How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law (24 page)

“It’s a wonderful idea!” I stood twirling the telephone cord around my finger while keeping an eye on the twins, who were still talking to the tin man. “But there is one small problem.…”

“I know,” said Frizzy, “your mother-in-law and mine are seriously not talking. But don’t you think it would be for the best if they patched things up?”

“Mum’s very bitter,” I told her, “but I suppose I could try and persuade her to do this for me, as a very special favour. I’ll tell her I am living in daily fear of bungling my job as chairwoman of the St. Anselm’s Summer Fête, because the number of contestants planning to enter the homemaking events has dropped off since last year, and then I’ll ask for her help in organizing a get-together for interested parties.”

“That could work.” I felt the warmth of Frizzy’s smile all the way down the phone.

“Tricks mentioned when she came for dinner that she was entering the marrow-growing contest,” I continued, “so with luck I can make Mum see it would be impossible not to include her ex-friend in the invitation.”

“Ellie, this is wonderful. And wouldn’t it be even better if one or more of the women came away from the fête next month with a ribbon or two? Something like that would boost their self-confidence and put them back in touch with their own lives.”

“You’re right.” I watched Tam edge towards the grandfather clock and make a grab for Tobias, who was hiding around the corner. “Tricks has her marrows, my mother-in-law crochets a mile a minute, Bridget Spike makes the most marvelous marmalade, and Lady Kitty is famous for her apple pie. Mrs. Malloy says you just eat a slice and you die happy.”

“The trouble with her ladyship,” Frizzy said, “is that she is used to hosting the fête, not being a player.”

“Then it will be up to Pamela to persuade her that she has been failing her subjects all these years by not setting the standard for a proper pastry crust to which the common woman should aspire. What do you think about my striking while the iron is hot and having the first tea party this afternoon?”

“Do I have to come and help?”

“Of course not, this is your afternoon off.”

“What time do you want Tricks?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Should I send along her pajamas in case it turns into a slumber party?”

“Good try, Frizzy!”

I could picture her crooked smile. “I’d better get off the phone before Mrs. Smith next door phones the police. Ever since Dawn got her new radio, you can’t raise your voice above a whisper in this house without that woman banging on the wall.”

“Heaven forbid I get you arrested,” I said, and after hanging up I immediately telephoned Eudora, who, if not bubbly, was very agreeable to the plan for getting the mothers-in-law together. Reaching Pamela promised to be a bit more ticklish. I had my doubts that Lady Kitty would permit anyone but herself to undertake the responsibility of handling the telephone; but
as it turned out, Pamela answered almost before I finished dialing.

“Allan”—her voice came in a breathless rush—“did you find a way to come up with the money?”

I felt my face flush for both of us. “Sorry, Pamela. It’s me, Ellie Haskell.”

“Oh, super!” She tried gallantly to sound pleased. “It seems
ages
since I saw you last night. Not that anything has changed here. Mumsie Kitty is being her usual beastly self, Bobsie Cat is talking about moving into the hollow tree down the lane, and I’m ready to do something desperate—like run off to Marks & Spencer and buy myself some new bras. That’s why when I thought you were Allan I started babbling about money.” Her voice trailed off, leaving an awkward pause which I filled with the image of her sad brown eyes and drooping ponytails.

“I rang to ask if Lady Kitty would come for tea this afternoon at three o’clock.”

“By herself?”

“There’s a reason,” I said, and proceeded to explain all the well-conceived details of the mother-in-law campaign.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier to follow through with our original plans?”

“Pamela, last night was great therapy but …”

“I know.” Her laugh was as hollow as the tree where her father-in-law was considering taking up residence. “It’s just that you caught me in a really murderous mood.”

“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “Things will work out, trust me, and in the meantime you get an afternoon’s respite if you can talk Lady Kitty into coming to my house for tea. Tell her it won’t be a
fête accompli
without her.”

“If she does decide to enter the pie competition, she should win without question.” Pamela seemed to be growing more depressed by the minute. “You’d never think hands had touched her pastry, which is why
I was so scared when Allan told me about her decision to choose a wife for him by way of a bake-off …”

“But everything worked out,” I reminded her.

“At a price.”

