“He sounds wonderful,” I opined with a quiver in my voice.
“The man is unique.” Mrs. Swabucher’s eyes shone with pride. “As you will see for yourself, Giselle, this coming Saturday.”
“That’s tomorrow!”
She was unruffled. “I know it’s short notice. But I am afraid Karisma is booked up with engagements for decades ahead and it is quite a fluke that he is available this weekend. The plan is for him to spend Saturday at Merlin’s Court for the photograph sessions and then make his appearance at your quaint little library on Sunday afternoon. After attending morning service at the Anglican church,” Mrs. Swabucher added, settling her handbag on her lap. “Karisma is a deeply spiritual man, Giselle.”
“That won’t present any problem,” I said. “St. Anselm’s is just a stone’s throw from Merlin’s Court. But I am concerned there won’t be time for us to publicize the benefit and attract a decent-sized crowd. Which would be unfair to Karisma and”—I hesitated to sound mercenary—“we would like to raise as much money as possible for the commemorative statue of Miss Bunch, our recently deceased librarian.”
But Mrs. Swabucher waved a genial hand at me. “Don’t worry about that. Word of Karisma’s appearances spreads like wildfire. My suggestion is that you arrange a meeting of your library group for this evening and you’ll see, dear, everything will fall into place. If you like, I will delay my return to London and accompany you …”
Before she could finish speaking, a waiter appeared at her side with a portable phone, ascertained that she was Mrs. Swabucher, and informed her that a gentleman was on the line, waiting to speak to her. She thanked him with a smile that promised a handsome tip as she lifted the receiver to her ear. “Karisma, is that you, my impetuous one?”
She chuckled softly, winked at me, and listened intently. “Yes, yes, everything is arranged. Giselle is delighted, positively thrilled to bits. We are to stay at Merlin’s Court; what could be more convenient!… No, I haven’t got round to talking with her about who’s who in Chitterton Fells, but I am sure we will meet some sparkling personalities, and—who knows?—we may even be invited to tea on the vicarage lawn. It’s that sort of Victorian little place. Good-bye, my … oh, yes, she is, sitting across the table from me, just a moment.” Mrs. Swabucher handed me the telephone. “Karisma would like a word with you, dear.”
“He wants to talk to me?” I clung to the receiver for dear life, nearly slid off my chair, and croaked, “Hello?!?”
“Giselle … such a beautiful name!” The husky voice throbbed with emotion. “Already I am counting the hours until we meet, for I do not doubt you are as lovely as you are kind. Until Saturday I keep you as a dream in my heart.”
It was too much: I could picture him so clearly, kissing the tips of his fingers into the receiver. My head spun, and before I could unstick my tongue from the roof of my mind, I heard a click and I was left listening to the dial tone.
I set the phone reverently down and endeavoured to bring Mrs. Swabucher’s face back into focus. “Amazing … that Karisma should care enough about a small-town library benefit to track you down in order to find out what arrangements have been made.”
“I told him I planned to have lunch with you at Abigail’s, and that’s just the way he is, dear, always so considerate. A heart of gold.”
“I’m sure he’s devoted to you.” I was still starry-eyed. “And that you’ve become just like a mother to him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Mrs. Swabucher was occupied in opening up her handbag. “I’m not really the maternal sort. Reginald and I never had children together, although I helped raise his three by his first marriage and there’s a bond between us, as you might imagine. Reggie, the eldest one, named for his father, is always looking over my shoulder when it comes to my business affairs. A nice, kind man, but being a worrywart has aged the poor boy beyond his years and I’m concerned that he’ll end up with the health problems that plagued my Reginald’s last years.” She didn’t wait for me to respond, but swept on. “Growing old can be pitiful, but believe me, Giselle, I’m fighting the erosion of time every inch of the way.” Mrs. Swabucher touched a couple of fingers to her pink-tinted head and put a dent in the beehive. “But I don’t plan on doing anything so childish as marrying yet again. End of subject on boring old me! Here”—she reached into her handbag and brought forth a handful of goodies—“these are for you, a few little gifts from Karisma—one of his Build-a-Body-Beautiful exercise tapes, an autographed photo in a heart-shaped frame, a calendar, and a sixteen-ounce bottle of his Desire perfume.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said, trying to get a grip on my emotions and the loot. And who was that dark-browed stranger approaching our table? Not surprisingly, given the amount of emotional overload to which I had been subjected, I had forgotten all about my tiff with Ben in the kitchen.
