Femmes Fatal

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Sweetheart?”

  “Are you talking to me?” I roused myself off the sofa, shook the creases out of my washerwoman skirt, and braced myself for questions regarding my day’s productivity.

  “Every time I look at this portrait”—his dark head was tilted so that the light from the wall lamps brushed his face like a watercolour paintbrush—“I become consumed with desire.”

  “For Abigail?”

  “No! For a portrait of you with the twins.”

  “Ben, you know how I hate having my photo taken.”

  “So you do.” A thoughtful gleam darkened his eyes to the peacock blue of the vase on the leaded-glass bookcase.

  “I would rather be hanged in the good old-fashioned sense of the word than strung up for posterity on some wall of this house. I hate the thought of a complete stranger gawking up at me somewhere down the years and saying, ‘Don’t you think she looks like a bulldog?’ ”

  “Ellie!”

  “Don’t tell me I am depriving Abbey and Tam of the opportunity for immortality and your mother and father of their rights as grandparents, because I have every intention of taking the twins down to Belamo’s Studio in the—”

  He did not let me finish. His hands found me and in one swift jerk I was in his arms, his breath warm upon my lips, his voice raspy as the feel of his shadowed face beneath my fingers. “Are you crazy?”

  “You don’t like Belamo’s?”

  “I don’t give a hang about the place.” He held me away from him. “What I care about is having you take a good hard look at yourself.”

  Uncertain what he was getting at, I escaped into banter. “Sorry, dear! I don’t have a hand mirror on me.”

  “You don’t need one.” He cupped my chin in his hand and suddenly we were rubbing noses like a couple of passionate Eskimos. “Make my eyes your mirror, sweetheart. Look into them and see yourself as I see you.”

  “I’d rather not.” I managed a laugh.

  “Stop that!” He gently shook me until his face blurred. “I won’t let you sneer at the woman I love.”

  “You blind fool!” My smile hovered on the verge of tears. “You’re the one who needs to face facts. I’m not the girl you married. I’m a frumpish hausfrau. Oh, let’s stop prettying up the truth—I am fat.”

  “No.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  “I see a lovely woman.”

  “Then you’re looking with the heart, not the eyes.”

  “So,” he said, then drew my braid over my shoulder, removed the rubber band, and began undressing my hair with slow, deliberate fingers. “Isn’t that how you look at me?”

  “Don’t be silly.” For some unknown reason, I was having trouble breathing. “We are not talking about the same thing at all. You, Bentley T. Haskell, are gorgeous.”

  “My poor blind fool!” His mouth came down on mine and I was enclosed in an embrace that sent my senses reeling. Perhaps it was the spicy clean scent of his Mr. Right after-shave that made my head spin. All I knew was that the moment became eternity and nothing existed but his heavy breathing and the pounding of my heart. And no one existed but the two of us, fully clothed but moulded into one being made out of scalding wax.

  At last he lifted his head. “Ellie, I have an idea.”

  “Me, too.”

  “What I had in mind was a little moonlight adventure.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “A picnic.”

  “A what?”

  Gently he disengaged my arms from around his neck and ignored my lips, aching to be reunited with his. “Sweetheart, remember how in the early days we used to enjoy dining al fresco under the beech tree?”

  “Yes,” I said, rubbing my arms, already feeling the nipping spring wind, “but in the daytime.”

  “Ah, my love.” He raised my hand an infuriating inch at a time to his lips. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Defunct.” Impossible to tell him it had died in the service of Fully Female, which reminded me—I hadn’t told Ben about Mrs. Malloy. And this wasn’t to be my chance. I was being hustled into the hall and told to go and slip into something comfortable, like a coat and a wooly hat, while the master of the manor retreated to the kitchen to rustle up our midnight feast.

  “The babies!” I whined.

  “Not to worry. I’ll give Freddy a ring.”

  “Really, Ben. We can’t keep imposing.”

  “Nonsense. The old chap dotes on those kiddies, almost as much as he dotes on the opportunity to raid our refrigerator.”

