How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams (26 page)

“It does seem odd getting here before the brigadier,” Mrs. Dovedale remarked as we reached the top of the stairs and crossed the strip of Persian carpet into the reading room. “He’s always such a sport about seeing everything,
including the coffee, is ready by the time the rest of us arrive. I do hope he’s all right. His landlady mentioned he’d looked a bit off-colour when she saw him this afternoon.”

“Well, it wasn’t anything he’d eaten at Abigail’s,” I said jokingly as I stepped over Heathcliff, who had abruptly lain down without a woof as if we were hiding out from the Nazis and our lives depended on his silence. “I saw him there with Lionel Wiseman at lunchtime, but the wait for a table was too long and they went somewhere else. Maybe that’s him now,” I said as footsteps mounted the stairs and the dog came to life with a swish of the tail. But it wasn’t Brigadier Lester-Smith.

The person who joined us in the paneled room was the hale and hearty Sir Robert Pomeroy. By the time I had introduced him to Mrs. Swabucher, Heathcliff had nosed his way behind the cupboard containing the coffee supplies and Bunty Wiseman had joined us.

“I can’t believe this!” Her blond curls were tousled as if she had just raced out of the shower and her eyes sparkled with impish delight as she stood surveying us, her hands on the hips of her ultra-tight jeans. “
Karisma
is going to be here in living colour! I tell you I’m a basket case. Will he fall in love with me on sight and ravish me on the spot, do you think? My mother always told me to put on clean underwear on the chance I ever found myself in that sort of emergency, but up until now I’ve never got back what I spent on soap powder and fabric softener.” Bunty batted her eyes, moistened her lips, and pranced on tiptoe around the table, where Mrs. Dovedale and Sir Robert were setting out the coffee cups, to extend her hand to Mrs. Swabucher.

“I’m the ex Mrs. Wiseman and you must be the woman behind the incredible hunk, pleased to meet you. Crikey, what a gorgeous feather boa! Don’t leave it lying around or I could be tempted to steal it to remind myself of the one I used to wear doing striptease before I hooked up with Li.”

“You can borrow it anytime, dear.”

“We were just talking about Lionel,” I broke in. “I saw him and the brigadier at Abigail’s today and he made a point of asking about you, Bunty.”

“Well, bully for him.” The eyes flashed but her mouth had softened. “How did he look?”

“Handsome as always.”

“Not riddled with remorse?”

“He seemed a bit down,” I said, aware the coffee was cooling in the cups and Mrs. Swabucher must have been eager to get on with the meeting—with or without Mr. Poucher. Neither he nor Brigadier Lester-Smith had yet arrived.

“But you wouldn’t describe Li as racked with regret?” Bunty’s lips hardened. “Oh, never mind! The man ditches me for the church organist, and because that little fling didn’t work out he thinks he’ll pick up where he left off with me! Like bloody hell he will! The world’s a stage and every bloke a player. I’m getting on with my life.”

“Speaking about getting a move on,” I said, “perhaps we should conclude that the brigadier and Mr. Poucher aren’t able to join us and have Sir Robert call the meeting to order.” Upon glancing down the length of the table, I beheld our peerless peer engaged in a discussion with Mrs. Dovedale which, despite its being about who of the group took sugar, was as intimate as an embrace. It took several repetitions of their names for me to bring them back to their surroundings.

Watching nice Mrs. Dovedale try to hide her blushing confusion by rearranging the spoons on the saucers, I wondered if, now that she and Sir Robert were both conveniently widowed, they would be able to forget their different stations in life and act upon the thwarted passion of their youth. Or was it, as seemed to be the case with the Wisemans, too late for second chances?

“What! What! Am I wanted on the bridge?” Sir Robert blew out his ruddy cheeks, patted the dome of his waistcoat, and assumed his chair. “Bloody bad show, this business of Sylvia Babcock’s husband,” he said as the rest of us seated ourselves. “Getting past a joke, all this dropping dead. First Miss Bunch, and now this milkman chap. A drain on the old cash box, that’s what it is, but I suppose we’ll have to send a wreath.”

