How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams (25 page)

“Not unless …”

“And even if Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome did show up on the doorstep, I’ve decided, Ellie, to embark on a new personality; in fact, I’ve made up my mind to make a career of being
nice
. After all, how bad can it be? I figure I’ll get my weekends off, a couple of holidays a year, and I’ll retire when I’m sixty-five or so and spend my golden years being a bitch.” Vanessa sat on her stool, gazing mistily into the future for a few moments before adding, “Did I rudely interrupt you just now? Forgive my gross insensitivity, darling, and proceed with whatever you have to say, no matter
how
vacuous.”

“It wasn’t anything earth-shattering.” I stood and was pleased to discover that my legs were no longer wobbly. “It was just that when you mentioned the possibility of a mind-bogglingly handsome man showing up at Merlin’s Court, I realized that with the Babcock tragedy I hadn’t told you why Mrs. Swabucher is here. And given your modeling career, I imagine you’ll be interested to know she is the business agent for Karisma, the—”

“I know who he is. Who hasn’t seen him, stripped to his loincloth, flexing his muscles, and otherwise flaunting his bronzed bod on the covers of those dippy romance novels?” Vanessa wrinkled her nose. I fought down the urge to swat her with a cushion.

“Well, he’s coming down here at great personal sacrifice, considering his myriad of engagements, to aid in our raising money for Miss Bunch’s memorial statue.”

“Who?”

“The librarian who recently dropped dead while on the job after decades of devoted service to the members of the reading community, some of whom—like me—occasionally enjoy reading romantic fiction. Heathcliff was Miss Bunch’s dog and”—I sat down with a wallop that set my head spinning and my powers of rational thought flying out the window—“I don’t know why I didn’t think
about the Rigglesworth curse when, today, tragedy struck again.”

“You’ve lost me, darling!” Vanessa put the stopper back in the sherry decanter, signalling she’d decided I’d already imbibed more than was good for me.

“Poor Sylvia Babcock is a member of the Library League, and when I went to see her, I planned to discuss plans for Karisma’s visit. How could I have allowed my excitement at the prospect of meeting God’s gift to womankind to blind me to the realization that we are courting disaster in having him here? I told the other members of the league yesterday that old Hector is not the sort of ghost to fade into the woodwork, and I was dead right.”

“Don’t be silly, Ellie,” said my cousin. “You always look like a corpse when your makeup wears off, but take my word for it,
you’re
still in the land of the living.”

“But the same can’t be said for the late Mr. Babcock,” I said grimly, “and God alone knows who is fated to become Hector Rigglesworth’s
next
victim.”

Seemingly Vanessa was genuinely intent on developing the human side of her personality because she urged me in a voice similar to the one I might have used with Abbey and Tam to calm down and tell her the whole story, however boring. So I gave her an unabridged account of Hector and his seven daughters, his deathbed curse, and the chilling coincidence, if you could call it that, of Miss Bunch meeting her end on the hundred-year anniversary of his demise. Talking it out helped. By the time I finished, I decided I should have titled my spiel the Rigglesworth Rigmarole, and I couldn’t feel miffed at my cousin when she made her pronouncement.

“I don’t know about the sherry,” she declared, “but you’ve definitely been overdosing on Gothic novels. The headless woman haunting the north tower by day and clanking her chains by night while bodies continue to stack up in the butler’s pantry. I’m not saying those books aren’t good for a giggle, especially if Karisma’s on the cover. But honestly, darling, I’m surprised at you taking such superstitious rot seriously. Whatever would the vicar say? Oh, don’t sit there hanging your head”—she gave that part of my anatomy a bracing pat—“trust me, Ellie, I won’t breathe a word to her. I wouldn’t want you to be excommunicated
and find the doors of St. Anselm’s barred against you on my wedding day. It would be too
awful
for words to be married without having you there so that people can make odious comparisons, in whose favour we need not ask.” She twirled a tendril of silken hair around one finger and gazed dreamily into a white-satin-and-lace future. “I must practice blushing and work on my self-deprecating smile.” She sighed. “Does the list of bridal responsibilities have no end?” Vanessa had not changed out of all recognition.

The sun peeped out from behind the clouds. I decided to take it as an omen. Mr. Babcock’s death was indeed a tragedy. My heart ached for Sylvia, and I even had sympathy for the re-orphaned Heathcliff, who had escaped through a two-inch crack in the fence before the breath had left his master’s body, and was no doubt roaming the streets. A dog without a country. But such is the way of this world, without any assistance from the unseen forces of the Beyond.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Van,” I said.

