DELICIOUS PRAISE FOR THE DIABOLICALLY
COMIC NOVELS OF
DOROTHY CANNELL
HOW TO MURDER THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS
“Wonderfully wicked fun!” —Tami Hoag
“Ellie Haskel … returns in her seventh whimsy … [as] engaging as ever.… Another hilarious, manic episode in the life of one of the genre’s most hysterical females.” —Star Tribune, Minneapolis
“Delightful.” —The Denver Post
“Hysterically funny.” —Booked & Printed
HOW TO MURDER YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW
“Side-splitting.” —Rendezvous
“Ms. Cannell beguiles us with a genteel ambiance of tea cozies, rosy-cheeked babies, and urban hanky-panky, but beneath this lurks a hilariously wicked wit. An invaluable guide for spouses with a problem-in-law.” —Joan Hess
“Toxic and hilarious.” —Publishers Weekly
“Vintage Cannell.… Dorothy Cannell is a master at creating wildly ludicrous characters and hilarious plots.… Her latest Ellie Haskell adventure only enhances her reputation.” —Booklist
FEMMES FATAL
“Dorothy Cannell has perfected the recipe for an outrageous brew of genteel wit and wicked satire in Femmes Fatal. I giggled to the end of this intricate plot of love-starved ladies, exhausted husbands, and discreetly kinky murder.” —Joan Hess
“Wild, wacky, wonderful!” —Carolyn G. Hart
MUM’S THE WORD
“Offers everything Cannell’s fans have come to expect … a wonderfully dotty cast of characters, an unerring sense of the absurd, and witty dialogue and insights.” —The Denver Post
“Witty.” —Daily News, New York
THE WIDOWS CLUB
“A thoroughly entertaining novel.” —Cosmopolitan
“Romps along with a judicious blend of suspense, frivolity, and eccentric characters.” —Booklist
DOWN THE GARDEN PATH
“Carries on the lovely lunacy in which Dorothy Cannell excels; I had an absolutely marvelous time with it.” —Elizabeth Peters
“Sparkling wit and outlandish characters.” —Chicago Sun-Times
THE THIN WOMAN
“Cannell makes a delicious debut; discriminatory whodunit fans will want more of her inventions.” —Publishers Weekly
“A likable debut—combining fairy-tale romance, treasure hunts, and a homicidal mania.” —Kirkus Reviews
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
HOW TO MURDER THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published October 1995
Bantam paperback edition / November 1996
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Dorothy Cannell.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-45835.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-81664-1
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Preview of God Save the Queen!
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE
No one in the village suspected that Miss Bunch had a man in her life. She never spoke about him, let alone made contact with him while at her place of work. But often on returning home at night to her narrow house in Mackerel Lane, Miss Bunch would hurry to let the dog out into the back garden. After fetching him back in for his supper she would sit down to her own plain meal. Glad to be done with the dishes, she would comb her hair in the mirror above the tiny fireplace, because even a stout, no-nonsense woman wants to make the most of herself for the one who holds the key to her heart. Then she would sit down in her easy chair, pick up a volume that she had left lying open on the lamp table, and breathlessly turn a page. Within moments she would hear his footsteps. He was with her once again, murmuring endearments in his deep, caressing voice and instantly putting her loneliness to flight.
Sometimes he wore a cloak lined with moonlight, a Regency rake in a curly-brimmed hat with silver spurs on his mirror-bright boots. On other visits, his saturnine features were obscured by a highwayman’s mask and his vibrant hair constrained by a carelessly knotted riband. At his throat cascaded a jabot of finest French lace and in his breeches’ pocket lay a strand of purloined pearls. Occasionally he came as an Arabian sheikh with a penchant for stirring up sandstorms in his desert domain. A man who could change the course of history by the raising of one dark, sardonic eyebrow and whose smile would melt the snows of Kilimanjaro.
Throughout all the years of their relationship, Miss Bunch had known him in a myriad of guises and by many different names. But one thing never changed. He was the most faithful of lovers, forever waiting in the shadowy corners of her mind until they might next be together. And the only blight upon her secret happiness had come in recent days, when the big black dog would whimper pitifully while attempting to burrow under her chair.
Chapter
1
The Chitterton Fells library is a friendly Tudor building on the corner of Market Street and Spittle Lane. A week rarely goes by when I don’t go there at least once. Even when I am not caught up with my reading I like to visit old favourites on the shelves—rather as if they are dear ones now living in a nursing home—to let them know Ellie Haskell hasn’t forgotten them. So I am in a position to report that our library plays host to an inviting selection of well-dusted books, a marble bust of William Shakespeare, and a curmudgeonly ghost.
The story bandied about our seaside village is that Hector Rigglesworth, a widower and tea salesman by trade, did when on the brink of death at the tail end of the nineteenth century curse the library and vow to haunt its stacks until a just vengeance was achieved in reparation for his earthly suffering.
