The Spring Cleaning Murders (13 page)

That was unkind of me and I tried to unthink the thought as Vienna shifted the carrier bag higher up her arm. My explanation that I had stopped by to see how things were going made me sound like a busybody, so I hastily added the hope that she and Madrid would come for tea one afternoon soon.

“You might like to talk to Jonas some more about the garden,” I added for good measure, “and very likely you would get to meet my cousin Freddy. He’s always popping in when he’s not at work, and then there are the children, if you don’t mind being bounced on by three-year-olds.”

“What a dear you are.” Vienna’s face showed real pleasure. “Madrid has been so worried that we’d find ourselves shunned after what happened. But that’s because she’s been blaming herself that we didn’t get to Mrs. Large sooner. I keep telling her the postmortem revealed the poor woman died instantly. But I can’t get Madrid to believe something might not have been done if we hadn’t both been so preoccupied. It’s no surprise we didn’t hear the crash when Mrs. Large and the ladder went down.”

“You both had a lot to do,” I responded, “getting ready to entertain people you hardly knew. When I’m in that situation a whole herd of elephants could come trumpeting through the house and I wouldn’t hear them.”

“There was something else.” Vienna seemed glad of the chance to talk frankly. “I should not have agreed to have the coffee on that particular morning. Foolishly, I thought it might help Madrid get through what is always an extremely hard day for her—the anniversary of Jessica’s death. But all it did was make things harder for her. She tried so bravely to help with the preparations, but she was in tears half the time, and just before you arrived, she had dropped a plate of scones. Which meant that we had to rush and make up another batch. All in all, it was extremely trying for her.”

“And you’re blaming yourself,” I said, understanding because I was very good at doing the same thing. “But you mustn’t, Vienna. If not for the accident, the coffee morning might have succeeded in cheering up Madrid just as you hoped.”

Vienna shook her head. “If only, and I know this sounds awful, Mrs. Large had died on any other day of the year, then I really think Madrid could have coped better. As it is, I’m amazed she was able to go to the funeral at all. I tried to discourage her, but she was so afraid people would talk if she didn’t show up. But perhaps . . .” Vienna paused and looked at me questioningly.

“Yes?” I said, eager to be of any help.

“Perhaps if you were to go in and have a word with Madrid—she’s on the sofa in the sitting room. It would let her know there are people besides her fussy old sister who care how’s she doing.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

“I would certainly feel happier going down to the shops, knowing that someone was with her. Of course, I’ll hurry back. Do you mind if I just slip away now without even getting you a cup of tea?”

“Off you go.” I opened the front door for her. “And don’t worry, I’m in no great rush to get home.”

“You’re sure?” Vienna fumbled in her bag for her key. She unearthed bundles of stuff—tissues, a coin purse, an address book—but no key. She said, as she stuffed everything back, that it didn’t matter because there was always the one hidden under a flowerpot by the back door. A fact that I hoped she didn’t relate casually to all and sundry. That was the trouble with frank people such as Vienna; they were sometimes too trusting.

I tapped on the sitting-room door before poking my head around the corner and announcing myself. The curtains were drawn against the rain, the lights were on, although turned down low and a fire burned in the grate. Madrid was stretched out on the sofa, her head supported by a couple of plump cushions, and a large book lay across her middle. Parting her screen of hair and tucking it behind her ears, she squinted up at me through her glasses.

“Hello,” she said in a neutral voice, watching me cross the room to her side. “I thought I heard voices in the hall, but everything gets a bit vague when I’m having one of my low spells. Where’s Vienna?”

“She went down to the shops,” I explained, “to fetch you something for your tea.”

“Yes, I haven’t been feeling very well.” It’s not easy to look wan and piteous when one is moonfaced and has jowls, but Madrid somehow managed it. I even thought I caught a glimpse of the very pretty girl she must have been once upon a time, before sorrow claimed her for its own.

“Vienna told me you haven’t been up to snuff.” I tried to strike the right note between sympathy and an attempt at raising her spirits. “You’ve both been through a lot, haven’t you?”

