“You’re absolutely right,” he said, sounding meek. “It’s just that Mrs. Large struck me as the kind of woman someone might murder one day. I’m sure Jonas thought about it when she broke that mirror of his.” Freddy paused and dropped his jaw in mock horror. “Crikey, coz! What if there is an investigation into her death? The police would be bound to question Jonas because he was on the spot the day she died. They’ll wheedle that business of the mirror out of him in no time. Do you think"—glancing around as if afraid the walls had ears—“we should encourage him to flee the country?”
I stood up with Tam in my arms. “Freddy, you are the absolute limit.”
“Thanks.” He tried to look modest. “But be honest, coz, don’t tell me it’s never crossed your mind that Mrs. Large was given the heave-ho into the next world.”
“Not for a second,” I lied. “Now let’s get back to Jonas; is he taking his afternoon nap?”
“He went upstairs right after lunch, but don’t go skipping off, Ellie.” Freddy trailed after me as I crossed the room to the door. “You haven’t finished telling me about the funeral. Were there gobs of flowers?”
I didn’t get to fulfill his curiosity because Ben came down the stairs two at a time, saying he really did need to get back to Abigail’s. Freddy, muttering that he liked to keep in with the boss, took Tam from me and carried him upstairs. Leaving me free to accompany my husband outside, where the skies remained murky and rain dripped off the trees.
“Couldn’t you take the rest of the day off?” I urged as we neared the car. “Better yet, couldn’t you—"
“Close the restaurant door, put up a ‘For Let’ sign, and walk away?” He turned and placed his hands on my shoulders, his eyes intent, although his mouth was relaxed, almost smiling. “Ellie, you know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I’d had this conversation before, several times in my mind, and I’d always agreed with everything I said. “We could get by. We’ve got it better than most people, not having a mortgage on the house. We’ve savings and Uncle Merlin’s legacy, and I’ll earn a bit here and there with the decorating. Clarice Whitcombe seems very keen for me to do work for her. And one thing always leads to another. So why shouldn’t you take a break? Not to loaf,” I said, reading his face, “I’m thinking more of your trying something different.”
“Such as?” He still wore that half smile.
“Well, not exactly different, just not the restaurant. I’ve been thinking ever since I found that notebook of Abigail’s in the attic that you might want to do something with it. Try out the formulas to make sure they work and then get them into shape for publication, the way you did with her recipe collection. Remember how excited we both were when we found the one for the unsinkable cheese soufflé?” I tugged on his coat sleeve. “Darling, this could be fun and you might even make us a lot of money.”
“Ellie, I can’t.” He took hold of my hands, drew them to his lips, and kissed the tips of my fingers. “I won’t walk away from the restaurant. Not to please the picketers. Not even to please you, my love. And things will turn around, just you wait and see.”
“I’m sure they will, but...”
“But what?”
“I don’t think you’re really in love with the business anymore. The excitement’s gone, it’s become . . . just a job.”
“So?” He looked up at the sky. “People don’t get to chop and change careers every time they hit a rough patch or begin to find the routine a grind. I’m supposed to be a grown-up. A family man. What worries you most, sweetheart?” he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Is it my being fed up with Abigail’s, or that I’m turning into a bit of a bore as a husband?”
I was about to respond fiercely, but studying his somber profile, decided a lighter approach might work better. “Well, now that you bring it up, darling, and if you’re sure it won’t hurt your feelings, I have to admit that when I meet a man like Joe—Leather Jacket—at the funeral, I do get to thinking that life could be a lot more interesting.”
Ben was smiling as he got into the car. Before he closed the door I bent down to kiss him.
“You’d better get back into the house,” he urged, with that light in his eyes I loved. “It’s about to pour.”
“I’m sure,” I said wistfully, keeping hold of the car door and kissing him again, “that Joe has at least a couple of tattoos and all of his important body parts pierced.”
“Ellie, go in before you get soaked” was Ben’s husbandly response as he started up the engine.
“You could at least get my name tattooed—”
“It already is, on my heart.” With that he drove away and I nipped smartly back into the house because my hair was already wet and my skirt and blouse damp.
