She Shoots to Conquer (16 page)

“Those two cretins may seal themselves up and join the skeletons already stuffed behind the walls.” The leer that accompanied this inappropriate remark was shocking to behold and I could only be grateful that Thumper did not crack open an eye to witness it. “Let it be hoped,” Georges’s eyes narrowed gleamingly above his Roman nose, “that their vile pet joins his fellows in gnawing at their bones. Meanwhile, I look forward to the epicurean delights your husband will provide for me during the coming week.”

I stared at him blankly.

“I knew him to be a man after my own heart—were I to possess one—when he ignored the Foot woman’s screams for mercy and banished the albino rat, after insisting it be first returned to its cage. My enthusiasm increased when he set about bringing this kitchen out of the Stone Age into something approaching the nineteen fifties by a great deal of scrubbing surfaces and throwing out of disgusting pots, pans, cutlery, and crockery. He agreed with me as I reclined in my chariot proffering the occasional word of advice as to which supplier would most speedily dispatch the caviar exquisite . . . the pistachio mushroom pâté delectable . . . the swordfish sublime . . . the loganberries lip-smacking that my stomach was announcing in impeccable French that it desired.”
Georges’s oratory swelled into the operatic and I awaited the sound of wineglasses cracking. After studying my reaction, he abandoned his impersonation of Enrico Caruso and shook his head, puffing out the bloodhound cheeks as he did so. “The point I am making, Mrs. Wife of the Chef, is that before I retired for the night it was agreed between us that my gourmand interests were his.”

“Yours and Ben’s?” A woman who has been awake since the middle of the night and has not yet had a cup of coffee, let alone breakfast, should not be expected to be quick on the uptake.

“Who else?” He blew out a breath, deflating the cheeks, and grabbed the arms of his chair. “Very well, in words that sleeping dog could comprehend! Your husband has agreed to stay on as my personal chef at Mucklesfeld for the duration of the filming, which should take six days should there be no further complications—such as other contestants getting themselves killed.”

“The person who is going to get killed,” I fumed, “is your insufferable self. Of all the insensitive things to say! Poor Suzanne Varney! I hope her ghost appears to you in the middle of the night and wheels you out onto the roof and tips you over the edge. As for my husband promising to stay on and cook for you . . .” I choked on my fury.

“I would be willing to let others partake . . . Lord Belfrey and his doctor cousin, should he be called in to medicate a patient who is reduced to hysteria by one of the surprises in store. You yourself may join us at table if you care to do so. My good woman,” he completed a circle in the wheelchair, “I do not see why you are making difficulties. Your husband said he suspected you already wished to stay on for the sake of your friend Mrs. Malloy, who is to take Suzanne Varney’s place as a contestant, and because of your interest in old houses. He mentioned that you are an interior designer. As such,” Georges tried but failed to look cajoling, “I would have thought you could happily wander around Mucklesfeld for a week, mentally redoing the place. It is even possible that when
Here Comes the Bride
achieves the success I anticipate and the
money starts rolling in, his lordship might hire you to put your ideas into action.”

“The opportunity to take down the cobwebs and possibly re-hand them elsewhere is certainly hard to resist,” I said nastily, “but I think I can hold out. Coming, Thumper?” I looked down, flicked my fingers gently, and with my furry—possibly only loyal—friend at my heels, stormed out of the kitchen.

“Given the choice,” Georges bellowed after me, “I prefer rats to dogs.”

“Ignore him,” I told Thumper. My attempt to slam the door behind us failed because it creaked and groaned, making clear that it was old and hated to be hurried. The hall appeared even more crowded than on the previous evening, with oversized furniture from bygone eras that had reverenced excess, especially when it came to the hideous. Elbowing past a dresser with a bloated front that reminded me of a certain stomach, I continued to seethe! That I had been thinking it might be interesting to stay and watch how things turned out—not only for Mrs. Malloy but also for Livonia, who so desperately needed moral support, and for Judy, whom I had instantly liked—did not come into things. That Ben had made a commitment to Georges LeBois without consulting me wasn’t how our marriage worked.

