Faked to Death

by Dean James

  “What? What on earth do you mean?” Dorinda paused, blinking. She had been so wrapped up in her mini-dissertation, it took her a moment to focus on what she had heard and just who was saying it.

  I tried to choose my words with care. “Listening to this farrago of pretentiousness you’re spouting, I’d say it’s doubtful whether you really wrote these books.”

  Before Dorinda could respond, someone else spoke up. “I’ve read your books twice each, and I have to say, I didn’t get any of what you’ve been talking about out of them.”

  I wanted to applaud the brave soul. I think.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dorinda said huffily, “either of you.” Then she focused on me. “Of course I wrote the books.”

  “Then why have you never made public appearances before now?” I asked her. “I know that you’ve never done an official signing for your books. Why now? Why are you now out in public, talking about your work?”

  “I never felt the need before now,” Dorinda said. “I thought the books would speak for themselves. But the more I read what others had to say about the books, and how mistaken they were, I decided I had to start getting out in public and talking about them, if they had any chance of being properly understood. This conference seemed like a good place to start.”

  “Maybe,” I said, making those two syllables sound as insulting as I could. “But maybe you’re impersonating the real author, who chooses to remain anonymous. Maybe you’re an opportunist, and you’re hoping to get attention by pulling a stunt like this.” Heads swiveled back and forth between Dorinda and me, waiting for the next fusillade.

  “I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are,” Dorinda said, her voice rising, “and I don’t know why you should be trying to vilify and persecute me in this strange manner. If you persist in this, I shall have no choice but to ask my lawyers to take action against you.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. This had actually started to turn funny. “And what would your so-called lawyers say when they find out you’re not really who you say you are? Don’t you think they’ll be a bit miffed with you?”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” Dorinda wailed, then burst into tears.

  Accusing eyes turned toward me as the audience watched for my response. It was apparently one thing to argue with the woman, and another to have made her cry.

  “Because,” I responded, “you are deliberately misrepresenting the work of the author who is really Dorinda Darlington. I know Dorinda, and I know that you’re an impostor.”

  A collective gasp rose from the conference attendees, and almost as one, their heads swiveled back toward Dorinda. How would she respond to such a direct accusation?

  The tears dried abruptly. “Well, Mr. Know-it-all, if I’m not Dorinda Darlington, who is?”

  “The real Dorinda prefers to preserve her anonymity.”

  “How convenient for you!”

  “Why are you persisting in this charade?”

  “You are the only one who insists it’s a charade!” She stamped her foot in frustration.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, oozing false sympathy as I spoke. “This will all soon be over. Dorinda’s agent will be here later today, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to verify the fact that you’re an impostor.”

  More muttering filled the room as the fascinated group chewed over this bit of information.

  I felt a strong wave of hate emanating from the fake Dorinda. Frankly, I was surprised she hadn’t given up by now and fled the room, shedding more of the crocodile tears she had produced just moments ago.

  “That’s just fine with me,” she said. “I welcome the chance to be vindicated.”

  “You’re totally off your rocker,” I said hotly. “You’re a fake, and you know it. Why don’t you confess now and just end this travesty?”

  “I’ll see you in hell first,” she said. She snatched up her papers and stalked from the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My temper is one of the vestiges of the human being I once was, and from time to time I still have difficulty controlling it. Most of the time, I’m really rather easy going.

  Once the fake Dorinda had left the room, the conference attendees shifted uneasily in their chairs and started muttering. I had been more aggressive than I had intended in winding the impostor up, and I had probably tipped my hand a bit too early in the game. So be it.

  Now I figured I’d better deal with the situation I had just created. I stood up and walked to the front of the room. I waited for the muttering to die down; then I spoke.

  “My apologies to everyone for the little scene I just caused, but I’m sure you will all understand, as writers yourselves, that I take the matter of intellectual theft very seriously indeed.” Here I paused for the vigorous nods of assent and the assorted “Certainly!”