Jonas and Freddy were at the kitchen table. The former still looked sleepy and the latter announced that he was starving, not having eaten a square meal since lunch. It was now only a little after three, but as it was one of my missions in life to fatten Jonas up and because I really did appreciate Freddy’s willingness to babysit, I got busy grilling sausages and tomatoes, frying a panful of chips, and rounding out the meal with heaping helpings of baked beans.
“An egg or two wouldn’t have gone amiss,” observed Freddy kindly when I set down the plates and went back for toast, butter, and marmalade, “but I’m glad you didn’t go all out, Ellie, when you’re in a rush to be off.”
“Off where?” I asked, pouring cups of tea and handing the first to Jonas. “I haven’t said anything about going out.”
“Oh, but I can see it in your eyes.” Fred extended a patient hand for his cup. “Always could read you like a book, dear coz. Comes from reading your diaries when we were children. So there’s no point in telling me you aren’t dying to zip along to Tall Chimneys and see how the Miller sisters survived the funeral.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” I replied, not quite truthfully. Actually, I hadn’t been thinking about Vienna or Madrid right then, but it had occurred to me during the service that I ought to pop in and see them.
Freddy sighed soulfully. “I wonder if they’ll take down the picture of the dog, the one you said was over the mantelpiece, and put up one of Mrs. Large instead.”
“There’s no way they could get all of that woman inside a frame,” growled Jonas, picking away at his food. “It would have to be one of them murals.”
Telling him that was no way to speak of the dead, I ignored his grunted reply that he’d never been a hypocrite and didn’t intend to start at his age. I collected an old raincoat from one of the hooks in the alcove and told Freddy that if he wanted me to go, he would have to stay and listen for the twins. Not that they were likely to wake up before I got back. They didn’t always take naps, but when they did, they were usually down for the count for a couple of hours.
It was gusty when I set out, but I didn’t see any point in driving the short distance to Tall Chimneys, especially in a convertible with a top that wouldn’t go up. I pulled a scarf from my raincoat pocket and tied it around my head. With the wind shoving me along, I broke into a trot and soon found myself at the Millers’ front door. It opened before I could ring the bell and Vienna ushered me inside, saying that she had just been on her way out to the shops.
“To get something tempting for Madrid’s tea,” she explained, tapping the woven raffia-type carrier bag strung over her arm. “The poor darling hasn’t been eating well since the day of the accident. And she is not what one could call robust at the best of times. Never has been—not since she lost Jessica.”
“It’s all very sad,” I said. Tall Chimneys was incapable of being a happy house. The staircase seemed to slink up the wall, squeezing itself into as narrow a space as possible, so that no one would notice that every one of its dark treads was eavesdropping on our conversation. The newly painted white walls should have helped, along with the strip of red carpet running down the hall, but they provided only a sense of false cheer. Luckily, Vienna did not appear t
o be a woman susceptible to atmosphere. She was wearing the same comfortable-looking suit she had worn at the funeral, but the hat now hung on the hall tree and I doubted that it would be worn again until somebody else died. Sensible haircut. Sensible shoes. All the dramatics must be left to her sister.
That was unkind of me and I tried to unthink the thought as Vienna shifted the carrier bag higher up her arm. My explanation that I had stopped by to see how things were going made me sound like a busybody, so I hastily added the hope that she and Madrid would come for tea one afternoon soon.
“You might like to talk to Jonas some more about the garden,” I added for good measure, “and very likely you would get to meet my cousin Freddy. He’s always popping in when he’s not at work, and then there are the children, if you don’t mind being bounced on by three-year-olds.”
“What a dear you are.” Vienna’s face showed real pleasure. “Madrid has been so worried that we’d find ourselves shunned after what happened. But that’s because she’s been blaming herself that we didn’t get to Mrs. Large sooner. I keep telling her the postmortem revealed the poor woman died instantly. But I can’t get Madrid to believe something might not have been done if we hadn’t both been so preoccupied. It’s no surprise we didn’t hear the crash when Mrs. Large and the ladder went down.”