Unfortunately the evening was taken if I could arrange an emergency meeting of the Library League, but as I got to my feet, I vowed that as soon as this celebrity weekend was through, I would spend quality time with my husband. His smile was somewhat cool around the edges when he asked how we had enjoyed our lunch. Something kept me from bursting out with an announcement of Karisma’s impending visit. There would be time enough later when we were conveniently alone to discover Ben hadn’t a clue as to the magnitude of the honour being bestowed upon us and our humble abode. Being of the male persuasion, he probably wouldn’t respond enthusiastically to my demands that we redecorate overnight.
“Do you have to rush back to town, Mrs. Swabucher?” he asked pleasantly enough as he walked us out into the foyer.
“Not until this evening, dear boy.” The woman who brought us together resembled a bird of rare pink plumage as she took three steps to every one of his in keeping up with his long stride. “Giselle and I have a dozen plans to make for—”
“This afternoon,” I interjected hastily. “Oh, bother! I left Sylvia Babcock’s wedding present under the table! Would you be a dear, Ben, and fetch it for me?”
“I live to serve,” he replied, and while he was fetching the package I quickly explained to Mrs. Swabucher that Sylvia was a newlywed member of the Library League and that it would be killing three birds with one stone to stop at her house, give her the present before I lost it for good, and tell her about Karisma’s visit and the library meeting.
My husband did not delay our departure by engaging me in a three-minute round of kissing which necessitated a referee’s bell to break us apart. Indeed, as Mrs. Swabucher and I drove away from Abigail’s in my car, it occurred to me that Ben’s behaviour that day reminded me of someone, an extremely irritating someone, but I couldn’t think who it could be or why I experienced a sensation of discomfort bordering on foreboding.
The penny didn’t drop until we reached the Babcocks’ street of identical semi-detached houses, with their lace curtains, handkerchief-size front gardens, and names such as Dun-Romin or Myshatow. It was hot. Beastly, baking hot. The inside of the car was like an oven set at 450 degrees and I could feel myself crisping up like Yorkshire pudding.
A typical English summer, one solitary day of unmerciful heat to justify the purchase of shorts and T-shirts. Tomorrow we would be back to good old grey skies and drizzle. The sun had bleached the sky with its savage glare, the leaves on the trees were perspiring heavily, and the rosebushes in the Babcocks’ garden, at number forty-one, looked ready to pull up stakes and crawl over to the porch for some shade. The newspaper headlines would surely read Hottest Day in Twenty-five Years, just as they did at least once a summer, to prevent ninety percent of the population from climbing in leaky little boats and sailing for Florida.
Tellingly, Mrs. Swabucher abandoned her feather boa before getting out of the car and we staggered up the path like a pair of firemen in dire need of wet cloths to wrap around our faces. It took all my strength to press the doorbell before sagging against my companion, who also looked ready to expire.
But not for long.
A wild barking shook the house walls and sent a couple of tiles scudding off the roof, missing our heads by inches. A black, furry form lunged at the door’s side window, and the creature’s talons shredded the glass. A pitiful squeal was followed by the faint promise: “I’m being as quick as I can! Don’t move, or he’ll turn on me, I know he will!”
Sylvia Babcock presented a sad picture as she opened the door. She was immaculate as always in a crisp print frock, with every pin-curl hair in place and her lipstick on straight, but her hands were shaking and her eyes looked like the glass ones sewn on teddy bears. And a teddy bear is what my canine friend Heathcliff became upon seeing me. Dropping down on his haunches, huge pink tongue lolling, he cocked his massive head and grinned broadly, as if to say “Ah, the nice lady who rescued me from my orphan state and found me this loving home, come in, do, and bring your friend. My hacienda is your hacienda!”
