How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law (28 page)

“Marvelous!” I avoided looking at Sir Robert’s naked dome.

Pamela raised her head. “I thought you said, Mumsie Kitty, that if he had an ounce of patriotism, Uncle George would move his vineyards to England?”

“That was before he and I had our little talk, and he promised to set up a bottling factory in this country.” Her ladyship bestowed a quelling glance on her impudent daughter-in-law before handing me a pen. “So, Ellie, if you’ll just initial the page, dear, we should be all set.”

“There’s nothing else we need to discuss?”

“Not a thing.” She watched me trying to turn a blot into an extra-large full stop. “Like always, I have everything under control. And now if you, Bobsie Cat, and Pamela would like to go into the parlour and have a natter, I’ll get back to the kitchen and start the washing-up.”

“May I help?” I asked in hope of turning the visit to some account.

“I’m better on my own, dear, especially as I want to give the stove a cleaning. Every day has its set jobs and—” She broke off, possibly as a result of my look of surprise, but more probably because Sir Robert had seized the moment to slump forward on the table. His outstretched arms knocked over the salt cellars along with his brimming glass of milk.

Pamela let out a squeal. When that failed to bring him around, I rose from my chair, bent on rushing over to administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (according to Mum it
had
worked for Sweetie). Lady Kitty didn’t bat an eye.

“Don’t encourage him, Ellie.” She was gathering up pudding plates with hands as steady as rocks. “This is the silly old duffer’s way of trying to get attention. I’m the one with the high blood pressure, but that’s life, isn’t it? And it has to go on. So I’ll get started with the washing-up while you girls make sure he doesn’t do something silly like swallow his tongue.”

To show she wasn’t too cross, Lady Kitty patted her husband’s bald head in passing and went out the door. Immediately after she left, Sir Robert cracked open a decidedly malevolent eye and croaked: “God save me from that woman. What! What!”

“Oh, Bobsie Cat, you were only teasing!” Pamela fell upon him with hugs as he straightened up.

“I thought, m’dear, it wouldn’t hurt to show your friend Mrs. Haskell that your mother-in-law is a cold-blooded monster. Not often we have a witness. And, stap me, if I won’t need a fresh-faced young filly to put
in a good word for me when I’m standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, defending m’self for bludgeoning the old girl to death. What! What!”

“You really are naughty!” Pamela dimpled up at him; I stood by, speechless.

“You’re right, m’dear, and now I’m going straight upstairs to hole up in my room.” Somewhere out in the kitchen a pan clanged and, with his twitch back in full force, Sir Robert bade me a hasty adieu and exited the room.

“He tries to be brave, poor darling! But you can see he is a soul in torment.” Pamela obviously shared Sir Robert’s penchant for comic books. “If he dies—or I should say when, seeing it’s never an option for any of us—I will be alone all day with Mumsie Kitty.”

“Couldn’t you find a place of your own?”

“We don’t have the money. She takes Allan’s paycheque and gives him only enough for expenses. And that’s something I need to talk to you about, Ellie.” Pamela crept up to the door and pressed her ear against it before returning to lead me by the hand back to the table.

“What is it?” I asked as we both sat down.

Her big brown eyes sparkled with tears. “I need to borrow some money, I’m in the most awful fix. I haven’t known which way to turn.”

“Are you being blackmailed?”

“Ellie! How ever did you guess?”

“Easy! I got a phone call yesterday, demanding a payment of two hundred pounds in return for him—or her—keeping quiet about what he overheard at the Dark Horse.”

“When we talked about murdering our mothers-in-law?”

“What else?” I stared at her.

“But that’s not why I’m being blackmailed. With me it’s been going on since right after Allan and I were married. You know all about the matrimonial bake-off”—she brushed her hair back from her brow with a
trembling hand—“but what only Allan and I and one other person know is that I
didn’t
bake the pie that won me Prince Charming.”

“You didn’t?” My voice rose in a squeak; I immediately clapped a hand over my mouth.

