A Tale of Two Biddies by Kylie Logan Page B

wore. “Far more authentic to the eighteen fifties. If you were as much of a scholar as you claim—”
    “You must be Timothy Drake.” I interrupted and didn’t feel the least bit guilty.
    “Professor of nineteenth-century British literature,” the man said. “BA, Harvard. MA, The Ohio State University. PhD, Cornell.”
    “You’re here for the contest this weekend.” It was so apparent I didn’t even bother to make it into a question. “I didn’t expect you this early.”
    “A small mishap in the way of travel arrangements,” Drake assured me. “I would have endeavored to find a different mode of transport and arrived at another time if I knew this early hour would attract the riffraff.” With his top lip curled just the slightest bit, he looked at Ashburn.
    I scrubbed my hands over my face and tried for logic. “It’s going to be a long week, guys. Am I going to have to put an electric fence between your rooms?”
    “He’s staying here?” Ashburn asked with a look down his nose at Drake.
    “He can’t find a different hotel to accommodate him?” Drake shot back.
    I threw my hands in the air. “A different hotel’s not going to work because from what I’ve heard, every place on the island is booked solid for the rest of the week. So here’s what we’re going to do.” I propped my fists on my hips. It might have been a far more intimidating stance if I wasn’t wearing the white cotton jammies with the pink flamingoes all over them. “You’re going to go up to suite six right now.” I reached over to the table near the front door, grabbed the key, and slapped it in Ashburn’s hand. “And you . . .” There were two more keys there and I got the one for suite four and gave it to Drake. “You’re going to go to your room. You can both get settled while I get dressed, and if you come down in another thirty minutes, I’ll have fresh coffee ready for you. How does that sound?”
    “My dear, if you could give me a cup of tea to clear my muddle of a head I should better understand your affairs,” Ashburn said, and added, “That’s from
Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy
.”
    Not to be outdone, Drake stepped forward. “The privileges of the side-table included the small prerogatives of sitting next to the toast, and taking two cups of tea to other people’s one.” He shot an icy smile at Ashburn. “
Martin Chuzzlewit
,” he added.
    “So what you’re telling me is that you both want tea.” The men nodded. “Then tea it is, but not for thirty minutes. Got it?”
    Another couple nods.
    “And no bickering upstairs,” I warned them. “I’ve got other guests, and they’re not early risers.”
    “I do not suppose one of them just happens to be one of the judges of this week’s little competition?” Ashburn looked hopeful.
    “From what I’ve heard, there are three judges,” I told him. “And every one of them is sworn to secrecy.”
    “Secrecy, yes,” Drake mumbled. He and Ashburn started up the stairs together, stopped, and each waited for the other to move.
    “Give me a break!” I moaned and turned to go into my private suite.
    Which of them made it upstairs first?
    What the dickens did I care?
    • • •
     
    Here’s the bad news: For the first half hour that breakfast was on the table, the dueling Dickenses kept it up, taking turns at a Dickens character alphabet contest (Arabella Allen, Major Joseph Bagstock, Sydney Carton, Dick Datchery . . .).
    Here’s the good news: Even two Dickens geeks going full throttle can’t keep it up when five former rock stars racket down the stairs and proceed to discuss—with great passion and a whole bunch of expletives I hadn’t heard since the last time I rode the New York subway—how their guillotine had been tampered with the night before.
    If Dino and the Boyz thought Richie had something to do with the vandalism, they never mentioned it, nor did they say anything that made me think they knew Richie was dead. But then, they’d