“Now my turn!” Pamela pressed her hands together in prayer. “Someone please tell me how to do Mumsie Kitty in.”
“How about grinding up the thermometer and putting the glass in her food?” Frizzy signaled for another gin.
“That wouldn’t work.” Pamela’s ponytails drooped on her shoulders. “The woman has insides of steel.”
“What about the bicycle, the one she told you not to take tonight because it was only lent?” This from Eudora, making a noble effort to be one of the gang. “You could fiddle with the brakes and let a steep hill do the rest.”
“Oh, happy day!” Pamela recovered her bounce. “What a super payback for all the times Mumsie Kitty has given with one hand and taken back with the other. I would have to hide her new bicycle to make sure she took the old crock when setting off on one of her lady-of-the-manor visits.… But what’s a little extra effort in such a good cause? I’ll even give her back the nightie she gave me so she will have something pretty to wear when they lay her out.”
“If she got flattened by a steamroller, they could put her in a pajama bag and be done with it.” Mrs. Malloy dabbed at her eyes, then generously gave us another round. “This conversation is breaking me heart, but then, I always was a softie.”
“My turn!” Frizzy, giddy with alcohol or the opportunity to work off her anger, brought the meeting back to order by banging her glass on the table in lieu of a gavel. “Someone please tell me how to do away with Tricks.”
“That’s easy.” I was ready and eager for this one. “She cooked her own goose—or should I say goldfish?—when she put the Nake-It in the shampoo bottle. You are a walking testament to her ability to make royal blunders. Meaning no one would suspect you, Frizzy, if you put poison in her food or drink.”
“What sort of poison?” Frizzy did not look overwhelmed by my brilliance. “I don’t think chemists are keen on selling you half a pound of arsenic these days.”
“You could use weed killer,” Eudora suggested. “I remember reading some time ago of a woman who died, according to her husband, of an accidental overdose of the stuff.”
“A case of reckless herbicide.” Pamela covered her mouth to restrain a giggle.
“I don’t want to be a wet blanket,” Frizzy said, “but wouldn’t it taste nasty?”
“No problem,” I told her. “Tricks mentioned at dinner last night that she supplements her diet with a health tonic. All you would have to do is tell her that you had found a better one, and not to be put off by the taste, because it is guaranteed to take twenty years off one’s age in twenty minutes.”
“She would go for that, all right!” A smile spread over Frizzy’s face, but before she could fall all over me with thanks, Mrs. Malloy stuck in her oar.
“Very nice, I’m sure! But I can’t stand here all day, sending me customers away with a flea in the ear, waiting for you lot to get to the juicy part.”
“She means my mother-in-law,” I translated.
“Now, don’t go thinking you have to go all out on my account, Mrs. H.,” came the magnanimous rejoinder. “Just because the woman gave me the sack the moment your back was turned don’t mean I want her to suffer a lingering death. Something quick and easy would suit me down to ground. Nothing with too much blood, if it’s all the same with you. I don’t want to be swabbing floors till kingdom come when I return to me old job.”
“Would you care to be so bold as to suggest a means to her end?” I inquired sweetly, if somewhat sloppily. The alcohol was making my head spin.
“Well, if that don’t warm me cockles.” Mrs. Malloy folded her purple lips and assumed a pensive mein. “We can’t push her off the balcony where she had Bill Watkins trapped all afternoon; that would be too much of a muchness after her close call on the stairs last night. And we can’t feed her funny mushrooms—that wouldn’t look too good for you, Mrs. H., after that business with the chocolate that wasn’t proper chocolate in the pud.”
Eudora, Frizzy, and Pamela all looked at me with slightly startled expressions.
“A pity, but there it is.” A sorry shake of the head from Mrs. Malloy. “You haven’t painted a pretty picture of yourself, Mrs. H., so you’ll have to be extra cunning if you hope to get away with finishing off the job.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I fumed. “This is just a game.”
