Mum's the Word

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Book her for unlawful entry!” The flannel shirt chap plopped a meaty hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “And hold her, old gun, until the rest of those Mangé cranks leave the island.”

  A rumble of approval.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Something (perhaps the baby pressing on a nerve) stiffened my spine. “I’m a guest in your country.” Mustn’t give them time to say they hadn’t invited me. Better to rush in with the best of all defence pleas. “And I’m pregnant!” Whatever their response I would not break down. I look about as captivating as a crocodile with a toothache when I cry.

  Had mention of my delicate condition softened hearts? The only sound in the Lucky Strike was the whirl of the electric fans. Then, a voice, sweet as caramelized sugar, dripped stickily into the void. And cool fingers handcuffed my wrist. Who she was I couldn’t tell. She was standing behind me. The crowd was agape.

  “Dreadfully naughty of me, darling, to have kept you waiting, but punctuality is death to the grand entrance! And I see the natives have been friendly. Thought you might find this place amusing when I suggested meeting here.”

  The name Theola Faith burst upon the air, with the fizzy-dizzy rush of champagne bubbles. Monster Mommy was among us.

  “And now if you will excuse us …” Gripping the back of my dress, she propelled me a couple of steps backward. A sideways peek revealed the silver blonde hair brushing the gamine cheeks, the panda bear eyes and gee-whizz smile.

  “Hate to forego the rest of the rusticities but I have a darling bottle of Chateau Vin Rose back at my place that’s about popping its cork in anticipation of meeting this sweet young thing!”

  I contributed a gasp to the conversation. The question weighing heavy at that moment was, Am I being rescued or taken prisoner? Why was Theola Faith involving herself with a total stranger? Why did the townspeople make no effort to retrieve their prey?

  Sheriff Dougherty ambled around, grey hair flopping on his forehead, hand smoothing a crease or a crumb from his jacket. “Hoped you’d spend the evening along of us, Theola. Good as said you would when I mentioned the banquet.”

  “That was last week, you old Tom fool!” She pinched his podgy cheek, gold bracelets sliding up the arm of her silky white suit. “You went and caught me at a weak moment. I was feeling the need to be bored.”

  “Hey!” the woman in leopard skin snapped. “You count yourself lucky, Theola, you’re still welcome at Mud Creek functions.”

  A gurgle of laughter. “You can take the girl out of Mud Creek, but you can’t take Mud Creek out of the girl, eh? Not so, Bertha, but because you were always kinda nice to me when we were kids, I’ll do you the favour of letting you in on a fashion secret. Leopard skin is dead. And, by the by, darling—makes you look like a motor home with rust spots.” The star blew a kiss past my ear. “Love you all, darlings!”

  The sheriff’s face, droopy with disappointment, swam before my eyes, as I was turned face about and marched past the ball racks and pay desk to the exit door. Mustn’t look back. Voices surged after us, threatening to draw us back into their flood.

  My head was a jug of martinis being vigorously shaken, but outside on the pavement I revived with each breath of freedom’s sultry air. Very interesting the discovery that Theola Faith had grown up in Mud Creek. And some day I would be dying to know why she had removed me from the clutches of the bowlers. But now, all I wanted in the world was to return to the island and fall into Ben’s arms.

  Shifting my bag strap, I shoved back my hair and extended a hand. “Thank you, Miss Faith. You have been most kind. I do hope we meet again and you will forgive my running along. I have a boat to catch.”

  “Oh, pooh!” She held onto my hand. “That’s not kind, darling! Yes, I stole you from those dreary people in there, mainly to be ornery. But surely I am entitled to the reward of your company!”

  “If I were not so pressed for time …”

  She shifted her hand to my elbow and walked me forward. “Have no fear that I expect an explanation as to why those good souls wanted to tar and feather you. These days I believe no one’s life should be an open book. Although I do confess to a teaspoon of curiosity as to why my darling daughter chose to get mixed up with the mad Mangés.”

  “She met an editor who had a connection with the group.” My voice hurried to keep up with my legs.

  Theola Faith gave a southern belle laugh. “What a delightful conversationalist you are! I do insist you accompany me to the suite of rooms Jimmy graciously put at my disposal. We’ll have ourselves some wine and girly chit-chat.”