  “This matter will be sorted out, and at some point, no doubt, you’ll hear more about it,” I said, though I didn’t intend to bring the real Dorinda totally out of the closet, as it were. “For the time remaining in this session, perhaps you’ll permit me to talk about the works of Dorinda Darlington. I have read them all, and I do admire them. I’d love to share with you my own thoughts about these books.” I smiled modestly.

  Detecting no dissent from my proposal, I launched into a brief discussion of the structure of my mystery novels, giving the group pointers for plotting, creating characters, and so on. I believe I can say with no exaggeration whatsoever that it was a far more useful, not to say truthful, talk than what the fake Dorinda had been shoveling on them.

  I was just about to answer a question when Lady Hermione sailed into the room and accosted me. “Dr. Kirby-Jones! A word with you, if you please!”

  Everyone in the room jumped along with me.

  “Of course, Lady Hermione. I believe we’ve finished here. I’ll be happy to answer questions later on, so please do let me know if there’s anything else I can answer for you.” I smiled at the group, and they applauded as I followed Lady Hermione from the room.

  I could tell from the tone of Lady Hermione’s voice that something had aroused her ire, and I feared it was my behavior with the faux Dorinda. I was sure she had wasted no time in going to tattle, and by the set of Lady Hermione’s shoulders, I was in for quite a dressing down. I smiled. Lady Hermione had a surprise or two in store.

  My hostess said nothing further until we arrived in her drawing room, where Dorinda sat calmly on a chair, pouring herself a cup of tea.

  Lady Hermione pointed toward a chair, clearly ordering me to take a seat. I ignored her. With eyes narrowed, Lady Hermione sat and glared up at me.

  I waited.

  “What is this preposterous allegation of yours, Dr. Kirby-Jones? How dare you disrupt the proceedings of this conference with such a taradiddle!”

  Before Lady Hermione could draw breath to launch further into her tirade, I interposed loudly, “The ‘taradiddle,’ as you so quaintly put it, is the pack of lies this woman, whoever she is, has handed you. She is not Dorinda Darlington, and I am well able to back up my accusation, I can assure you.”

  Lady Hermione blinked. I rather doubted anyone, her whole life, had spoken back to her in such a commanding tone. Apparently, when a peasant has the nerve to revolt, it quite oversets the aristocracy.

  “You see, now, Lady Hermione, what I was talking about,” Dorinda crowed. “What an absolute jerk this man is, and how unbelievably nasty? How he has the nerve to stand there and talk to you, of all people, in that rude manner, well...” Her voice trailed off as Lady Hermione trained a gimlet eye upon her.

  “How do you know that this woman isn’t Dorinda Darlington, Dr. Kirby-Jones?” Lady Hermione voiced her question in what was, for her, a mild tone.

  “Because, my dear Lady Hermione,” I said, making my own timbre as soothing and conciliatory as possible, “the real Dorinda is a close friend of mine, and I know how appalled she would be to discover someone masquerading as her. And, moreover, d
oing it so shabbily.”

  The fake started to sputter at that, but our hostess held up a hand to shush her.

  “Then who is the real Dorinda, Dr. Kirby-Jones?” Lady Hermione asked.

  I held up my hands in a placatory manner. “I’m afraid, dear lady, that I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Dorinda guards her privacy most jealously, you see. She is of a rather retiring nature and prefers to let her work speak for itself.”

  “This is most unsatisfactory.” Lady Hermione frowned, but I could see that doubt had already taken root. The waves of irritation emanating from her spoke volumes. Things did not bode well for faux Dorinda.

  I smiled. “I can well understand your position, Lady Hermione, and indeed I sympathize with you. You had no reason to suspect that an impostor had taken advantage of your celebrated reputation in order to play some devious game of her own.” Said impostor began sputtering again, so I raised my voice to drown her out. “But when Nina Yaknova arrives, she will be able to settle this matter once and for all. Nina knows the real Dorinda, and I have no doubt that she will put paid to this woman’s little act.”

