by Dean James
COPYRIGHT
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Posted to Death
Copyright © 2002 by Dean James
ISBN: 9781625178435
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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PRAISE FOR SIMON KIRBY-JONES MYSTERIES
“A wickedly funny send-up of the classic cozy British mystery. Dame Agatha would be rolling in her grave, unless she’s already out of it.”
—Nancy Pickard
“A worthy and cozy village mystery you can really sink your teeth into.”
—The Houston Chronicle
“A delight from start to finish. Everything you could wish for in a British cozy. Simon Kirby-Jones is a charming and intriguing sleuth who puts the village of Snupperton Mumsley squarely on the mystery map.”
—Dorothy Cannell
“A delightful English village whodunit filled with some of the most eccentric characters you’ll ever run across in a mystery novel.”
—The Denver Post
“A fresh and funny new voice has joined the ranks of cozy mystery writers. Well done, Dean James!”
—Laurien Berenson
“Agatha Award-winning author Dean James has penned a chatty charmer of a first book in this new cozy-with-a-kink series. Posted To Death will appeal especially to those who enjoy their murders mixed with mirth.”
—I Love A Mystery
“In this entertaining English village mystery with a twist, Dean James has created a sleuth who is both fresh and endearing.”
—Jonnie Jacobs
DEDICATION
To Joan Lowery Nixon
Ever the epitome of generosity, never too busy to encourage an aspiring writer, Joan is the kind of mentor any writer dreams about. Thank you, Joan, for all your support and enthusiasm over the years.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, a special thanks to Elizabeth Foxwell and Sharyn McCrumb, who gave Simon and me our first opportunity to break into print together.
Second, to my agent, Nancy Yost, for doing her best with the strange things I send her to read.
Third, to John Scognamiglio, Laurie Parkin, and the fine folk at Kensington Publishing, for believing in the book and being willing to give it a chance; your support and enthusiasm means more than you can ever know.
Finally, to Patricia R. Orr, Megan Bladen-Blinkoff, Julie Wray Herman, Deborah Adams, Dorothy Cannell, Susan Rogers Cooper, and Charlaine Harris, the best cheerleading squad a vampire ever had. Your encouragement made all the difference in the world!
CHAPTER ONE
The vicar doesn’t know I’m a vampire.
Nor does he know I’m gay.
If he knew either of these facts about me, I’m not sure which would cause his no-doubt-fatal heart attack. The Reverend Neville Butler-Melville is just a tad old-fashioned, shall we say? Having a vampire—and a gay one, mind you—on the committee to raise money for the church fabric wouldn’t sit well with the bishop, of course, and dear Neville might find himself forcibly retired from the church.
Drearily conventional as he may be, Neville is rather scrumptious looking in his ecclesiastical kit. This was my third visit to the vicarage, and I braced myself for a sip of the hideous bargain-basement tea that Letty Butler-Melville served, in the interest of economy, I supposed. As I raised the teacup, I let my eyes linger on Neville, who was more than enough compensation for the awful tea. Neville’s shiny black priest’s togs complemented his pale good looks: jet black hair with a touch of gray at the temples, an aquiline nose, full, sensuous lips, and a muscular frame well suited to the cover of a romance novel. Dear Neville at forty is quite a dish.
Although I’m not a regular churchgoer, I took one look at those deep emerald eyes of his and said, “Yes”, when he approached me yesterday afternoon to serve on a parish committee.
Regardless of what you may have read in all those trashy vampire novels, we can set foot in churches without horrible things happening to us, and the sight of a cross has no effect. Unless, of course, it’s cheap and vulgar, and then I promise you I’d shudder at the very least.
But more of that later. Right now I was more interested in the composition of the vicar’s tea party. Having lived in the village of Snupperton Mumsley for a scant month, I still had not met many of the leading citizens, though I had glimpsed them on the odd ramble through the village. Another reason that I decided to join the committee: I needed to get to know my neighbors. We vampires no longer fade into the woodwork, as we once did, and being visible in the community is a good way to allay the suspicions of anyone who might otherwise think we’re odd.
Letty Butler-Melville bent toward me to offer a plate of buns. “My very own recipe,” she whispered with pride. “Garlic buns. So good for the heart, they say.” I recoiled in horror. I do not like garlic, which is deadly to a vampire.
Puzzled at my reaction, Letty Butler-Melville whispered in concern, “Is something wrong, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”
I shook my head, relieved at my narrow escape. “It’s just that I’m allergic to garlic,” I whispered back. “Makes me have quite nasty hives.” A small bit of garlic wouldn’t be all that toxic, but if her tea was anything to judge by, the buns were probably oozing with garlic. Better safe than writhing on the floor in agony.
She gave me an odd look, but that seemed to satisfy her as she continued offering the plate of buns around to the assembled company. Apparently, the others were well acquainted with Mrs. Butler-Melville’s culinary gifts, for they all declined to partake.
