to do, like supervising the filming, or whatever it is he actually does.”

>   Weatherstone glowered at me, and I smiled sweetly back at him.

  There came a discreet knock at the door, and Thompson entered. “I beg your pardon, Sir Giles,” he said, “but perhaps you might want to come and have a talk with Lady Prunella and Mr. Harwood. They are presently having a discussion.” The slight emphasis he placed upon that last word left little doubt that Giles was needed to intervene between the two.

  “Right away, Thompson,” Giles said. He rubbed his forehead, as if to assuage some kind of pain, then walked out of the room. Weatherstone and I followed, as Thompson stood aside, holding the door.

  Down the hall, Zeke Harwood stood with his back against the drawing room doors. Lady Prunella walked back and forth in front of him, her arms waving in the air as she talked. A small crowd of staff had gathered a few feet away, and among them I spotted Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease looming over them in her impossibly high heels.

  “What seems to be the matter, Mummy?” Giles asked as Lady Prunella paused for breath. He came to a halt near his agitated parent.

  Lady Prunella halted in mid-stride. “This... this person absolutely refuses to let me inside my own drawing room. It is unsupportable! To be refused entrance to a room in my own home!”

  “As I was endeavoring to remind dear Lady Prudence,” Harwood purred, “no one, and absolutely no one, except me and my crew are allowed in the room I’m redecorating while work is in progress. Even if the queen herself desired admittance, I would have to deny her, at the risk of being accused of treasonous behavior.” He tittered.

  Really, the man was far too full of himself. I could not deny, however, the pleasure of watching Lady Prunella’s being prevented from doing something. Her face had turned the most amusing shade of puce.

  “There!” Lady Prunella said. “You see what I mean! The utter vulgarity of this person. To take the queen’s name in vain in such a common manner.” She stood glaring at Harwood as if he were the veriest dirt beneath her feet.

  It was a wonder the poor woman didn’t drop dead from a stroke, right on the spot.

  “Now, Mummy,” Giles said, attempting a placatory tone, “I’m sure Mr. Harwood did not mean to offend you, but I’m afraid that we have no choice. According to the contract we signed, we have agreed that he and his crew may work for two days without our being able to see any of what he’s doing. Surely you haven’t forgotten? After all, you watch his television program all the time.”

  “Exactly, Lady Prudence,” Harwood said. “An artist such as I cannot have his vision tainted while he works. We did consult about the work, but beyond that, you must not interfere. It simply is not to be allowed.”

  “I’ll thank you to remember my name,” Lady Prunella snapped at him. “It is not Lady Prudence, it is Lady Prunella, you half-wit!”

  “Whatever,” Harwood said airily, his hand flapping in the air.

  Lady Prunella stepped forward, her right hand raised as if to strike the supercilious twit, but Giles intervened. “Now, Mummy, you mustn’t upset yourself so. I’ve no doubt that you’ll be delighted once you see what Mr. Harwood has done with the drawing room. Tomorrow night, Mr. Harwood?”

  “Yes, Sir Giles,” Harwood said. “We shall unveil the room in all its splendor tomorrow evening. Then you shall eat your words, madam.” He sniffed.

  Lady Prunella turned to her son. “But, Giles,” she wailed, “red!”

  Giles was startled. “What do you mean, Mummy? Red?”

  “He’s going to paint the room red!” Lady Prunella’s pitch became shriller with each syllable.

  “How on earth do you know that?” Harwood asked, frowning.

  “I saw the cans of paint,” Lady Prunella shouted. “You idiot! I told you that I cannot abide red, and yet you are going to paint my walls red!”

  “Madam,” Harwood said, crossing his arms protectively over his chest, “there is little I can do about the absolute lack of good taste exhibited by the majority of the rooms in this monstrous pile of a house you call your home. But I can, and I will, rescue at least one of the rooms. Your drawing room, by the time I have finished with it, will be the one room in this whole bloody mausoleum that has style and personality. If you had any sense whatsoever, you would be grateful that I have deigned to come here and perform an act of the most extreme charity.” His eyes narrowed. “Instead, you stand there screaming at me like the commonest fishwife and making yourself absolutely ridiculous.”

  He paused to take a deep breath. “Furthermore, the fact that I am able to continue under such circumstances is a testament to my commitment to my work and my artistic vision. I will let nothing, not even you, stand in my way.”

  “You, sir, are the most insulting worm it has ever been my misfortune to meet.” Lady Prunella glared back at him. I had to admire the old girl for her spunk. Almost anyone else would have wilted before the challenge presented by Zeke Harwood. “Stand aside and let me in that room!”