“I hadn’t noticed that Sylvia wasn’t here,” said Bunty. “She’s not exactly the life and soul of the group, is she?
But gosh, she hasn’t been married a month. When did all this happen?”

By now I should have had the story down pat. But fifteen minutes ticked away, partly due to asides from Mrs. Swabucher that included her late lamented husband, before I finished delivering all the details of that afternoon’s tragedy. And when I’d concluded, no one mentioned Hector Rigglesworth or indicated he was in their thoughts by indulging in a convulsive shiver. None too soon we were ready to get down to the serious business of planning Karisma’s appearance at the memorial benefit.

“Rather short notice, what! what!” Sir Robert took the lead with this assessment and in so doing ruffled Mrs. Swabucher’s pink feathers.

“I’m afraid that can’t be helped. As I explained to Giselle while we were having lunch, it was a miracle that Karisma had this one weekend free.”

“Lucky us!” Bunty beamed. “Yesterday he wasn’t coming. Now we are counting the hours until he arrives. Anyone would think someone had pulled a few strings.” She gurgled a laugh. “Like Ellie, for instance, had the inside track.”

Mrs. Swabucher ignored my beseeching eyes. “As a matter of fact I met Giselle and dear Bentley some years ago in London and I knew they had come down here to live at Merlin’s Court. So when my secretary told me she had taken a phone call from a Mrs. Haskell at the Chitterton Fells library, asking if Karisma could do a benefit, I immediately rearranged our schedule to help out a very special young lady.”

How neatly explained. What did it matter that Mrs. Swabucher hadn’t mentioned the attraction of Merlin’s Court as a photographic background for Karisma? I didn’t mind her coming off like a philanthropist. She had protected my good name and earned me the gratitude of my fellow Library League members.

“So, Ellie, we owe this golden opportunity to you.” Mrs. Dovedale came around the table to reward me with a refill of coffee. “In years to come, when people hereabout talk about Miss Bunch’s memorial benefit, your name will be upon everyone’s lips.”

“Thank you,” I said, particularly appreciative of the
hot beverage because the room had grown chilly, a sign that evening had made more headway than could be said of our well-intentioned but dilatory little group. Catching my eye, Sir Robert blew out his moustache and proceeded to make several excellent suggestions for getting word out on the double in hopes of bringing the crowds out in force to pay five pounds apiece for the pleasure of meeting Karisma.

Sir Robert would personally phone the radio station and also arrange for an announcement to appear in tomorrow’s evening edition of
The Tittle Tattle
. “And if it wasn’t asking too much, what! what!” Here tender glances were exchanged; he hoped Mrs. Dovedale would put up a notice advertising the event in her grocery shop window.

“I will gladly.” His reward was a heartfelt smile.

“And if Gladstone Spike would do up a flyer”—Bunty was bubbling with enthusiasm—“and give me a list of St. Anselm’s parishioners, I’d be pleased to deliver them. We want to make him feel part of this, don’t we?” Perhaps she had forgotten that Gladstone had not been in favour of inviting Karisma to participate in our benefit, and I didn’t feel it would be right to mention the man might have more pressing concerns on his mind. Instead, I offered to have Ben put a notice in Abigail’s window and to ask my hairdresser to do likewise. And I might even have come up with some other brilliant ideas if Mr. Poucher hadn’t broken my train of thought by coming into the room.

“Ha!” He stood at the end of the table, rubbing his hands together and looking, as Mrs. Malloy would have said, like a wet week of Mondays. “I’m not late, can’t be, if the brigadier’s not here. And don’t suppose I’ve missed much anyway—just a lot of jawing about nothing much to the purpose.” His gloomy eyes seized upon Mrs. Swabucher as the cause of his being dragged away from home. “My mother had one of her queer turns and it took forever to get her off to sleep, even after I doctored her milk. Blast the woman, she’ll still be alive and kicking in the morning. And from what I hear tell, that’s something Sylvia Babcock’s husband won’t be doing.”

I had forgotten all about Heathcliff. Having retreated behind the coffee cupboard, he hadn’t made a sound until now, when—his master’s name invoked—he came bolting
out of the shadows in a black, hairy rush. I will say this for him: He did remember that libraries frown on raised voices. But in keeping his woofs to a minimum, his pent-up energy found release in knocking Mr. Poucher down like a skittle and sitting on his chest.

