by Dean James
When I stood there without saying a word or offering to move, Minion Three exhibited a marked lack of patience and laid a rough hand on my arm. Casually I shook it off. “I don’t think so,” I said in a pleasant tone. “I wouldn’t advise attempting to move me without my permission.”
Three, who was several inches taller and quite a few pounds heavier than I, apparently didn’t believe me, because he placed his hand on my arm again. I don’t think I actually broke any of his fingers when I removed said hand, but he squealed just as loudly as if I had. He had no idea, naturally, how strong I am. That is one thing my magic little pills haven’t affected. I am much stronger than most live men, and while I can’t pick up an automobile or leap tall buildings in a single bound, I don’t have to worry about physical threats from buffed-up interior decorating queens like Minions Two and Three.
“You might want to put some ice on that,” I advised unlucky Three as he continued to whimper. “Do run along now, before the swelling gets any worse.”
All three of them backed off at that point apparently having decided they had rather face the wrath of Harwood than deal with me. I grinned. I do relish these little Clint Eastwood moments, as infrequent as they are.
No one else in the room had paid much attention to the foregoing mini-drama. Harwood was deeply engrossed in a conversation with his sister, Dittany, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Rhys-Morgan. They both wore paint-daubed smocks, and I could see that they had been at work in the room, painting the walls a pleasing shade of pale blue. Not red, I was relieved to see, though I noticed a can of it on the floor with the other cans. The red paint really had been nothing more than a decoy, as it were, to get Lady Prunella riled up. Harwood was quite a piece of work.
Piers Limpley labored in another comer of the room, sorting through fabric samples with yet another worker in a “Tres Zeke” shirt.
There were drop cloths everywhere, and most of the furniture had been moved out of the room, along with the carpets. The room seemed to be in the midst of a makeover, which is exactly what Harwood was supposed to be giving it Members of the crew filming the work were involved in various tasks, adjusting lighting and so on.
I had satisfied myself on the main point that had prompted me to defy Harwood’s mandate that no one witness the work-in-progress. He really did seem to be doing a legitimate redo of the room and not preparing some elaborate practical joke at Lady Prunella’s expense, just for the sake of his program. Surely he had had his fun and would now concentrate on the real job.
Now, on to my second reason for having bearded the lion in his den. I cleared my throat, and Piers Limpley glanced my way. Thrusting the fabric samples into the hands of an assistant, he strode over to me.
“Professor Kirby-Jones, isn’t it?” His tone was cordial, but he barely masked his irritation.
I nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Limpley. It seems as if all is going well here.”
“Yes, it is, Professor,” he said, “but I really must insist that you go. Zeke is adamant about not having anyone outside the crew see the work-in-progress.”
“I do understand that, Mr. Limpley,” I said, standing my ground. He had taken my arm and made an ineffective effort to lead me back toward the French windows.
“I’m afraid there’s something I must discuss with you before I will leave the room.”
Exasperated, he dropped his hand from my arm. “And what is that, Professor?”
Without mincing words, I explained the nasty trick Harwood had played upon Lady Prunella. “I cannot believe that Harwood is seriously considering using that footage for his program,” I said in conclusion. “It makes him look completely ridiculous and incredibly unpleasant.”
Limpley refused to meet my eyes. “Zeke has a fine sense of what is appropriate for his program and what his viewers will enjoy. I’m sure Lady Prunella will come to find the whole episode quite amusing when she has had more time to reflect upon it.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“What I believe is of no import whatsoever, Professor,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “What matters is what Zeke thinks and wants, and if Zeke wants to use this for the program, then it will be used. Case closed.”
“That is really most unfortunate,” I said.
“And what little plots are we hatching here with the handsome professor?” Zeke Harwood had caught sight of me in conference with his right-hand man and had come to find out what was going on. He fluttered his eyelashes at me, attempting a flirtatious gesture, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it He just did it because it was expected of him.
