Femmes Fatal

by Dorothy Cannell

“And do bring Ben.”

  “That I can’t do!” The very thought made the banisters fade in and out. “If he doesn’t have to be at Abigail’s, I would need him to stay with the twins. I can’t keep imposing on Freddy; he’s far too good-natured. He baby-sat last night, and by the time we got back, it was so late he ended up sleeping here.”

  “Did he go home yet?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could you check?”

  “Certainly.” My curiosity piqued as to what she could want with Freddy, I put the receiver down and headed for the top of the stairs, only to discover my cousin, his hair in a much neater ponytail than mine, bounding toward me three treads at a time.

  “Good morrow, cos! Ben sent me to tell you he has the babies up and fed and breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Hermes,” I said. “Bunty Wiseman wishes to speak to you on the phone.”

  “To moi?” Freddy mounted the last stair, and rather than stoop to eavesdropping, I walked—taking teeny little steps—back to my bedroom. Bother! His voice didn’t carry and the only thing I heard clearly was the receiver being replaced. Slipping on my dressing gown, I went back out onto the landing and along to the Blue Room. Ben’s breakfast alert had made no mention of Mrs. Malloy, so I knocked on the door not knowing what to expect.

  “Who the bloody hell’s there?”

  “Only me!” Thoroughly humbled, I opened the door and approached the Vatican throne … I mean, the bed.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. H!” Mrs. Malloy was propped up against a snowbank of pillows, hands folded over the eiderdown. “For the moment, I thought I was back home and the paper boy had come knocking for his money.”

  “Did you sleep well?” I could feel myself twitching into a half-curtsey, reminiscent of Miss Thorn.

  “Not specially. This wallpaper’s enough to give anyone nightmares.”

  She was right about that. Ben and I had not got around to redecorating the Blue Room, and everywhere you looked there were girls on swings—girls with braided hair and straw hats going up and down, back and forth, until the room itself succumbed to an attack of vertigo. Probably the original idea had been to cheer up the furniture, which seemed to take a baleful pride in being ugly. I could swear the dressing table was looking down its long mirrored nose at Mrs. Malloy. The striped nightdress I had lent her made her look as if she were out on parole, and the absence of makeup heightened the impression of someone who had not seen daylight for a twenty-year stretch. Amazing what eyebrows will do for a woman. But as always, Mrs. Malloy’s demeanor was that of someone prepared to meet the Queen on her own terms.

  “I hope you’re not about to bring me breakfast in bed, Mrs. H. I like my bacon and eggs at the table.”

  “Ben has everything ready and waiting downstairs.”

  “Very nice, I’ll remember you both in my will. But don’t expect me to sit around gossiping all morning with you and Mr. H. I have a lot to do.”

  “Admirable,” I said, and meant every syllable. This was the old Mrs. Malloy before she went to bed with Walter Fisher and took to gliding around like the victim of a vampire’s love bite.

  She swung a striped leg out of bed. “I intend to seize life by the balls.”

  “Splendid.”

  “After I leave here, I’m going to nip down to the vicarage and volunteer my services waxing the altar steps and what-have-you.”

  “How kind.”

  “From now on, Mrs. H, I spread sunshine every step of the way. No beggar will go away empty-handed, and all the kiddies will call me Grandma. Every moment will be lived to the fullest. What do you say about them apples?”

  What could I say? I could hardly inform her that my heart had plummeted, that I viewed these ramblings as yet another, perhaps more insidious, manifestation of the cursed love sickness.

  “Lovely,” I said, sounding just like Mr. Gladstone Spike; and suddenly the room was going up and down with the swings.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Mrs. H?”

  “Oh, they’re not worth that much.” I grabbed hold of the bedpost. “I was thinking about Tobias, that’s all. And reminding myself to watch his diet today. He wasn’t very well last night.”

  What is your average housewife to do when she is privy to one attempted murder and suspects another? She sinks her teeth into bite-sized problems and gets on with the day. The moment Ben, Freddy, and Mrs. Malloy were out of the house, I piled a load of baby clothes into the washing machine, turned it on, gave it the requisite thump, and got one belch in the face for my efforts. Mr. Bludgett, the plumber, would be hearing from me.