  I could not make head nor tail of my garbled response. Something about abstaining from alcoholic libations and my husband being a sublime human being—in no way responsible for my foibles.

  “Doesn’t he sound adorable! But, then, only a villain would deny his wife the pleasure of showing proper appreciation to a friend in need.”

  Somewhere in the midst of this conversation I had turned into one of those pull toys being dragged along by a child who refuses to heed the parental order to halt. I had no business consorting with the legendary Theola Faith. I was her daughter’s house guest, added to which Mary was clearly bent on liking me. And Ben certainly had every right to expect me not to make waves that might sink his chances with the Mangés.

  What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I bid Theola Faith good night and strike out for the mud track leading to the river? Despite myself, was I mesmerized by her fame or rather infamy? Or did this have to do with my mother—the fact that the two women had crossed paths long ago? Ridiculous to expect a film star to remember one of several dancers from one night club scene in Melancholy Mansion. But in putting questions to Theola Faith, I might get to remember my mother.

  We had reached the alley running alongside Jimmy’s Bar. Would extending my absense from the island by one half-hour stamp me forever as an unfit wife? We were almost at the rusted fire escape steps leading to a black-and-red striped door and I was experiencing that same sense of detached reality I had known in my dream of returning to the flat in St. John’s Wood, when something brushed against my leg—that cat I had noticed nosing around the dustbins on my morning excursion into Mud Creek. He had a Charlie Chaplin moustache and a jaunty swagger. His resemblance to the departed Mr. Grogg was extraordinary. Automatically I made nice noises but the cat brushed past me to sit meowing up at Theola Faith like an autograph hungry fan. She picked him up as though he were a fur stole she had dropped and draped him over her arm.

  “Very well.” She turned away from the fire escape steps. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain …”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Was she completely mad? She was walking briskly away from me.

  “Excuse me …” I hung back for a lone car whose driver must have been very short—if there was a driver. The feeling that this wasn’t happening, at least not to me, was back full force. Light-headed with hunger, that was my trouble!

  Theola Faith smoothed a hand over the cat still dangling in dutiful silence, as she moved between the trees leading to the river. “You seemed less than elated, Ellie Haskell, by the idea of going to Jimmy’s apartment and I’m not the least offended.” A sideways smile shiny bright as nail polish. “Darling, had I but a garbage bag big enough I would shove in every beer poster, every stick of utility furniture, and shove it out the door. No, we will have a far more chummy time if I return with you to Mendenhall.”

  Her calling me by name when I knew I hadn’t informed her on that point, leaped out at me, fogging the rest until the very last word.

  “Oh, but you can’t!” I clutched at her arm, drawing a hiss from the cat. Across the gravel stretch we faced each other like two cats ourselves. She silver sleek, I all atwitch. “You must not set foot in that house!”

  “Really? Unwelcome in my own home!” Her smile stretched thin. “Are all the Mangés down with food poisoning or has someone spilled red wine on my finest lace tablecloth?”

  �
�No …”

  “Good. Shall we make haste then? I dislike being on the river after dusk; a throwback to that final scene in Melancholy Mansion when the boat blew up. I ended up with as many mosquito bites as we did takes.”

  I was running to keep up with her. “I didn’t mean the house. I meant to say that you mustn’t set foot in my boat—your boat that is! When I rowed over, I noticed a slow leak, and I’m really afraid that it isn’t up to taking a second person. And I’m gaining weight all the time. All things considered I’m beginning to think it would be much better if I came back with you to the apartment. I really would love to see those beer posters—”

  “Tut tut, darling. All these fibs you’re telling! You are scared spitless the fur will fly”—she rubbed the cat’s head—“when darling Mary sees me walk in.”

  “I …”

  “You British, and your morbid dislike of scenes! What you don’t know, Ellie Haskell, is that I phoned Mary this morning and we had quite a pleasant mother/daughter chat.”

