How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law (23 page)

“I had to see you.” His spectacles sparkled and his smile broke through the mist to drive back the threat of rain. “I had to come and thank you for last night.”

“How kind!” Without looking around I knew that Jonas’s eyebrows were lodged in the middle of his forehead and that Abbey’s and Tam’s rosebud mouths were opened wide.

“It was the best night of my life, and it only heightened the pleasure to know that my mother would have been appalled. What matters is that I learned more in one evening—”

“Good.”

“I couldn’t believe it when you let me start your motor!”

“And afterwards”—I hurried him along before Jonas could rush to the phone and ask Reverend Spike to make an emergency house call—“did you have a productive session with my father-in-law?”

“Between us we composed four new songs and added a new verse to ‘The Fair Maid of Chitterton Fells.’ ”

“That’s wonderful.” I was genuinely pleased for him and sorry I had to break the news that I had left his tape recorder at the Dark Horse.

“Don’t give it a thought!” He beamed at me. “I found it sitting on the bar when Elijah took me down to breakfast. And now I must pick up my guitar before meeting up with him. We’re heading down to the railway station—”

“You’re leaving? Both of you?” I wasn’t sure how I
felt about Dad returning to Tottenham at this stage of Jonas’s clever game.

Mr. Savage laughed merrily. “Don’t worry; you’re not losing us. We’re going to stake out our busking pitch and take the village by storm. We even have our collaboration all worked out—I’m to do the strumming and the tra-la-las and Elijah will sing the verses.”

Behind me one of the twins’ breakfast spoons went clattering onto the booster chair tray and from there
ping-pinging
to the floor. But I couldn’t so much as turn my head. I was in shock! Dad had to be out of his mind, unless … oh, of course—stupid me! This was
his
way of forcing Mum’s hand. She would have to beg him to come back when she found out he had been driven bonkers by their separation.

“I hope you won’t feel I’m deserting you by moving out of my stable room.” Mr. Savage wiped the mist off his spectacles with the back of his hand. “Elijah feels strongly that we should spend every waking and sleeping moment together if our careers are to advance. And helpful as Freddy has been, I have come to believe he might not be the best musical partner for me. You will make my apologies to him, Mrs. Haskell—Ellie—and please never forget that you are my inspiration.” His voice broke. “There isn’t a song I wouldn’t sing for you, no plank I wouldn’t walk …”

“That’s very kind of you.” My blushes were already turning into second-degree burns when he turned and stumbled down the steps in the manner of one whose eyes were blinded by rain or tears.

“He’s round the bend, he is!” Jonas bent to pick up the dropped spoon and stood wagging it at me.

“Mr. Savage is a musician,” I reproved, closing the door.

“By gum, you can say that again.”

“Can I help it if I am a woman to die for?” Sashaying past him, I got busy rescuing Abbey, who had been kicking her heels against the chair long enough. And having put her on the floor with her building blocks, I
turned my attention to her brother, who needed his face washed. “I fully appreciate, Jonas, that you prefer your women on the spicy side of seventy, but there are men who are prepared to settle for someone of my meagre years.”

Having put him in his place, I asked if he would take Mum up some coffee.

“You think that’s wise?”

“I know I can trust you, Jonas, to slip the cup and saucer under the door.”

“If I have to go in, I’ll keep me eyes closed.”

Off he went at a speedy shuffle, having laid a single dahlia alongside the milk jug on his little tray. No doubt about it, I thought fondly, the old codger was playing his amorous role to the hilt. And he was doing it for me, so I would never have to run away from home again. Bless him! And bless Dad for taking poor Mr. Savage under his wing. I had meant well in agreeing to provide the man with a temporary roof over his head, but it might not have been the wisest of moves.

After helping Abbey stack her building blocks and watching Tam knock them down with his fire engine, it was time for me to remember that a woman’s work has no beginning and no end. I was removing a pile of clothes from the dryer and reflecting sadly that it is a fact of life that socks do not mate for life when, blow me down, there was another knock at my door. And to think I had gone years without these many interruptions.

“Coming!” Throwing up my hands and sending the socks every which way, I went to open up, yet again.

“Why, Mrs. Pickle!” I couldn’t for the life of me think what had brought her here, unless … my heart faltered … had something happened to Mrs. Malloy? Had my faithful daily in a fit of depression over being sacked decided to end it all?

“Do come in!” I backed up like mad.

“I don’t want to be no bother.” Her plump face was every bit as drab as her squashed felt hat and beige
coat, but that didn’t mean anything. Mrs. Pickle always looked as though she had just finished laying out her best friend.

“Please”—I scooped Abbey into my arms for moral support—“don’t break it to me gently, I can take whatever you have to tell me.”

“You’re a lady, Mrs. Haskell, I’ve always said so.” With these words she advanced into the kitchen with excruciating slowness. “But it isn’t so much a matter of telling—as asking, if you get my meaning.” This was worse than any form of torture practiced at the Tower of London other than being pressed to death. Happily, I was prevented from screaming by Abbey who, cheered on by her brother, got hold of my lips and twisted them into a knot. My bulging eyes must have spoken volumes, because Mrs. Pickle picked up the pace a fraction. “I’ve come along on the off chance—and you’re free to tell me to go—so as to ask if you’d like me to do for you a couple of mornings a week.”

“That’s it?”

Mrs. Pickle looked blank, an expression she had plainly mastered years before.

“I’m sorry”—I set Abbey down with her brother on the rug—“it’s been one of those mornings and I’ve been very worried about Mrs. Malloy.”

“Yes, I suppose you have.” Mrs. Pickle nodded slowly. “And from the sound of it, you’ve got your problems with Bill Watkins. I’ve never had much time for him, but he and me live two doors down from each other and he was telling me just this morning, when he come round to borrow some milk, about how come he got stuck on that balcony for hours on end.”

“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?

H
ad 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.”