How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams (9 page)

“You were quite right, Gerta, to monitor the children’s viewing.” I reached for the phone on the trestle table, but she got to it first and dusted off the receiver with
her apron before presenting it to me—coated like a chicken leg in flour.

“Then you don’t turn me out into the street?”

I covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “Of course not.”

“Then”—her smile filled up all her worry lines so that her face became plump and smooth—“I go back to the kitchen now, Frau Haskell, and tell the children the story about the old clockmaker and the snow elves, while I finish making my special beef stew—just how my wicked husband used to like. It is not easy for me, Frau Haskell, thinking of him in Putney with Mr. Meyers, both of them so laughing and so gay.”

“Very difficult,” I said.

“It is a small revenge that never again will Ernst taste my stew made rich and thick with gingersnaps.”

Feeling my waist thicken as she bustled down the hall, I spoke into the phone. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Brigadier Lester-Smith—”

“I do hope, Mrs. Haskell, that I’m not catching you at an awkward moment?”

“Absolutely nothing that won’t keep.” I resolutely banished Karisma to the dark recesses of my mind. “Is there something you need me to do in the way of Library League business?”

“It’s about Miss Bunch.”

I guessed immediately what he was going to say. The police hadn’t been taken in by all the medical mumbo-jumbo of death from natural causes. They were convinced she had met her end by foul means and an order to exhume the body would shortly be forthcoming.

“It all came as quite a shock.” Brigadier Lester-Smith sounded suitably glum.

“Of course.”

“It’s going to mean quite an upheaval.”

“Before the earth has even settled over her grave,” I agreed.

“You could have knocked me down without the aid of a shovel, Mrs. Haskell, when her solicitor, Mr. Lionel Wiseman, rang me up yesterday after I got back from the funeral and broke the news that Miss Bunch had left me
what modest amount of money she possessed, along with her little house on Mackerel Lane.”

“But that’s wonderful,” I enthused. Or was it? “You sound a little worried, Brigadier.” Did the police suspect him of doing in Miss Bunch for the sake of what sounded like a tidy inheritance?

“There is one small problem …”

“Yes.” I hoped he was not about to say anything that could possibly be construed as incriminating.

“Miss Bunch also bequeathed me her dog.”

“Oh, help!” I fixed my eyes on the statue of St. Francis of Assisi that occupied the niche above my head and implored this protector of four-legged creatures to bear in mind that I had acted in what I believed to be Heathcliff’s best interest. “You have discovered the dog is missing and are absolutely heartbroken, Brigadier.”

“Missing?” The voice on the other end of the phone brightened up considerably. “Are you sure? I’ve been wondering what to do with the animal, because I’ve never been one for pets—all that dog hair over my trousers, and I was wondering if you might like to have him—for the kiddies.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but Heathcliff is awfully big. And when he showed up here last night, like a great black thundercloud, I realized that were I to let him stay, I would have to get rid of most of the furniture and at least one of the children.”

“Turned up at your house, Mrs. Haskell?”

“Without so much as phoning first; but it’s all right, Brigadier Lester-Smith. I pried Gerta, our new au pair, out from his slathering jaws and palmed him off on Mr. Babcock, the milkman, this morning.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” The heartfelt sigh that came through the receiver blew my hair all over my face, and I sensed that had the brigadier not been a bachelor of the old school, he would have expressed a desire to kiss me. “Would Mr. Babcock be the gentleman who married Sylvia from the Library League a week or so ago?”

“That’s him. And we had better keep our fingers crossed that he can love-talk his bride into keeping the woof-woof. I have to take them their wedding present, and when I do I’ll report back to you on how things are going.”

“That is most kind of you, Mrs. Haskell, so kind that I hesitate to ask another favour of you.” Brigadier Lester-Smith paused to gather up his courage. “I had a look over Miss Bunch’s house this morning and I did not feel that I could live in harmony with her choice of furnishing. Not that I imply any criticism, you understand that, Mrs. Haskell.”

“We all have our own taste.”