“You both had a lot to do,” I responded, “getting ready to entertain people you hardly knew. When I’m in that situation a whole herd of elephants could come trumpeting through the house and I wouldn’t hear them.”
“There was something else.” Vienna seemed glad of the chance to talk frankly. “I should not have agreed to have the coffee on that particular morning. Foolishly, I thought it might help Madrid get through what is always an extremely hard day for her—the anniversary of Jessica’s death. But all it did was make things harder for her. She tried so bravely to help with the preparations, but she was in tears half the time, and just before you arrived, she had dropped a plate of scones. Which meant that we had to rush and make up another batch. All in all, it was extremely trying for her.”
“And you’re blaming yourself,” I said, understanding because I was very good at doing the same thing. “But you mustn’t, Vienna. If not for the accident, the coffee morning might have succeeded in cheering up Madrid just as you hoped.”
Vienna shook her head. “If only, and I know this sounds awful, Mrs. Large had died on any other day of the year, then I really think Madrid could have coped better. As it is, I’m amazed she was able to go to the funeral at all. I tried to discourage her, but she was so afraid people would talk if she didn’t show up. But perhaps . . .” Vienna paused and looked at me questioningly.
“Yes?” I said, eager to be of any help.
“Perhaps if you were to go in and have a word with Madrid—she’s on the sofa in the sitting room. It would let her know there are people besides her fussy old sister who care how’s she doing.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
“I would certainly feel happier going down to the shops, knowing that someone was with her. Of course, I’ll hurry back. Do you mind if I just slip away now without even getting you a cup of tea?”
“Off you go.” I opened the front door for her. “And don’t worry, I’m in no great rush to get home.”
“You’re sure?” Vienna fumbled in her bag for her key. She unearthed bundles of stuff—tissues, a coin purse, an address book—but no key. She said, as she stuffed everything back, that it didn’t matter because there was always the one hidden under a flowerpot by the back door. A fact that I hoped she didn’t relate casually to all and sundry. That was the trouble with frank people such as Vienna; they were sometimes too trusting.
I tapped on the sitting-room door before poking my head around the corner and announcing myself. The curtains were drawn against the rain, the lights were on, although turned down low and a fire burned in the grate. Madrid was stretched out on the sofa, her head supported by a couple of plump cushions, and a large book lay across her middle. Parting her screen of hair and tucking it behind her ears, she squinted up at me through her glasses.
“Hello,” she said in a neutral voice, watching me cross the room to her side. “I thought I heard voices in the hall, but everything gets a bit vague when I’m having one of my low spells. Where’s Vienna?”
“She went down to the shops,” I explained, “to fetch you something for your tea.”
“Yes, I haven’t been feeling very well.” It’s not easy to look wan and piteous when one is moonfaced and has jowls, but Madrid somehow managed it. I even thought I caught a glimpse of the very pretty girl she must have been once upon a time, before sorrow claimed her for its own.
“Vienna told me you haven’t been up to snuff.” I tried to strike the right note between sympathy and an attempt at raising her spirits. “You’ve both been through a lot, haven’t you?”
“My sister is tremendously strong. Of course she’s gone through the change and they say the male hormones kick in at that time. But she’s always been a rock.” Madrid started to heave herself up, thought better of the idea, and sank back against her cushions. “It’s her being the eldest and our parents dying when we were quite young that makes her that way. I’m Vienna’s entire life. But I do try not to be a burden. Would you mind”--waving a languid hand—”putting another log on the fire? And could you perhaps fetch my shawl from that chair?” She valiantly lifted her head. “The one over by the door.”
“It’s very pretty,” I said after seeing to the fire and handing her the shawl, which she proceeded to arrange bunchily around her shoulders. It was made out of string and looked like an extremely large dishcloth. “Did Vienna make it for you?”
