Read Murdering Americans Online
Authors: Ruth Edwards
Tags: #General, #FICTION, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense
Murdering Americans (2 page)
‘And even if
you
crack, I certainly won’t,’ shouted Rachel from the sofa.
‘And even if
I
crack, Rachel certainly won’t,’ added Amiss. ‘Not that I will.’
‘Sure, Robert,’ said Mary Lou, in a tone of the utmost sincerity. ‘You’ll be implacable. Of course you will. I don’t doubt it. Not one little bit.’
From:
Robert Amiss
To:
Mary Lou Denslow
Sent:
Tue 14/03/2006 11.14
Subject:
Two Weddings and a near-funeral
Sholem-aleykhem
and all that, Mary Lou. (I’ve been throwing myself into my forthcoming role as ‘Jew for a Day’ by learning a bit of Yiddish for schmoozing purposes.)
Well, now that all the hullabaloo has died down, I think I can justly report that your wedding can be classed as a knockout, in every sense of the word. If you’ve been foolish enough to answer your phones or pick up e-mails in Madrid, you’ve probably already heard about the spectacular dance sequence put on by Jack with your Uncle Lenny after you left. I hadn’t realised the extent to which Jack fancies herself as a jiver, but what she has never known or else has forgotten in the technique department, she more than made up for in chutzpah and vigour. As indeed, did your Uncle Lenny. For a man of such generous proportions, he covered the ground with real speed. Jack described herself afterwards as having been tripping the light fantastic. “Like Margot Fonteyn?” I suggested. “More like Dumbo the elephant,” she answered with commendable honesty, adding, however, that she liked to be the fastest elephant on the dance floor.
It was, perhaps, a trifle tactless of her to tell your uncle so loudly at the end that like all blacks he had a natural sense of rhythm, but at least you’d taught her not to say ‘negro.’ Or worse. Uncle Lenny seemed quite pleased, but I wasn’t sure it went down too well with your brother. It was also a touch unfortunate that later in the evening—when they were both suffering from hubris—the
klutzes
crashed into Ellis’s Great Aunt Lavender and her zimmer.
If you’ve seen the latest version of ‘The Producers,’ you’ll remember the dance of the old ladies with their walking frames. From my vantage point, for several seconds it looked as if Great Aunt Lavender was auditioning for a part in it, but she was in fact vainly trying to stay upright. Unfortunately, when she fell down, she hit her head on the edge of the table and passed out—but fortunately not away, which might have put a bit of a damper on the rest of the evening. For your Master of Ceremonies it was what I can describe only as what we Yiddishers call an
oy vey
! moment, but I hope I rose to it competently.
Apart from that minor drama, Rachel and I thought everything went brilliantly. You looked gorgeous, Ellis spoke with unaccustomed wit and your dad spoke graciously. True, we were not the only people present to blench when in Jack’s entertaining speech she described you as her favourite bit of black pudding, but your merry laughter dissolved the tension. Anyway, if you ask Jack Troutbeck to be your Matron of Honour, you have it coming. After the speech Rachel briefly lost her nerve and wondered if we could cancel her appearance in that capacity at our own matrimonials.
We thought the Pooley hospitality, as one might expect, was lavish without being vulgar and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves hugely. I bet we can look forward to a fine spread in
Country
Life
which will make you Top Totty, the Toast of the Shires, which will be a rare double in conjunction with being the newest holder of the TV title of Thinking Man’s Crumpet.
That’s enough racism and sexism for now.
Our agony continues, but now that there are only ten days or so to go Rachel has ceased
kvetching
. She’s made a crucial psychological shift by deciding that she should see the wedding as her mother’s big day rather than her own, so she’s now thrown herself into trying to make it perfect for her and they haven’t had a row for ages.
Jack and I didn’t have much chance to talk at your wedding, but she’s been in touch since, has told me a bit about Indiana, which she assures me Rachel and I would enjoy, but she hasn’t brought out the heavy weaponry as yet, so a firm ‘Forget it’ has so far been all that was required. I did point out that it was her solemn duty to stay in Cambridge while we’re away, since she’d undertaken to look after Plutarch and no one else in the whole world would take on the job, but she insists she’s found a suitable carer, that anyway Plutarch is such an extinct volcano these days that St. Martha’s won’t know she’s there and that if she’s got any grievances, you’ll be available as the London court of appeal. Hmmmmmn!