  “He may be in bed.” Obviously I was now reduced to talking nonsense. My cousin boasted that he never slept more than three hours a night, rarely turning in before three or four in the morning.

  So Ben went whistling off to the kitchen, and I reluctantly wended my way upstairs, crossing the landing on tiptoe to enter the bedroom. Never had that old four-poster looked more alluring, but I tore my eyes away from it and opened up the wardrobe, bent on hunting out my navy duffle coat with its windproof hood. But the garment staring me in the face was none other than the Purple Peril, the caftan which Mrs. Malloy had borrowed and, bless her heart, returned.

  Standing at the wardrobe with my hands full of faux silk and gold braid, memories came flooding back of the night I first met Bentley T. Haskell. There I had been, about to slip into my Aladdin slippers, when he came through the door, his long scarf flapping with every stride, his hair made blacker by the wet night, a glitter to his fine eyes, eyes that boded ill for any woman who would keep him waiting while she made a last-minute hike to the bathroom, closed the door, swooned against it and informed the dazed woman staring at her from the mirror: “The man’s a devil, but God knows I never wanted to be a saint.”

  “Ellie!” Back in the present the bedroom door opened and banged shut and I turned to find Ben swooning against it.

  “What’s wrong?” I tugged so hard on the Purple Peril that the hanger snapped.

  “I’ve just had the most damnable shock.”

  “Tell me!”

  “The babies are fine.” Ben found the strength to lift his right hand and press it to his brow. “I came upstairs to get the travelling rug from the Blue Room so we wouldn’t have to sit on the damp grass and what do you think I found? Ellie, there is a strange woman in that bed snoring her head off.”

  “Oh, her!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Darling, I’m sorry! I forgot to mention that I suggested that Mrs. Malloy stay the night.”

  “I didn’t recognize her.”

  “You’re just not used to seeing her in curlers and a chin strap. Then, too, she hasn’t been herself lately. She turned up late this afternoon and hinted that she was nervous about going back to her house. She’s involved with a man—Walter Fisher, your undertaker friend—and I think she’s frightened of him.”

  “That Milquetoast?”

  “Ben, she told me he has aroused passions she never knew she had … and to be honest, I can remember and empathize. There’s nothing to equal the delicious terror of going over the rapids into the whirlpool that first time.”

  “Is that so?” Ben opened the door and held out his hand.

  “Yes, but …”

  “Sweetheart, I like to think there may be several first times in the lifetime of a love affair.”

  “You took the words out of my mouth.” Tossing aside the hanger, I closed the door on the Purple Peril. “Ben, dear, after the fright you just received, I will understand completely if you wish to cancel the picnic.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I hate men who play hard to get.”

  “I’m thinking of you!” Taking my arm as if we were strolling down Lovers’ Lane, he walked me along to the nursery. “That was a fine salmon I found in the fridge and it deserves the right ambience in which to be fully enjoyed.” He opened the door and we crept in to peek at our offspring. Sweet darlings, they were both magically asleep, watche
d over by Mother Goose, the Calico Cat, and Tommy and Topsy, the twin bears. Silly of me, but I half believed that as soon as we were gone from the room and the door closed, those toys would come alive and whisper the secret words: Norman the Doorman.

  Heading downstairs, I said, “About that salmon … I didn’t cook it. The vicar brought it round; her husband had prepared it for their evening meal, but he was unexpectedly called away and she wanted to be neighbourly.”

  “Very kind.”

  “You sound peeved.”

  “Not a bit of it.” Ben snorted a laugh. “I’m delighted to have the chance to sample another of the chap’s blue-ribbon recipes.”

  I had feared this reaction, but I’d had to tell him. I wasn’t prepared to live my life skirting the word salmon whenever we were in the company of one or another of the Spikes. My existence was already chock-a-block full of things I hadn’t told Ben. And as I stumbled down the last stair, one of them caught up with me.

  “Ellie, I found a packet of Healthy Harvest Herbs in the pantry.”

  “Really?”

  “A nice blend.”

  “You don’t say.”

