Murder à la Mode Read online

  “Castle?” Tammy thought for a moment. “Wait a second. I think I’ve seen pictures of this place. A few months ago, the Sunday paper had an article about it, and….”

  “And?”

  Shooting Savannah a quick, evasive look, she said, “Uh…it wasn’t a very long article. I don’t remember much about it.”

  “You’re such a lousy liar. Spill it.”

  Tammy cleared her throat. “I think they said something about some eccentric guy from Texas building a mansion that looked like an old castle. He was…you know…into that sort of thing.”

  “Medieval history?”

  Tammy grimaced. “Well, maybe more like…Dracula.”

  “Dracu—?” The word caught in Savannah’s throat because they had rounded the curve and to the right was, indeed, the distinctive entry to Blackmoor Castle. Two enormous marble columns stood on either side of the gravel road, and the pillars were topped with a pair of hideous, snarling gargoyle-like statues. The monster on the left held a dove in its talons and the bird looked as dead as the proverbial duck. His equally evil twin held what appeared to be a squirming cherub in his jagged teeth.

  “Yikes,” Tammy said.

  “Yeah, just charming.” Savannah glanced around…hoping. “Maybe this isn’t it. Maybe…”

  But then she saw the words carved into the marble of the pillar on the left: “Blackmoor Castle.”

  “Wishful thinking,” Tammy muttered.

  “Yeah, well, one could hope. Especially since one is going to have to hang out here for a couple of weeks. Eat, sleep…or try to.”

  “Gargoyles are supposed to scare away evil spirits.”

  Savannah shuddered as they drove past the columns, and she got a close-up look at the beast who was chowing down on the little fat angel. “Yeah, right. These things are so scary-tacky they’d frighten away anything—bad or good. Maybe the rest of the place isn’t so hideous. I mean, we’re supposed to be filming something romantic here, not Frankenstein Meets the Werewolf.”

  As they drove down the gravel road, the Volkswagen stirred up a cloud of dust in its wake, obscuring the grim greeters at the entrance. But new horrors quickly appeared in the form of seven statues that lined the right side of the road.

  At first, the sculptures simply looked like an assortment of oversized human figures wearing hooded robes. But on closer examination, the expressions on the faces of what turned out to be monks were hideously contorted.

  “Boy, that guy looks madder than a wet hen,” Savannah said of the first one.

  “And that one seems to be soused,” Tammy commented.

  The third one had his tongue lolling out and a dirty-old-man leer on his face.

  “Oh, I get it,” Savannah said. “They represent the seven deadly sins. So far we have Rage, Envy, and Lust.”

  “And that one’s got to be Gluttony.” Tammy pointed to the fourth figure, which had a plump face and a rotund tummy.

  His glazed, sated expression reminded Savannah of the look on Dirk’s face after she fed him a rack and a half of her famous barbecued ribs.

  “I don’t think I’ll be taking any moonlight strolls down this road,” Savannah said as they passed Jealousy, Greed, and Sloth. “Not even with Lance on my arm.”

  “Lance Roman on your arm…has a certain ring to it, huh?” Tammy giggled. “Do you think you’ll get a chance to, like, make out with him?”

  “I don’t want to even think about it. I don’t dare.” Savannah sighed. “If I get my hopes up and then I get voted off the first night, I’ll have to kill myself.”

  They passed through a thickly wooded area and when they emerged they got their first glimpse of the castle. From the actual moat with a drawbridge to the battlements and corner round towers with fluttering pennant flags, Blackmoor was the quintessential medieval fortress—at least, at first glance.

  “Is that a real moat and drawbridge?” Tammy said as they drove onto the narrow bridge that crossed the ribbon of water circling the structure.

  “Looks pretty wet to me,” Savannah said peering out the window at the sparkling water below. “But I think I see some goldfish swimming around in there. Are moats supposed to be stocked with goldfish?”

  “A crocodile or two would be more effective, protection-wise.”

  “Maybe they’re gold piranhas.”

  Tammy leaned forward, squinting through the dusty windshield and studying the massive iron gate that hung high above them. Its lower edge sprouted a row of sharp spikes. “That reminds me of the reverse spikes in a parking lot entrance, only more lethal.”