I was about to storm back to the bedroom when I realized that I didn’t remember how to get there. I cast an irritable glance at the staircase, with its massively carved, age-blackened banisters and its look of having seen more than its fair share of coffins going up empty and coming down filled. Mounting those broad steps wouldn’t get me anywhere fast because Lord Belfrey had taken me up by the back way last night. I made a rude gesture at the Metal Knight (who was definitely smirking), while balking at the idea of returning to the kitchen, stalking past Georges, opening the door through which Mr. Plunket and Mrs. Foot had disappeared, and asking one or both of them to guide me back to the attics.

I was stalled in making even a tentative move when the hall was invaded by two youngish men burgeoning with cameras, tripods,
and assorted equipment suggestive of filming. My knowledge of such items was nil, but I admit to a small thrill coursing through my being. Who would have thought I would find myself this close to the production of a television show, whether or not it ever showed up on screen? Both men looked their part—wearing ragged jeans and sweatshirts and having longish, purposefully untidy hair, pierced ears, and artistic expressions. I took them to be the two who had preceded us into Mucklesfeld the previous evening. Both gave me a casual glance and one of them grinned at Thumper, who had moved in for a closer inspection but neither barked nor leaped up at them, for which I was relieved. That stuff they were carrying had to be expensive and Georges would undoubtedly make someone pay if it were dropped. That someone mustn’t be Thumper.

They said something to each other, but whether or not they would have spoken to me remains open to question because the hall grew by two more people lugging technologically advanced-looking . . . things. One was a young woman with dingy blond hair and dragon tattoos on both bare arms, and the other an older man with gray in his hair but the same air of grungy glamour. The four converged without accident, conversing with an amicable intensity that made evident Thumper and I had faded off their mental screens. It was glaringly obvious that Georges’s crew was on the move while he sat in the kitchen waiting presumably for Ben to come and feed him. Which might be a long time coming if provisions were yet to arrive. I knew nothing of the work ethics of directors, but it struck me that his did not set a particularly fine example.

The hall emptied itself save for Thumper and me. I was considering following the four in the hope that they would lead me to a back staircase that I would recognize, when Livonia came out into what passed for light at Mucklesfeld.

“Oh, how glad I am to see you!” Her face was flushed, her dark hair rumpled, and her voice trembled on the verge of hysteria. “I lost Judy within a couple of moments of going down that little
corridor.” Pointing into the morass. “She said it would speed things up if I went left looking for the study and she turned right, but when I had no luck and went after her, I couldn’t find her, let alone any room that looked right. Just a couple with nothing in them. You don’t think, Ellie, that she lost me on purpose?”

“I’m sure she didn’t.” I edged over to put an arm around Livonia while Thumper sat looking on with the soft light of sympathy in his eyes.

“No, of course not, that was awful of me to say. She does seem nice, doesn’t she? Oh, I do hope this competition isn’t making me paranoid already. You don’t think that’s the object, do you—to turn each of the contestants against one another?”

“Well,” I hesitated, “it would make for more interesting television.”

Livonia stared at me bleakly. “I’ve never watched a reality show, but I’ve heard the girls at the bank say the contestants can turn hostile . . . even bloodthirsty.”

“That’ll be Georges LeBois’s aim,” I conceded. “By the way, why did you and Judy go looking for the study down that hallway?”

“We decided it would be the best place to start after checking out here without any luck. The only door we didn’t knock on and open was the one down there to our left,” she pointed, “behind that huge jardinière with the dead plant. There was a sign taped to it with
ENTER AT YOUR PERIL
printed on it in great big black letters.”

“That will be the study. Trust Georges LeBois to set you and Judy running in circles looking for the room that he’d designated off-limits. Beastly man! Perhaps,” looking down at my faithful hound, “I can train Thumper to take a bite out of him that will cut him down to size. But Livonia, being forewarned is your weapon against the man and his tricks. I think you should march over to that room this minute and see if Lord Belfrey is in there and have a talk with him as instructed. Point one scored against Georges. If Judy comes along within the next few minutes, I’ll send her in after you. Livonia, you can do this!”

She shook her head. “I was right earlier about wanting to
leave. I’m not cut out for this sort of thing; I’ve no stamina for conflict . . . Harold was correct and so was Mrs. Knox about letting wiser heads than mine prevail. He may not be perfect but . . .”

