* Photo credit to The Closet *
I don’t see any werewolf dating on the cover, although I’m downright horrified at the expression on that dark-haired chick’s face as she gawks at the newspaper. She looks like she’s trying out for The Ring with her crater-sized mouth.
We open at Pembroke Manor with Liz screaming that Jessica’s dead because there’s a murdered blonde in her twin’s bed. But not to worry—it’s just Joy Singleton, fiancée of Andrew Thatcher, the chief of police (who’s not too broken up about it at all). Then everyone congregates downstairs and sips tea while trying to figure out whodunit. Liz takes notes like she’s a real reporter while glaring with suspicion at Lord Pembroke and his son Robert, Jess’s new boyfriend. The eldest Pembroke acts shady and upset, and Robert behaves like nothing’s wrong, so Liz hates him for “his commanding tone and bossy manners.” Because Liz isn’t like that.
Liz is convinced the killer’s a werewolf because “there isn’t any other explanation for the evidence we’ve found” (i.e., fur at the Joy Singleton crime scene). Her English boytoy, Luke Shepard, is wandering around being a creep show and saying things in a quiet voice like “Don’t make light of werewolves…They’re very serious business.” Yet Liz is convinced Robert is the werewolf skulking about London because the hired help act nervous when she interrogates them. Thus, she responds accordingly, i.e., by acting like an absolute asshole.
First, Liz pretends she’s Jessica to score an interview with Lady Pembroke and asks plenty of intrusive questions that make Lady Pembroke hate Jess. Jessica hits the flippin’ roof, but does that stop Liz? Of course not. She calls up Lord Pembroke and finagles an interview out of him under the guise that she’s Jessica again, and she winds up finding his hidden werewolf shrine complete with old tomes and taxidermy wolf heads. Then she overhears Lord Pembroke telling the chief of police that all the evidence points to Robert being the murderer but he doesn’t believe it’s true. Face it, Lord Pembroke—it doesn’t matter what you believe, only what Liz believes.
Jess thinks she’s in love with Robert, so as you can imagine, it’s no fun for her to constantly have Liz in her ear, insisting that he’s a raving lunatic on a killing spree. Liz’s like, “I think you’re rushing into this. Isn’t it awfully soon to be talking about love?” and I love that Jess throws Luke back in her sister’s face: “You’ve known Luke less than a week, too. Why is it all right for you to be serious about him, if it’s not all right for me and Robert?” But then Jess gets so pissed she storms out of the room and doesn’t let Liz say anything more. No! I want Liz to explain herself! I want to hear her clarify why she’s such a douche!
Robert breaks a date with Jessica at Stonehenge because he has to leave town now that he’s under suspicion for multiple homicides. That’s fair enough. Jess goes shopping and nearly gets attacked by something very much like a werewolf near the subway. This turns her into a believer of werewolves, even though she never actually saw what attacked her. Somehow all this means that Robert attacked Jess, so the London Journal holds a press conference during which the police announce that a warrant’s out for Robert’s arrest. Jess flips out at Liz, who’s gleefully congratulating herself on a job well done, and Jess vows to clear Robert’s good, wealthy name.
In other news, simple, do-gooding House for International Students (almost like the restaurant but with students instead of pancakes) resident Lina Smith confesses to her boyfriend, David, that she’s, in fact, the runaway Princess Eliana of England that is talked about in every rag in London. And of course Liz, who already knew this secret, gets to write the expose for the Journal. So gross.
Also Portia Albert performs under the stage name of Penelope Abbott until she wins her nay-saying, famous father’s approval of her craft. Why should I care about these people? One of them may be royalty, but none of them are blond twins. In fact, even they recognize they can’t carry a scene without them, and interrupt their own conversation to say, “I miss the American twins! This place was much jollier with them around.” Then they lapse into chatting about how “gorgeous and nice” the twins are. Barf.
Other Notes:
- I like when other characters point out the fantastical qualities of the twins. Por ejemplo, when Portia and the other useless international characters are talking about the fate twist of Rene Glize showing up at HIS and falling madly in love with Liz (yeah, okay), Emily Cartwright’s like, “Coincidences like that only happen to people like Jessica and Elizabeth. They obviously lead charmed lives—unlike normal, everyday blokes like you and me.” No shit.
- When the constable questions Jess on who might want her dead, Jess says, “I’m one of the most popular people in my town….I couldn’t have been the target. Nobody would want me dead.” She is so damn presumptuous.
- I heart this scene, even if it does validate the twins’ gorgeousness:”I’m looking for a sixteen-year-old blond girl—” Elizabeth began frantically…“Aren’t we all?” the college-age boy replied with a sardonic grin. “She looks just like me,” [Elizabeth said.] The vendor took in her size-six figure and long golden hair. “This is sounding better and better,” he said with a wink.
- Oh Christ, get this: Liz tells Lina/Princess Eliana, “Not long ago, I was in court myself—Jessica’s boyfriend was killed in an accident, and I was driving the car,” to which L/PE responds, “Oh, Liz! How awful that must’ve been for you.” For you. For her. What the hell about Sam? Liz, I hate you.
- More “I Call Bullshit” from the characters: At the press conference, a reporter asks the chief of police (who still isn’t that upset about his murdered fiancée), “You have been searching for the missing princess for two weeks, with no luck. Why is it that the entire London police department could not find one missing girl—while two teenage tourists were able to break the story?” Of course, he can’t explain it.
- Someday, I would like one of these books to make an ounce of sense.
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