  “Yeah, if that sucker dropped on you a time or two it’d sure cure you of illegal parking.”

  Once through the arched entrance, they found themselves in a cobblestone courtyard. Several buildings filled the enclosure created by the protective stone walls that encircled the complex. Most of the structures had steep, granite-tiled roofs and plastered walls with Tudor beam crosshatching. But in the center of the courtyard, the largest of the buildings was shaped more like a traditional castle, with stone walls and arched windows. The top of the edifice was flat and rimmed with a row of giant gargoyles perched on the edge, glaring down on those in the courtyard below.

  In front of the structure stood an elegant black carriage. Two huge, white draft horses were hitched to the front in harnesses of crimson leather with shiny silver buckles.

  A tall and gorgeous male, wearing a royal blue tunic, black leggings, and knee-high boots stood at the head of one of the horses, stroking its ears and speaking to it soothingly.

  Savannah rolled down her window as Tammy pulled the VW alongside the carriage. “Hey, Sir Ryan…lookin’ good in those leggings.”

  Leaning across her, Tammy said, “Hi, Ryan. Where should I park?”

  He pointed to a barnlike structure behind the main building. “Over there, in yon garage…I mean…stable.”

  “Thanks.” Tammy gave him a thorough once over. “Savannah’s right; you look awesome in tights. You should wear them more often.”

  “Like to Home Depot?” he asked. “Hooters, maybe?”

  Savannah laughed. “Yeah, you spend a lot of time there.”

  “Hey, I’m on a first-name basis with the paint department and the plumbing section at my Home Depot.” He waved them on. “Go park. They don’t want automobiles in front of the keep.”

  “The keep?” Savannah asked.

  “That’s the main building of a castle,” Tammy announced proudly. “The heart of the compound, the most secure area where precious things were kept. Hence the term ‘keep.’ I’ve read up on all that stuff.”

  “I knew that.” Savannah turned back to Ryan. “But we can’t park here, huh?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Nope. Ruins the ambiance, if you know what I mean.”

  “I guess there’s nothing like a hot pink VW bug to jerk you right out of the seventeenth century,” Savannah said as they pulled away and headed toward the “stable.”

  “Seventeenth? If it’s the Middle Ages, I think we’re talking a lot earlier than that.”

  “Seventeenth, tenth, eleventh…whatever.” She shrugged. “I never was any good with dates.”

  Tammy found one of the garage’s six parking spots empty, and she quickly pulled into it. When they got out and looked around, she said, “I don’t think the architect who designed this place was too good with his dates either. You’ve got fifteenth-century Tudor over there, along with the more Norman lines of those battlements, which are from…say…the turn of the millennium. And those steep, granite roofs with the round turrets and decorative ironwork are reminiscent of a French chateau.”

  Savannah stuck out her tongue. “Show-off.”

  Tammy laughed. “You want your suitcases now?”

  “We’d better leave them in the car for the moment, just in case I flunk the audition. It cramps your style if you have to lug luggage when you’re stomping away in a huff.”

  “Good thinking.”

  As they a
pproached the keep, Tammy pointed to a door toward the rear of the building. “Do you suppose we should use one of the back doors…you know…a servant’s entrance?”

  “Shoot, no. I’m going straight to the front door. No time like the present to start acting like the lady of the manor.”

  Tammy shook her head. “You know, Savannah, if you could just come out of your shell….”

  “Hey, people only treat you as good as you treat yourself, Tammy darlin’. And you and I just aren’t service-door kind of girls.”

  The front door was an impressive, eight-foot-tall, arched affair with hammered iron hinges and a pewter door knocker shaped like a snarling lion’s head. Savannah grabbed the ring that dangled from his bared teeth and gave it a hard rap. The sound echoed across the cobblestones, and from the far end of the courtyard Ryan waved to them from his seat on the carriage and gave them a thumbs-up.