“Listen,” I said, “I’ll be here the whole week. Georges LeBois has persuaded my husband to stay on as his chef.”

She brushed at her teary blue eyes. Hope faded from them as soon as it appeared. “But you can’t be with me all the time, and you’ll have your friend who’ll expect you to be on her side exclusively . . . and rightly so.”

“Roxie Malloy can fend for herself.” This wasn’t entirely true, of course. Mrs. M proclaimed herself capable of living her life without any help from me, especially when she was on her high horse, but over the years we had each come to depend on the other, though never before in matters of the heart. She might well resent my support of a rival . . . unless I could persuade her that Livonia merely wished to stay in the game as a boost to her self-confidence. I came out of my mulling to note the change of expression on Livonia’s face. It was one of sharp surprise as if a penny had finally dropped with a clang.

“I’ve just remembered why Judy’s name sounded familiar when she told us what it was and she said, didn’t she?, that mine sounded familiar to her, too.”

“Go on!” I urged, while Thumper showed interest by cocking his head.

“It was thinking about your friend that jogged my memory. Judy Nunn was the name of Suzanne Varney’s friend—the one who told her about
Here Comes the Bride
.”

“Which means,” I said thoughtfully, “that were Suzanne here, it would make for three people with connections to each other in the competition. What are the odds of that happening by chance, if we suppose there were dozens, possibly hundreds of applicants?”

Livonia shivered. “Not strangers then . . . but people who are in some way woven together being set against each other. It sounds diabolical, doesn’t it?”

“Or a shrewd move in grabbing the viewers’ interest. In the
case of
Here Comes the Bride
, Judy knew Suzanne and Suzanne knew you, so—if we are to follow a pattern of progression—you will know one of the other three contestants.”

“Oh, I see! I see!” Her eyes now widened in horror. “Who could it be? But wait!” She held up a trembling hand. “Unlike Judy and Suzanne, I never told anyone except for Harold what I was planning . . . certainly not any of the girls at the bank. And Harold wouldn’t have spread it around, would he?”

“Mrs. Knox,” I reminded her.

“Yes, of course! I’d forgotten! I did tell her, but she’s not looking for a husband. She’s got one already. Oh, she wouldn’t have said anything to anyone. It would have been so unkind! But if she did . . . and we call the person she told Contestant Number Four . . . then Four would have told Five and Five would have told Six.”

“That’s my assumption, Livonia,” I was saying, and getting a look from Thumper that declared whatever I thought was bound to be right, when the front door creaked mightily before groaning inward, bringing the not unwelcome sight of Dr. Rowley. The tablets he had given me had certainly put paid to my headache and allowed me to get a few hours of sleep.

“Hello.” I smiled while heading toward him with Thumper displaying a welcome in his springing steps and Livonia half hiding behind me. “I hoped I would have the chance to tell you that I am completely recovered.”

“What great news!” He beamed his schoolboy smile on me. “Nothing could be nicer to hear after last night’s tragedy.” The radiant cheer vanished and his voice sank in sorrow. “I have just been down in the ravine laying a bunch of flowers from my garden at the place where it happened. So young a life cut short. I was in shock afterwards and it wasn’t until I woke this morning that the full awfulness hit me! For the first time in years, I felt an overwhelming need for my old cat Blackie. Nothing like sitting with a cat on one’s lap to make the world seem a better, kinder place.” He reached into the pocket of the tweed jacket that fitted
snuggly around his tummy and drew out a handkerchief, which he scrunched into a ball and rolled around in his hands. I pictured him doing the same as a stout, round-faced schoolboy endeavoring to appear manly when battling the urge to tear up.

I was wondering what I could say to him when I felt Livonia shift around me and heard her say with markedly less alarm than when she had made the assumption with Mr. Plunket, Boris, and Georges: “Lord Belfrey?”

“His cousin, Dr. Rowley,” I explained.

“Oh, I see!” She continued moving forward until well out in front of me.

Tommy stepped sideways, stumbling to a halt when fully face-to-face with her.

“I’m Livonia Mayberry.”

Why hadn’t I noticed what a sweet voice she had? I waited for her to add that she was one of the contestants, but naturally she would assume he had already guessed.