  “Over my dead body!” Harwood said, splaying his arms against the doors. I noted, without much surprise, that he was enjoying every moment of this tasteless little drama.

  “What a thoroughly delightful idea,” Lady Prunella said, her face as red as the walls of her drawing room might be. “If you use that red paint you’ll wish you were dead!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Zeke Harwood threw back his head and laughed. “Absolutely delicious, Lady Priscilla! Such drama! Such pathos! ” He laughed again. “The punters will go mad with joy.”

  “What?” Lady Prunella stared blankly at her adversary.

  Harwood ignored her. “Did you get all that?”

  Without our noticing it, a cameraman had been discreetly filming all that had just transpired. He took the portable video camera off his shoulder and nodded at Harwood. “Got it all, guv,” he said. At least, that’s what I thought he said, though his accent was so thick, I couldn’t be completely sure.

  “Do you mean to say,” Giles had approached Harwood and prodded his chest with one menacing finger, “that this entire little drama was manufactured for the benefit of your program?”

  I could sense the rage boiling up inside of Giles, and I could not blame him. To think that Harwood had manipulated Lady Prunella into such an outburst simply to make his program more dramatic was nauseating. I was no great fan of Lady Prunella, but this was too dirty a trick to play, even upon her.

  Harwood was unrepentant. “The more drama the better, mate. The viewers expect it, and they’ll get a right zing out of seeing Lady Primrose nearly off her rocker at the thought of me painting the room red.” He was so tickled with himself that he started giggling. “I knew that red paint would wind her up.” He sputtered the words out in between bursts of giggling.

  All this time, Lady Prunella had stood with her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form words, but she never managed to utter a syllable. “Don’t mind him, Mummy,” Giles said, putting an arm around her. “I’ll get this sorted out.”

  “Nothing you can do about it, sport,” Harwood assured him airily. “Just take a butcher’s at the contract if you doubt me.”

  Giles forbore to say anything further. Leading his mother gently away, he left Harwood still chortling with self-satisfaction over his cleverness. Cliff Weatherstone, who had been hovering in the background all this time, stepped forward. “I want to talk to you, Zeke, about this. Come on.”

  “Oh, dear,” Harwood said. “Is Cliffie-Wiffie angry with poor Zeke? Just because he’s having to do Cliffie’sj ob for him, while Cliffie pants around after his latest boytoy like a bitch in heat?”

  Someone who sounded suspiciously like Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease tittered in the background, and I took note once more of the crowd that had been assembled for some time, watching the scenes play out. They were getting quite a show.

  Weatherstone’s face darkened, and he raised his left arm as if to strike Harwood. Harwood didn’t flinch, as if daring the younger man to hit him. “You are the absolute bloody limit, Zeke,” Weatherstone said. His
teeth were clenched so tight, I could hardly understand what he was saying.

  “Just don’t forget who the star is here,” Harwood said. If he had used that tone with me, I would have removed a certain bit of his anatomy—permanently. Weatherstone didn’t appear to be man enough, however. Such a surprise.

  While Weatherstone stood glowering in impotence, Harwood turned and opened the doors to the drawing room. Before any of us could catch a glimpse of what was going on inside, he had slammed the doors shut again.

  Humiliated, Weatherstone slunk away, the handy cameraman trailing behind him. The rest of the assembled company, mostly the villagers who had been hired on as temporary help, drifted back to whatever they had been doing beforehand. Jessamy Cholmondley-Pease remained where she was, trying her best to look as if she belonged there.

  I stood for a moment, debating what I should do. Go seek out Giles and Lady Prunella and attempt to help smooth ruffled feathers? Or was there something else I could do?

  Recalling that the drawing room had another entrance, from the terrace outside, I left through the front door and walked quickly around to the side of Blitherington Hall. Sure enough, Harwood and his crew were using the side entrance, rather large and gaudy French windows, as their main point of access to the drawing room.

  I stepped over a mass of cables and into the room. A minion, short and terribly self-important, accosted me in a light baritone to inform me that members of the family were not allowed to watch, according to the contract.

  “I am not a member of the family, and I have not signed any kind of contract. Do be a good creature, and step aside. I shan’t get in anyone’s way, I assure you.”

  The minion, clad in a T-shirt emblazoned with the “Tres Zeke” logo, scowled and muttered something like, “We’ll see about that.” Turning on its heel, it stomped away. I think it was female, judging from the shape of its denim-clad posterior, but the rest of it was so sexless, who could tell?

  I had a moment or two to glance around before Minion Number One returned with Minions Two and Three, who were considerably larger and most definitely masculine. “Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to go. No one but the crew is allowed in here while we’re working.” This came from Minion Two, as I dubbed him.