“Exactly!” He latched onto my statement as if I had said something intensely profound. “Being a man, I like simplicity and function. Furniture that makes sense. But at the same time I do realize that certain touches, not what you would call frilly, are needed to turn a house into a home. And I was wondering if you, Mrs. Haskell, would be willing to take a look at the house and provide me with some professional advice.”

My first client! If I had not been a respectably married woman I might have expressed a desire to kiss the brigadier the next time I was alone with him in the library reading room. “I will be delighted to help you in any way I can,” I said as my mind filled with visions of a navy-blue sofa piped in a rich burgundy—which colour might be repeated in the leather chairs and perhaps the wallpaper border.…

“This is good of you, Mrs. Haskell! You must be sure and charge me your usual fee.”

“Minus a friendly discount!”

“How very kind! Would tomorrow be too soon for you to take a look at the house? I need also to mention, Mrs. Haskell, that I talked to Sir Robert Pomeroy when I met him at the barber’s this morning, and we decided we should get all the members together for a special meeting of the Library League tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. There is nothing in the bylaws to prohibit our assembling at a time other than our regularly scheduled meeting date, and Sir Robert and I thought the Library League should get started immediately on planning a memorial to Miss Bunch.”

“What a lovely idea.”

“Sir Robert came up with the suggestion of commissioning a bronze statue of our dear departed librarian to be placed at the front entrance.”

“You don’t think that a simple brass plaque might do nicely?” I asked. But not surprisingly, Brigadier Lester-Smith, having come into her money, was not prepared to screw the lady to the wall and be done with it.

“I imagine there’ll have to be some sort of fund-raiser,” he said. “We’ll talk about all that at the meeting tomorrow. And afterwards, perhaps you could take a look at the house on Mackerel Lane.”

It wasn’t until I had hung up the phone that I wondered if Miss Bunch had made the brigadier her heir because he always returned his library books on time.

“A bronze statue of Miss Bunch!” The string mop in Mrs. Malloy’s hand did double duty as an exclamation point as she held it above her bucket in the kitchen. “What bright spark came up with that idea? Don’t tell me, Mrs. H.: It had to be a man! Common decency tells you it isn’t right to make a public spectacle of what was, as far as we know, a respectable woman. It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is—setting her up to be pooped on by birds and leered at by every passing Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

It was my feeling that Mrs. Malloy was jealous of any woman but herself being put on a pedestal, but all I said was, “She’ll be fully clothed, right down to her brogue or, rather, her bronze shoes. The Library League would never vote for a nude. We’re a very conservative group. I don’t think there’s one amongst us that reads poetry that doesn’t rhyme.”

“I wouldn’t call Bunty Wiseman straight-laced.” Mrs. Malloy planted her mop in the sink as if it were a tree with a lot of stringy roots, to be watered when she emptied the bucket. “You may have blocked it all out, Mrs. H., but I for one haven’t forgotten how Ms. Miniskirt brought Chitterton Fells to its knees when she was running Fully Female.”

Clearing away the remains of the three course lunch
Gerta had fed the twins before taking them upstairs for their naps, I shuddered at Mrs. Malloy’s reminder of our enrollment in the health club from hell. Far from discovering my full physical and emotional potential as a sensual woman, I had felt lucky to get out alive. But Bunty had paid the highest price. By the time Fully Female’s doors closed, she had lost her husband, Lionel Wiseman (Miss Bunch’s solicitor), to a woman who got her exercise climbing into bed with other women’s husbands. The Hollywood-style Wiseman home was sold for a hotel. And Bunty was left with little but the leotard on her back. During the past year, she had gamely worked at a series of part-time jobs, but, as she pointed out, people weren’t queuing up to hire an ex-chorus girl turned failed businesswoman.

“Go on, Mrs. H., stick up for Bunty Wiseman.”

“She is a friend of mine.” I put the Beatrix Potter crockery in the sink as Mrs. Malloy stowed the bucket and mop in the broom cupboard. “And she’s been a great new recruit for the Library League; in fact, I am hoping she will take over as secretary when my term is up.”

“Proper back-breaking work.”