I was searching for something to say, when Tam came across the hall at a racing toddle and slithered onto his bottom inches from my feet. Quickly making my excuses, I returned the telephone to its cradle and was about to pick up my son, when I saw Mrs. Pickle plodding down the stairs.

“Did Jonas give you a good tour?”

“We lost each other somewhere on the third floor.” She was panting heavily as she sidestepped Abbey, who was lying on her back, pretending to be a throw rug. “This is a big house, and I can see I’ll be using my broomstick more for getting around than cleaning. But that’s what I’m here for, when all’s said and done.” She dropped down on a tapestry bench, stretched out her legs in their heavy lisle stockings, and closed her eyes. “You’ve got a lot of dust catchers, Mrs. Haskell, but all of them lovely.”

“Thank you.” I hoisted Tam higher in my arms and stroked his shiny copper hair.

“Anything particular wants doing?”

“Well”—I really hated to trouble her—“if it wouldn’t be too much bother, you might give the drawing room a dusting. I’m having a few people over for tea.”

“Anyone I know?” Mrs. Pickle opened one eye.

“Lady Kitty Pomeroy, Beatrix Taffer, and Reverend Spike’s mother-in-law, Bridget.” Feeling guilty in the face of her exhaustion, I added quickly, “It’s not just a social occasion; we will be discussing their entries for the homemaking events at the summer fête.”

“That goes for your mother-in-law too?” Mrs. P. now had both eyes open.

“She does the most wonderful crocheting.” I waved my free hand at the hundred and one doilies gracing the hall.

“Sounds to me as how she’s going to be here for some time.”

“It’s a strong possibility.” I remained determined to face facts.

Poor Mrs. Pickle! Her face seemed to lose some of its cushioning as it turned a pale beige. That heartless Jonas! He must have told her that he had proposed to Mum and was anticipating a happy outcome. Men! I was tempted to wring his scrawny neck when I met him a few minutes later in the gallery upstairs, but he managed to get around me by offering to take the twins to his room for a game of peek-a-boo while I went and had a word with Mum.

She was dressed in a brown frock that wouldn’t have done me for a sleeve, and it was clear to me our newfound relationship had taken a backwards turn, because she looked only moderately pleased at the interruption. Taking her cue, Sweetie poked her furry face out from under the bed to give me the evil eye. Mrs. Pickle could learn a thing or two from that dog.

“I decided to stay up here out of the way when I realized you had company.” Mum kept right on rearranging her brush and comb on the dressing table.

“That’s Mrs. Malloy’s replacement.” In my nervousness I almost committed the unforgivable error of straightening the reading-lamp shade. “She turned up uninvited and I simply wasn’t up to turning her away when I am half out of my mind with worry.”

“If that’s a dig at me, Ellie”—Mum drew herself up so that she was almost as tall as the bedpost—“I can marry Jonas at once and get out of your hair. After all”—her eyes filmed with tears—“my dog does need a father.”

Over Sweetie’s woofs of agreement or denial, I stammered, “It’s n-not y-you, Mum:
I’m
the problem. Why, oh, why did I ever agree to chair the summer fête when I am completely incapable of doing a decent job?” Sinking down on her bed, I buried my face in my hands. “Chitterton Fells isn’t like London. Word will
spread like wildfire that I’ve made a hopeless bungle of my responsibilities and Ben—your one and only son—will be put in the
horrible
position of trying to defend me. Business at Abigail’s may even start to fall off, and then where will we be?”

I refrained from adding
Out on the streets, busking with Dad?
because I had decided to keep quiet for the time being on my father-in-law’s current business venture. One hurdle at a time.

“Far be it from me to make light of your problems, Ellie.” Mum’s voice had perked up, just as I hoped it would. “And never let it be said I’m one to boast, but if you want to know what stress is, you should try doing the bingo books for your church the way I have for Holy Mother Mary’s all these years. I don’t suppose you believe me”—her sniff sounded somewhat perfunctory—“but if Father O’Grady were standing here now, he would tell you straight out that not once have I come up a penny short at the end of the year.”

“I don’t know how you coped, what with the Legion of Mary, the Altar Guild, and all your other commitments.” I struggled valiantly off the bed. “Thanks for listening to my problems, Mum. Please say a prayer that I will muddle through and not make too big a botch of this afternoon’s tea.”