“Of course it is,” she soothed, “and I think I’ve got the answer, ducks! Think about it, Mrs. H.—from the moment you invited your in-laws to come and visit, you was all of a panic, dusting and polishing and alphabetizing the towels by colour in the airing cupboard, all for fear she would go nosing about, sniffing out cobwebs and the like. So what I say is—”
“She’s right,” I informed the others. “I wouldn’t put it past Mum to climb on the roof and check under the tiles for dust. She accused me of looking exhausted when she and Dad arrived. And she was right. Every time she comes, it’s the same. I bolt up in bed at night in a cold sweat, remembering something I’ve missed.”
“What a strain,” sympathized Eudora.
“Oh, no!” I clapped a hand to my mouth. “The tall dresser in her bedroom! I never got around to giving it a dusting. Did you, Mrs. Malloy?”
“No good looking at me with them puppy dog eyes, Mrs. H.! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, I wouldn’t touch that Tower of Babel with a barge pole let alone me feather duster. Just let anyone look at it cross-eyed and down it would come; and that brings me back to what I was saying before you went and interrupted. All you’d have to do is empty out the bottom drawers and load up the ones high up so as to make it nice and top-heavy and Bob’s your uncle. Unless your ma-in-law wanted to drag a stepladder upstairs, the only way to get a good peek at the top of that dresser would be to climb from a chair onto the middle ledge. Something that wouldn’t be all that safe at the best of times. Well, ladies, what do you think?”
“Super,” enthused Pamela.
Eudora looked deeply reflective.
“It brings to mind the practice of crushing to death religious dissidents during the Reformation.”
Frizzy—as a result of this tidbit of information or the booze catching up with her—swayed silently in her seat.
“There you are.” Mrs. Malloy’s taffeta bosom swelled with pride. “What’s good for the history books is more than good enough for the likes of us, Mrs. H.; think of it this way—your ma-in-law likes nothing better than to be a bloody martyr.”
“You have a point,” I said, a trifle flatly. I felt a little tired, which I often find puts a crimp on maintaining a high level of anger or resentment. No longer could I remember with burning clarity every word, look, and gesture that Mum had used to drive me around the bend. Oh, I hadn’t forgotten that she had sacked Mrs. Malloy, burned my library book, accused me of driving her dog to attempted suicide, won Jonas over to her side, and capped off all these misdemeanours by instigating a quarrel between me and my one and only husband. But what must also be remembered was that she had been suffering undue stress.
Whatever, the thought of Mum lying pop-eyed under that dresser, waiting to be scraped off the floor with a spatula and flipped over like a pancake, was enough to put me off gin and tonics for life, to say nothing of murder. That having been said, I felt the need for my friends to like me and think me a good sport. Tying on a bright smile, I said, “We’ve certainly written a new chapter in the life and crimes of Chitterton Fells.”
“I suppose we have.” Frizzy managed to sit up straight by dint of holding on to the table. “But if we weren’t playing Let’s Pretend and really and truly had to get down to the business of murdering our mothers-in-law, I think we’d all be shaking in our boots.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Pamela stared down at the coasters she was stacking into a little mound. “So maybe the thing to do would be to take the coward’s way out and hire a hit man.”
“And where would we find such a person? I don’t imagine they’re to be found queuing up at th
e unemployment office.” Eudora’s face seemed to plump up as she smiled so that she looked like her old self. For her, the homicidal therapy appeared to have produced benefits.
“Speak of coincidences.” I was back in the game, playing conspirator for all I was worth. “Who should be staying in the rooms above the stable at Merlin’s Court but Mr. Peter Savage, a self-described vagrant, who only this evening proclaimed his appreciation for my hospitality by vowing he would gladly kill for me.” To have added that said person had been speaking about the slaying of dragons, not the human animal, would have spoiled the effect. So, too, would the said gentleman’s arrival on the scene. But, fortunately for me, his rock-and-roll session with Dad was running long.
“Mr. Savage!” Pamela knocked over her coasters in her excitement. “I can see him ever so clearly in my mind! He has long hair, a grungy beard, possibly a tattoo, and definitely an earring—a silver one in the shape of a skull.”
