Work Text:
Freddie checks her lipstick in the mirror, gathers her files, her tape recorder, and her trusty can of mace (because you never can be too careful). She presses two fingers to her laptop before leaving, her ritual promise that she’ll return with a scoop.
In the driveway, she switches on the backup recorder and tucks it into the secret pocket all of her bags have. Freddie started doing a backup of the backup after Hannibal Lecter made her erase a recording while sitting next to him. She also improved her acting skills. Not that she needed to at the time — men are so much easier to manipulate than women. All it takes is tilting her head, widening her eyes, and saying just the right thing in just the right tone, and they can’t stop themselves.
But women… women are different.
Freddie enjoys the challenge, cliché as it is. Clichés sell, and “Murder Family Back from Italy” will be a good follow-up to “Murder Husbands Run to Italy Together.” Not quite as catchy, but still good clickbait. Advertiser revenues have fallen lately, and with a new Balenciaga bag in her sights, she needs to do something.
(And she’s curious. Come on. Who wouldn’t be?)
Knocking on the ostentatious copper door, Freddie waits, patient as a wolf on the hunt.
Her foot catches the door before it’s slammed shut in her face. “Dr. Du Maurier?”
The doorknob creaks, as if Bedelia’s squeezing it. “What do you want?”
“I want to tell the truth.” Sensing she needs to be honest but play Bedelia’s game, Freddie follows her honed instincts. “Or should I say, your truth, Mrs. Fell?”
A moment of silence, then the door opens wide. “Come on in.”