  “How about it, my angels?” I lifted Abbey out of her feeder chair and beamed down at Tam. “Shall we all toddle down to the launderette and put money in the machines just like Las Vegas?” Naturally before we could embark on this great adventure, two of us had to take baths in the kitchen sink. Then came the challenge of stuffing stiff legs into floppy leggings before we could head for the car, only to find I had forgotten to check on Tobias one last time and, oh, yes—my handbag was goodness knows where in the house.

  An hour later when I pushed the Porta-Pram into the Crystal Palace, it was to find half of Chitterton Fells encamped around six machines, two of which wore cardboard aprons bearing the legend Out of Order. The twins squealed and I was all for heading away from the din of the dryers and the sweaty detergent smell in search of a babbling brook and some nice smooth stones, when who should walk in but Mr. Walter Fisher.

  Immediately, people started drinking their coffee faster or poring more intently over their magazines, that is if they weren’t so fortunate as to have washing to fold. But they need not have flattered themselves. Walter was feasting his fish eyes on me.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Haskell and family,” he said as he flapped a fin at the twins. “I saw you come in here and thought I would nip in and have a quick word.”

  “That was friendly.” I lowered my eyes and fussed with the brushed wool pram cover. How could Mrs. Malloy stand this man who looked as though he spent most of his time in an aquarium? From his slicked-back hair to his guppy lips, he was pale and glossy.

  “Please don’t think I’m rushing you, Mrs. Haskell …”

  “What?”

  A scraping of chairs as my fellow launderers put down their coffee cups and magazines to have a listen.

  Mr. Fisher lowered his voice. “On Monday night at the Hearthside Guild, I sensed an interest on your part—and particularly that of your husband—to make your funeral arrangements.”

  “I really don’t think”—I gripped the Porta-Pram handle—“that this is the time or the place …”

  “Never any time like the present.” Mr. Death-Warmed-Up waved a waxen finger. “We none of us know when we will be snuffed out like a candle. And do we want to burden our survivors with all the details necessary for giving us the send-off we deserve?”

  “Personally,” I said, my insides heaving and foaming like the washing machines until I was certain bubbles would start coming out of my nose and mouth, “I don’t give a hoot what happens to me after I am dead. For all I care, my husband can put me on the compost heap.”

  “You’re not serious, Mrs. Haskell!”

  “Absolutely.”

  The pale face winced. “You do at least intend to adhere to the conventions by being cremated.”

  “I suppose so.” Anything to shut him up.

  “In that case”—Mr. Fisher did not look quite as crestfallen as I had hoped—“possibly you would be interested in something entirely new at Fisher Funerals. We call it the Show Case—a presentation which features the economy …”—he wiped his sullied lips with a black-edged handkerchief—“ … the economy of cremation with the formality and richness of a traditional funeral. We offer a choice of two cabinets—the Royal Mahogany and the Virgin Queen, in which the corpse can repose for viewing prior to and during the memorial service.”

  “Are we talking Rent-a-Coffin?”

&nbs
p; “In a manner of speaking.” Mr. Fisher’s eyes bulged annoyance. “After the final viewing, the client is removed for cremation and the cabinet is put back into service.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.” I smiled at the twins in case they suspected from the tone of my voice that I was cross with them. “Lovely talking to you, Mr. Fisher, but I think I see a vacant washing machine.”

  “Yes … mustn’t keep you.” Too bad he wasn’t as good as his word. As I turned away, he followed, moving past a grey-haired man balancing his coffee cup on his tum and two women stretching out a sheet for folding. “One final word, Mrs. Haskell.”

  “Yes?” Bundling out clothes from the pram bag.

  “Would you mind telling me how you find Mrs. Malloy? I know she works for you, and I wonder if you have noticed anything different about her these last few days?”

  “She’s …” I started to say that Mrs. M was right as rain, but Mr. Fisher’s face stopped me. My goodness, the man was all atremble and I was suddenly heartily ashamed of myself. Here was a member of an honourable profession and all I could do was screw up my nose because talk of coffin linings made me uncomfortable. Such prejudice was as shameful as that directed at the overweight. And could the man help it if he wasn’t Cary Grant … or Ben Haskell? Had there been a hair shirt handy, I would have pulled it over my head.