“I’m a terrible cook. I was at my wit’s end at the thought of losing Allan, until I remembered my aunt Gert. She’s a professional baker in Norwich. She sells her frozen pies to a number of supermarkets, and when she knew what I was up against, she offered to make the all-important apple pie for me. On the day of the bake-off she arrived at my house with it nicely under wraps in her carryall. And while we were talking in the sitting room I … realized someone was outside by the open window. But I never thought about blackmail. And even when the phone calls started coming I didn’t get too panicked. The demands weren’t too bad at first—just a couple of pounds at a time. But they’ve been creeping up, and the little nest egg I had before my marriage is gone. I don’t have any more jewellery to sell, and every time I mention getting a job, Mumsie Kitty has a fit. Her daughter-in-law’s place is in the home, under her thumb.”

“How much does our friend want this time?” I asked.

“Two hundred pounds.”

“At least he or she doesn’t play favourites.”

“Ellie, can you lend me the money?”

“This blackmail is never going to end.”

“Yes, it will!” Pamela’s eyes narrowed and her dimples disappeared completely. “I
have
to find a way out, because I can’t go on like this. Just help me this once, Ellie, please!”

Reaching into my handbag for my cheque book, I wrote out the required amount and handed it to her. “No mention has been made to you about the mother-in-law thing?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep your fingers crossed.” I capped my pen, put
it away, and stood up. “We’ll keep in touch,” I said, crossing to the door.

“Do you have to go?” She followed me out into the hall, and I found myself hating to leave her in that house that should by rights have been cozy and wonderful even though the family portraits had been taken down and replaced by Woolworth prints.

“I really must.” I gave her a hug before stepping out into the swirling mist. “Please explain to Lady Kitty that I had to get home and didn’t like to interrupt her oven-cleaning. By the way”—I turned back on reaching the path that wove between the flower beds and the lawn—“how have you been able to keep up the pretense of being a great cook?”

“No problem,” said Pamela. “Mumsie Kitty has never let me touch a mixing bowl since I married Allan.”

“Typical!”

It also went without saying that I would wander around in circles, the way I always did in a parking lot, before stumbling upon my car. The trees lining the drive kept me on the straight and narrow, but when I got out onto the lane I was glad I had put my deposit in the hollow oak on my way to the hall. The fog was thickening with every turn of the wheels and I couldn’t wait to be safely home. Making my way through the village didn’t pose any particular problems. I just tagged along behind a friendly little car in front of me until we came to a parting of the ways at the foot of Cliff Road. Now I was on the home stretch and should by rights have been quite comfortable, seeing I had been known to boast that I could drive it blindfolded. We say these idiotic things and never expect to be punished for them.

Part of me wanted to hurry, the way you do when you think you’re out of petrol, but caution dictated I take each wavering loop of road with caution. Every boulder that showed itself on the verge was as welcome as a beacon. The bus stop loomed up, looking lost and
lonely. Visibility was down to two inches, and I suspected the car of squeezing its headlights shut as we approached the top of the hill. It was certainly making nervous noises. That is why, when I neared the vicarage, I thought the scream was mechanically induced.

But when it came again, high-pitched and wailing, I knew that someone was out there in the fog. Someone who was dealing with a bigger problem than a dropped picnic basket. Drawing the car to a lurching halt, I flung open the door. The ground not only looked soft and fuzzy, it felt that way as I stumbled blindly towards the voice which continued to scream with utmost helpfulness.

“Coming!” I shouted.

“Over here!”

“Don’t move!” It was advice I would have done well to heed myself, for at that moment I almost went over the cliff, which would have been extremely hard on the shadowy figure who peered up at me from what seemed to be a narrow ledge some ten feet below me.

“If it isn’t grand to see you, Mrs. Haskell,” said Bridget Spike. “Would you be after having a cigarette on you to help steady me nerves?”

“S
he could have been killed!” Ben was still stating the obvious the next morning. A concerned frown humanised his glamour-puss image as he reclined on the bed in his black silk dressing gown, hands under his head, looking for all the world as if he were posing for a fashion layout for some ultra-glossy gentleman’s quarterly.