We hope you’re both having a wonderful time and look forward very much to seeing you next week. I am afraid it’ll have to be rather brief, since D-Day approaches and we will be in a frenzy of packing and parent-soothing.
Must schlep off now and get on with things.
Much love to you both from us both,
Shalom, Mazel Tov,
and all that,
Robert
From:
Mary Lou Denslow
To:
Robert Amiss
Sent:
Fri 17/03/2006 18.05
Subject:
Two Weddings and a near funeral not to speak of Jack
Thanks for the news, Robert. Sorry to have been late getting back to you, but we’ve been very busy doing important things like looking at pictures and walking in the sun and having lunch and the Internet cafes usually heave with off-putting lines of backpackers.
Your speech was really funny and you were a fabulous MC and looked imperturbable, which is the main thing, which made us feel relaxed about disappearing relatively early and leaving our two families and their entourages to it. We’ve called our respective parents who seem very happy with everything and you’ll be pleased to know that Ellis reports Great Aunt Lavender’s injury as minor and her upper lip as stiff. Now if this had been a wedding back home, she’d have sued Jack, Uncle Lenny, Ellis’s dad, and the band. Maybe even the manufacturers of the walker.
After a few days in London, which they thoroughly enjoyed, the entire Denslow contingent is now back in the old homestead. They still haven’t got over the discovery that Ellis’s ancestors have had that stately pile for more than three hundred years and, they are, of course, disappointed that we won’t end up living there. But my family are good people, and though they think primogeniture is unfair, they would not want Piers to die for the crime of being the elder son, copping the family home and pretty well everything else and stopping me from being a Lady. They’ve developed a taste for titles, though, which they’re beginning to think must be a dime a dozen. All they knew about Ellis for ages was that he was a cop—which to them seems normal and respectable—and then it was revealed that his father was a peer. Then Jack, whom they knew as my St. Martha’s mentor, turned out to be a baroness. Aunt Eliza asked me seriously if I could earn a ladyship and I said that in England anything is possible, which amazed her—because, of course, like most Americans, she thinks she lives in the only land of opportunity ever invented in the history of the universe.
Oh, by the way, should Jack railroad you into going to Indiana—which of course she won’t—you should know there are connotations to being ‘Jew for a Day.’ In the States some well-meaning sensitivity counsellors who want kids to understand discrimination put yellow stars on half the class on Holocaust Day and ban them from the water cooler. Apparently it always ends in tears. I hope it doesn’t for you. The good news is it beats being ‘Slave for a Day,’ which has been known to include those designated as slaves being chased through the woods by bounty hunters. I love my country, but it can be very strange.
Apart from a long message on my mobile telling us which pictures to see at the Prado, which other museums to visit, which restaurants to eat at and what dishes to choose, we haven’t heard from Jack. I bet you’ll hear plenty. She won’t abandon her campaign.
Best of luck with everything. We’re both looking forward to seeing you. Ellis is polishing up his speech.
Adios and much love from us two to you two,
ML
From:
Robert Amiss
To:
Mary Lou Denslow
Sent:
Tue 21/03/2006 13.19
Subject:
Jack
She’s ratcheting it up, Mary Lou. This Helen person is, apparently, prepared to provide bags of gold in order to please Jack by enticing us to Freeman University. Rachel can give some lectures about her time as a diplomat, while I can teach a writing class—which seems pretty ridiculous considering my first book won’t be published for another few months. But I’m being implacable. And, even without Rachel, that’s the way I’m determined to stay.
Love, Robert
***
‘How long do you reckon before Robert caves in?’ Mary Lou asked Pooley over dinner that night.
‘I can’t see him doing it this time. Usually when he’s dragged into things by his friends it’s because he’s got nothing better to do. Travelling around Europe sounds a lot better than the alternative on offer.’
‘So boredom won’t be a motive. Nor will money. But there’s still friendship.’
‘If it’s a question of pleasing Rachel or Jack, there won’t be a contest.’
‘True.’ Mary Lou speared another prawn and ate it thoughtfully. ‘Unless Jack gets into trouble, of course. In which case Rachel would want to rally round. She’s become fond of Jack despite herself.’
‘Why should she get into trouble?’ asked Pooley absently, as he gazed at Mary Lou’s sparkling eyes and thought how lucky he was.
‘I can’t believe you said that, Ellis. She’s going to America, the citadel of political correctness—a universe in which a public official was sacked from his job for using the word “niggardly,” which has as much to do with “nigger” as “patronising” has to do with “Pat.”’
