How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law

by Dorothy Cannell

  “I hope he’s feeling better.”

  “That depends on how you look at it,” she said mournfully. “There’s some I suppose as would say he’s on the mend from how he was yesterday, and others as would say he’s not as well as he was the day before that. You see what I’m getting at, Mrs. Haskell?”

  “Absolutely. And next time you see him, please give Mr. Watkins my best and tell him I hope to see him back doing windows.”

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes that’ll be anytime soon.” Mrs. Pickle stood with handbag in her hands and her Mother Hubbard shoes primly together. “But then again, I see as how Bill left his ladder up against the house here, so it could be he’s planning on being back this year rather than next. Roxie didn’t think he looked too bad when I was giving him the milk, along with a cup of sugar.”

  “That’s right,” I remembered, “Mrs. Malloy spent the night at your house. How is she?”

  “That’s hard to say, isn’t it?” Mrs. Pickle bestowed a slow smile on the twins, who were fighting over possession of a rattle shaped like a lollipop. “Roxie’s quite upset about the bust-up with your mother-in-law. Well, she would be, wouldn’t she? She’s fond of you and always has been. But she did brighten up enough to have a bit of a chin-wag with Bill Watkins. And afterwards she did say as how a change was as good as a rest, and if I would pitch in here until your mother-in-law leaves, she would be plenty grateful.”

  “That might work out very nicely.” Removing the rattle from the twins’ joint grasp, I placed it on a shelf out of jumping reach of Sweetie, who might mistake it for a bone as she had done St. Francis. Yes, I could see the method in Mrs. Malloy’s magnanimity. After a week or two of trying to adjust to Mrs. Pickle’s snail’s pace, I would find myself remembering my former employee with tears in my eyes and counting the seconds, let alone the minutes, till her return.

  Upon my urging, Mrs. Pickle removed her coat a slow button at a time; then she laboriously took off her hat which had done a nice job of covering her curlers, which—from the shiny-bright look of them—were her best ones. When I turned back from hanging the coat and hat in the alcove by the door, she was in the process of opening her handbag. In due course she produced what she called her “resoom.”

  “Oh, there’s no need for that!” Swooping the socks off the table, I tossed them back in the dryer and pulled out a chair for her. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea before showing you the house.”

  “I’d rather you looked at it, Mrs. Haskell, and I’ll put the kettle on. It shouldn’t take me above five minutes to find the cooker.”

  “This is very impressive.” Taking my seat, résumé in hand, I read off the list of current clients. There was Lady Kitty Pomeroy, Mrs. Eudora Spike, and a couple of other names I recognized. “Are you sure you can take me on?”

  “I can squeeze you in.” Mrs. Pickle laboriously filled the kettle and in so doing splashed water to the four walls as if pumping it from a well. “Roxie said as you’d be happy with the odd morning and, when all’s said and done, that works best for me, seeing as Lady Kitty asked me to go and give young Frizzy Taffer a bit of a hand for a week or two, but from the sound of it, she’ll take me when she can get me.”

  “That’s splendid,” I said, wondering what Frizzy thought about being saddled with household help.

  Mrs. Pickle brought my tea slopping over to the table. “What you should know in all fairness, Mrs. Haskell, is that different from Roxie, who’s made a big-time career for herself out of being a char, for me it’s just a job.”

  “There’s no shame in that,” I assured her.

  “My life’s work is wine-making, if you can see where I’m coming from.” Mrs. Pickle was in fact coming towards me with the sugar bowl. “Every penny I can lay me hands on, one way or another, goes into modernizing my equipment. Some people might call me a woman with a mission—to see my labels on bottles all over the country. Then there’s them as would put it different—that I’m trying to live down the shame of my great-great-gran being put in the stocks for being a witch and all, because she took her cat with her when she walked around the village with her clothes off.”

  “People can be very narrowminded,” I said.

