Posted to Death

by Dean James

  My reward was another smile. “Then come with me,” he said. His bookshop was only a few doors down from the post office, past a small combination bakery-tearoom and a lawyer’s office. The Book Chase was emblazoned in gold letters across the windows, with Trevor’s name more discreetly printed near the bottom.

  “Catchy name,” I commented as I waited for Trevor to unlock the door.

  “Thank you, Simon, but I actually can’t take credit for it. Believe it or not, that was already the name of the business when I bought it about six years ago,” he said as he opened the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Simon upon such limited acquaintance?” The door swung open, and Trevor Chase motioned me in.

  “Not at all, Trevor, not at all,” I assured him. He closed the door behind us, then reached for a light switch. The lights sprang on, and I inhaled deeply one of my favorite scents—books. The shop consisted of one large main room, from what I could see, with lots of shelves and nooks here and there where one could browse to one’s heart’s content I wandered around while Trevor locked the door behind us and quickly found the section where Daphne Deepwood was shelved. I was relieved to find several copies of each title. Now, what about Dorinda Darlington? Was there a separate section for mysteries? I didn’t want to be too obvious, but I can never resist looking for my books in any bookstore I run across.

  Trevor stood and watched for a moment while I hunted in vain for good ol’ Dorinda; then he motioned for me to follow him. He pointed out the section where my biographies were shelved. “I really did admire your biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine,” he said. “Not only was the research impeccable, but the writing style was lively and eminently readable.”

  Oh, dear, if he keeps this up, I thought, I really will be in love. “Thank you very much,” I replied modestly. “I had enormous fun with that book. I’m glad you liked it.” We passed through a doorway at the back of the main room into a small hallway. A set of stairs led up to the second floor, and a discreet sign advertised that the second floor held out-of-print and collectible books. I had thought Trevor would show me upstairs, but apparently he was ready for his tea. He led me on to a small office in the back, where he busied himself with filling a teapot at the small sink. Soon he had the teapot settled on a small gas ring, and we got comfortable, Trevor seated behind his desk and I ensconced in a comfortably overstuffed armchair across from him.

  “My, this is cozy,” I said cleverly. There were posters around the walls, most of them advertising various books, a couple displaying the attractions of art exhibits. A sofa stood against one wall, and it looked like a pleasant place for an afternoon nap, with colorful pillows scattered along it. The usual office paraphernalia was there, too: filing cabinets, letter trays, a computer, and so on.

  “I find it a comfortable place to work,” Trevor agreed. He pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket. “Would you mind?” he asked, his voice polite.

  “Not at all,” I replied with some enthusiasm.

  “One never knows with Americans these days,” Trevor said, smiling as he prepared his pipe. “So many that I’ve encountered are so rabidly antismoking that I never presume these days.”

  I made a face, and he laughed. “Please don’t get me started on American obsessions. Antismoking has become a religion back there, as has anti-just about everything else. Those are only some of the reasons that I’m happy to be living in England for now.”

  “I can understand that, Simon,” Trevor agreed. “I’ve traveled a bit in the States and encountered enough of those obsessions to last me for the rest of my days. On the other hand, at least in some areas, the atmosphere is much less oppressive with regard to certain matters than it can be in a small village like this.”

  He wasn’t quite sure of me yet, perhaps. I thought I had given him enough signals so that he couldn’t possibly mistake the nature of my interest. But caution is not a bad thing.

  “I can imagine that Snupperton Mumsley isn’t exactly the center of the British gay rights effort.” I laughed, and Trevor grinned around the stem of his pipe. Fragrant smoke billowed around us in the office, and I sniffed appreciatively. “But I see no reason why two consenting adults”—I gave him the full benefit of my dark gaze—“can’t enjoy themselves behind closed doors as much as they want, despite what the matrons of Snupperton Mumsley might think.”