  Lady Hermione took a deep breath and sat back, her head going slowly back and forth between me and That Woman, as I was now beginning to think of her. I kept quiet, waiting.

  “By all means, let us wait until Nina is here.” Lady Hermione stood up as she spoke. “Until that time, however, I believe I will ask you, Miss Darlington, or whoever you may be, not to have any further contact with the conference attendees. That shouldn’t be long, as I expect Nina will arrive from London in time for our tea break this afternoon. Then we shall clear up this matter completely, and one of you will be asked to leave.”

  Eyes blazing, That Woman stood up. “Well, it shan’t be I! Because if I am forced to leave, you won’t be the only one to regret it, Lady Hermione! You can lay odds on that. If I’m forced to leave, someone’s going to pay, and pay dearly.” She displayed her teeth in a most vulpine manner. “But if I’m forced to leave, I suppose I shall just go off to Brighton and spend a few days at the Marston Arms. I’ve heard it’s a lovely, secluded sort of place. Perfect for getting away from prying eyes.”

  The effect of these last few sentences upon Lady Hermione was astounding. The blood drained from her face, her mouth fell open, and she collapsed slowly down into her chair. That Woman laughed before marching out of the room, head held high.

  “My dear Lady Hermione, are you all right?” I approached her and went down on one knee. She almost literally stank of fear, and I thought she might be having a heart attack.

  “Brandy,” Lady Hermione muttered, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of a drinks tray nearby. “Some brandy, please.”

  Quickly I fetched her a healthy tot of brandy, and as she sipped it, the color came gradually back to her face.

  “Thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she said, her voice weak. “I’m afraid that you’ve discovered one of my little secrets. I do have a bit of a heart condition, and nasty scenes like that do sometimes cause me a bad moment or two. But I shall be quite all right in a few moments.”

  She couldn’t look me in the eyes as she said that I knew very well that her shock stemmed from the mention of that hotel in Brighton, rather than the unpleasant confrontation with That Woman, but I wasn’t going to risk another episode of heart palpitations to pry the truth out of her. At least, not right this minute.

  Lady Hermione was obviously hiding something. Did That Woman really know what it was, or was she bluffing? And could she use it as leverage with Lady Hermione against me?

  I continued to watch my hostess with concern. Though she seemed to have regained her composure, I thought she was still a bit shaky. Nevertheless, trying to appear as if nothing untoward had happened, she rose from her chair.

  “Thank you, Dr. Kirby-Jones. I feel quite restored. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see how everyone is getting on. I shall expect you here again for tea. Until then, I would be greatly indebted to you if you would forbear to mention any of this to your fellow guests.” The appeal in her eyes was unmistakable.

  “Certainly, Lady Hermione,” I murmured. “I am at your disposal.”

  I watched her depart and pondered what I should do next. I wasn’t scheduled to speak for another hour yet.

  “That was quite an interesting scene, don’t you think?”

  I started in surprise. The voice had come from somewhere behind me. I turned. Dexter Harbaugh’s head rose, seemingly disembodied, over the edge of a couch that faced one of the windows in a corner of the room.

  “How long have you been there?” I asked. A rather pointless question, obviously, since he had to have been there all along.

  Harbaugh got up from the couch and stood, blinking and yawning. I waited.

  He ignored my question. “Didn’t mean to nod off, but the bed in my room is damned uncomfortable. Thought a little kip here would be just the thing while Dragon Lady was off on her rounds.”

  “Didn’t you have a session this morning?” I had glanced over the schedule earlier, and I was pretty sure that Harbaugh was to have given a workshop this morning.

  He snorted. “I gave them a writing assignment. I’m not going to stand there and blather at them. They’re writers—or think they are, anyway. They might as well write.”

  “Good point. But then you’ll have to read their assignments and comment on them.”