“This afternoon’s what?”

“It’s for women interested in entering the homemaking events at the fête—knitting, crocheting, gardening, baking—that sort of thing.”

“Crocheting?” Mum’s ears pricked up.

“It’s one of our most prestigious categories.” I stood, hesitating, with my hand on the doorknob. “This sounds awfully cheeky, but would you be willing to make some of your scones for this afternoon? Mine always turn out like rocks and—”

“We can’t expect to be good at everything, Ellie.”

“That’s a kind way of putting it,” I said humbly.

“You have to concentrate on your good points.” Mum followed me out of the bedroom. “I’ve never
liked to mention it before for fear you’d think I was trying to flatter you, but I have to say you do make a nice pot of tea.”

To an Englishwoman there is no higher praise. Encouraged beyond my deserts, I said, “If you would help me make a success of this afternoon, I would be eternally grateful. But there is one problem I’ve been afraid to mention.…”

“You don’t have any milk for the scones?”

“Worse than that.” I took a deep breath. “Beatrix Taffer will probably show up and—”

“I understand, Ellie.” Mum stopped dead in her tracks and assumed her martyr’s expression. “This is an official function which Bea has every right to attend. And never let it be said I expected you to slam the door in her face. I’ll make sure I keep out of the way when your guests arrive.”

“But I want you at the tea. I
need you
there.”

“Then”—her sparrow eyes shone and her hollow cheeks turned pink—“that’s where I’ll be.”

She did not say
And may God have mercy on Beatrix Taffer’s soul
, but the words vibrated in the air. And, unable to resist the urge, I gave her a hug and said, “Would you like me to curl your hair and try a little eye shadow on you? After all, it wouldn’t hurt to put your best face forward and outshadow Tricks.”

Catching sight of herself in the wall mirror, Mum stood shoulders back, chest out … as far as it would go. I could see the wheels turning. Would stuffing some cotton wool into her bra be an immoral act? Her eyes met mine, but all she said was “I’d better get started on those scones.”

Just as well one of us had a sense of the imperative. The minutes always fly by when there aren’t enough of them to go around. When Mum went off to the kitchen, I located Mrs. Pickle in the drawing room and was reassured to discover she was not driving the Hoover around the carpet at an unlawful rate of speed. Then it was back upstairs to collect the twins from Jonas,
who, when he heard that women in twos and threes would be descending upon the house, promised to lock himself in with his chamber pot and a good book. And who was I to brand him a coward, with Mum and Mrs. Pickle already complicating his bachelor existence? All I needed was to have Tricks start making eyes the size of half crowns at Jonas and Mum might decide to elope to Gretna Green with him. After all, Mr. Watkins’s ladder was standing ready and willing up against the house.

Abbey, bless her, ate her lunch like a perfect lady and made no attempt to distract Mum in her scone-making by throwing carrots and sausage chunks at her. Tam was another story. My son kicked and squirmed, dumped his food on his booster chair tray, and to show me he was well and truly prepared to do combat, put his tin hat, otherwise called a bowl, on his head. Great! I now had to wash his hair before putting him down for his nap. By which time Abbey, understandably, demanded some special attention upon being tucked into her own cot.

Bong
went the grandfather clock when I made it back downstairs. Two-fifteen? So little time, so much to go wrong! Tobias Cat ate an insect that didn’t want to be eaten, and got stung in the mouth. I dropped the vase containing Jonas’s dahlias and spent five minutes picking up glass and getting most of it in my knees. And there was Mrs. Pickle. I had assumed she would depart by one at the latest, but when she made it clear she would stick around until the last chair leg was dusted—which, knowing her, could be the end of the century—I felt compelled to go and make her some lunch, a ham sandwich without any ham but with lots of mustard.

The only sustenance
I
got was an energizing whiff of Mum’s rack of golden scones, but no doubt that was enough to make me gain two pounds. It took some persuasion to get her into the downstairs washroom for a fast makeover, but the results were well worth the effort. A few twirls with the curling iron, a couple of
strokes of eye shadow, a dab of blush on both cheeks, and she looked pretty enough to take on Beatrix Taffer.

Speak of the other woman! I had barely unplugged the curling iron when
buzz
went the doorbell.