According to our librarian, the malcontent Mr. Rigglesworth was father to seven spinster daughters, all of whom remained under his roof, growing more querulous by the hour. The girls, as they were known in the village even after their hair had collectively turned grey, had never lacked for suitors when young. But, alas, a man never appeared on the doorstep of Tall Chimneys who was not found wanting in one particular or another. The curate blew his nose in public, the bank clerk had a twitch, the police constable guffawed, and so it went on, until Hector Rigglesworth reached the unassailable conclusion that his daughters’ heads had been filled with romantic rubbish as a result of
the books they were forever borrowing from the library.
What flesh-and-blood man could compete on an equal footing with swashbucklers or Regency beaus? So, as the seven girls changed from promising to menopausal, Hector Rigglesworth toiled up- and downstairs with endless cups of tea or tended to the housewifely duties that had fallen to his lot—the maid having married one of the rejected suitors. Poor Mr. Rigglesworth. He grew increasingly embittered. His burden was made the heavier during his declining years by being routinely dispatched to the library to collect the breathlessly awaited novels by favoured authors. The girls, understandably, were unable to go themselves in case the likes of Mr. Rochester or Mr. Darcy should show up with a special license and a couple of railway tickets to Gretna Green.
It was after heading home to Tall Chimneys through the puddling rain on a dreary May afternoon (it had been an unreasonably wet month) that the beleaguered papa suffered a bout of pneumonia and in his final ramblings (as witnessed by the doctor in attendance) did speak the words that were to echo grimly down the years:
“I, Hector Rigglesworth, being of sound mind, do lay my curse upon Chitterton Fells Library. May dry rot and woodworm prove its ruination and, as a further manifestation of ill will, my spirit shall roam its rooms and corridors until the day comes when I am avenged.”
Inevitably there were people—most commonly of the male persuasion—who regarded the Rigglesworth legend as mere twaddle. These naysayers were not afraid to enter the library when the moon was full and crows gathered in a black cloud upon the bleached boughs of the blighted oak. It bothered them not if the tree’s tendrils were wont to tap eerily upon the window of the second-floor reading room. But, surprisingly, support for the Rigglesworth ghost was found among the purportedly sane. Brigadier Lester-Smith who, at sixty-five, was by no means in his dotage, had publicly wagered his pension that the spirit had been present at many a Thursday-night meeting of the Library League.
The brigadier, adhering rigidly to the principle that punctuality is the eleventh commandment, was always first to arrive for these meetings, which were held in the reading room. He had taken upon himself the responsibility of percolating the coffee and setting out the cups and saucers. He had even on one occasion brought with him a packet of ginger nuts. This treat had been much appreciated by the group—excepting Mr. Gladstone Spike (our clergywoman’s husband) who more often than not turned up with one of his feathery-light sponge cakes.
It is my understanding that in years gone by, before the advent of the wireless, let alone the television set, the Library League had numbered as many as thirty persons. Nowadays Brigadier Lester-Smith might optimistically expect to find himself in the company of seven fellow members on a Thursday night, including myself.
On a wintry evening in what was supposed to be spring, he rounded the corner to the Spittle Lane entrance, only to collide with me as I was about to mount the library steps. The impact knocked me off balance, causing me to drop the stack of books I was carrying. Nothing short of an army tank could have made a dent in the brigadier’s ramrod posture, however.
He was a sturdily built man with a fresh complexion, a steady gaze, and crinkly hair, with enough red still showing among the grey to pass for ginger in the glow from the street lamp. His khaki raincoat was of a military cut, its belt being threaded squarely through the buckle with the end tucked through not one but both loops. As always, he carried a leather briefcase (rumour had it the brigadier took it to bed with him) and it was polished to a mirror gloss, equal to that of his shoes. A quick peek at my own reflection was not consoling. Most of my hair had escaped from its French twist. I was minus an earring and the string from a baby’s bib dangled from my pocket. Even worse, I was certain I had picked up weight since leaving home. Why else would I need to scan both the brigadier’s shoes to get a good look at myself?
“My excuses, Mrs. Haskell.” His voice was as precisely tailored as the rest of him. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching my step. My mind was already inside the library.”
“It was my fault.” I stood dithering with a foot half on, half off the bottom step, while one of the books did a belated bounce onto the pavement, as if no longer sure whether it was coming or going. “I was concerned I was going to be late, but that can’t be the case, not with you arriving at the same time.” I looked askance at my watch, which should on several prior occasions have been subjected to a polygraph test.
“How’s the husband, Mrs. Haskell?” the brigadier asked kindly as he gingerly set down his briefcase on the pavement and picked up my books.
“Ben?” I spoke the name as if suddenly remembering a letter I had forgotten to post. “He’s fine. Busy as always: But that’s the way it goes with the restaurant business.” It wasn’t that I didn’t adore my princely spouse, you understand, but what with the children and the shopping, to say nothing of my civic responsibilities, there tended to be hours on end when I did not think of him except as a dinner to be prepared, or a bundle of shirts to be collected from the laundry. But all that would change when the Swiss au pair arrived.
