How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

by Dorothy Cannell

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Well, not to make a big thing of it, there’s that Irene Jolliffe, what always won for her jams, taking off to live with her daughter in Liverpool. To say nothing of Louise Bennett, who suddenly decides she can’t grow her prize marrows no more because her arthritis has got so bad. And don’t it seem funny that Mavis Appleby, whose pies could never be beaten, should up and marry that postman from London and move away?”

  “Not especially,” I said. “You’ve been saying for years that Mrs. Appleby was after anything in trousers.”

  “All right, then.” Mrs. Malloy took this setback in stride. “What about Sarie Robertson, who done all that lovely crochet, keeling over in the market a couple of months back?”

  “She was ninety-two!”

  “So?”

  “You can hardly say she was cut down in her prime.” Brushing my hair back from my furrowed brow, I asked, “Exactly what are you saying, Mrs. Malloy? You surely don’t think that Mrs. Pickle caused Mrs. Bennett’s arthritis, poisoned Mrs. Robertson’s denture cleaner, and set up the rumour that the other two women had left town, while all along she has them buried under her rosebushes?”

  “No call to be melodramatic.” Mrs. M. stuck her nose up so high, she risked having it pecked off by a dicky bird. “That sort of unpleasantness happens only to the likes of your mother-in-law. What’s been at the back of my mind is that Edna may have been up to some of her great-great-granny’s tricks—sticking pins in dolls made up to look like them women.”

  Given my thoughts of a few moments ago, this was uncanny.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her, that’s for sure!” Spoken like a loyal friend of Mrs. Pickle’s.

  “Honestly!” I managed a quivery laugh.

  “That’s your trouble, Mrs. H. I don’t suppose the thought ever crossed your mind that them bottles of dandelion wine was a bribe, to get on your good side, seeing as you’re chairwoman this year of the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête.”

  “I merely thought it a very kind gesture on Mrs. Pickle’s part,” I said firmly.

  “There’s none so blind!” Mrs. M. shook her black-and-white head. “But it don’t hurt to remember that old saying about ‘uneasy lies the head what wears the crown,’ or however it goes.” Having delivered this dire warning, she added briskly, “Well, all this gabbing won’t buy me a new frock. How about”—she picked up the kettle and plonked it on the stove—“how about drowning our sorrows with a nice cuppa?”

  “Not for me, thank you.” The truth was, Mrs. Malloy’s tea would dye your teeth black. And unlike those six-week hair rinses that wash out with the first shampoo, the effect was invariably permanent. Besides, there wasn’t time. Suddenly all the things I had to do went whirling around in my head like autumn leaves. Unload the doilies, find St. Francis, put the ragout and the rolls in the oven, spend some quality time with my children, take a bath, wash my hair, get dressed … Was there no end? And to think that less than an hour earlier, I’d had so much time on my hands I had been thinking of giving some away to people less fortunate.

  Mrs. Malloy must have read my mind, because she turned her back on the kettle and informed me she was at my beck and call.

  “Don’t thank me, Mrs. H., just put a little something extra in me pay packet. I’ll see to wiping off the cooker while you take care of the vegetables.”

  “Oh, my heavens!” I clapped a hand to my face, almost knocking myself out. Turning to the window, I saw a flowerpot wobble among all the other flowerpots as a slink of tail went weaving its way among the greenery.

  “Get down from that window,” I ordered Tobias. “You and I need to have a little talk about your making an effort to get along with Sweetie, not that I would think it disloyal if you were to tell me where she buried St. Francis.”

  To my surprise, Tobias, who is a relatively easygoing chap, shot off the window ledge into a sink full of bobbing vegetables and, spraying water to the four walls, landed on the table, knocking over the jug of flowers.

  Without a word of complaint Mrs. Malloy peeled off a false eyelash and dabbed at her lid before tapping the bedraggled daddy longlegs back into place. I, however, did not do so good a job of keeping my cool.

  “Don’t you dare raise your paw to me!” Retreating from the flash of claws that would have been better suited to a grizzly, I almost fell over a chair when my father-in-law spoke from behind me in one of his leonine roars.

  “Only me, Ellie!”