  “You were saying, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “Sorry.” I stood hugging an armful of clothes. “But I really don’t think it’s fair for me to discuss Mrs. Malloy with you.”

  “I see.”

  “Except to say”—impossible not to toss him a few crumbs of hope—“she’s been going around like a woman in a trance.”

  “Thank you for that piece of information.” The expression in Mr. Fisher’s eyes as he took his leave was several fathoms deep, and the guppy lips stretched into a smile that promised all sorts of exciting things in store for Mrs. Malloy.

  Honestly, I haven’t a clue where the rest of that day went. It seemed to slip under the doors and through cracks in the windowframes in wisps of misspent time and harried moments, until suddenly there I was at a little after seven in the evening, standing like a potted plant in Bunty Wiseman’s early Egyptian drawing room. Persuading Ben not to accompany me should have earned me the Lifetime Achievement Award for Deception in Marriage. Informing him that I had joined Fully Female almost seemed easier at one point, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I knew that he would rather have me bare my bosom in public than strip our intimate relationship naked at Marriage Makeover.

  Mrs. Pickle had admitted me to the house, and everywhere I looked were women I recognized from my one attendance at Fully Female. Most of them had a man in tow, all of whom, from the doting looks on their faces, were still under the influence. But oddly enough, I had yet to see hide or hair of our hostess, let alone the guests of honour. The room was so blindingly white that you almost expected masked surgeons to rush in and start sharpening their scalpels. Indeed, there was one medical man present. Standing in the orchestra pit next to the grand piano was Dr. Melrose … and spouse. From where I stood it was hard to tell if Flo was in tip-top condition, but she was on her feet, which I suppose was something. My gaze veered away from the Melroses to a mirrored screen angled across a window corner. The screen hadn’t been present on my former visits—a parting gift to Bunty from Lionel? Or had she gone on a shopping spree to cheer herself up?

  “Champagne, madam?”

  “Mrs. Malloy!” I almost jolted the tray out of her hands. “This is a surprise!”

  “Nice frock.” She looked up and down at my bronze and olive shot silk dress. “Sort of thing you could wear to a funeral and not look too done up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But for pity’s sake, Mrs. H, what have you done to your hair? Looks like you combed it with a rake.”

  Aware that the people to my right were all ears, I lowered my voice. “I was in a hurry—and for your information, Mrs. Malloy, the tousled look is in.”

  A derisive sniff. “Yes, at Crufts maybe, but not here.” She placed a glass in my nerveless hand. “I like to be proud of my ladies and it’s not as though I’ll always be around to keep an eye on you.”

  Probably not. Mr. Fisher was no doubt a chauvinist of the old school who would not wish his wife to polish other people’s tables when she could be polishing coffins.

  “You look very nice,” I said. And so she did with her two-tone hair just so, every beauty spot in place, and her cranberry apron adding a splash of colour to her black-beaded frock.

  “Well, no rest for the wicked.” Mrs. Malloy jostled the glasses around on the tray, took a sip from one—to even it out with the others, I suppose—smacked her butterfly lips in approval of the vintage, and teetered away on her six-inch heels. The next couple she approached was the Bludgetts. I was thinking about wandering over to join them when who should come up to me but the ever elegant and recently widowed Jacqueline Diamond.

  “Still no sign of our hostess or the guests of honour.” She twirled the long stem of her glass and appraised me with her Lauren Bacall eyes.

  “No,” I stammered.

  “Spooky, don’t you think?”

  What I thought was spooky was that she—a widow of a couple of days—should be attending a party … especially a party on the premises of Fully Female.

  “How are you doing?” I managed.

  “Still blessedly numb.” She fished into her tapestry evening bag for a packet of cigarettes and, ash-blonde hair trailing on her wrist, tapped out a king-sized filter tip. “Hope you won’t clutch your chest and gasp for air if I smoke”—she lit up—“not that I care much if anyone minds. That’s one of the nifty things about grief. For your future reference, you don’t give a crap about anything, such as what people think about my being here tonight. All I know”—her voice was as smoky as the puffs clouding our space—“is it beats being home alone with only Normie’s capes for company.”