  I suppose all telephone calls lose something in the translation but I had been in the room during that rancorous exchange and “pleasant” wasn’t the word that sprang to mind when I thought of it. We were now at the dock. Hope of a reprieve flared when Theola Faith kicked the row boat disparagingly with her tiny foot, then died completely when she took a couple of strides to where a snazzy little speed boat bobbed invitingly in the mottled shade of a weeping willow.

  “I had her delivered this afternoon.” Theola Faith gripped my elbow. Her jasmine perfume brushed my face. “Please be my first guest.”

  She was right. I do hate to make scenes, especially with a cat watching. There was something decidedly witchy about this one. He meowed plaintively when put down on the ground and told to shush off home. The moment we stepped aboard he did likewise, refusing to abandon ship even when the motor roared to life. I got to hold him while Theola Faith steered, but he made it plain I was second best. Interesting, considering it turned out he wasn’t her cat but Jimmy’s. I focused on trying to keep my hair from wrapping around my face—no-handed, because I was afraid to relax my hold on our furry friend. Anything to keep from picturing the curtain rising on Theola Faith’s grand entrance. What if Mary jumped from a window or—almost as bad—jumped her mother? Mother/daughter fireworks were bound to ensue. Valicia X would be outraged. Mangéism could not flourish in such an environment. Ben would make every noble attempt not to blame me, but inevitably he would wonder if I had planned the disaster to punish him for the imagined affair. I would feel morally obliged to offer him a quickie American divorce. Probably there were reduced rates for tourists …

  “A lovely night.” Hands light on the wheel, Theola Faith tilted her face to the sky. The setting sun certainly was magnificent; we don’t have one like it in England. A jewelled crimson sphere seeming to be painted on what looked to be a sky made of shot silk, in shades of purple, rose, and gold.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  “Almost there, Ellie, sweetie.”

  Again, unease. How did she know my name? Perhaps, like the Mangés, her spies were everywhere in the persons of Pepys and Jeffries. A breeze, chill with spray, crept down my arms. The island loomed before us. The engine was turned off; we were leaving the boat. A weight lifted from me when the cat shot down my front onto the dock, but my heart grew heavy with each step up the rocky incline. Never had the turreted mansion looked more like a monstrous living creature, sprouting misshapen heads and gloating window eyes.

  “Home sweet home!” Theola Faith mounted the last sooty red step and, turning the massive door handle with both hands, entered the gloomy hall with the cat and me at her heels. My heart thundered. I was braced for confrontation. At the very least Pepys and Jeffries would descend on us and succeed in cowing me into confessing my shameful encounter with the bowlers of Mud Creek. At worst Mary would appear at the top of the stairs, clasp a hand to her breast, and swoon to her death.

  As it happened no one was about, not Mary, nor any of the Mangé contingent. Was Solange holed up with Comte Vincent in their room as a result of the pigeon fiasco? Was Henderson Brown in his room fretting? Was Ernestine having an early night? Whatever, Theola Faith and I were greeted by the sort of silence you usually only encounter in houses that have been abandoned for donkey’s years.

  She flashed me her gamine smile and entered the Red Room. “How about a drink to brace ourselves for the onslaught of my daughter’s affection?”

  “Perhaps a bitter lemon or ginger ale.” I laid my bag on a table and followed her gaze to the portrait of the Cat Cadaver over the fireplace. A gasp. Mine not hers. A knife handle protruded from the painted fur. Last night graffiti on the bath, now this. But neither live Kitty or Theola turned a hair.

  “Imagine anyone wishing to stage an orgy in this devoutly Victorian atmosphere! Darling, you don’t believe any of those wretched things Mary said about me in her book?” She clasped her hands theatrically to her cream silk chest. “I told Monty Monrose—you know, the musical comedy fellow—only morons would believe that at one of our little get-togethers we had him act the butler, carrying a sweet little silver tray and wearing only a bow tie.”

  The thought of Pepys in such a guise was too horrible. Turning my back on the Cat Cadaver, I followed her toward the drinks table, murmuring, “I do hope nobody untoward turned up at the door.”