“And how are the little ones, Mrs. Haskell?”
“Abbey and Tam are my pride and joy!” The glow I shed upon my kind inquisitor was of a higher wattage than the street lamps.
“Being an old bachelor, I can’t begin to think how you cope with twins.” The brigadier’s cheeks flushed a peachy pink as the wind made a sudden charge around the corner. It also started to rain at the same moment, a slow drop at a time, as if testing our patience. Handing me the neatly aligned stack of books, Brigadier Lester-Smith picked up his briefcase and checked it for scuff marks. “I hope you are finding things a little easier now that your offspring are getting up in years.”
“They’re halfway through the terrible twos.” I was unable to conceal my pride as we marched up the brick steps in time to the quickening beat of rain upon the rooftops. “Tam’s all boy and Abbey thinks she is too. Don’t worry, Brigadier Lester-Smith: They’re not having to fend for themselves tonight,” I hastened to add in case he was picturing my delightful progeny whiling away the evening with a couple of cigars and a bottle of port. “Ben had to work tonight at Abigail’s. But Mrs. Malloy, who helps me out a couple of days a week, agreed to watch them until I get home. Usually I can count on my cousin to baby-sit if he isn’t working the evening shift with Ben. But Freddy left yesterday for a fortnight’s holiday touring Scotland and Wales on his motorbike. He took Jonas with him.” I pushed open the library door with my free hand while miraculously maintaining a steady hold on the books and my smile.
“Jonas Phipps?” The brigadier raised a gingery eyebrow. “Your gardener? But surely, the man’s even longer in the tooth than I am.”
“Mr. Phipps has a wild streak in him.” I adroitly avoided slamming the door and knocking off the brigadier’s nose. “The prospect of camping out and eating off tin plates for days on end, to say nothing of sleeping in his clothes, undid every one of the values I have been at pains to instill. The only thing that might have dissuaded Jonas from hopping on the back of Freddy’s motorbike was my mentioning that Ben and I have decided to hire a mother’s helper. But I refused to resort to bribery. And, to be frank, I am not sure that even the thought of inviting her to admire the prize roses on his bedroom wallpaper would have kept Jonas from donning his goggles and black leather jacket.”
“Looking to cut quite a dash, by the sound of it.” Brigadier Lester-Smith followed me into the library vestibule.
“Mrs. Malloy certainly thought so! She told him he could put Karisma out of a job if he would just let the hair on his head grow and shave the scruff on his chest.”
“Karis-who?”
“Him!” I plucked a book from my pile and held it out to the bewildered brigadier as he drew the door shut behind us. “Behold the face that has launched billions of romance novels.” Being a woman of some refinement, I did not draw attention to the way Karisma filled out his loincloth.
“You’re saying he and th
e woman in that extraordinarily convoluted embrace are real people, not some artist’s idea of what the characters in the book look like?” Brigadier Lester-Smith appeared awestruck, as well he might. The heroine of The Last Temple Virgin, by Zinnia Parrish, was clothed in little more than her virtue as she swooned in the arms of the gods’ gift to women. Her breasts were round and smooth as wine goblets, her lips soft and dewy as rose petals after a rainstorm, her hair a rippling waterfall, her eyes smoky with desire. But who wouldn’t look like that, including Ellie Haskell, if given the opportunity to recline upon Karisma’s sun-bronzed chest and gaze enraptured upon his glorious physiognomy? So close that one’s eyelashes entwined with his! So near that his heart pumped the lucky female’s lifeblood and set her pulses throbbing with forbidden passion.
“We all have to make a living,” the brigadier said doubtfully as we stood in the shadowy vestibule lit by one minuscule lightbulb dangling from a cord high above our heads.
“There is more to Karisma than raw sex appeal,” I assured him. “My husband, if you will excuse the boast, has the kind of dark good looks that turns heads in Marks & Spencer. But never in a million years could I picture Ben on a book jacket. He lacks that untamed … unmarried look, for starters.” I shuffled through my stack of books while my companion completed the all-consuming task of sponging the raindrops from his briefcase. When he was done and his handkerchief refolded and hung neatly over his belt to dry, I held out Where Eagles Fear to Fly. “Karisma has such incredible versatility. He can be anyone, anything the camera asks him to be!” I knew I was babbling away like a mindless brook, but a stay-at-home mum is occasionally overwhelmed by the need to show herself conversant with current events. “See for yourself why the tabloids hail him as the king of the male cover models!” I held out another book, a paperback this time, brilliantly packaged with foil and raised letters.
The brigadier made a well-bred endeavour to show interest. “Fascinating, Mrs. Haskell! The castle in the background puts me very much in mind of Merlin’s Court.”
How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams Page 1