“Yes, dear.”

“What a miracle you showed up when you did.”

“Exactly.”

“And you say she went out for a smoke, lost her bearings, and wandered right over the cliff?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Thank God she landed on that ledge.”

“Very true.”

“One fatal slip and it would all have been over.” Ben addressed his elegantly crossed ankles while I realized I had put my slacks on back to front and my blouse was inside out.

“Poor woman!” His sigh rattled me sufficiently that I couldn’t get my zipper to go up or down. So much for all the hype about men learning to communicate with their wives. Here was one time when I didn’t want to talk a subject to death, and there was no way to shut him up short of putting a pillow over his face. Perish the thought! I had once and for all put a rein on my murderous tendencies.

When I thought “poor woman!” I thought Eudora. It had been as plain as the nose on her startled face that she thought the wrath of God had descended on her when I showed up at the vicarage door with the alarming news that her mother-in-law was clinging to life by her fingertips. We didn’t talk about the ghastly coincidence of the accident mirroring the plans we had jestingly made for Bridget at the Dark Horse. But the memory had hung over us, darker than any cloud presently in the sky, as we scuttled back to the perilous cliff with a length of clothesline to haul the long-suffering woman back to safety. Given the fog, it was impossible to get a good reading of Eudora’s face, but I knew how she must have felt when Bridget—for all her assurances that she wasn’t badly bruised—flinched when her daughter-in-law took her arm in guiding her back to the vicarage.

Eudora, being the pragmatic sort, would undoubtedly come to realize that she was in no measure responsible for the mishap. But I had been tempted several times the previous night to telephone in an attempt to comfort her with the reminder that I, with some help from Pamela, had come up with the imaginary scenario that had been coincidentally played out in real life. But on reflection, I had decided it was best to let the matter die a natural death. A fate to which Bridget Spike could once more happily aspire.

“Ellie”—Ben slid off the bed to wrap an affectionate arm around my shoulders—“I have a very special treat in store for you.”

“Really?” Looking down at the blouse I had just finished buttoning, I wondered if I had wasted my time.

“I’ve decided to take the morning off. You need my manly support after your harrowing experience. And so, my darling, I will prepare you the breakfast of a lifetime—a golden crisp potato gateau layered with savoury cream and smoked salmon. And afterwards we will take a quiet walk in the garden.” As he spoke, he led me over to the window, and we stood looking out upon a sunny scene of gently sloping lawns, colourful flower beds, and rustic benches taking their ease under the lush green shade of the trees.

“The garden is already taken.” I pointed to where Mum and Jonas had come into view over by the copper beech, with Tam and Abbey toddling along on either side of them.

“This is beginning to look awfully cozy,” said Ben.

“They make a nice couple,” I agreed. “Anyone would take them for picture-perfect grandparents enjoying a special moment with the kiddies.”

“And each other.”

“But they don’t belong together.” I resisted stamping my foot.

“You think it’s just a youthful infatuation?”

“I think we have to put a stop to it right now.”

“Do you want me to put another flea in Dad’s ear?” Ben’s voice followed me across the room to the wardrobe, where I was rummaging around for a cardigan.

“Let me do it.” I already had the bedroom door open and was halfway into the gallery. “We may get better results if I exert my feminine wiles. You’d feel self-conscious crying in the street. So why don’t you stay here and keep the home fires burning?”

“I’ll take the easy way out and go to work.” He was untying his dressing gown on the run as I blew him a kiss and made good my escape. What I hadn’t told him was that I felt a compelling need to put our house in order before my life got away from me. That my friends
were in the same boat was no consolation. My heart went out to Frizzy, who now had to cope with hot-tempered Auntie Ethel in addition to Tricks, and to Eudora who—even as I was going out the front door—was probably taking down all her No Smoking signs. Pamela, admittedly, was a bit of a lame duck who could have done more to help her situation by standing up to Lady Kitty and getting a job. But having spent years bogged down by weight problems and a poor self-image, I knew too well what it was like to be caught in the trap of one’s own powerlessness.