  Was I living in a zoo? A glance in the direction of the hall doorway confirmed this ghastly scenario. Dad stood there, holding Sweetie, whose shiny black eyes stood out like buttons on a fuzzy cardigan, ready to pop off and go pinging across the room as she yipped and yapped and strained to leap the table and be at Tobias’s throat.

  “Hold fast,” I entreated Dad. “I’ll put the cat outside.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t go exerting yourself.” Mrs. Malloy spoke to me while batting her lashes—one of which was a centimeter higher than the other—at Dad. It would appear that she had taken the peck on the cheek he had given her under the mistletoe last Christmas to mean something deeper than an appreciation of her sage-and-onion stuffing. “Leave it to me, Mrs. H., I’ll put the naughty pussy outside so he doesn’t scare the dear little doggie.”

  This noble offer was more easily made than kept. Tobias resisted arrest, first by jumping back into the sink and sending a deluge my way as I went to grab him, then by lunging onto the topmost shelf of the Welsh dresser. There he assumed an indifferent mein, worthy of the king of the castle.

  Wondering what it would be like to wallow in a nice hot bath, I dragged up a chair and, after a couple of false starts, managed to descend to terra firma with Tobias clawing at my arms. “No pain, no gain,” I gasped as I staggered over to the garden door, yanked it open with such speed that I swear it dodged sideways, and tossed my faithful feline out into the sun-baked courtyard. “All safe!” What stupidity! I should have remembered that Sweetie was a dog who would always have the last bark. Dad must have relaxed his grip a moment too soon. Before I could get the door shut, something no bigger than one of Mrs. Malloy’s fur collars shot past my legs and with a triumphant “yip,” the dog was out of the bag … I mean the house.

  “Damn dog’s nothing but a nuisance.” Dad patted his cardigan front complacently.

  “I expect she had to excuse herself in a hurry,” I said magnanimously.

  “That’s what I brought her down for. Magdalene’s very particular that Sweetie do her business at set times.”

  “What a good idea! Is Mum having a rest?” Ask a stupid question, get a straight answer from Dad. The man is fanatical about two things—never telling a lie and never going back on his word.

  “She’s turning out the airing cupboard.”

  “How thoughtful!” I had reorganized my sheets and towels the previous morning, stacking them in alphabetical order. Almond, blue, cream, etc. But there was no point in being miffed, especially if Mum was working off some of her negative feelings towards Beatrix Taffer.

  “The woman’s a bloody marvel!” Mrs. Malloy exclaimed with patent insincerity.

  “Yes.” Dad stroked his bearded chin. “When she’s done with the airing cupboard she’s going to dust the top of that big dresser in the bedroom. There’s a spider’s web up there.”

  Blast! I should have known she would spot that itsy-bitsy web. The only reason I had not taken care of it was that the dresser almost reached the bedroom ceiling, and the only way to get to the top (unless one wanted to drag a ladder upstairs) was to stand on the narrow ledge between the lower drawers and the six-foot mirror and hat box shelf above.

  “Now, Ellie, don’t go tearing yourself off a strip.” Dad patted my shoulder. “You know Magdalene and her nervous energy. She’s all hot and bothered because she doesn’t think the window latches properly. Says anyone could break in.”

  Their bedroom was in the north tower, several feet above cloud level. Only a bu
rglar prepared to risk a serious nosebleed would go shinning up the ivy, but my guests’ peace of mind was paramount, especially when the express purpose of the visit was that we grow to love each other to death.

  “When I go upstairs,” I said, “I’ll ask Jonas to take a look at the latch. He keeps a set of tools in his room, so it won’t take him a moment.”

  Dad scowled. “Now then, Ellie! Don’t go putting the man to any bother.”

  “Don’t worry”—I kissed his furry cheek—“Jonas will be glad of the chance to putter. He’s been reading A Tale of Two Cities until his eyes must be ready to fall out. So why don’t you go and ease Mum’s mind on this little matter, and suggest she take a nice relaxing bath? I’ll fetch in the dog.”

  “No need to beat me over the head with a hammer!” Dad turned towards the hall door. “I’m the first to agree the kitchen is no place for a man—unless, that is, we’re talking about my son, who’s made a career out of the place.”

  The moment he was out the door, Mrs. Malloy flexed her lips into a velvet smile and smoothed down her taffeta frock so that it molded over her ripe hips. “Not bad for an old codger, is he?”