  His dark, enigmatic glance confirmed my worst fears. He had read the label from front to back and was about to accuse me of being a covert member of Fully Female. Standing as still as the twin suits of armour positioned against the staircase wall, I braced myself for what was to come. “Ellie, I don’t quite know how to put this …”

  “Please, just spit it out.”

  “Very well, but bear in mind my intent was not malicious. Far be it from me to attack the culinary integrity of Mr. Gladstone Spike.”

  “What are you talking about?” My heart was lifting even as I sank down on the bottom stair.

  “I used the packet of Healthy Harvest Herbs to make a glaze for the salmon which naturally I thought you had prepared.” He paused to look at me suspiciously. “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Ellie, I am not for one moment suggesting Mr. Spike made a bland and boring job of that fish.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “Within his limitations …”

  Oh, bother! The rest of Ben’s charitable commentary was forestalled by Freddy opening the hall door and carolling, “Mary Poppins reporting for duty. By the by, which one of you bright souls left that salmon alone and unattended on the kitchen table?”

  “Don’t tell me you helped yourself?” I tried to sound severe.

  “Not me, Your Honour, but you might want to have a few words with Tobias Cat. He just skulked out with half a pound of fish on his whiskers.”

  “I’ll kill the varmint!” Ben’s shout tore through the rafters.

  Moonlight painted pictures on the courtyard worthy of the niftiest pavement artist. And within moments of exiting the house I could tell from the quickening of Ben’s stride and the airy way he swung the picnic basket that his spirits had begun to lift. He had made a halfhearted attempt to persuade me there was no earthly reason why we should not finish off what was left of the salmon, but the look in my eye must have made clear that even for the privilege of sampling the Healthy Harvest glaze, I would not partake of my cat’s leftovers. Halfway down the gravel drive I caught a glimpse of Tobias browsing among the trees. Oh, goody! From the droop of his furry head I suspected the wretched feline was already ashamed of himself.

  “May you have indigestion,” I bellowed through cupped hands, before hastening to keep pace with Ben. Rather than returning upstairs to fetch my duffle coat, which I had forgotten when Ben burst into the room and told me about Mrs. Malloy, I had grabbed an old cardigan coat hanging in the alcove by the garden door. The wind nipped through it, but it was a teasing, almost sensuous type of nipping, and suddenly I couldn’t wait to be camped out on the travelling rug, watching Ben uncork the wine with those elegant, dexterous fingers while I ached to have him touch me even if only to place a brandied cherry between my parted lips.

  We passed Freddy’s cottage and went through the iron gates, so solidly familiar in daylight, but now with a magical, fantasy quality about them, as if they, like the shadows in the courtyard, had been painted by some phantom artist of the night. Only when we were on Cliff Road, walking in the direction of St. Anselm’s church, did I say, “Ben, I thought we were going to picnic under the beech tree in the garden.”

  “Changed my mind.” He put his arm around me. “Since Jonas hung the rope swing from that old tree, I’ve thought of it as the twins’ special place.”

  “Even though they’re still too little to swing?”

  “Ellie, it’s out there waiting for them. An integral part of their childhood. You and I must find a new special place. All suggestions are welcome, but I thought of that little knoll next to the churchyard.”

  “The one with the grotto of silver birch trees that looks as though it is just waiting for a miracle to happen?”

  “Right.” Ben’s smile, captured in the beam of the torch, was golden. Without another word, we followed our lighted arrow up the rocky incline, which in summer would be ablaze with wildflowers. Halfway up I sensed, rather than heard, the pad-pad of paws behind us, but if Tobias were tagging along I chose to ignore him. I had yet to forgive his bad table manners; besides, two’s company and any third party, even a cat, would be an intrusion.

  “Here we are.” Ben set the picnic basket down on a moss-grained rock; the silver birch trees encircled us as his arms closed around me. We might be only a few yards above the road, but we were king and queen of the castle. Ours was a veritable fortress, a place where no evil could touch us, because love was our shield. There! I had finally dared think the word that had been lurking in the shadows of my mind all night. And I was still afraid. The feeling was so fragile, like a ballgown worn and loved, then put away in a dark trunk until one day the lid is lifted, and there it is—more beautiful, more shimmering, more radiant than remembered. But have the moths been at it? Will it crumble to dust when touched?