“Why don’t we celebrate and go out for dinner?” She was back at redefining her personality. “We could go to Abigail’s and tell Ben we’re having a surprise party for him. George will treat if I promise him dessert. And I suppose we could even include his mother and that pink-haired friend of yours along with the little tots.”

“I can’t.” Looking at the clock, I discovered it was gone five o’clock. “I have to get on the phone, set up a meeting at the library, and then drive over there with Mrs. Swabucher.”

Vanessa shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I don’t intend to die from lead poisoning eating Gerta’s dumplings. If you ask me, that woman is a curse if ever there was one. Apart from her cooking, I don’t think she’s right in the head. Oh, don’t look like that, Ellie! I’m not suggesting that if you don’t watch her every minute the kiddies will end up in the soup, but she certainly is …”

“A pressure cooker about to explode?” I bit my lip. “You may be right and, God help me, I can’t afford to take any risks with Abbey and Tarn, even though I feel sorry for Gerta with her marital problems. Perhaps … yes, that’s it! I’ll tell her tomorrow morning that with Karisma and
his entourage arriving for the weekend, it would be best for her to move into Freddy’s cottage and spend the next few days getting herself settled in. That will give me a little time to come up with a long-term plan that would not put her out in the mean streets along with poor Heathcliff.”

“You’re such a softie”—Vanessa shook her head—“and to show you I too can be sweetness and light, I’ll let the woman come out to dinner with the rest of the gang, so long as she doesn’t bring a doggy bag with her.”

I thanked my cousin and, hearing footsteps just beyond the door, I went out into the hall to find Mrs. Swabucher looking much better and eager for a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of toast before we set out for the library. Shamefacedly I confessed that I had not got round to ringing up the other members of the league.

“You had a nasty shock, Giselle,” Mrs. S. soothed, “and I had to go and make things worse by carrying on like I had lost someone near and dear to me. Reginald, bless him, always said I was too sensitive to live, and the truth is, dear, seeing that man die this afternoon brought the memories of my husband’s passing flooding back. But even if,” she rallied bravely, “Air.…?”

“Babcock,” I supplied.

“That’s right. As I was saying, even if his wasn’t a dignified end, he went quickly. Reginald’s last months were an endless round of bedpans and throwing-up bowls. He had so many hoses going in one end and out the other, he looked like a fire extinguisher.”

“I’m so sorry.” I put a sympathetic arm around her powder-pink shoulders.

“Silly of me to go on like this, Giselle, but I don’t think I could go through that hell again. Seeing Mr. Babcock turn blue reminded me I’m not a tough old bird. Death is usually an ugly business. And the thought of someone I loved being so rudely taken from me … it was—shall I say”—she fingered the downy pink-feather stole—“as if a goose had walked on my grave. But enough of my ramblings, dear. You have to phone the library and I need to repair my makeup so that I don’t appear looking like I’m a hundred and two.”

While Mrs. Swabucher was in the cloakroom applying lipstick and wielding the mascara brush, I rang up Mrs.
Dovedale at her corner grocery shop and was lucky enough to catch her before she pulled down the shade on the door and trotted off home. She voiced delight that Karisma was coming, expressed amazement that the notice was so short, did not question why Mrs. Swabucher had chosen to communicate in person with me, and kindly offered to notify the other Library League members that there would be an unscheduled meeting at seven o’clock that evening.

It was not until I hung up the phone that I realized I had not said a word about the Babcock tragedy. But when I rang back several times in the course of the next half hour, Mrs. Dovedale’s line was engaged. And by the time I had cuddled the twins, got Mrs. Swabucher her tea and toast, admired Vanessa’s prowess at setting out the crockery, and had spoken to Gerta, it seemed pointless to ring back. Mrs. Dovedale would surely have left the shop by then to have a bite to eat and freshen up before setting out for the library.

During the drive into Chitterton Fells I was preoccupied and failed to point out to Mrs. Swabucher any trees or fence posts of interest along the way. Gerta had taken my suggestion that she move into the cottage at the gates for the weekend with commendable restraint. No exclamations of “You get rid of me.” No unbridled sobbing. She had promptly agreed that the house would be bursting at the seams with Karisma and his minions and admitted it would be nice to have a little place of her own. Shame on me. I ended up feeling like the royal executioner.