  “Only the TV evangelist from around the corner.” She rattled the tongs in the ice bucket and gurgled, “Whoops! I mean, wouldn’t that have been too garish for words if true? As I told that reporter from Newsweek, I do have to keep reminding myself that Mary is writing in the fantasy genre. And she did change the names of people like Monty to protect the innocent. Lovely not having to share the limelight with anyone as I stand up to my neck in manure.” Glass clinked against glass as she reached for a bottle. “Do tell, Ellie Haskell, have you read my girly’s masterpiece?”

  “I … have skimmed a few pages.” Did I hear footsteps out in the hall? Palms sweaty, I backed toward one of the maroon armchairs, braced for Mary to burst in upon us.

  “I picture my poppet putting a copy by every bed at Mendenhall. Next to the Gideon Bibles.” Theola Faith’s silvery hair swung against her cheeks in crescent moons. “Are the mad Mangés all talking about me and my wicked ways?”

  The door did not come crashing open against the wall. And whatever those sounds in the hall were, they had died away. For this infinitesimal moment we were safe from Mary. Easing down onto the chair, I realized I had been very slow on the uptake. Theola Faith had stolen me from the bowlers of Mud Creek to pump me for information.

  “The Mangés are a closed-mouthed lot,” I said repressively.

  “How dreary. I do hope Pepys and Jeffries have not gone over to the enemy. I have always harboured the suspicion that those two could be bought for higher wages.”

  At one time I might have disagreed, but remembering the two of them huddled with Mary in the hall this afternoon … Unwarily I glanced at the coffee table where lay, as conspicuous as a man’s unzipped fly at a cocktail party, the familiar red and black dust jacket. Monster Mommy.

  “Comfortable?” Theola Faith crossed her silken legs.

  “Yes, thank you.” I could not drag my eyes from that book. Theola Faith had certainly not returned to Mud Creek for her fortieth high school reunion. She was here in this house for confrontation. But what form would it take? Was she content merely to embarrass her daughter Mary by her presence? Or was she after a more violent attack?

  A chill draft crept along the floor and up my skirt. Suddenly my mind panned out to become a movie screen. Opening scene: Theola Faith plotting to destroy her daughter’s credibility. At dead of night she crosses the river and enters Mendenhall. Her house. What could be simpler than to lift two of the swashbuckler knives from the dining room wall and … gulp, make mincemeat of two of the guests? The bodies of Jim Grogg and Divonne get dropped down the well, the knives get slipped into the pocket of a jacket
belonging to Mary … What sweet revenge! “Why Sheriff, darling! I kept trying to tell everyone that my daughter is completely whacko, and if a double murder doesn’t prove it, what will? But please don’t blame her upbringing, the poor poppet fell under the sway of that cult of chefs.”

  I almost bounced off my chair when the cat (I’d quite forgotten him) brushed against my leg and my hostess handed me a tall glass in which a cherry bobbed merrily.

  Please God, Jim Grogg and Divonne were not bobbing down the well. Ellie, use your head! How could Theola have transported them without help? Pepys’ legs barely supported him. As for Jeffries … I pushed away the image of her tossing a corpse over each shoulder and looked up at the portrait of the Cat Cadaver. Had Mary panicked on finding the knife …?

  I sipped the fizzy amber liquid, the condensation on the glass making my hand wet. “This is delicious.”

  “A concoction of ginger ale, cranberry juice, a squeeze of lemon and crushed ice. My favourite toddy when pregnant with my one and only.” Theola Faith had seated herself on the piano stool, tinkling away with one hand; in the other holding a full-to-the-brim glass of whisky. The cat was stalking the back of the sofa and I asked if she was very attached to him. Anything to get off the subject of Mary, although I was beginning to wish she would come and get the whole damn business over and done.

  Theola Faith drained half her glass. “Cats have always been my favourite people. Can always shut them away when they get underfoot or fluff ’em up on a satin pillow when the scene is set for homespun simplicity.”

  “Indeed.” Setting my glass down, I pined for Tobias. He’d have bitten off the hand that attempted to turn him into a pajama bag disguised as a stuffed toy. Apparently our feline Charlie Chaplin was not smitten with the idea. When Theola Faith got up to refill her glass, he hightailed it over to the door. The sound of his scratching was the more eloquent because he made no meow.

  “Sorry. To oblige would be to set the cat among the pigeons.”