“I was simply explaining to Mr. Limpley that I thought it would be rather unfortunate for all concerned if you used that nasty little trick you played upon Lady Prunella on your program.”
Harwood frowned at the coldness of my tone, but before he could respond, both his sister Dittany and his housekeeper, Mrs. Rhys-Morgan, had joined us. “What is it, Zeke? What’s going on?” Mrs. Rhys-Morgan demanded in her husky voice.
“What have you done now, Zeke?” Dittany asked with considerably more perspicacity.
Before Harwood could respond, I told them.
“Oh, really, Zeke,” Dittany said in disgust. “That poor woman. She didn’t deserve such a nasty trick. How could you?”
“Really, Zeke,” Mrs. Rhys-Morgan said, chiming right in. “Most unsporting of you, I must say.”
Harwood’s face turned mulish. “I don’t care what you say, any of you. The cow had it coming to her, and my viewers will eat it up. You wait and see. This will be the highest-rated episode of ‘Tres Zeke’ yet.”
“Your ratings are high enough, Zeke,” Dittany protested, “without you resorting to something like that I really think you should reconsider. It’s going to make you look rather mean, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Zeke,” Mrs. Rhys-Morgan said. “You don’t want to look mean, now do you?” She beamed at him. “Everyone admires your style and flair, and the witty way in which you present each program. You wouldn’t want your sense of humor getting you into trouble, now would you?” The playful tone had evidently struck the wrong note with Harwood. He dug in his heels. “I don’t care what any of you think, I’m going to do exactly as I please. I think you all need to remember just who is in charge here, after all.”
“You don’t ever let us bloody forget it,” Dittany said, her voice so full of bitterness even her brother was taken aback.
He eyed her with loathing. “Then if it bothers you that much, you can go find another job somewhere, now can’t you? I don’t need you. If you weren’t family, you’d have been out on the street long before now.”
“You bloody bastard!” Dittany said. “You had better watch your mouth, or you’ll regret it. I am family, and you had better remember exactly what that means.” She turned and stalked off.
Harwood uttered a word, in a rather loud voice, which is often vulgarly used to refer to a certain part of the female anatomy.
Dittany halted in her tracks, turned slowly, then came back to where we stood. “It would be such a pleasure,” she said, enunciating each word slowly in order to inject the maximum amount of venom, “to see you in hell where you belong.” Then she slapped him so hard, he staggered backward and almost tripped over a can of paint.
CHAPTER EIGHT
What a loving family the Harwoods were, I mused as I watched Zeke Harwood flailing his arms about to keep from falling. He finally managed to right himself, and his face had flushed a deep red with the effort. He stood with his legs astride the can of paint that had almost tripped him, his sides heaving from the exertion of staying upright.
Dittany had paid not the slightest attention to him after the slap. Instead she had, with great calm, gone back to work, her back to all of us. I thought that was rather a dangerous position in the circumstances, because Zeke Harwood seemed like the vindictive type to me. I wouldn’t have put it past him to throw something at her to knock her over.
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p; Moira Rhys-Morgan must have been of the same mind, for she moved to stand in front of Harwood, blocking his view of his sister. “Zeke, dear,” she said, her tone low and soothing, “perhaps you’d like to come upstairs with me for a little while and put your feet up? Or perhaps a nice walk in the garden? There’s a love. Do come along.” She continued to talk to him, her voice never varying from its honeyed sounds. Whether it was her attentions that did the trick, or whether his sister’s threat had some deeper meaning, he decided to retire from the field of battle. Yielding to Mrs. Rhys-Morgan, he let her lead him out the French windows.
I had stepped a few feet to one side during this delicious little fracas, and Piers Limpley seemed to have forgotten my presence. He walked over to Dittany Harwood and put an arm around her shoulders. He whispered to her, but with my sensitive ears, I could make out every word.
“Dittany, my dear, was that wise? You know what he’s like. He’ll find some way to make you pay for that. You really shouldn’t have done that.”