  Trevor took the pipe out of his mouth and laughed aloud. The teakettle began to sing, adding to the merriment. “Ah, Simon”—he stood up to fix our tea—“I do think Snupperton Mumsley has suddenly become a much more interesting place to live.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, moving to help him with the tea things. A few minutes later, we raised our teacups to each other in a silent toast.

  “I’ve been in London most of the past month,” I explained, setting my teacup aside for the moment, “getting through all the paperwork which allows me to live here, which explains why I hadn’t discovered your shop before now. I never dreamed there could be such ... amenities when I decided to move here.”

  Trevor puffed at his pipe. “I had wondered why you hadn’t been seen much in the village before. We all heard, oh, at least six weeks ago, that someone had bought Tristan Lovelace’s cottage and would be moving in. Rumor was rampant, of course, about who it might be.” He grinned at me. “I never really knew the infamous Professor Lovelace, though I got an earful from various sources. I’m quite pleased to see that, in certain respects, my informant was spot on.”

  “To the effect that the queer quotient at Laurel Cottage remains as high as ever?” I responded dryly.

  He laughed again. “Spot on, my dear chap, as I said.”

  I had to laugh, too. Tristan was the only person who had ever called me “my dear chap.” I suddenly felt terribly English. “I suppose it’s useful, in a way, to have one’s reputation established even before one moves in.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Trevor advised. “There’s bound to be a certain amount of gossip, especially in a small place like this. But in six years I’ve had very little trouble. Some are like the delightfully oblivious Neville Butler-Melville and simply don’t have a clue. Others figure out quite quickly, but as long as you’re discreet, there’s no mention made of anything so vulgar as one’s sexual preference.”

  “Sounds like where I grew up in Mississippi,” I drawled. “People might know you’re gay, but they gloss right over the fact because it’s not something one mentions in polite society. As long as you don’t make an issue of it or embarrass anyone by bringing your boyfriend home for a visit, it simply is ignored.”

  Trevor nodded. “Discretion is the key, of course. Besides, there are enough goings-on, thanks to certain members of the community, to ensure that attention is usually directed elsewhere.”

  “I know just what you mean,” I said, settling back in my chair for a good natter. “Let me tell you what I witnessed at the post office this morning!” I gave Trevor a quick but highly entertaining precis of the scene between Abigail Winterton and Samantha Stevens. He laughed, spewing smoke in his mirth.

  “Abigail is rather a nasty old cat,” he said. “You’d think she would have learned by now, with Prunella Blitherington slapping her down all the time. One of these days, the high-and-mighty Mrs. Stevens is going to show her what’s what, and Abigail may never recover.”

  “So what’s the story behind Mr. Stevens’s accident?” I asked.

  Trevor shrugged. “Who knows? He’s got to be nearly thirty years older than his wife, and he’s not in terribly good health. Yet he persists in trying to perform various macho feats, like hang gliding and bungee jumping, and he’s going to kill himself one of these days. I daresay that Mrs. Stevens won’t wear black too long afterwards, either. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who encourages him to do such foolhardy things in the first place.”

  “Sounds like a plot for a good English mystery,” I observed.

  “Be my guest,” Trevor said. “
After you’ve been in Snupperton Mumsley for a while, I’ve no doubt you’ll have gathered enough material for several mystery novels.”

  “Not to mention romance,” I said boldly.

  Trevor laughed—a sound I was coming rather quickly to enjoy—but the phone rang. Any reply he might have made was lost as he picked up the phone after glancing apologetically at me.

  “Good morning,” he said smoothly. “The Book Chase.”

  A voice squawked at him. The light in Trevor’s eyes went dark, and he turned slightly away from me. I stood as if to leave the room, and he motioned me back into my seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Trevor said into the phone, his voice betraying his irritation with the caller, “but I really cannot talk just now. I’ll have to ring you back later.” The voice protested in Trevor’s ear, loudly, but Trevor repeated himself before putting the phone back in its cradle.