“My sister is tremendously strong. Of course she’s gone through the change and they say the male hormones kick in at that time. But she’s always been a rock.” Madrid started to heave herself up, thought better of the idea, and sank back against her cushions. “It’s her being the eldest and our parents dying when we were quite young that makes her that way. I’m Vienna’s entire life. But I do try not to be a burden. Would you mind”--waving a languid hand—”putting another log on the fire? And could you perhaps fetch my shawl from that chair?” She valiantly lifted her head. “The one over by the door.”

“It’s very pretty,” I said after seeing to the fire and handing her the shawl, which she proceeded to arrange bunchily around her shoulders. It was made out of string and looked like an extremely large dishcloth. “Did Vienna make it for you?”

“No, I did it years ago, when everyone was doing macramé.” Madrid rested her hands on the open book lying across her middle. “I was very arty when I was young. That’s how I came to know the artist who painted Jessica’s portrait.” She tilted her head to look above the mantelpiece. “He—Raimondo Genovese—was mostly known for his sculptures.” She bit down on her lip and removed her glasses to wipe them with the shawl. “But as you can see he was a gifted painter. Of course Jessica was an artist’s dream. She would pose happily for hours, just so long as she could see me out the corner of her eye. Raimondo let us have his sketches of her. They’re all over the house. And we have hundreds of photos. I’ve been looking through this album.” She lifted the book and held it out to me. “My darling Jessica had that wonderful affinity with the camera that the great fashion models all seem to have. She knew instinctively how to project her innermost self, with just a tilt of her dear little head. Precious angel!”

Silence settled on the room, relieved only by the faint ticking of the clock and an occasional crackle of the fire. Madrid then asked wistfully if I would like to see the album for myself. So I drew up a chair and settled down to admire Jessica in dozens of poses and myriad settings.

“Here she is the day we took her to Madam Tussaud’s.” Madrid pointed her finger proudly. “But she wouldn’t go in.”

“Do they allow dogs?”

“I don’t know, but the poor little darling started to shake when Vienna mentioned the Chamber of Horrors, so we took her for an ice cream instead. Strawberry was always her favorite, and after that we took her to have her nails done at a wonderful little doggy spa in Soho.”

Madrid continued turning the album pages slowly. There were photos of Jessica at the seaside, photos of her reclining on sofas and chairs draped in a shawl that was smaller, but otherwise identical to the one Madrid was now wearing. There were photos of her being paraded in shows and photos of her sipping from a champagne glass. And here we had Jessica stepping daintily into a taxi on the way to meet her betrothed, the Baron Von Woofer, for the first time.

“She was so happy. I’m sure for her it was love at first sight.” Madrid’s voice broke and she snapped the book shut. “But his feelings couldn’t have gone that deep, or he would at least have observed a proper mourning period after her death,” she continued with great bitterness. “Instead, what did the lusty Baron Von Woofer do but hook up with that rump-twitching minx, Elizabetta Dancefoot. Little slut. Not a decent championship to her name. The sort of bitch who would give herself to any dog for a biscuit.”

It was at that moment that it occurred to me that Madrid Miller wasn’t just odd, she was completely potty. She couldn’t help it, and there are people with far worse fixations, but I found myself eager to get away before I put my foot in my mouth. Unfortunately the tongue is oftentimes faster than the foot.

“Did any of Jessica’s orphan puppies turn into champions?” I asked. Madrid’s expression grew even more sullen.

“I don’t know. What a question, I can never stand talking about them. It was bad enough that Vienna insisted on keeping a couple of them. Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice mellowed and she reached out to squeeze my hand. “I shouldn’t have snapped—it’s ungrateful when you’re being so kind. It’s just that my nerves are in such a state. Perhaps if I could have a glass of brandy. I’m sure there’s a bottle in the pantry. Would you mind?”

“Not a bit.” I was on my feet and at the door before she had finished speaking.

“You know where the kitchen is, and while you’re there, you could take a peek in the study—some of the best sketches of Jessica are hanging there.”

After agreeing with what I hoped amounted to appropriate enthusiasm I escaped into the hall. I had no desire to see anyone’s etchings of the late lamented Jessica. But I did pause to peer around the study door, forcing myself to look inside in hopes of laying Mrs. Large’s ghost to rest. What a depressing room it was, even without a body taking up half the floor. I hadn’t done myself an ounce of good, because memory had lost none of its brutal clarity. I could see it all again: the overturned ladder, Mrs. Large’s look of slack-jawed bewilderment, the feather duster in her hand, the dustpan and ashes on the floor.