Dittany shrugged off his arm. “Oh, Piers, don’t be such an old woman. Zeke may well try to get back at me, but if he’s not careful, he’s going to find a few little choice family secrets on the front page of the most scandalous rag I can find. I am utterly weary of putting up with him and his ridiculous behavior.”
“You can’t mean that!” Piers hissed in her ear. “Think what it would mean for all of us. Our jobs! What would we all do?”
“Oh, go away, Piers, you’re making me excessively tired,” Dittany said. She refused to pay any further attention to him and instead focused on the job at hand, painting carefully around the edges of the fireplace.
I had seen more than enough. I made my way back through the room toward the French windows. Minion Three, who evidently was just returning from having soaked his fingers in cold water, gave me a nasty look as I met him at the door. But he did step aside and let me pass.
“Too kind,” I murmured.
I had better keep an eye out for him. There’s nothing like a vindictive queen with a grudge. I should know.
Once back inside the front hall, I decided to seek out Giles. By now he had surely managed to calm his mother enough, and he might be ready to return with me to Laurel Cottage for the peace and quiet of work.
I tried the library first, and my luck was in. Giles sat at his desk, staring morosely off into space.
“Well, Giles,” I said in my cheeriest tone, “are you ready for a spot of work?”
“Oh, Simon,” he groaned, “what am I going to do with this unholy mess? Mother has succumbed to a fit of the vapors, something she hasn’t done since my father died, and that insufferable idiot is doing heaven knows what in the drawing room.”
“No need to worry about the latter, dear boy,” I said. “I’ve just come from the drawing room, and it all actually looks rather good. At least, what they’ve done so far. Not a jot of red paint in sight.”
Giles brightened. “That’s something. Now if only I can persuade Harwood not to use that footage of Mummy screaming like a fishwife.” His voice trailed off when he caught sight of my face. “He’s going to use it isn’t he?”
“Most likely,” I said. I gave him a summary of the nasty little scene I had witnessed, and he grimaced. “No doubt that has made him all the more determined to have his way.”
“Then curse the day that Mummy ever watched that man’s program. What am I going to do, Simon?” He groaned once again. “Mummy expects me to take care of the situation.”
This was certainly an interesting turn of events. Once upon a time, Lady Prunella had been wont to take charge of everything, leaving Giles playing second fiddle. But recently, seeing the signs of her son’s growing maturity, the dear lady had been loosing the reins a bit and allowing him to handle matters in his own way. Graduation day had come with a vengeance.
“I’m not sure there is much you can do, Giles,” I said bluntly. “Short of bribing the cameraman to lose the videotape.”
“Not a bad idea, Simon,” Giles said, his face clearing. “But it might be better if I talked to Cliff about it. Perhaps he can persuade the cameraman for me.”
“No doubt Cliffie would be delighted to do something for you,” I said, my tone waspish despite my best efforts. “Just say ‘leap, frog,’ and I’m sure he’ll ask ‘how high?’ ”
“What on earth does that mean?” Giles asked.
I shook my head in irritation. “A Southernism, Giles. Perfectly clear to anyone where I come from. Pay it no mind.” I turned to go. “I shall return to Laurel Cottage to work. I gather you will be too busy here, after all, to get away.”
“Don’t run off in such a snit, Simon,” Giles said tiredly. “You can believe it when I tell you I had much rather go with you to Laurel Cottage than remain in this madhouse.” He stood up. “But discretion being the better part of valor and all that, I should remain here to keep an eye on things. If I don’t, Mummy’s likely to murder someone. Not that I could blame her.”
“Good day, Giles,” I said. “Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow?”
Giles ignored my childishly spiteful tone. Instead he smiled. “Perhaps you would like to come to dinner tonight? Help me keep an eye on the assorted loonies? I could certainly use your help, Simon.”
Touched, and feeling more than a bit ashamed of my little fit of pique, I said, “Of course, dear boy. I should be delighted to render whatever assistance I can. What time?”
“Eight o’clock, rather than the usual seven,” Giles said.