I was still wondering if I had allowed Vanessa to make me paranoid where the au pair was concerned when I parked the car and led Mrs. Swabucher up the steps and into the library. My preference would have been to go in the back way and thus avoid seeing Miss Bunch’s successor presiding at the desk. But it seemed only right to introduce Karisma’s business agent and explain the reason for her presence. Unfortunately, Mrs. Harris was a woman after Hector Rigglesworth’s heart. The new librarian confessed without a blush that she had never heard of the world’s foremost romance cover model, never read fiction except of the literary sort, and voiced the hope that during
her tenure readers could be steered towards books of an
uplifting
nature.

Given this reception, Mrs. Swabucher was not inclined to waste her sweetness on the musty air and, with only the briefest dawdling to find books featuring Karisma on the cover, we went through the door into the narrow hall with the loo to our right and the stairs to our left and saw Mrs. Dovedale coming in through the back entrance. Her pleasant, homespun face lit up when I introduced her to Mrs. Swabucher, but she did not have the best of news to report.

“I’m ever so sorry, Ellie, but I had terrible luck getting a full group here tonight. Gladstone Spike said he had a lot of baking to do this evening because he and his wife are expecting company this weekend. And I never did reach the brigadier, although I left a message with his landlady. As for Sylvia Babcock”—Mrs. Dovedale drew a ragged breath—“I’m afraid I’ve saved the worst for last in her case. I had trouble getting hold of her too, but when I finally got through, I couldn’t believe my ears when she told me. The most terrible news! It seems her husband dropped dead this afternoon.” The kind grey eyes brimmed with distress.

“I should have told you,” I murmured guiltily.

“You were in shock,” put in Mrs. Swabucher, “and at such times the mind puts up a wall.” She addressed Mrs. Dovedale. “We were both at the Babcock home and witnessed the whole appalling scene. The dog bolted outside with the Sunday joint and Mr. Babcock made the fatal mistake of chasing after him on a day hot enough to roast him along with the beef.”

“Dog?” said Mrs. Dovedale. “I can’t picture Sylvia having a dog. She’s so house proud and animals, even the best of them, as well I know from having half a dozen cats, do get hair and paw prints all over the place and scratch the furniture.”

Right on cue, in validation of this statement, something clawed with frenetic purpose at the back entrance. Stepping backwards, I trod on the tail end of Mrs. Swabucher’s boa, which had slid off one shoulder when she, clearly alarmed, had bumped into the wall. By the time I had straightened her, the boa, and myself out, Mrs.
Dovedale had braved the unknown by opening the door. Heathcliff bounded into our midst like the Grim Reaper’s intermediary. At once the narrow hall was reduced to the size of a shoe box. And the oxygen supply went on wartime rations.

“He ran away from the death scene,” I said as I tried to harden my heart against the dog, who sprawled on the floor and, being an animal of very little brain, adopted the guise of a hairy black rug. “Probably he went first to Miss Bunch’s house and then followed his nose here. Goodness knows what is to become of him.”

“I’d take him,” Mrs. Dovedale sounded sincere, “but my cats are all getting along in years, so it wouldn’t be fair to them, or to Heathcliff here. Perhaps Sir Robert would give him a home.” At the mention of his name, her eyes turned misty and I was more than ever convinced she had a girlish crush on our fellow league member. “That man is such a softie—Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Swabucher? Your face has gone all pale.”

“It’s nothing, dear.” This response was not borne out by the pink hair having lost some of its hue. “Silly me, I had the oddest feeling seconds before this dog started scratching at the door that someone was standing in the shadows laughing at us. It threw me right off balance; you saw me bang into the wall, Giselle”—she rubbed her right shoulder—“but I’ve got my sea legs back now.”

If not for Vanessa’s recent pep talk, I would have undoubtedly introduced Mrs. Swabucher to the legend of Hector Rigglesworth, while deluding myself that I too had sensed something untoward lurking on the outskirts of my peripheral vision. Being of renewed common sense, however, I suggested instead that we go upstairs to the reading room and get the percolator going so Mrs. S. could have a reviving cup of coffee before the meeting commenced. The question of what to do about Heathcliff in the immediate future was solved by his signalling, with a wag of his tail, that he would follow where we led and would not make any objection to a ginger biscuit tossed his way.