Ten minutes later, walking back to Mucklesfeld, I mulled over Eleanor’s assessment that Celia Belfrey’s venom was so focused on the portrait that she couldn’t see that the living woman was often in the same room where it was displayed. That might be so; hatred can shift and shape to its own design, blocking out what might otherwise be apparent. Celia might never guess that her enemy was looking at her with living eyes. Then again, something might at any moment bring the truth home to her. And then what? Eleanor might have exaggerated the threat the other woman had posed years ago. Most people, however nasty, will shrink from committing murder. But Celia? I remembered her cruel face and cringed. If only I had not made that promise not to tell Lord Belfrey that Eleanor had come back.
The ideal person with whom to discuss this predicament would of course have been Mrs. Malloy. An impossibility. The reason I had not wanted her to come to Witch Haven with me-knowing I was going to confront Nora Burton-was that as a contestant she could not be party to information that could well and truly disrupt the production of Here Comes the Bride. I would not only be dropping a turnip in her applecart but also putting her in the position of knowing something her fellow hopefuls didn’t. The same would be true for Ben, who might feel under sufficient obligation to Georges LeBois to lay the facts before him. When it came down to it, I thought sadly, the only one I could have confided in with complete ease of mind was Thumper. He would have listened, assured me with his adoring gaze that he fully sympathized with my conflict, and felt no obligation to bark out the story to anyone.
In the hall at Mucklesfeld I met Lucy, the dingy blond female member of the crew with the dragon tatoos on her arms. She wasn’t carrying any equipment, and said she had grabbed at a free moment to go to the loo, from which she was now returning.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
She leaned against one of the larger pieces of furniture. “Hell if I know! We got the contestants’ organizational meeting without too many retakes, which is something, I suppose. No idea if Georges was happy or not, he’s just as snarly if he’s satisfied or isn’t.”
“I’m not clear about the structure.”
“As in?” Sticking a hand into her ragged jeans pocket, Lucy drew out a silver-wrapped stick of gum.
“The competition. I mean… what’s the game plan?”
“Sure. I get you. As you’ll know, Lord Belfrey had a formal meeting with each of the contestants yesterday-not much editing of those. Georges wanted all the throat-clearing and twitchy stares kept in. Today and for the duration the women will be assigned individual fifteen-minute interviews. Those will be well weeded, to bring each personality into the sharpest possible focus. I,” she tucked the gum in her mouth and tossed away the wrapper, “will be doing the questioning off camera. Georges decided a female voice would be more effective in getting them to reveal more than intended. Keeping the viewers coming back for more means playing into the mentality of the kinds of people who used to pack up a picnic and look for a nice grassy spot to watch the beheading. The more blood and tears the merrier, then and now.” Lucy stood chewing her gum. “More often than not, the most revealing stuff comes from trailing around after a subject when they think they’re not doing anything worth recording-and most of the time they’re right. Eventually, they stop noticing the camera and even the person holding it becomes invisible. At least that’s the hope. We also aim for those candid moments between his lordship and one or other of the contestants-walking in the garden, taking a look at one of the rooms, conversing over a cup of tea.”
“And he will come to his decision how?”
Lucy shrugged. “From watching the interviews and other film. That’s the system as explained at the start of the first episode, but in reality,” curling her tongue around the word, “it’s bound to come down to the one he can best see himself stuck with for life… or at least as long as it takes to get a divorce.”
“Was Georges pleased with the mayhem produced by Lady Annabel showing up in the gallery?”
“Who knows?”
“I thought it was a bit lame. He could at least have had her head fall off so she could tuck it under her arm and go bowling. It was only Whitey showing up that succeeded in creating a sufficient panic to drive off Wanda Smiley. How many more does he hope to scare away? I’d have thought a little attrition goes a long way.”
“Right.” Lucy reached into her pocket again, drew out a packet of cigarettes, turned it over a few times, and put it back. “The idea is to dangle the question as to who may be next at a point when hopefully the viewers are beginning to root for particular contestants. The next person to talk about bolting will be invited to sit down with his lordship and talk out her concerns. His obligation-even if he’s already decided against her being the pick of the litter-will be to persuade her to stay.”
“It sounds so ruthless.”
“Has to be; that’s the reality show for you,” chewing energetically on the gum. “Sounds as though you’ve never watched even the first five minutes of one?”
“When it comes to a wedding story, I prefer fiction.”
Lucy eyed me in surprise. “That’s what the reality show is-life turned on its head so there’s no longer anything real about it. Wanda Smiley being the one to leave is what took me by surprise. I’d have bet on either Livonia Mayberry or Molly Duggan, who seemed like two timid little birds of a feather.”
“I like Livonia. And there may be more to Molly than meets the eye.” Having established myself as a sanctimonious prig, I addressed another issue. “What I don’t understand is why Georges wanted me in the library for his ghost scene. He spun me a line about my using my interior design background to draw out the contestants’ views on refurbishing Mucklesfeld, but on reflection it seems a bit feeble.”
“Don’t take offense, but you are a dewy-eyed innocent, aren’t you?”
Preferable perhaps to being too old to be scruffily attractive, but I had no idea as to her point. “Spell it out for me.”
“Okay, but I’d have thought it was obvious. The great Georges isn’t one to batten down his hopes, however remote, of a twist to the plot that’ll strike real gold. Look,” Lucy again explored her jeans pocket, but this time did not produce the packet of cigarettes, “the entire crew knows Lord Belfrey was knocked for six on first setting eyes on you-that you’re the spitting image of some young woman in a family portrait that he’s been yearning after like a soppy schoolboy for years.”
“So?” The furniture seemed to be crowding in for a listen.
“You do want it printed out in big letters, don’t you?” Lucy eyed me with, if there is such a thing, amiable contempt. “Could Georges write the script, honey, it would be bad luck for the contestants and for you the lovely moment when his lordship gets down on one knee and offers you his hand, his heart, and this god-awful house. Of course, you’ll probably have to wait for the engagement ring until the money starts pouring in from the proceeds of the show…”
“But I’m married!” I was too astounded to fume.
“Georges would consider that kind of thinking bourgeois.”
“I also have three children!”
A shrug, followed by more probing of the jeans pocket.
“And a cat!” Somehow I felt that if I could have added, And a dog, it would have clinched matters.
“Look,” said Lucy with impatient kindness, “I understand the suburban mind-set. But Georges is more narrow in his thinking. He’s only capable of taking the broad view when surveying a banquet table.”
“That’s another thing!” I leaped on the thought. “He seemed to like my husband. Or at least his cooking. Surely even he couldn’t be as treacherous as you suggest.”
Lucy’s look informed me I was a poor, deluded nitwit. Even worse, she patted my arm before saying that if she didn’t go outside and have a ciggy, she’d go into terminal withdrawal. I watched her negotiate her way through the obstacle course to the front door. Even from the rear, she had that air of negligent sophistication that makes an asset of unwashed dishwater-blond hair and torn jeans, leaving me feeling frumpish, over-washed, and utterly incapable of rushing after her to administer a sermon on the evils of smoking.