“Hello, Sylvia,” I said in some doubt that she was thrilled to see me. “This is Mrs. Swabucher who, wonder of wonders, is the business agent for Karisma. She has graciously persuaded him to participate in our benefit for Miss Bunch. Can you believe our good fortune?”
“How nice,” came the faint reply. “Albert and I just got back from getting the groceries, or you would have missed us.” Sylvia jumped and her glass eyes almost popped off as Heathcliff swished his tail, giving her the nudge that it was only proper etiquette to invite us in. “Won’t you?” She opened the door a further inch. Feeling I had to put my best foot forward as I crossed the threshold, Mrs. Swabucher on my heels, I held out the gift-wrapped package. Bother! I failed to explain quickly enough that it was a wedding present and with a grateful woof Heathcliff leapt up, snatched it from my nerveless grasp, and bounded off down the hall.
“You need to take him to obedience school, dear.” Mrs. Swabucher spoke the obvious. “Happiness is a well-trained pet.”
“Happiness is a dead pet,” Sylvia spat out with an unusual burst of ire. “But I’m afraid to let him out in the road to get run over because Albert is tickled to bits with him.” Poor Sylvia, she truly was afraid of everything from spiders to the pages of a book being turned too quickly. On one regrettable occasion, when Lord Pomeroy had let wind at a library meeting, she had dived for cover as if in the thick of a hurricane. And because of me, meddlesome Millie, her hopes of wedded bliss with the likable Mr. Babcock were being sorely put to the test.
“You have to put your man’s happiness before your own, dear.” Mrs. Swabucher, still feeling the heat, was fanning her cheeks with a gloved hand. “As I’ve learned, at times to my cost, a woman must be prepared to make any sacrifice for the good of the one she loves.”
Far from taking offence at a stranger butting in on her personal affairs, Sylvia’s impeccably made-up face brightened. “You’re right, I do have to remember that Albert is a gift from God, the salt of the earth, the man I’ve been waiting for all my life. I shouldn’t get worked into a froth because he sometimes forgets to take off his shoes when he comes in, or hangs the toilet paper the wrong way, or doesn’t remember to give the soap a rinse and a pat dry after he washes his hands. His heart is in the right place … even if his clothes aren’t always hung up.”
“Speaking of things not being where they are supposed to be,” I said, “perhaps we should get that wedding present away from Heathcliff, seeing as I failed to purchase breakage insurance.”
“And then we can have a word or two about my wonderful Karisma and how a visit from him will not only raise money for your memorial fund, but put Chitterton Fells on the map. Now, doesn’t that sound a cheery prospect!” Mrs. Swabucher, ever the businesswoman, gushed. And Sylvia, further heartened by the suggestion that we did not plan to make an entire afternoon of our visit, led the way into her kitchen. This room, which was not much bigger than a garden shed, was as implacably pristine as the rest of the house. Heathcliff was under the table thriftily unknotting the ribbon decorating the wedding present, and the only eyesore, to put it unkindly, was Mr. Babcock. He, from the looks of him, had just made his fourteenth heavily laden journey from the car parked a few yards from the open door.
His arms were loaded with shopping bags bursting forth with boxes of Weetabix and packages of Tide. His hair was matted to his brow and his florid face was dripping with sweat as he set one load down on the table and rested another on the bridge of his stomach. Sylvia was right, he was a perfect dear. Between explaining to her that he had put all the other groceries away in the pantry or fridge, he greeted me with pleasure and expressed himself delighted to meet Mrs. Swabucher.
“Can you believe this weather?” He mopped his red face with his shirt-sleeve and knocked a shopping bag, which toppled over the one already on the table so that the contents of both, including a joint of beef and an enormous cauliflower, spilled out, sending tins of baked beans and oxtail soup rolling over to the edge to land in a series of thumps on the floor.
Sylvia had been nervously trying to coax Heathcliff into handing over the wedding gift. Now she let out a piercing scream. The dog, no doubt interpreting this as a call to action, bounded out from under the table in pursuit of a tin of pineapple, knocked Mrs. Swabucher sideways, and skidded to a halt only when the joint of beef took a flying leap off the table.