  “You’ve never said a truer word.” Mrs. Pickle staggered over to the table with the milk jug as if crossing the line after finishing a race from Land’s End to John o’Groat’s. “There’s some as won’t touch my rhubarb wine, and I’ll admit straight off to you, Mrs. Haskell, that it is an acquired taste. Roxie said she’d sooner drink poison—you know how she is, but it’s the iron that makes it just the tonic when you’re run down or all to pieces with your nerves.”

  “The fact that your wines always win ribbons at the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête speaks for itself.” I was swallowing a sip of stone-cold tea when Jonas came stumping into the kitchen. His eyes met Mrs. Pickle’s and I noticed that her face seemed to lose some of its cushioning and that her knees had buckled. Oh help, I thought. With Mum in the house, we had the makings of the eternal triangle. Was there no peace for the wicked Ellie Haskell?

  Had I done the right thing in not vetoing Mrs. Pickle’s suggestion that Jonas show her around the house? While the twins sat on the floor talking to the suit of armour we call Rustus, I dithered about the hall with a fake duster in my hand and my legs at the ready to race upstairs if Jonas did no more than scream once. Luckily, the telephone on the trestle table rang and gave me something else to think about.

  “Hello, Ellie!” The voice belonged to Frizzy Taffer, and I was delighted to hear her sound so bubbly. “I wanted to tell you my hair has grown back to an attractive stubble. Tom says he likes it this way and that I’ll set a trend. Of course, in a place like Chitterton Fells it will take the women three years to catch on, and by then I will have gone back to my old mop.”

  “Tom’s a prize and so are you,” I told her. “Did you get home all right last night?”

  “Eudora Spike gave me and Pamela a lift. By a mercy, everyone was in bed when I got in, because I wouldn’t have fancied colliding with Tricks after spending the evening plotting to put her six foot under.”

  “We were wicked!” A soft padding sound caused me to look over my shoulder, but it was only Tobias Cat heading down the stairs.

  “Weren’t we?” Frizzy laughed merrily. “And I wanted to tell you it did me a world of good, so much so that I got up this morning determined to get on better with Tricks. I even came up with an idea that I think might help all of us—you, me, Pamela, and Eudora. What do you think about encouraging the mothers-in-law to make friends with one another? We could get them together for tea one afternoon and with a bit of luck they’ll find they have interests in common and start meeting on their own for coffee in the village once or twice a week. Who knows, they might start taking day trips together. And we’d get a bit of space.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea!” I stood twirling the telephone cord around my finger while keeping an eye on the twins, who were still talking to the tin man. “But there is one small problem.…”

  “I know,” said Frizzy, “your mother-in-law and mine are seriously not talking. But don’t you think it would be for the best if they patched things up?”

  “Mum’s very bitter,” I told her, “but I suppose I could try and persuade her to do this for me, as a very special favour. I’ll tell her I am living in daily fear of bungling my job as chairwoman of the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête, because the number of contestants planning to enter the homemaking events has dropped off since last year, and then I’ll ask for her help in organizing a get-together for interested parties.”

  “That could work.” I felt the warmth of Frizzy’s smile all the way down the phone.

  “Tricks mentioned when she came for dinner that she was entering the marrow-growing contest,” I continued, “so with luck I can make Mum see it would be impossible not to include her ex-friend in the invitation.”

  “Ellie, this is wonderful. And wouldn’
t it be even better if one or more of the women came away from the fête next month with a ribbon or two? Something like that would boost their self-confidence and put them back in touch with their own lives.”

  “You’re right.” I watched Tam edge towards the grandfather clock and make a grab for Tobias, who was hiding around the corner. “Tricks has her marrows, my mother-in-law crochets a mile a minute, Bridget Spike makes the most marvelous marmalade, and Lady Kitty is famous for her apple pie. Mrs. Malloy says you just eat a slice and you die happy.”

  “The trouble with her ladyship,” Frizzy said, “is that she is used to hosting the fête, not being a player.”

  “Then it will be up to Pamela to persuade her that she has been failing her subjects all these years by not setting the standard for a proper pastry crust to which the common woman should aspire. What do you think about my striking while the iron is hot and having the first tea party this afternoon?”

  “Do I have to come and help?”