“No, I did it years ago, when everyone was doing macramé.” Madrid rested her hands on the open book lying across her middle. “I was very arty when I was young. That’s how I came to know the artist who painted Jessica’s portrait.” She tilted her head to look above the mantelpiece. “He—Raimondo Genovese—was mostly known for his sculptures.” She bit down on her lip and removed her glasses to wipe them with the shawl. “But as you can see he was a gifted painter. Of course Jessica was an artist’s dream. She would pose happily for hours, just so long as she could see me out the corner of her eye. Raimondo let us have his sketches of her. They’re all over the house. And we have hundreds of photos. I’ve been looking through this album.” She lifted the book and held it out to me. “My darling Jessica had that wonderful affinity with the camera that the great fashion models all seem to have. She knew instinctively how to project her innermost self, with just a tilt of her dear little head. Precious angel!”
Silence settled on the room, relieved only by the faint ticking of the clock and an occasional crackle of the fire. Madrid then asked wistfully if I would like to see the album for myself. So I drew up a chair and settled down to admire Jessica in dozens of poses and myriad settings.
“Here she is the day we took her to Madam Tussaud’s.” Madrid pointed her finger proudly. “But she wouldn’t go in.”
“Do they allow dogs?”
“I don’t know, but the poor little darling started to shake when Vienna mentioned the Chamber of Horrors, so we took her for an ice cream instead. Strawberry was always her favorite, and after that we took her to have her nails done at a wonderful little doggy spa in Soho.”
Madrid continued turning the album pages slowly. There were photos of Jessica at the seaside, photos of her reclining on sofas and chairs draped in a shawl that was smaller, but otherwise identical to the one Madrid was now wearing. There were photos of her being paraded in shows and photos of her sipping from a champagne glass. And here we had Jessica stepping daintily into a taxi on the way to meet her betrothed, the Baron Von Woofer, for the first time.
“She was so happy. I’m sure for her it was love at first sight.” Madrid’s voice broke and she snapped the book shut. “But his feelings couldn’t have gone that deep, or he would at least have observed a proper mourning
period after her death,” she continued with great bitterness. “Instead, what did the lusty Baron Von Woofer do but hook up with that rump-twitching minx, Elizabetta Dancefoot. Little slut. Not a decent championship to her name. The sort of bitch who would give herself to any dog for a biscuit.”
It was at that moment that it occurred to me that Madrid Miller wasn’t just odd, she was completely potty. She couldn’t help it, and there are people with far worse fixations, but I found myself eager to get away before I put my foot in my mouth. Unfortunately the tongue is oftentimes faster than the foot.
“Did any of Jessica’s orphan puppies turn into champions?” I asked. Madrid’s expression grew even more sullen.
“I don’t know. What a question, I can never stand talking about them. It was bad enough that Vienna insisted on keeping a couple of them. Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice mellowed and she reached out to squeeze my hand. “I shouldn’t have snapped—it’s ungrateful when you’re being so kind. It’s just that my nerves are in such a state. Perhaps if I could have a glass of brandy. I’m sure there’s a bottle in the pantry. Would you mind?”
“Not a bit.” I was on my feet and at the door before she had finished speaking.
“You know where the kitchen is, and while you’re there, you could take a peek in the study—some of the best sketches of Jessica are hanging there.”
After agreeing with what I hoped amounted to appropriate enthusiasm I escaped into the hall. I had no desire to see anyone’s etchings of the late lamented Jessica. But I did pause to peer around the study door, forcing myself to look inside in hopes of laying Mrs. Large’s ghost to rest. What a depressing room it was, even without a body taking up half the floor. I hadn’t done myself an ounce of good, because memory had lost none of its brutal clarity. I could see it all again: the overturned ladder, Mrs. Large’s look of slack-jawed bewilderment, the feather duster in her hand, the dustpan and ashes on the floor.
I practically fled down the hall as if at least six ghosts were chasing me. After fumbling for the kitchen light switch, I blundered across the room. The pantry was a few feet from the back door, a small square of walk-in space; there was a marble shelf with almost all the polish gone, and rows of yellowed white wooden ones ranged up the walls to the high ceiling. The tiny window six feet above my head was festooned with cobwebs and there was no light. But there was food. Boxes and jars lined all the shelves within reach, and yes, there it was—the brandy bottle. I had my hand around it when the door slammed shut on me.
The Spring Cleaning Murders Page 10