Amazing! We had been looking for someone to read tea leaves at the St. Anselm’s fair, and it would seem we had found her. So what if she had missed Mr. Savage by a mile? Pamela had described my cousin Freddy to a T, and I was about to tell her so, when the door of the saloon bar burst open as if kicked in by the spurred boot of a gun-toting bad guy in a B western and in strode my own personal black-browed villain.
“Ellie!” Ben roared in a voice that—the bar sinister be damned—proclaimed him once and always his father’s son. His eyes roved the cowering occupants of the room before lighting on my lily-white face. In two fell strides he reached me, and before I could bleat “Don’t you dare!” the blackguard swooped me up in his arms of steel and headed for the door.
The only one to utter a protest was Mrs. Malloy. Her voice came at us like a shot in the back. “I’ll have you know, Mr. H., this is a respectable establishment, but if you must make off with a defenseless female, take me!”
Talk about a rude awakening! I dragged open my eyes in the grim light of predawn, when the pheasants on the wallpaper still had their heads tucked under their wings and the mantelpiece clock was still a merciful blur, to see Ben up on one elbow, his handsome face looming over me.
“I adore you, sweetheart,” he whispered huskily.
“That’s nice.” I moved to turn over, but it would have taken a mattress rammed down the man’s throat to shut him up.
“I feel a responsibility to show you how desperately I love you and how sorry I am for not being more supportive over your difficulties with Mum.”
“Your silk pajamas speak louder than words.” I patted his face with a sleepy hand.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” His breath buzzed about me like a worrisome fly. “How about a cup of tea or some eggs Benedict?”
“No thank you.” I ducked under the sheet. “If I diet while I sleep, I can eat pretty much what I like during the day.”
“Whatever you say, my darling.” He picked up my hand, thereby preventing me from clobbering him with it, and worked his way from pinky to thumb, bestowing a trail on it of itsy-bitsy kisses. Driven to frenzy, I sat up with a flurry of bedclothes. But instead of faltering under the blast from my fiery orbs, Ben said with a sweet, sad smile, “Would you like me to read you a poem?”
As he reached for The Oxford Book of Verse on the bedside table, I warded him off with both hands. “Do me a favour, Ben, go into the bathroom, close the door, and recite ‘Ode to a Chinese Chamber Pot’ to your heart’s delight. I am going back to sleep!”
Flinging myself back down, I closed my eyes and wallowed for a few moments in glorious silence. Then the ugly truth crept behind my lids. Ben had scared off the sandman, and no amount of tossing and turning would bring him back. I was groggy from broken sleep, irritable with exhaustion, but undeniably awake.
I sat back up. “Are you satisfied? In the morning I will be putting nappies on the twins’ heads and the envelope with the gas bill into the toaster.”
“You’re still angry with me for the way I acted.” Combing his fingers through his ebony hair, Ben leaned back on the pillow and studied the ceiling as if seeking answers to winning me back.
“I am not angry,” I told him angrily. “Didn’t I prove, exhaustively, when we got back last night that all was forgiven?”
“My darling, you did everything a woman could do.”
“Think about it. Did I say one word about your kidnapping me from the Dark Horse? Did I make an issue about your leaving poor Mr. Savage stranded? True enough, we left the Heinz parked right there by the curb, but the keys to it were parked in my raincoat pocket.”
“Ellie.” Ben gathered me into his arms, his laughter tickling my cheek. “Don’t worry about him, Dad will have let him stay the night.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I conceded grudgingly. “And we can always hope that the experience of sharing a single bed with a member of the hairy-kneed sex will bring your father to his senses.”
“I hope so.” Releasing me gently, Ben flopped back down and pressed a hand over his eyes as if trying to block out more than the light stippling the furniture and ceiling. “But by the time he comes crawling back to Mum, it could be too late.”
“Don’t be a pessimist.” All irritation gone, I snuggled up close.