  “Of course not, this is your afternoon off.”

  “What time do you want Tricks?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Should I send along her pajamas in case it turns into a slumber party?”

  “Good try, Frizzy!”

  I could picture her crooked smile. “I’d better get off the phone before Mrs. Smith next door phones the police. Ever since Dawn got her new radio, you can’t raise your voice above a whisper in this house without that woman banging on the wall.”

  “Heaven forbid I get you arrested,” I said, and after hanging up I immediately telephoned Eudora, who, if not bubbly, was very agreeable to the plan for getting the mothers-in-law together. Reaching Pamela promised to be a bit more ticklish. I had my doubts that Lady Kitty would permit anyone but herself to undertake the responsibility of handling the telephone; but as it turned out, Pamela answered almost before I finished dialing.

  “Allan”—her voice came in a breathless rush—“did you find a way to come up with the money?”

  I felt my face flush for both of us. “Sorry, Pamela. It’s me, Ellie Haskell.”

  “Oh, super!” She tried gallantly to sound pleased. “It seems ages since I saw you last night. Not that anything has changed here. Mumsie Kitty is being her usual beastly self, Bobsie Cat is talking about moving into the hollow tree down the lane, and I’m ready to do something desperate—like run off to Marks & Spencer and buy myself some new bras. That’s why when I thought you were Allan I started babbling about money.” Her voice trailed off, leaving an awkward pause which I filled with the image of her sad brown eyes and drooping ponytails.

  “I rang to ask if Lady Kitty would come for tea this afternoon at three o’clock.”

  “By herself?”

  “There’s a reason,” I said, and proceeded to explain all the well-conceived details of the mother-in-law campaign.

  “Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier to follow through with our original plans?”

  “Pamela, last night was great therapy but …”

  “I know.” Her laugh was as hollow as the tree where her father-in-law was considering taking up residence. “It’s just that you caught me in a really murderous mood.”

  “Don’t worry,” I soothed. “Things will work out, trust me, and in the meantime you get an afternoon’s respite if you can talk Lady Kitty into coming to my house for tea. Tell her it won’t be a fête accompli without her.”

  “If she does decide to enter the pie competition, she should win without question.” Pamela seemed to be growing more depressed by the minute. “You’d never think hands had touched her pastry, which is why I was so scared when Allan told me about her decision to choose a wife for him by way of a bake-off …”

  “But everything worked out,” I reminded her.

  “At a price.”

  I was searching for something to say, when Tam came across the hall at a racing toddle and slithered onto his bottom inches from my feet. Quickly making my excuses, I returned the telephone to its cradle and was about to pick up my son, when I saw Mrs. Pickle plodding down the stairs.

  “Did Jonas give you a good tour?”

  “We lost each other somewhere on the third floor.” She was panting heavily as she sidestepped Abbey, who was lying on her back, pretending to be a throw rug. “This is a big house, and I can see I’ll be using my broomstick more for getting around than cleaning. But that’s what I’m here for, when all’s said and done.” She dropped down on a tapestry bench, stretched out her legs in their heavy lisle stockings, and closed her eyes. “You’ve got a lot of dust catchers, Mrs. Haskell, but all of them lovely.”

  “Thank you.” I hoisted Tam higher in my arms and stroked his shiny copper hair.

  “Anything particular wants doing?”

  “Well”—I really hated to trouble her—“if it wouldn’t be too much bother, you might give the drawing room a dusting. I’m having a few people over for tea.”

  “Anyone I know?” Mrs. Pickle opened one eye.

  “Lady Kitty Pomeroy, Beatrix Taffer, and Reverend Spike’s mother-in-law, Bridget.” Feeling guilty in the face of her exhaustion, I added quickly, “It’s not just a social occasion; we will be discussing their entries for the homemaking events at the summer fête.”

  “That goes for your mother-in-law too?” Mrs. P. now had both eyes open.

  “She does the most wonderful crocheting.” I waved my free hand at the hundred and one doilies gracing the hall.

  “Sounds to me as how she’s going to be here for some time.”