“These television people keep somewhat later hours than we country bumpkins.”
“See you then,” I said.
The hallway was empty as I let myself out the front door of Blitherington Hall. The sky had become overcast, with clouds gathering and portending of rain. Just the kind of day I like.
I drove my car back through the village and parked it at Laurel Cottage, but rather than going inside and getting back to work, I walked down the lane toward the center of the village. I thought I might drop in on Trevor Chase at the bookshop. Perhaps by now Trevor knew something more about the mysterious man who had assaulted Zeke Harwood during the author event at the shop.
The Book Chase was quiet as I entered—not a customer in sight I called out a greeting, and moments later Trevor emerged from his office in the rear of the shop. “Hullo, Simon,” he said, his face brightening. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Trevor, and yourself?”
“Quite well, Simon.” He came and perched himself on a stool behind the counter. “Rather glad, actually, for a bit of peace and quiet today.”
“Yes, it was a bit tiring, I’m sure, having that big event here.”
Trevor nodded. “Events like that are quite helpful for the old bottom line, but they are also incredibly stressful.” He sighed. “And to have such an incident occur during the event. Well, you can imagine how distressing that was.”
“Certainly,” I said. “Especially since I suspect it might have been staged.”
Trevor cocked his head to one side and regarded me with curiosity. “Staged? By whom, and for what purpose?” I shrugged. “By whom, I’m not quite sure. But as for the purpose—someone wanted to embarrass Harwood. You were probably too busy to notice that Harwood’s producer got the whole thing on video.”
“Ah,” Trevor said. “Light begins to dawn.” He smiled wolfishly. “And you think the handsome producer might have had something to do with the staging of the incident.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. There is no love lost there, that’s for sure.” I debated whether to reveal to Trevor the knowledge that Harwood was planning to dump Cliffie, but decided I didn’t want to reveal how I had found out that juicy little tidbit.
“I can’t imagine there’s much love anywhere for Harwood, the pompous prat.” Trevor made a face. “I’ve met quite a few writers since I’ve owned this bookshop, and except for one titled thriller writer who was the single most unpleasant ass I’ve ever had the m
isfortune to meet, Harwood is high on my list of persons never to invite back. No matter how much I might gain from having him here. He’s too much trouble and much too annoying for it to be worth it. Life’s too short.”
“I’ve seen the dear man at work,” I said, my voice oozing sympathy. “I can only imagine how he behaved here.”
“You’d have thought one of the royals was appearing here, the way that man carried on. He quite fancies himself, no doubt about that.”
“Yes, he has a healthy respect for his own worth.” I grinned. “However inflated that might be.”
Trevor laughed. “Despite the fact that green paint got flung all over my carpet, I must say it was worth it to see Harwood get a bit of comeuppance.”
I glanced over at the spot where the paint had been thrown. There was no sign of it now. “Someone did an expert job at cleaning it up.”
“I will give them that,” Trevor said. “Harwood’s assistant, Limpley, made sure that he gave me enough money to have it taken care of. I don’t think they wanted me making a fuss.” He frowned. “I wanted to call in our local bobby, but they insisted that it be kept quiet”
“Not exactly the kind of publicity that Harwood would welcome,” I said.
“No,” Trevor agreed. “But I should have thought they would be a bit more concerned about the incident. I overheard them talking, Harwood and Limpley, when they thought they were alone.” Trevor frowned. “I gathered that this was not the first such incident Harwood has been plagued recently with various assaults like this.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I wonder if someone is working up to something more extreme?”
Trevor laughed. “Just what you need, Simon. Another dead body to stumble over. Before you know it, this village will have the highest murder rate in the kingdom.”
“Very funny,” I said, refusing to acknowledge the appositeness of Trevor’s humorous remarks. “I think perhaps it’s time for me to go home and get back to work.” Trevor’s hearty laughter rang in my ears as I left the bookshop and stalked back down the lane toward Laurel Cottage.