Murder A'la Mode. G. A. McKevett

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 unnatural 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