  “It’s a strong possibility.” I remained determined to face facts.

  Poor Mrs. Pickle! Her face seemed to lose some of its cushioning as it turned a pale beige. That heartless Jonas! He must have told her that he had proposed to Mum and was anticipating a happy outcome. Men! I was tempted to wring his scrawny neck when I met him a few minutes later in the gallery upstairs, but he managed to get around me by offering to take the twins to his room for a game of peek-a-boo while I went and had a word with Mum.

  She was dressed in a brown frock that wouldn’t have done me for a sleeve, and it was clear to me our newfound relationship had taken a backwards turn, because she looked only moderately pleased at the interruption. Taking her cue, Sweetie poked her furry face out from under the bed to give me the evil eye. Mrs. Pickle could learn a thing or two from that dog.

  “I decided to stay up here out of the way when I realized you had company.” Mum kept right on rearranging her brush and comb on the dressing table.

  “That’s Mrs. Malloy’s replacement.” In my nervousness I almost committed the unforgivable error of straightening the reading-lamp shade. “She turned up uninvited and I simply wasn’t up to turning her away when I am half out of my mind with worry.”

  “If that’s a dig at me, Ellie”—Mum drew herself up so that she was almost as tall as the bedpost—“I can marry Jonas at once and get out of your hair. After all”—her eyes filmed with tears—“my dog does need a father.”

  Over Sweetie’s woofs of agreement or denial, I stammered, “It’s n-not y-you, Mum: I’m the problem. Why, oh, why did I ever agree to chair the summer fête when I am completely incapable of doing a decent job?” Sinking down on her bed, I buried my face in my hands. “Chitterton Fells isn’t like London. Word will spread like wildfire that I’ve made a hopeless bungle of my responsibilities and Ben—your one and only son—will be put in the horrible position of trying to defend me. Business at Abigail’s may even start to fall off, and then where will we be?”

  I refrained from adding Out on the streets, busking with Dad? because I had decided to keep quiet for the time being on my father-in-law’s current business venture. One hurdle at a time.

  “Far be it from me to make light of your problems, Ellie.” Mum’s voice had perked up, just as I hoped it would. “And never let it be said I’m one to boast, but if you want to know what stress is, you should try doing the bingo books for your church the way I have for Holy Mother
Mary’s all these years. I don’t suppose you believe me”—her sniff sounded somewhat perfunctory—“but if Father O’Grady were standing here now, he would tell you straight out that not once have I come up a penny short at the end of the year.”

  “I don’t know how you coped, what with the Legion of Mary, the Altar Guild, and all your other commitments.” I struggled valiantly off the bed. “Thanks for listening to my problems, Mum. Please say a prayer that I will muddle through and not make too big a botch of this afternoon’s tea.”

  “This afternoon’s what?”

  “It’s for women interested in entering the homemaking events at the fête—knitting, crocheting, gardening, baking—that sort of thing.”

  “Crocheting?” Mum’s ears pricked up.

  “It’s one of our most prestigious categories.” I stood, hesitating, with my hand on the doorknob. “This sounds awfully cheeky, but would you be willing to make some of your scones for this afternoon? Mine always turn out like rocks and—”

  “We can’t expect to be good at everything, Ellie.”

  “That’s a kind way of putting it,” I said humbly.

  “You have to concentrate on your good points.” Mum followed me out of the bedroom. “I’ve never liked to mention it before for fear you’d think I was trying to flatter you, but I have to say you do make a nice pot of tea.”

  To an Englishwoman there is no higher praise. Encouraged beyond my deserts, I said, “If you would help me make a success of this afternoon, I would be eternally grateful. But there is one problem I’ve been afraid to mention.…”

  “You don’t have any milk for the scones?”

  “Worse than that.” I took a deep breath. “Beatrix Taffer will probably show up and—”

  “I understand, Ellie.” Mum stopped dead in her tracks and assumed her martyr’s expression. “This is an official function which Bea has every right to attend. And never let it be said I expected you to slam the door in her face. I’ll make sure I keep out of the way when your guests arrive.”