  “No. They’ll do it for one another. Not me. Do you think I’m bloody stupid?” He grinned. “You might have come here to work, but I didn’t.”

  “Silly me,” I said dryly.

  “You’ve certainly managed to liven things up for this week,” Harbaugh said, his tone almost admiring. “And here was I, thinking this was going to be just another bloody boring week at Kinsale House. Trust a drama queen to stir things up.”

  I decided to ignore the sneer in his voice and on his face. “I’m not the one misrepresenting myself.” Well, not completely, anyway.

  “Wonder what her game is,” Harbaugh mused, suddenly making a beeline for the drinks tray. He poured himself a stiff shot of whisky and downed it in one gulp. He filled the glass again, but this time let the whisky linger on his tongue long enough that he could actually taste it.

  “I suppose we’ll find out at some point,” I responded. “Had you ever met this woman before?”

  He set the glass down on the tray with a slight thump. “Have I ever met Dorinda Darlington before? No, can’t say as I ever had the pleasure.” He headed past me, toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go check in on my little band of wanna-bes.”

  I don’t suppose he thought I was smart enough to realize he hadn’t answered my question.

  This situation was getting more interesting by the moment. What did Dexter Harbaugh know about That Woman? And why was he not admitting he knew her?

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Raymond Chandler once wrote that when he got stuck for something to do to advance the plot, he had a man come through the door with a gun.”

  I paused for the chuckles this line invariably brought.

  “Of course, if you’re writing a novel set in the tenth century, this won’t work.”

  There were a few more chuckles at this one, but, amazingly, a hand shot up in the back of the room. “Why not, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”

  I examined the questioner closely. About twenty, he appeared genuinely puzzled at the snickers that greeted his query. After a moment’s further study, I concluded he was serious. He genuinely didn’t understand.

  “Because guns hadn’t been invented in the tenth century.” I tried to keep my tone noncommittal.

  After all, I had told them at the beginning of my talk that there were no stupid questions, that they should feel free to ask anything. But I had supposed—wrongly, it now appeared—that anyone interested in writing historical fiction would have a basic acquaintance with some facts of history. I peered across the room at his name badge. Geoff Monkley was scr
awled in bold lettering. Could he be related to Lady Hermione’s assistant, Mary Monkley?

  As the sounds of mirth subsided, I continued. “If you’re going to write in the genre known as ‘alternate history,’ you can play with the facts of history and introduce anachronisms deliberately.” I could see that Geoff had no idea what an anachronism was and now was too embarrassed to ask. “An anachronism is the placing of a person, place, event, or object in the incorrect historical period. For example, like having Moses print out the Ten Commandments on his laser printer.” I got some guffaws with that one.

  Geoff’s face cleared. Now he understood me. “If you’re going to write straight historical fiction or historical mysteries, rather than alternate history or historical fantasy, then you should stick to the facts as closely as possible. When you deviate from them, you’d better have a darn good reason and be willing to explain it to your readers. Nothing will ruin a book faster for an intelligent reader than inaccuracies. They might slip by a lot of readers, but inevitably, there will be at least one person who will catch you out.”

  That touched off a lively debate, and thus I kept my group of conference-goers busy for another half hour. By the end of the session, I was exhilarated. I patted myself on the back—metaphorically, that is—for having given them their many pounds’ worth. I had been horrified—and fascinated—when I discovered just how much Lady Hermione charged them for this week, and was therefore all the more determined to ensure that they got something out of it, at least from me.

  As usual, there were one or two who lingered behind to ask further questions after the rest had headed off thirstily for their tea. Thus it was that I arrived in Lady Hermione’s drawing room for my own tea a bit later than the rest of my fellow conference speakers.

  Many of our tea breaks were communal, giving us opportunities to spend time informally with our students. Lady Hermione had arranged one meeting each day, though, for just the speakers. Her way, I suppose, of keeping tabs on what transpired each day. This session promised to be of particular interest, given my confrontations with the faux Dorinda earlier in the day.