“I’ll have you know that last month I sent out at least two get well cards to former league members, as well as purchasing and gift-wrapping Sylvia Babcock’s wedding present, which I shall personally deliver.”

“And now I suppose you’ll be on the phone day and night, begging people to pitch in by crocheting doilies and what have you for this fund-raiser for Miss Bunch’s memorial.” Mrs. Malloy helped herself to some of the stew Gerta had left on the cooker and teetered on her six-inch heels over to the table. There she further vented her feelings with the pepper pot before picking up her knife and fork.

“I don’t think we’ll have another bring-and-buy sale,” I conceded. “The last one the Library League put on was not a roaring success. If I remember rightly, we raised only five pounds.”

“And the only reason there was that much”—Mrs. M. polished off her plate with a piece of bread to save on the washing up—“was that you went crackers and bought
that pair of tin swords and the two whacking big sieves with the leather handles.”

“They were fencing guards, but you’re right, they did resemble the medieval equivalent of a colander. Ben was quite chuffed until he realized his mistake. But I certainly don’t think I overpaid. The foils and the guards came from Pomeroy Manor and no doubt figured in some very romantic swashbuckling.”

While putting away the children’s dishes, I pictured one of Sir Robert’s ancestors—a handsome wastrel in form-fitting breeches and gleaming Hessian boots—tossing a foil to a muslin-clad miss with golden ringlets, and exclaiming, “En garde, my dear Arabella, time for a little foreplay!”

Trust Mrs. Malloy to break the mood. Getting to her feet, she said, “If you ask me, Mrs. H., you’ll save yourself and the rest of the Library League a lot of bloomin’ aggravation if you pick up one of those life-size inflatable dolls from a dirty-joke shop. I’m sure as how Bunty Wiseman can tell you where to go. Then you spray the dolly Lolita with bronze paint, and Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got your statue of Miss Bunch.”

“I hardly think that would be suitable,” I was saying, when the garden door opened and my husband, of all impossible people, walked into the kitchen. Ben never came home at lunchtime. But there he was, looking far too real, with his tie loosened and his suit jacket unbuttoned, to be a figment of my overwrought imagination.

“Men!” Mrs. Malloy eyed him darkly as he walked brazenly across her newly washed floor. “I could have told you, Mrs. H., you was making a horrible mistake bringing that Swiss temptress into this house. She may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s a new broom when all is said and done. The next thing we’ll know, she’ll be tying the master here to the bedpost with those braids of hers, and the two of them will be yodeling their heads off.”

“You have an incorrigibly evil mind, Mrs. Malloy.” Ben’s scowl was at odds with the smile he gave her. “You’ve never forgiven me for resisting your attempts to lure me into the pantry while my wife’s back was turned. And you’re jealous because I’ve come home in the middle of the day to spirit Ellie away in the car parked, for a fast
getaway, within inches of the door. Come, my darling!” He held out his hands.

“Who, me?” I glanced wildly around the kitchen as if expecting another Ellie Haskell to step forward into the limelight, coquettishly twirling her dishcloth.

“I’m taking you out for lunch.” Ben crossed the room in two strides and, placing a husbandly arm around my shoulders, propelled me towards the garden door, which Mrs. Malloy with a poor attempt at servility was holding open.

“But I can’t—” I resisted my husband’s attempt to kidnap me by trying to duck under his elbow. “I can’t leave without saying good-bye to Abbey and Tam—”

“Oh, go on with you.” Mrs. Malloy shook her black-and-white head in disgust. “You’ll be back before they’re up from their naps. And with Mistress Gerta goo-gooing all over them, they probably wouldn’t miss you anyway.”

“She made all that stew and her feelings may be hurt if we go out for a meal …”

“And your insides may suffer if you eat what’s in that saucepan. I was hungry, so I didn’t let the taste put me off. But”—she pressed a hand to her stomach—“I’m beginning to think I made a mistake not fixing meself a sandwich. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if that husband of hers called the marriage quits because he couldn’t take another bout of indigestion, not because he found out he preferred men.”