She Shoots to Conquer by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online

it right to go ahead with filming Here Comes the Bride ? Would it seem right to the sponsors of the show? Would it be a turnoff for the viewing audience?”
    “But that’s what them shows is all about—high drama and cutthroat angling for the main chance,” responded Mrs. Malloy stoutly from her chair. “’Course, I don’t want to sound callous, but there it is. Talk about grabbing the audience by the throat—revealing the tragedy up front and going on from there. Especially if his lordship could find himself a replacement candidate in the nick of time . . . right out of the blue, so to speak.” The dreamy glow had returned. Clearly no time was to be lost in rescuing her from her giddy aspirations. At any moment Lord Belfrey might swan into the room to find himself a marked man. “His nibs is a sensitive bloke.” Mr. Plunket’s voice quivered. “He’ll not want to show what could look like disrespect to the deceased, may she rest in peace. Trouble is, he’s up against Monsieur LeBois. With him it’s all about the finances, what he’s already put into the project, along with whatever he’s agreed on paying his crew, including the cameraman and the staging fellow that showed up minutes ahead of you three. Can’t just send them off with a flea in their ear is what Mrs. Foot, Boris, and me heard him saying.”
    Ben stood seething, lips compressed; eyes blazing the color of the emerald (a genuine fake) mounted in one of Mrs. Malloy’s rings, waiting to break in the instant Mr. Plunket paused on a shaky breath.
    “No disrespect to your boss,” he enunciated bitingly, “but hissensitivity appears to be lacking where my wife is concerned. It’s been a good twenty minutes since he absented himself and has neither returned to inquire how she is feeling or seen to be providing her with any refreshment.”
    “Now then, Mr. H,” Mrs. Malloy shoved in her oar, “there’s no need to get rattled. Like Mr. Plunket’s been saying, his lordship’s got a lot on his plate. Could be he’s on the phone with the dead lady’s family or the funeral home. It don’t do to be selfish. Besides,” she looked at me and added with what I considered extreme callousness, “Mrs. H quite often gets a headache when she gets herself worked up. Tension ones, they’re called. My next-door neighbor is a martyr to them. And it’s not like Mrs. H fell hard back there in the hall, just slumped down, bottom first, as I saw it.”
    Forgive her, I thought nobly; she had to be jealous that it was me, not her, whom Lord Belfrey had swept up in his aristocratic arms and deposited on the sofa. Also she very likely had a point. My nerves had been stretched to the limit during the drive through the fog. In addition to which we had failed to find the restaurant we had been seeking and I’m a person inclined to go all hollow and wobbly without food. Perhaps with a good helping of fish and chips inside me I wouldn’t have succumbed to foolish terror and fainted. I started to say this to Ben, but he was still glowering at poor Mr. Plunket, who was making apologetic noises to the effect that his nibs had intended for Mrs. Foot and or Boris to bring in a tea tray.
    “But as you can imagine, sir, they’re discombobulated themselves.”
    “In that case, let’s not inconvenience them or yourself.” Ben attempted to contain his irritation. “If you’ll direct me toward the kitchen, I’ll put on a kettle and . . .”
    “Now, I don’t know as that’s such a good idea,” Mr. Plunket passed a hand over his pimpled brow, “the stove’s that old and unreliable, none of the knobs turn unless you’ve got the trick of it, and if you manage, which I never can, the gas flames shoot up to take off your eyebrows. No, no, begging your pardon, betterto wait on Mrs. Foot or Boris. Can’t risk an accident, so hard on this other. His nibs would never get over it if worse come to worst and you was to blow yourself up.”
    “I really am feeling loads