“Nice doggy!” Mrs. Dovedale tried to coax him away with a ginger biscuit. “He turned up here tonight just after Ellie and I arrived, and we couldn’t bring ourselves to turn him out into the streets.”

“You always had a heart of gold.” Sir Robert’s voice was muffled by emotion, and in hopes that he might be moved to offer the orphan a home, I started to explain Heathcliff’s sad history. Obviously I did a heartrendingly good job, because Mr. Poucher, still flat out on the floor, made the startling announcement that
he
would take the animal.

“He won’t be the first to chew my ear off,” he said, patting the furry weight on his chest, “and what’s more, he won’t want to marry me, so Mother shouldn’t have any objection to me bringing him home. Off you get, boy; we’ll borrow the coffeepot cord for tonight and tomorrow I’ll get you a proper lead.”

“Does this mean the meeting’s over?” Mrs. Swabucher whispered in my ear as the rest of the group gathered around the new pet owner, offering tips on feeding, playtime, and the advantages of regular walks.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “As a rule the brigadier makes a motion to conclude and someone seconds it, but with him not here, we haven’t been sticking to the bylaws.”

And in the scheme of things I don’t suppose it mattered much. While Mrs. Dovedale was assisting Mr. Poucher in knotting the makeshift lead to Heathcliff’s collar, she promised to deliver several caseloads of soft drinks and fancy cakes to the library on Sunday morning. Noticeably moved, Sir Robert gallantly offered to provide paper serviettes, cups, and plates. Bunty said she would help where needed and, as she suspected the dragon at the desk would not take kindly to sticky fingers and cake crumbs, wouldn’t it be best to serve the eats and drinky-poos up here? Finally it was left to Mr. Poucher to ask the all-important question.

“Is anyone going to tell us what time this jolly roundup starts?”

Mrs. Swabucher and I looked at each other and said with one voice: “Two o’clock.” Almost everyone agreed that this would sandwich in well between mealtimes, and within seconds the room began to thin out. Heathcliff set things in motion by lifting his leg against the table and his new master led him away with promises of stopping at every streetlight on the walk home. They were followed by Sir Robert and Mrs. Dovedale, Bunty only a few steps behind them. An equally speedy exit seemed to be in store for myself and Mrs. Swabucher, until I realized that in the process of making major decisions no one had thought to empty the coffeepot, or wash up the cups and saucers.

Oh, well! The two of us buckled down to business and within five minutes the table was cleared and I was emerging from the cubbyhole-size kitchen, when we heard footsteps on the stairs. Was it Miss Bunch’s successor coming to warn us we were over our time limit? Or had one of the group come back for something they had forgotten? Mrs. Swabucher was rearranging the feather boa—which she had taken off while helping me—around her shoulders, when who should walk in upon us but the brigadier.

He stood in the doorway and I sensed at once that something was wrong. His briefcase, always an integral part of him, was missing. And his eyes looked straight through me as if I were the ghost of Hector Rigglesworth. They fixed wistfully on Mrs. Swabucher.

“It’s nice to see you again, Evangeline,” he said.

“You’ll have to refresh my memory”—a smile lifted her plump face but her eyes were puzzled—“I’m afraid I don’t remember where I’ve met you.”

“That’s odd,” said Brigadier Lester-Smith with a painful twist of the lips. “I recognized you the moment I looked across a crowded room at Abigail’s today and saw the girl I once loved seated by the window.”

“You can’t be …” The boa slipped from Mrs. Swabucher’s shoulders to lie in a heap of once-rosy dreams upon the floor.

“But I am,” came the choked reply. “I’m the man you married, Evangeline, long ago.”

“The woman didn’t recognize her own husband?”

Ben and I were in the drawing room, where the windows stood open, letting in the warm evening air, and he was sprawled on the sofa across from me. My husband’s exhaustion after a long day was apparent in the fact he obviously hadn’t been paying close attention to my detailed account of the fateful reunion.