I surveyed the assembled company once more. Beside her husband, Letty Butler-Melville seemed oddly colorless. Whereas Neville had dramatic good looks, Letty tended to fade in one’s memory. Almost as tall as her husband, with a physique not much different from his, she wore a bulky, ill-fitting dress that emphasized her drabness. Apparently the Fashion Sense Fairy had taken one look at her and run away screaming.
In addition to the vicar and Letty, our little party included Lady Prunella Blitherington and her snobby son, Giles, the matriarch and scion of the “first family” of the village. The other guests were an older woman named Jane Hardwick, who lived in a cottage near the church, across the lane from me, and a horsey-looking individual named Abigail Winterton (female, though it was hard to tell from the way the creature dressed and the state of its hair), evidently the postmistress and proprietress of the village shop.
Dear Lady Prunella Blitherington (God does have a sense of humor, after all) was holding forth, yet again, on something. I had, only moments after meeting her, discovered that tuning out a voice that sounded like unrefined felines in the throes of passion a matter of dire necessity. My senses are, as you might imagine, preternaturally acute, and hearing Lady Blitherington live up to her name is excruciating. I tuned in briefly; I had to pay attention at some point or they’d think I was completely brainless.
“Dear Vicar,” she squealed, “naturally one would clearly love to donate the entire sum which dear St. Ethelwold’s needs to restore it to all its glory”—here the snooty Gi
les began to look alarmed—“but of course one simply cannot these days, thanks to the depredations of the Inland Revenue.” She babbled on in the same vein, and Giles relaxed. It’s a pity he has such a snotty look about him, otherwise he could be quite tempting. About twenty-five, he has curly auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and creamy skin that many a debutante would kill for. He’s also six feet three or so and built like a linebacker. With the cranky disposition he seems to have, I wouldn’t want to make him angry. He looks like he could bench press his mother (who must weigh close to three hundred pounds) and still have a hand free to crush something, like my head.
My eyes roved around the room. The furnishings, like the clothes the Melville-Butlers wore, were slightly tatty. Well worn, showing signs of age, but obviously well cared for. After all, they would have to do for quite a while. I imagined that there were many other vicarages around England that looked very much like this one. The Church Temporal no doubt could use an infusion of pounds sterling. Despite the air of genteel poverty that the room exuded, Letty Melville-Butler had made it warm, comfortable, and inviting. I decided to forgive her for the tea and the poisonous buns, poor woman.
That voice broke through my thoughts once again.
“No, no, no, my dear Letty,” Lady Blitherington intoned, “one simply cannot approve the notion of putting on some terribly old-fashioned play like Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde.” At the latter name she seemed to give a delicate shudder. “We must look to the future and our up-and-coming writers for inspiration. One must insist that the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society try something new. I am the chairwoman of the board of directors, after all, and I do believe that I speak for the entire board when I say that a completely new play is most assuredly the ticket.” She paused for a sip of her tea. “In fact, if I might be so bold as to suggest, I daresay that we might put on dear Giles’s little play. It’s a thriller, isn’t it, darling? And you know how audiences love that silly Christie play, The Mousetrap. After all, Giles is just as clever as Dame Agatha ever dared to be, and I’m certain that a production of Who Murdered Mater? would bring audiences simply pouring in.”
I coughed a mouthful of tea back into my cup. Curiously enough, the same thing had happened to most of the others in the room at approximately the same time. Giles Blitherington turned rather an interesting shade of pink as we all stared at him.
“Mummy,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant tenor, “naturally I’d be thrilled if SMADS chose my play, but perhaps other members of this committee might have more worthy suggestions.”
False modesty will get you nowhere, boyo, I thought to myself.
Abigail Winterton seemed skeptical as well. “Nonsense, Prunella,” she trumpeted in a voice about an octave lower than my own baritone, and those nostrils flared in a good imitation of Secretariat. “Giles got sent down from Oxford after one term, and Cambridge wouldn’t have him. Boy can’t get a degree, how can we assume he can write?” She slapped her teacup down with such force I thought it would shatter.
“Really, Abigail,” Lady Blitherington responded, injured pride oozing from every syllable. “Just because one doesn’t have a university degree doesn’t mean one isn’t intelligent, after all. There are some minds which are simply too brilliant for the mundane requirements of the present educational system. Don’t you agree, Dr. Kirby-Jones?”
Thus appealed to, I had little choice. “My dear Lady Blitherington, that would certainly be the case in the American educational system, with which I am most familiar, as you no doubt know.” Frankly, I’m surprised she would deign to ask the opinion of a mere American. “In my own experience, I encountered any number of bright and articulate students who nevertheless had difficulties complying with the routine demands of the educational system. Some of them persevered, some did not.” I gave Giles a rather superior smile, and he sulked back at me. Pity the boy was so determined to be unpleasant.
“Rather,” Lady Blitherington replied, uncertain whether I had upheld her or made Giles look even more foolish. “Well, quite, um, yes. After all, my dear Abigail, I’m not certain that a mere shopkeeper is qualified to pass judgment on the literary merits of a play. I’m sure the rest of the board will be able to see the merits of Giles’s play even if you are prejudiced against him.”