  “Sorry about that,” Trevor apologized. “A book dealer who simply refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer on some of my stock he wants to buy.”

  I nodded. Trevor didn’t know, of course, that I have exceptionally good hearing. Thanks to the magic little pills that make life in death so pleasant, I can no longer turn into a bat or into any other creature, but the sensitive hearing remains.

  Even after having met the young man only once, I still could recognize the ill-tempered tones of Giles Blitherington on the other end of the phone line.

  Was there some sort of relationship between Trevor Chase and the snotty young lord of the manor?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After he ended his conversation with Giles Blitherington, Trevor Chase smiled at me, evidence of a slight strain in his face. I itched with curiosity. Why had he felt it necessary to lie to me about the phone call? He didn’t realize I knew it was a lie, but it made me a bit wary of him, whereas before the phone call I was ready to invite him out to dinner.

  I had gotten a bit too flirty too fast. That’s not normally my style. I suppose it had been too long. After all, it had taken me some little while to get over Tris. Was I really ready for the dating game again?

  Maybe not, I told myself. At some point I’d bring up the young lord of the manor and see how Trevor reacted. At the moment, though, I decided it was time to get back home.

  I stood and offered Trevor my hand. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Trevor, but I’m afraid I must be getting home and back to work.” The warmth of his hand in mine was almost sensual, at least on my part. I wondered what he thought about the dry coolness of my hand? Some men find it vaguely unsettling.

  Apparently not Trevor. He smiled his beautiful smile as he escorted me to the front door of the shop. “I’m sorry you have to rush off,” he said. “But I understand the demands of the writer’s life, I assure you.” He smiled again, broadly this time. “And, moreover, I believe I shall see you this evening.” He unlocked the door.

  Startled, I couldn’t think what he meant. “I beg your pardon?”

  Trevor laughed. “The village grapevine has you a new recruit to the Church Restoration Fund Committee. I’m a member of the board of the Snupperton Mumsley Amateur Dramatic Society. Don’t disappoint me and say you’re not coming to tonight’s joint meeting!”

  “I suppose I can’t disappoint the village grapevine. Can I?”

  I’d swear he winked at me, but his countenance was grave as he replied, “No, Simon, don’t disappoint them.”

  I gave him one of my highest-wattage smiles, and he blinked. “See you tonight, Trevor.” I left him standing in the doorway of his shop, slightly bemused.

  Whistling a jaunty air, I reaccoutred myself with hat and sunglasses, gathered up my mail, and headed back down the High Street toward home. When I reached St. Ethelwold’s, I paused for a moment to stare at its perpendicular facade. The outside of the church was lovely, but I had been delighted to discover many Early English elements inside. The church was a charming blend of styles, and even such a supposedly godless creature as I could appreciate it. Like many Americans, I am secretly awed by the sheer antiquity of many of the buildings in England.

  A stand of old trees shaded the large churchyard abundantly, so that even on this warm day, dark shadows here and there obscured some of the headstones. I was about to walk on toward home when a slight movement back in the shadows near the rear of the church caught my eye. I concentrated hard, and my vision sharpened. (There are some things I’m still attempting to master about this vampire business.)

  For a few seconds, I could see into the shadows, and what I saw astonished me. Letty Butler-Melville, clutching a basket of flowers in one hand and brandishing a pair of secateurs in the other, appeared to be engaged in a furious argument with a man whose identity I did not know. They weren’t close enough for even my acute hearing to pick up what they were saying to each other. But to judge from the expressions on their faces, they weren’t delighted with each other.

  I let my concentration lapse, and the sharpness of sight faded. Walking on toward home, I pondered this small mystery of village life. Who could the man in the shadows be? He looked to be in his sixties, weather-beaten and rugged. Perhaps he was the sacristan and had failed to do something properly. Letty, the officious wife of the vicar, was upbraiding him for his dereliction of duty.