“Here, Cliffy!” Mr. Babcock patted his broad thigh without much conviction. “Nice doggy, come to Daddy.”
To his credit, Heathcliff did cock an ear, but his hunting blood was up, and before his beleaguered mistress could emit another scream, he had seized up the joint of beef in his mighty jaws and raced with it out into the raging heat of the garden.
“Go after him, Albert!” Sylvia shrilled. She was understandably beside herself, given the dents in her once-perfect kitchen floor. “That’s our Sunday dinner! Albert!” she wailed.
Mr. Babcock needed no further prodding. I doubt that he saw me as I held out the chewed-upon gift package or heard me suggest that he offer to trade it with Heathcliff for the roast. Huffing and puffing, he disappeared through the doorway, and as Mrs. Swabucher and I peered through the window above the sink, we saw him engage in heroic battle, man against beast under the gruelling sun. It was an awe-inspiring sight, a hard-fought tussle in which neither combatant appeared to give an inch of rump roast, and then … yes, it really seemed that victory would belong to Mr. Babcock. I was about to cheer, when he released his hold, staggered backwards a few paces, and collapsed in slow motion on the lawn.
My horrified eyes met Mrs. Swabucher’s. I knew exactly what she was thinking: Poor man, what a ridiculous, wasteful way to die.
Chapter
12
“Another one added to the death roll.” Vanessa swatted a fly with a cushion and stood back to savour her kill. She and I were in the wainscotted study at Merlin’s Court. Gerta was in the kitchen making potato kuchen like a woman possessed while the twins took their naps. And Mrs. Swabucher, who had taken the abrupt demise of my friendly milkman harder than might be expected, given their five-minute acquaintance, was resting upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms.
I was pretty much done in myself. Keeping the hysterical Sylvia propped up in my arms so she did not keel over and do herself or the kitchen floor an injury had kept me occupied until the ambulance and assorted fire engines arrived. But when the professionals took over I was enormously relieved to give a quick account of what I had witnessed, promise to be available if needed for further questions, and escape with Mrs. Swabucher back to the comparative calm of my own home.
“Here.” Vanessa dropped the cushion used to kill the fly onto the easy chair by the fireplace. “Sit yourself down, Ellie, and pull yourself together. Anyone would think by the way you’re carrying on that you were married to the man. How about a sherry?” Her favourite drink because it matched her eyes. Rooting around among the decanters on the butler’s tray, she poured a sizable jolt into a glass.
“No thanks.” I waved it away, leaned my aching head back, and stared gloomily at the latticed windows. Th
e sun, having caused enough trouble for a month of Sundays, had called it a day and was hiding out behind clouds that had popped up out of nowhere during the last half-hour.
“Drink it.” My cousin pushed the glass under my nose. Her unexpected solicitousness puzzled me until I noticed a sparkle on her finger that put the crystal glass in my hand to shame. Her engagement ring. It had grown at least a couple of carats since I last saw it on her finger. That poor fly. Vanessa had killed it, with her left hand I now realized, as an excuse to dazzle me into commenting on her ring. “What do you think?” She perched on the edge of a chair, her titian head tipped to one side and the Hope diamond resting on her crossed knee. “Darling George took me out this afternoon while you were gone and bought it for me at that really pricey jeweler’s in Market Street.”
“But you already had a ring.…”
“True.” Vanessa blew on the new gem and buffed it with the hem of her olive-green skirt. “But you know how men are! George got this bee in his bonnet that I deserved something twice, three times as good. And you know me, sweetie, I strive to be the dutiful fiancée. He’s going to have the first little stone made into a pendant for me to wear on our wedding day. Isn’t he a dear?”
“The salt of the earth,” I muttered, and went back to thinking about the late Mr. Babcock.
“There you go, always casting a blight on my happiness.” Vanessa slipped off the chair and went to stand by the desk littered with all the comforting signs of Ben’s industrious use of it. His handwritten recipes, the litter of pens and pencils, and the stacks of gourmet journals were all arrayed on the desktop.
How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams Page 18