Abigail Winterton sniffed loudly and derisively. “If the only thing you’re worried about is saving the board money, my dear Prunella,” she mocked her adversary, “then you needn’t worry. I know of another author who has written a play perfectly suited for our needs, and this person would be absolutely delighted to grant SMADS the right to perform it for no remuneration whatsoever.”
“What type of play is it?” Lady Prunella demanded, icicles practically hanging from every word. In the last few minutes, I had begun to think that village life was going to be vastly entertaining. “One presumes that you know something about it?”
Miss Winterton chuckled smugly. “Oh, most assuredly, I do. In fact, I have read it several times.” For a moment, her mirth nearly overcame her. “Everyone in the village would find it most amusing. Not to say, enlightening. The author is a local who, I assure you, is most au courant with village affairs.” She looked slowly, one by one, at everyone in the room except me.
Was it my imagination, or had Letty Butler-Melville turned even pastier than usual? The vicar took a big gulp of his tea, while Lady Prunella seemed at an uncharacteristic loss for words. Jane Hardwick evinced only amusement. Her eyes caught mine briefly, then flickered away. Giles Blitherington made an intense study of his fingernails.
Lady Prunella finally found her voice. “I suppose, Abigail, if you insist, the board must needs consider this play. Can you arrange to have a copy of it at the board meeting?”
Miss Winterton nodded.
“We shall consider the play, then,” Lady Prunella said. “But I have little doubt that it will prove vastly inferior to Giles’s work. I suppose, however, one must give the nod to notions of democracy in this situation.” She glared at Miss Winterton, perhaps in retribution for having to use the word “democracy” in public.
Abigail Winterton turned red, and I feared for a moment that she would rear up and let fly. But I suppose she had gained whatever it was she wanted, for the moment Round two would come later, I shouldn’t be surprised. Lady Blitherington swept on, paying no more attention to Abigail Winterton. “As I was saying before, Giles has written a simply marvelous thriller which I think it would behoove the SMADS to consider, but that is a decision we must apparently postpone.”
“I’ve no doubt that the board will choose the most prudent course of action,” Jane Hardwick said into the brief silence that had followed Lady Prunella’s words. There were definitely undercurrents here of which I was completely ignorant. But perhaps someone in the village could enlighten me. Whom should I ask? I eyed Jane Hardwick speculatively. She had distinct possibilities. Her sardonic smile seemed to indicate that she knew where plenty of the village’s skeletons were hidden. There was something naggingly familiar about her, anyway, and I decided I should get to know her better. I had already observed her, on several occasions, working in her garden alone or directing a couple of workmen who seemed to be doing some heavy digging for her in her back garden. No doubt she kept an eye on the goings-on in the village.
Miss Hardwick continued in her smoothly cultured voice. “I propose that we postpone further discussion of the activities of the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society. This committee is really not the proper venue for such a decision, since only the two of you are members of the board of the society. We, as members of the Church Restoration Fund Committee, may express our interest, since the society has so graciously agreed to aid us in our efforts, but we simply cannot dictate the choice of plays.”
“Quite right,” Neville Butler-Melville added, his voice light, determined to spread the proverbial oil. “When two committees unite for a common goal, we must endeavor to work well together. After all, our goal is such a worthy one
, the restoration of our beloved St. Ethelwold’s, that we must not injure our efforts with the hint of dissension.”
“Yes, of course, dear Vicar,” gushed Lady Blitherington, though she cast a steely glance at both Abigail Winterton and Jane Hardwick. “We must all pull together for the sake of dear St. Ethelwold’s. Dear Jane,” she continued, “always so sensible. And so, so democratic.” In Lady Blitherington’s mouth, the word again sounded like an insult. Which, no doubt, it was intended to be. Jane Hardwick smiled graciously in return.
Giles stood up, smiling at the rest of us. I blinked at the change in his features. Oh, my. “Mummy, I’m afraid we ought to be going. Remember that you wanted to be home in time to supervise Alsatia’s riding lesson with Dirk.” From the odd tone of his voice, I rather got the impression that if Lady Blitherington were not present, the aforementioned Dirk might be giving Alsatia something other than a riding lesson.
At the reminder, Lady Prunella practically hopped up from her chair. “Oh, yes, Giles, dear. Thanks for reminding Mummy. I’m sure you will all excuse us. We shall continue our discussion tomorrow evening.” She headed for the front door of the vicarage without waiting for anyone else even to acknowledge her farewell.
Abigail Winterton spoke up. “I’m afraid I, too, must be going, Vicar, Letty dear. This is the day my assistant leaves early, and I have to get back to close the shop.” She stood.
The vicar rose from his chair. “Thank you all for coming today. I know with your dedication to the project, we are bound to succeed in our goals of raising money for the restoration of the church fabric. And”— here he turned to beam in my direction—“we are certainly most delighted to have the assistance of so distinguished a young historian as Dr. Kirby-Jones. I am pleased to welcome you to the committee and, indeed, to Snupperton Mumsley, as, I’m sure, are we all.”