Ben sighed. “There’s something I haven’t told you, Ellie.”
“Oh?”
“After you left last night, Jonas and Mum went off to the sitting room alone, and when they came out …”
“Go on.” My heart was suddenly beating like a drum.
“Mum took me aside. She told me Jonas had asked her to marry him.”
“No!” I almost fell through the bed.
“Ellie, I couldn’t believe I was hearing correctly when she said she was considering accepting his proposal.”
“In heaven’s name, why?”
“They’re both on their own and she thinks she can make something of him.”
“He’s over seventy! Does she really think she can get him to join the army or take night classes to become a stockbroker or”—I chewed on a finger—“join the Catholic Church?”
Ben shuddered. “He’s getting her on the rebound. And I suppose if I were any sort of son, I would go after him with a horsewhip.”
“Hush!” I silenced him with a kiss. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face that Jonas came up with this ploy as a means of getting your parents back together. And you can’t blame Mum for wanting to make Dad jealous.”
“You’re right.” Ben sounded as if he could have kicked himself for his stupidity. “I don’t know why you are being so nice to me, Ellie.”
“Niceness is seditious,” I said. “One kind word leads to another and becomes a vicious circle.”
“I shouldn’t have let you leave last night.”
“My being gone gave us both a chance to cool off. And Dad did need his suitcase.”
“I’m glad you met up with your friends.” Ben kissed first one eyebrow, then the other. “Did you have a good chat?”
“Oh, the usual stuff.”
“What, knitting patterns and that sort of thing?” My love spoke with mounting affection and hopefully took the pounding of my heart for wifely reciprocation. It was silly to feel guilty about what had occurred, but I felt like Judas when I planted a kiss on Ben’s lips. “Did your mother say anything about my abrupt departure?”
“She didn’t get the chance. I did all the talking, Ellie, and I think she got the message that this is your house and she is to stop taking over and sacking the help.”
“There’s only Jonas left and, if we are to make his efforts pay off, I suggest you see your father, sow the seeds of jealousy, and do your best to make them sprout.”
“Easy said as done, sweetheart! I’ll let slip that Jonas has taken up weight-lifting and is thinking of dyeing his hair.”
“Is he?” I was seized by unreasonable alarm.
“Of course not!” Ben switched position with breathless haste so that his eyes—blazing into min
e—became a kaleidoscope of shifting blues and greens. The fictional Sir Edward had nothing on my husband when it came to grand passion, and I soon realized without too much regret that we had taken the subject of his parents to its natural conclusion.
“Darling,” I heard myself say, “if you kept a harem, would I be your favourite wife?”
Afterwards took its own sweet time coming, but eventually the room came back from fade-out and we lay holding hands until Ben drifted back to sleep and I started thinking about Mum alone in her tower bedroom. Surprisingly I didn’t focus on whether she had been roused from her slumbers but on the possibility that the lofty chest of drawers would come crashing down if she did decide to scale its narrow ledge to check along the top for dust. A case of my conscience getting the better of my common sense; but as I thumped my pillow and turned over, I did wonder if Eudora, Frizzy, and Pamela were embarrassed by what we had talked about at the Dark Horse. Oh, for heaven’s sake! I burrowed deeper under the bedclothes. Our behaviour might have been immature, but so long as our mothers-in-law never got wind of it, where was the harm?
Daylight banished any lingering unease. By the time I had taken my bath, put on a maidenly print frock, and rescued my young from the imprisonment of their cots, I was eager to make a fresh start with Mum. Having completed his morning makeover, Ben met up with me on the landing to take Tam, sporting a sailor suit, from my arms. Off father and son sallied to conquer the kitchen, where Abbey and I soon joined them.
The chairs stood four-square around the table; the plates and bowls stood to attention on the Welsh dresser. From the window I could see Jonas working in the garden. Everything and everyone was in its rightful place … except Mum. I was surprised not to find her at the sink, dismantling the taps in order to give the washers a polish.
How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law Page 16