  I had never thought about my father-in-law in those terms; the very idea was vaguely incestuous, and I wasn’t about to encourage Mrs. Malloy’s girlish fancies, not when it was now past five-thirty and we would have Mrs. Taffer banging on the door at seven. Had Mum entered the kitchen, she wouldn’t have smelled Johnson’s Lavender Wax. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have smelled anything. The air wasn’t warm and toasty with the aroma of dinner cooking contentedly in the oven. The beef ragout was still in the fridge, the vegetables were still bobbing in the sink, and I mustn’t forget the rolls, which from the looks of them were also beginning to lose some of their oomph.

  “Mrs. Malloy,” I ventured to say, “would you be so kind as to go and find Sweetie?”

  “That dog needs a nine-to-five job!” She stalked out into the garden, leaving me feeling as if I were living inside Big Ben. Every time I took a breath, the grandfather clock gave a bong, purely out of the goodness of its heart, to remind me that time waits for no woman. By the time I unmolded the salmon pâté from its fluted dish, my hands were shaking, and before I escaped from the kitchen and raced upstairs, I was completely out of puff.

  Freddy had the twins in their cots when I went into the nursery, and having no medal to bestow on his noble breast, I placed a kiss on his moth-eaten cheek. “Thanks, Mary Poppins! You’re one in a million!”

  “Tell that to your mother-in-law.”

  “Oh, come on!” I gave him a hug. “She didn’t mean—”

  “To scream bloody murder when she saw me?” Freddy faked a sob and mopped his eyes with the end of his ponytail. “To tell you the truth, Ellie old sock, that woman cut me to the quick and I don’t think I’ll get over it until I’ve poured myself a pint of bitter.” With that he bent to kiss the top of Abbey’s barley-sugar head and tap Tam playfully on the cheek before moving over to the window, opening it up, and disappearing over the sill.

  Leaning out to watch my cousin slide down the drainpipe, I was forced to rethink my recent position on burglars. But this was not the time to plan a security system. Tam was squealing “Mum! Here!” And Abbey was attempting an escape from behind bars.

  Closing the window on a last glimpse of Freddy bounding towards the cottage, I turned, arms spread wide enough to gather them both up, and cried, “Coming, my darlings!”

  Oh, it was immeasurably restoring to sit in the rocking chair with my children and sing songs with nonsensical words and no melody. Ten minutes later, having seen them safely and sweetly asleep, I descended the stairs feeling restored in body and soul, with the result that I did no more than gasp when the front door opened and a strange man walked into the hall.

  Shading my eyes against the brassy sunlight that came tracking in with him, I inquired: “Who are you?”

  He bore down on me with imperative strides and fixed me with a fearsome stare. “My God, Ellie! Have you lost your mind or your eyesight?”

  “Oh, it’s you!” I sagged against his husbandly chest. “It seems an eternity since I last saw you, and I couldn’t be quite sure you weren’t an insurance agent. And I did find a tea leaf floating in my cup this morning, which indicated I was destined to meet a dark, handsome man eager to take advantage of me.”

  Ben silenced my folly with a kiss that would have done Sir Edward proud, and we didn’t jolt apart until the grandfather clock, working overtime as overseer, gave an almighty bong. “You’ve been focusing too hard on the teacup readings for the fête.” My spouse took the last doily from my pliant hands and placed it on my head. “How are things going in our castle by the sea?”

  “Not too badly.” I smiled bravely. “Your mother almost walked out seconds after walking in the door, but unless she’s knotted the bed sheets and climbed out the window, she and Dad are still here.”

  “It is possible,” my love said as gently as he could, “that they weren’t too excited about this visit in the first place. I did tell you, dear, that they always made rather a point of not making a … point of their anniversary.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I admitted, “and wondering if the reason might be that their wedding day does not hold the happiest of memories. But Mum’s being upset with me was very specific. It had to do with my little surprise.”

  “Beatrix Taffer?”

  “Seems she and Mum had an awful dust-up years ago.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Ben raised an interrogatory eyebrow. “They aren’t on speaking terms?”

  “Haven’t been for forty years.”

  A chuckle escaped my husband’s lips. “Do you think we can get them to communicate through knocks on the table?”

  “It really is no laughing matter,” I said primly.

  “Sweetheart”—the mischievous twinkle vanished on the instant—“I will not have you castigating yourself. What you’ve done is provide everyone with a chance to kiss and make up.”