  “Look at the moon,” said my love.

  “Yes!” I whispered.

  Pure as the dreams of childhood, perfect in its symmetry, it appeared to be elevated directly above the church—God’s very own Eucharistic wafer. And when my eyes returned to Ben’s, I knew with a quiet, luminous certainty that love is more than satin sheets and a pair of Viking horns. It’s a gift that is not ours for the grabbing. Try, and it will slip through our fingers like a handful of water.

  “Hungry, sweetheart?”

  “Passionately.” I stepped away from his arms and in a dreamy haze watched him spread the travelling rug on the ground and start unloading the picnic basket. The air smelled of cowslip wine. Just breathing could make me drunk.

  “How do Cornish pasties, spinach salad, grapefruit mousse, and a mature Camembert grab you?”

  “Delectably.” Out the corner of my eye I noticed one of St. Anselm’s stained-glass windows blaze into jewelled light. Emerald, ruby, sapphire. Was the vicar prowling her domain? Or did a ghost walk?

  Ben’s hand reached up to draw me down onto the blanket, but I resisted. To our right, down on the road, two amber orbs pierced the dusk, a throaty growl tore at the night, and a car came around the curve at what seemed to my pastoral state of mind a fearsome speed. A scurry from the bushes directly below our birch grotto, and I saw the dark shape of an animal glide toward the road. My torch was in my pocket, but a chill crept up my sleeves and clutched its icy fingers about my throat.

  “What’s wrong, Ellie?” Ben was on his feet.

  “Tobias!” I was already stumbling over rocks and honeysuckle briars in a desperate race to scoop up my pet before he was crushed under the wheels of that chariot of death. Too late! I hit the road on my heels in time to see my darling furball lurch, mesmerized, toward that rush of lights. Before I could hurl myself forward, Ben grabbed me from behind and a second—a century—later, there was the hideous squeal of brakes as the car slammed to a standstill.

  I saw Tobias lying i
nches from the front wheels, I saw his tail flicker then lie still. To hope was fairy-tale folly … The door opened and out stepped the dark figure of a man wearing a Dick Tracy hat.

  “Murderer!” I screamed.

  “Ellie, you wait here.”

  “Please, keep holding me.”

  The man in the hat was opening up the boot of his car. Was he getting out a spade? No! He … oh, my heavens! This was worse than Tobias. Indeed, poor Tobias, R.I.P., faded from memory when I saw Mr. Road Hog lift out a body … the body of a human. Then, knees bent, he hoisted its sagging weight over his shoulder.

  “By Jupiter!” Ben muttered. “Something fishy going on here.”

  “You don’t say!”

  The man was across the road on the brink of our vision, a creature distorted by horror and distance into the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The realization hit me and my spouse simultaneously: we were about to witness the horror of a dead body being hurled over the cliff edge—down, down, to bounce off the jagged teeth of the rocks below into the foaming mouth of the sea.

  “Stop!” Ben took leaps that never touched the ground. “In the name of the law! This is a citizen’s arrest!”

  Only the sea answered, in a surge of crazy, crashing laughter, and then … the villain of the hour turned around and even in the partial darkness I recognized his face.

  “Oh, no!” I cried. “Not you!”

  “Why, Dr. Melrose!” My torch picked off his buttons on its way up to a face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “What brings you here?”

  A bloodless smile creased his lips, and while the night crouched down like a patient policeman to wait and listen, he shriveled before our eyes until he was no more than an overcoat blowing in the wind. “Why, Mrs. Haskell … and Mr. Haskell … this is a pleasant surprise. I was out for a moonlight drive when I decided to stop and smell the roses … I mean, the seaweed,” he said with a hollow laugh.

  “And who is your charming companion?” Ben placed himself squarely in front of me although I do not think the folly of intercepting a murderer had occurred to either of us. “Could it be your wife Flo?”