  That made as much sense as anything. I’d keep an eye out for the man and try to figure out what the trouble might have been. I found it interesting that Letty Butler-Melville could rouse to such a pitch of anger. On the previous occasions when I had encountered her, she acted as if she didn’t have the nerve to scare the proverbial goose. But in the heat of passion, she certainly looked different The drab creature I knew had disappeared, to be replaced, at least momentarily, by a spitfire. Curious.

  Reaching the door of Laurel Cottage, I decided that I’d had enough speculation for now. I put thoughts of the village firmly aside as, a few minutes later, I changed into my writing duds and got comfortable in front of the computer. It was time to start a new book, a time that normally energizes me as the ideas buzz in my head.

  But for the moment I was a bit too unsettled by the events of the morning to focus as I should. Turning away from the computer screen, I picked up the mail I had received from Abigail Winterton. Glancing idly at the envelopes, at first I saw nothing that demanded my immediate attention. Mostly business correspondence, with perhaps a couple of fan letters. Nothing that couldn’t wait.

  One of the letters bore a Houston return address. I frowned, staring at the scrawl, trying to decipher the name of the sender.

  Slowly, I slit the envelope with a letter opener and pulled out the folded sheet within. I spread out the letter and scanned the contents quickly. Then I went back and read it through again, carefully, taking in the full import.

  Dully, I registered the date at the head of the letter, then checked the smudged Houston postmark. It had taken the letter three months to reach me, having been forwarded several times, from my old address in Houston to my hotel in London and now to Snupperton Mumsley.

  Having had the news earlier would have made little difference. Jack would have died no matter whether I was there or here in England. The only thing I could have done for him, to have saved him, he wouldn’t have accepted.

  Jack Quinn and I had been best friends since I had moved to Houston from Mississippi nearly ten years before. I met him one night my first week in Houston, at a bar in Montrose. He came home with me, but instead of going to bed together, we ended up talking all night and most of the next day. He became my dearest friend, the one who held my hand through every one of the ups and downs of graduate school, and I nursed him through one broken romance after another. He was an optimist always thinking that the next one would be Mr. Right instead of Mr. Right Now.

  Jack had a big heart but love made him careless. Six years ago he came to me and confessed that he had tested positive for HIV. At first, I was furious with him. How dare he do this to me? How could my best friend be so careless with his life?

  I d
idn’t speak to him for a month, but I realized how stupidly selfish I was being. I called him one night to apologize, and he waved it away. He understood, he said, and he was sorry he’d made me so upset

  That was Jack. Nothing much seemed to faze him. Not even when I confessed that I was having a torrid affair with my major professor. Not even when I told him my new lover was a vampire who wanted to share his “gift” with me.

  Jack did his best to talk me out of it. But by then we had both seen numerous friends and acquaintances die from AIDS complications. Late one night after having attended yet another funeral, terrified by what was happening to those I cared so deeply about I finally yielded to Tristan Lovelace’s blandishments, and I let him turn me into a vampire.

  It wasn’t nearly as frightening as I had expected. Death, when it came, was almost a relief. I remember waking afterward, being filled with relief, knowing that now some things could no longer touch me. Tristan had explained everything carefully beforehand, and I knew much of what I should expect. I was happy with my new state of existence.

  But for once, Jack couldn’t share in my joy. I hinted for a while, then even came right out and told him that it wasn’t too late. He could save himself, if he wanted to, by becoming a vampire like me. For whatever reason, he refused.

  That began the rift between us. I tried keeping in touch with him, but as time passed, I became more and more caught up in my work, trying to finish the dissertation and put up with an increasingly difficult relationship with Tristan. So Jack and I drifted further and further apart.

  I called him about a month before I was ready to leave for England, hoping at least to visit with him one last time. But he told me, the weariness evident in his voice, that he simply was too ill to see me. I said goodbye to him then, whispering softly, “I love you, Jack,” into the receiver. I don’t think he ever heard me.