  Amazing how he could make me melt like candle wax so that I was molded by his hands into a woman who bore no resemblance to the externals of rag bag shirt and shorts. Call me Lady Letitia! my soul cried. All this because he looked at me with those Mediterranean-blue-green eyes of his, so that I was sinking several fathoms deep, to where all the wonder of a lost galleon’s treasure shimmered in their depths.

  “I want you …” he whispered in thickened accents.

  “That’s awfully dear of you”—I caressed his cheek—“but there are certain time constraints.” No doubt I looked bewitchingly cross-eyed with half my gaze on him and half on the unrelenting face of the clock.

  “Ellie, I insist!”

  “Well, in that case …” Surely even his mother would not disapprove, it being one of the tenets of the Faith that a wife never refuse her husband.

  He placed his hands commandingly upon my shoulders. “I want you to go upstairs and get into the bath. You deserve a relaxing soak after all your hard work.”

  “Thank you.” My voice came out of my boots. The clock gave another bong, tempting me to throw the doily at it. Ben marched me inexorably to the stairs. I ventured to ask him why he was talking in that muffled, sexy voice.

  “I must be allergic to that damn dog.” He dragged a tissue from his pocket.

  “That’s ridiculous. Sweetie had barely put her paw inside the door, when she went back outside.”

  Ben’s dark brows came down over his nose in the scowl he had inherited from his father and bequeathed to his son. “It may well be that my problem is psychosomatic, Ellie, born of a deep-seated resentment of an animal who has usurped my place with Mum and Dad.”

  “I understand that it wasn’t easy for you when you found out they had given Sweetie your old room. But you can’t take out your feelings on a helpless animal,” I soothed with my usual hypocrisy.

  “You’re right.” He stuffed the tissue back in his pocket and quirked a smile
that informed me he had been kidding. “After all, if Mum can put up with Tobias, I can do my best to be hospitable.”

  “Now, just a minute! Tobias happens to live here. And residence provides certain privileges.”

  “Yes, sweetheart!” Ben kissed the tip of my nose. It didn’t matter that his husky voice was the result of some imagined allergy. I was a weak vessel, perhaps because I had eaten only one box of chocolates after lunch. When his lips came down on mine I felt my soul soaking up the sunshine, my split ends resealing, and my fingernails turning to pearl. The chandelier was spinning very nicely on its own axis when he turned me around and once more prodded me towards the stairs. “What you need, my sweet, is to cast your cares upon the waters.”

  “Anything you say.” I leaned dreamily against him.

  “Want me to join you”—I heard the smile in his voice—“just so I can do your back?”

  It was a moment as fragrant with promise as the pink flowers on the trestle table and as fragile as the vase in which they were arranged. Then a scream from somewhere above us shattered the moment and sent me spinning across the hall as Ben thrust me from him to grasp the banisters, preparatory to hurling himself up to the second floor.

  “Hold on, Mum! I’m coming,” he yelled.

  Before I could think, let alone move, there stood Mrs. Malloy, hands on her outraged hips. “Typical man,” she said indignantly. “All it takes is one scream from his mother, and he’s off.”

  Shame on her! The words had barely left her purple lips when I saw Mum race towards the stairs as if all the demons of hell were after her. What happened then was too quick to see, but somehow she lost her footing and, arms outstretched, pitched forward with a hair-raising scream. Sick with horror, unable to watch her vain attempts to save herself, I retreated into the darkness behind my closed lids and prayed that this day would go back where it came from.

  I don’t like to boast, but a well-ordered household can survive the occasional mishap. Death had unleashed its claws but, cheated of its prey, had slunk away empty-handed. The evening found us gathered in the drawing room, a merry little group if ever there was one. My hair was almost dry, and I had stopped worrying whether I had put liner on only one eye and if my frock would stay zipped were I to breathe and talk at the same time. Jonas was ensconced on one of the Queen Anne chairs, nose buried in his well-worn copy of A Tale of Two Cities. And Mum and Dad sat on one of the ivory sofas, a full cushion apart, as if told to face the camera and not move, while Ben prowled before the marble fireplace, the better to model his cranberry smoking jacket. Unfortunately it clashed horribly with his father’s fire-engine-red cardigan.