  They waited for what seemed like a long time before the door swung open with a deliciously creepy creak. But the woman greeting them was anything but spooky. A young thing, probably less than thirty, wearing a baggy blue dress that reminded Savannah of one of Granny Reid’s old flour sacks, she peered at Savannah and Tammy through thick-lensed glasses. She blinked her nearly lashless eyes as though trying to focus. “Yes?” she said, a suspicious tone in her voice.

  “This is my friend, Tammy Hart, and my name is Savannah Reid.” Savannah extended her hand. “I’m here for an audition.”

  “Audition?” The woman’s pale face was a blank.

  “Yes, for the television show.”

  Recognition dawned in her eyes, and she blinked twice. “Oh, right. You’re the replacement for the one who dropped out.”

  “Ah, yes, I think so.”

  Suddenly more interested, the woman gave Savannah a thorough once-over from head to toe, taking in her navy blue suit and simple white blouse. The suit wasn’t expensive, but the cut was smart, emphasizing her hourglass figure. Her shoes and purse weren’t designer either, but they were high-grade leather and stylish. And Savannah had actually taken half an hour to apply her make-up, rather than her usual slap-dash of lipstick.

  Apparently, the woman liked what she saw, because she smiled, accepted Savannah’s outstretched hand, and gave it a hearty shake. “I’m Mary Branigan,” she said, “personal assistant to Mrs. Jarvis. Come inside.”

  Savannah and Tammy passed through the arched doorway and into a dark, cavernous foyer. It took several seconds for Savannah’s eyes to adjust to the low light, and when they finally did, she had to restrain herself to keep from running back outside into the sunshine and fresh air.

  The stone walls seemed to close around them, in spite of the immense size of the room and the torch sconces that flickered at ten-foot intervals along each side. The vaulted ceiling was so high and dark that it appeared to disappear into the shadows. Savannah half-expected to be attacked by a swarm of vampire bats at any moment.

  To her right, at the bottom of a curved staircase stood a suit of armor. Its body plates were silver-colored metal, but the helmet was black and had things that looked like horns sticking out the top of it. On its chest was a blood-red crusader’s cross.

  Not nearly as friendly-looking as the greeter at Wal-Mart, Savannah thought as they walked by him, instinctively not getting too close.

  She gave Tammy a quick, sidewise look and saw from the expression of dismay on her face that she shared the same opinion of the new accommodations.

  “Grim,” Savannah whispered to her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mary asked.

  “Ah…dim,” Savannah said, plastering a semi-pleasant smile on her face. “It’s a bit dim in here, but I suppose it’s for atmosphere.”

  “Ambiance,” Mary said. “It’s the perfect location for the show, don’t you think? So romantic.”

  “Um-m…sure.” If you’re filming The Bloody Bride of Dracula, Savannah added mentally.

  “Mrs. Jarvis is in the dining hall with the camera crew,” Mary said. “It’s this way. Follow me.”

  “The dining hall…that sounds sorta neat,” Tammy said with that overly optimistic tone that made Savannah want to shoot her at sunrise, when Miss Pollyanna Hart was at her most irritating perkiness.

  “Yeah, well, we shall see,” Savannah muttered under her breath as they followed Mary Branigan down a long, dark corridor lit by torches.

  Savannah noted as they passed one sconce after another that they were lit with electricity, their “flames” produced by small, flickering lightbulbs. She supposed the artificial fire was much more practical and far safer than the real thing, but she couldn’t help thinking it looked a bit cheesy.

  “It probably looks really good on camera,” Tammy whispered, as though reading her thoughts.

  Ahead of them, Mary paused and said over her shoulder, “Don’t you just love Blackmoor? Don’t you just feel as if you’ve stepped back in time inside these walls?”

  Savannah looked at a tapestry hanging on the wall to her left, a forest scene where hunters on horseback were plunging spears into a bloody, writhing unicorn. Yeah, really cozy, she thought. I’ll never see a unicorn the same way again; thank you very much for ruining a childhood fantasy.

  On the wall to her right hung a collection of swords, axes, knives, crossbows, and other nasty-looking weapons with assorted blades and spikes that she couldn’t name. Over the armory was a carved wooden sign that read: “Death or Glory.”

  “Aye, positively jolly,” she replied in her best old English. Then she whispered to Tammy, “In a Madame Tussaud’s ‘Chamber of Horrors’ sort of way.”