I practically fled down the hall as if at least six ghosts were chasing me. After fumbling for the kitchen light switch, I blundered across the room. The pantry was a few feet from the back door, a small square of walk-in space; there was a marble shelf with almost all the polish gone, and rows of yellowed white wooden ones ranged up the walls to the high ceiling. The tiny window six feet above my head was festooned with cobwebs and there was no light. But there was food. Boxes and jars lined all the shelves within reach, and yes, there it was—the brandy bottle. I had my hand around it when the door slammed shut on me.

Darkness dropped like a black cloth over my head, and my heart began to pound. So silly, because all I had to do was find the doorknob and give it a turn. There was only one problem. The knob turned but the door wouldn’t budge. Not even when I pounded on it with my fists and kicked at it until my shoes hurt. And by the time I got round to shouting I wondered if it would be any use. If someone or something had locked me in, might not he or she be off somewhere in that horrible house laughing?

“Would you like me to go in with you,” Freddy offered kindly. It was the following Monday morning. Ben had already left for work and I was about to enter my own pantry to fetch bread for toast. It’s possible I did hesitate on opening the pantry door and that Freddy was sincere in his concern for my mental well-being.

“Actually, I think I’m bearing up very well,” I told him, returning with the bread and popping slices into the toaster. “I wasn’t stuck in that awful pitch-dark pantry for very long, but it
was
harrowing. Another few minutes and I would have been like poor Jane Eyre when wicked Aunt Reed locked her in the room where her uncle had died—seeing ghosts and spooks at every turn.”

“Now be reasonable, coz.” Freddy stirred himself to pour his own cup of tea. “There wouldn’t have been room for both you and Mrs. Large in there. You have to learn to relax in a crisis. Savor the moment, so to speak.”

“The only moment I savored,” I told him, buttering away at the toast, “was when I got out. I suppose it
was
like a French farce. Vienna returning to the house because she’d forgotten her shopping list. The back door colliding with the pantry door, shutting me in. Her dashing off to explain to Madrid she wasn’t a burglar. Then almost out the front door when she heard my pounding and guessed what had happened. Because that pantry door had a tendency to stick, or jam, or whatever you call it, and Vienna had been meaning to get it fixed.”

“It’s good for you to talk about it.” Freddy was at his most benign, graciously accepting the toast with two poached eggs on top. “I don’t mind that I’ve heard about it seven times already. You need to get the experience out of your system, Ellie, if there’s to be any hope of your ever fully functioning in society again. And after what you’ve told me about Madrid Miller, I really don’t think the world needs too many more crackpots.”

I sat down across from him at the kitchen table and sipped my tea. “The trouble is, Madrid isn’t what I would call a nice crackpot.”

“Because she didn’t get off her sofa when you were trapped in the pantry?”

“Not that; I’m sure it’s always a case of Vienna to the rescue. Madrid’s used to letting her sister take care of everything. What really put me off her was seeing the kennels. Vienna told me to take a look at them if I were interested, and the little dogs were so adorable, especially of course the puppies, that it was hard to imagine none of them ever being allowed in the house.”

“It does sound harsh.” Freddy held out his cup for a refill. “But be fair, Ellie, those women are running a business.”

“Oh, knickers!” I snapped. “I thought that. But the reason Madrid won’t let those Norfolk terriers set paws in the house is she’s punishing them because they’re alive. And her darling Jessica is dead and gone. That’s spite, under the guise of sensitivity. Also downright creepy, if you ask me.” Ignoring Freddy’s proffered cup, I took away his eggy plate and slapped it in the sink. “Nice crackpots, otherwise known as lovable eccentrics, aren’t like that. They think they’re teakettles or decide to live in trees while seeking their inner selves. Very clever, some of them. Take Dr. Johnson.” I turned on the tap and squeezed in some washing-up liquid. “Now there was an oddball, though I think he would have been lots of fun, if you could keep him from talking about his dictionary.”