  “Did the police give you a hard time?” I pushed back my hair because it was getting in my eyes and making them tear.

  “Soft as butter.”

  “Do you know when the inquest will be?”

  “Nope, but at the moment I am concentrating on the fun stuff, like making final arrangements. Normie was God-fearing but not religiously observant.”

  “The new vicar of St. Anselm’s is very nice,” I babbled, and speak of coincidence, who should enter the room at that moment but the Reverend Eudora Spike and her husband.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Jacqueline looked around for an ashtray. “But Normie was Jewish.”

  “Really?” I could feel myself breaking out into a cold sweat that had nothing to do with my faux pas. The Spikes were heading our way. Gladstone looked such a dear, sweet man, with his stooped shoulders and nearsighted eyes, that I felt I should beat my breast and say three mea culpas for suspecting him of trying to murder his wife in order to pick up where he left off years ago with Gladys Thorn, the woman of the hour, who had yet to make her appearance.

  Before the Spikes could reach us, they collided with the Bludgetts and were inevitably trapped into conversation with the exuberant Moll.

  “Smashing to see you, Reverend.”

  “Our pleasure.” Eudora tucked a hand into the crook of her husband’s arm and immediately they were like a cup and saucer, separate but complete.

  “Nice party!” Jock Bludgett cleared his throat and elevated it to an upper crust falsetto. “A real classy dame, this Bunty Wiseman. Not too many women’d put their hurt feelings in the old tucker bag and throw a shindig for the tomcatting husband and his bit of fluff.”

  Any woman less fluffy than Gladys Thorn I could not imagine, but that was neither here nor there. Was Mr. Bludgett remembering how he had done his Moll wrong with this same femme fatale? And were the Spikes wishing themselves anywhere but in this room?

  “I was surprised when Mrs. Wiseman rang and invited Gladstone and myself to the party.
” Eudora accepted a glass of champagne from Mrs. Malloy who was back doing her rounds. “And even more surprised when she explained her reason for the get-together.”

  “A most Christian endeavour,” interpolated her husband.

  “Love at its purest.” Eudora blinked as if she had something in her eye. From where I stood, her complexion appeared as beige as her silk blouse. My heart went out to her.

  “Wonder where Mrs. Wiseman is?” Mr. Bludgett chewed on his moustache.

  Moll, all bounce from her head to her toes, lifted her glass. “Wherever! I say we drink a toast to Bunty Wiseman, the ultimate Fully Female woman!”

  “To Bunty!” The unified shout rocked the room, then dropped to a whisper that couldn’t peter out fast enough. For standing at the entrance to the room were the lovebirds themselves. Lionel Wiseman was resplendent in a silver-grey suit that complemented his hair, while his dark tie was a perfect match for his black brows. As for his fiancée, what she lacked in beauty she made up for in maidenly modesty.

  “Dear, dear friends of Chitterton Fells, this is all too much!” Drawing her black lace shawl about her sallow shoulders, Miss Thorn lowered her head so that the daisies peeked out of her mousy tresses. “My beloved Lionel never expected such a turnout to bless our union.” Choked with emotion, Miss T cast herself into Mr. Wiseman’s arms and he was holding her thus when a gasp went up from the guests.

  Bunty had made her dazzling entrance.

  “Hello, boys and girls!” Batting her baby blues, Bunty undulated into the room, blonde head held high, a hand on her scarlet satin hip, her face ablaze with more light than the room. “Hello, Li, darling! And greetings to the woman you love. As guests of honour, if you would like to make yourselves comfortable on the sofa facing the mirrored screen, I am sure everyone else can find a cosy spot so that the entertainment may begin.”

  “What now?” Jacqueline Diamond tapped out another cigarette.

  “Isn’t this a gas?” Moll Bludgett moved up close and squeezed my arm. “Aren’t you on pins and needles with suspense?”

  “Shush,” whispered Mrs. Wardle, the librarian.