  The corridor was so long that Savannah was convinced they had walked all the way back to the Middle Ages when they finally reached the dining hall. And their guide didn’t have to announce the location for them to realize they had arrived.

  This wasn’t your average breakfast nook, Savannah decided the moment they stepped inside. “Wow,” she said. “You could hold a jousting tournament in here and still have room for a three-ring circus.”

  “No kidding,” Tammy said, her eyes wide. “I always wanted a dining hall of my own. I think I’ll have one built in my apartment. This is neat!”

  “Nothing like a fireplace you can walk around in,” Savannah said, “and chandeliers that trapeze artists could swing from.”

  Jewel-toned pageantry banners hung from the coffered ceiling, illuminated by half-a-dozen wrought-iron, spoked-wheel chandeliers. Tapestries softened and warmed the stone walls, hanging alongside groupings of shields bearing heraldic crests.

  The wall to their left was lined with a row of elaborately carved mahogany chairs and several austere monk’s benches. A pair of matching marble-topped buffets were decorated with gleaming brass candlesticks and sculptures of everything from angels to dragons.

  The immense stone fireplace dominated the wall to their right and was flanked by two suits of armor. Savannah allowed her mind to wander as she imagined Lance Roman in one of those suits, riding toward her on a white stallion, sweeping her into his….

  “Come along,” Mary said, breaking the spell and jerking her back to the present. “Mrs. Jarvis wanted to see you as soon as you got here.”

  She was pointing to the far end of the room where a woman stood talking to two men and gesturing wildly. As they approached the threesome, Savannah could hear the woman say, “That’s it! That’s all! If I could afford a bigger crew, I’d have one. But, like it or not, you’re it. Do you want the gig or not?”

  Both men grumbled but nodded, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at the floor.

  Mary, Savannah, and Tammy paused ten feet from the group and waited for Tess Jarvis to acknowledge them. But she continued her rant, informing the unhappy men that she didn’t have Martin Scorsese’s budget, and if she did, she would hire his camera and sound crew, not the two of them.

  Savannah took the opportunity to study the woman, and she had to classify her initial impression as “a giant pumpkin.” From the u
nnatural marmalade tint of her short, unevenly cropped hair, to the tangerine shade of lipstick that Savannah hadn’t seen in stores for twenty years, to the orange pantsuit that was much too tight for her plump figure, Tess Jarvis looked like a spokesperson for a citrus juice commercial. A very hyper spokesperson.

  From her hands, that were fluttering in the air around her like skittish parakeets, to her feet, that were tapping, shuffling, jigging around as though she were standing barefoot on an old-fashioned furnace grid…Tess Jarvis was a bundle of nerves.

  Savannah decided she could get thoroughly sick of her in two minutes. Possibly ten seconds.

  Tess turned her attention from the unhappy men to Savannah, as Mary introduced them. She looked Savannah up and down, conducting her own quick evaluation, and from the slight nod of her head, Savannah surmised she might have passed Jarvis muster.

  Then Tess frowned as though reconsidering. “How old are you?” she asked brusquely.

  Savannah lifted one eyebrow and chuckled. “My Granny Reid taught me that a lady never answers a question with a number—you know…age, weight, income….”

  She bit back the rest of Gran’s quote: “Or asks a question requiring a number.”

  “You’re over forty, though, I’ll bet,” Tess persisted.

  “A bit.”

  “I guess that’s okay, but I wish John Gibson had told me that. He was right, though, when he said you’re fat.”

  Savannah bristled. Yes, she was thoroughly sick of Tess Jarvis. Sick enough to smack her silly.

  She lifted her chin a couple of notches and fixed Tess with an icy blue stare. In a low but chilly voice she said, “I’ve known John Gibson for years now, and he is the quintessential gentleman. I’m absolutely certain he would never refer to me or any other woman as ‘fat.’”

  Tess looked a bit taken aback by Savannah’s tone. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to being contradicted. After a long and awkward pause, she shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Well, maybe he didn’t use that exact word. He might have described you as something like…deliciously voluptuous or delectably bodacious.”