‘Sounds like the Met,’ sighed Pooley. ‘The commissioner never shuts up about racism.’
‘I know, I know, but America’s much worse. Everyone’s born touchy these days. What’s more, Jack’s heading for American academia, which is now in the iron grip of the thought police. Did you read or did I tell you about the Lawrence Summers affairs?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Summers was President of Harvard. At a private conference convened to discuss how to attract more women to science, he made the gross error of trying to address the question from first principles. Were women in short supply, he asked, because a) they were discriminated against, b) they considered the commitment required for a scientific career incompatible with their family responsibilities, or c) there were innate differences between men and women which made science more a man thing?’
Pooley looked puzzled. ‘So?’
‘A female professor called Nancy something-or-other stormed out claiming to have been made feel physically ill by this outrageous sexism and all hell broke loose with the feminist ballbreakers, causing Summers—who had been imported into Harvard in the first place because he was a tough guy who would kick ass and face down pressure groups—to cave in, beg publicly for forgiveness and throw millions more down a drain called diversity instead of telling Nancy to lie down, sniff some smelling salts, and come to her senses. As that still wasn’t enough to placate his enemies, in the end he resigned.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Well you may say “Oh, dear.”’ She took a generous sip of Rioja. ‘What a wuss! And to think this is the guy who gave us all hope in the early days of his reign when he took on that bombastic poseur Cornel West…’
Pooley raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Then Professor of Black Studies at Harvard, a mountebank, amateur rapper, and crowd-pleasing activist, who went off in a huff to Princeton because he thought Summers was showing insufficient respect by questioning his dodgy scholarship and his tendency to inflate his students’ grades sky-high.’
‘Black Studies is big at Harvard, is it? I’m surprised.’
‘Big? It’s mega. Just like Women’s Studies. And now Queer Studies.’ She snorted. ‘Excuses to avoid anything rigorous.’
‘You get more and more like Jack every day, Mary Lou. You’ll have to curb your opinions a bit now you’re a celeb.’
‘I’m only a D list celeb, darling. And that probably won’t last long. I’ll try hard not to offend the tender PC sensibilities of the BBC, but we’re alone and I can rant a bit. It’s just that Jack going into the jaws of danger has stirred me up. I’m afraid she’ll be lynched. From all I read and hear about American universities these days, you can prance around almost nude shaking your fanny at the athletes and screwing night and day under the bushes, you can accuse George Bush of being worse than Hitler or sneer at your country as the Great Satan and no one will even tut-tut, but cause quote offence unquote to the greatest asshole on the campus because of an innocent remark that could be construed as having racist or sexist overtones or reflect on someone’s gender orientation, and you’ll be fucked quicker than a frat-whore.’
She saw Pooley’s perplexed expression. ‘Sorry, Ellis. It’s all those campus novels I’ve had to read: I’m falling into the vernacular. A frat-whore is a fraternity-house groupie.’
Pooley sighed. ‘Things have moved on since my generation thought “Animal House” was cutting-edge, I suppose.’
‘Compared to now, “Animal House” is “The Waltons.”’
She pushed her plate away. ‘I look at Jack and I see a lawsuit waiting to happen. And I can tell you that it’ll be no defence that she’s female, bisexual, or that one of her best friends is black. Or African-American as I’m striving to teach her to say. She’s a walking dictionary of inappropriate words. And inappropriate words don’t come cheap in my old country.’
‘Mary Lou,’ said Pooley, reaching across the table to take her hand, ‘it’s not that I’m not interested and it’s not that I don’t care about Jack, but we are on our honeymoon, it isn’t long enough anyway, and I’d like to change the subject.’
She leaned across the table and kissed him enthusiastically. ‘OK,’ she promised, ‘consider me back on your wavelength.’
***
From:
Commander Jim Milton
To:
Detective-Inspector Ellis Pooley
Sent:
Fri 24/03/2006 21.11
Subject:
The usual
I expect you’re back by now and hope Madrid lived up to expectations. Sorry I had to leave your wedding early, but another murder of a scum-bag by other scum-bags called me away. Things are hotting up seriously here and I’m short-staffed so can you call me at home on Sunday so I can let you know what’s most urgent for Monday? Prepare to be at the Yard at sparrow-fart.
Love to Mary Lou. I did warn her not to marry a cop.
