The Spring Cleaning Murders (2 page)

“How big is your professional organization?” I leaped at the chance to become sidetracked.

“Give or take”—closing her eyes and pursing her lips—”I’d say there was five of us: Gertrude Large, Winifred Smalley, Betty Nettle, Trina McKinnley, and myself."

“I’ve only met Mrs. Large,” I said apologetically. “If you remember, you introduced her to me once at the bus stop in Market Street. To her and a much smaller woman.”

“That would have been Winifred Smalley. Well, I suggest you try to get Gertrude to give you a try.” Mrs. Malloy got to her feet and picked up the black bag. “Gertrude is always in demand, but if I was to put in a good word, I think she’d do her best to take you on.”

“Oh, Mrs. Malloy.” I tried desperately to get a grip on this disaster. “Must it come to this? Isn’t there anything I can say to persuade you to stay?”

“Sometimes it don’t do to think of ourselves, Mrs. H.” Standing up very straight in her spike heels, Mrs. Malloy addressed herself to the greenhouse window above the cluttered sink.

“You’re absolutely right.” I blinked away tears. “I’m being selfish.”

“What I meant is I can’t get wrapped up in me own feelings. Not after George ringing up last night and practically begging me to move into the flat and help out with the baby.” To my surprise, Mrs. Malloy was doing a heroic job of trying to look cheerful. Even Tobias appeared to give her a sympathetic glance, although he might have been sizing up her legs as potential scratching posts. “But I don’t suppose,” she continued, with only the faintest wobble of her chin, “that it will be all work and no play. There has to be things to do in London. Although I don’t see as how it can seem much of a place after living in Chitterton Fells.”

“I didn’t understand that’s why you have to leave.” I felt a surge of hope. “But surely your stay with George and Vanessa won’t be permanent.”

“George said he wants me until Rose is done with school. But here’s looking on the bright side.” Mrs. Malloy’s hand hovered in the air as if hoping a glass of gin would magically appear. “Rose could turn into a right naughty little so-and-so and get herself expelled. Horrid for a grandma to think about, but there it is! Nothing for it then, Mrs. H., but to ship her off to one of them convent schools in France where they don’t let no one but the mum and dad see the child. And then only through one of them peepholes.”

Mrs. Malloy often displayed her penchant for romance novels. But something else shone through as I looked at her. Were there tears in her eyes? I’d never seen her cry before. Oh, the occasional dab of her eyes with a lace-edged hanky to heighten the pathos of picturing herself as a misunderstood woman, but this appeared the real thing.

“What is it, Roxie?” (I rarely used her Christian name.)

“You can’t fool me. I know you adore little Rose. Your handbag’s gained twenty pounds with all those photos you carry around. If she were sent packing off to France you’d be on her trail in a shot.”

“If I could get a passport.” Mrs. Malloy was still deep in the doldrums. “I’ve heard tell they’ve started cracking down and I’d need two forms to list all them husbands of mine. There’s no good talking, Mrs. H.” She wadded up her hanky and returned it to her bag. “I’ve got to do me duty, even though I hate moving in with George and that Vanessa of his. No disrespect to you, her being your cousin, although I can’t say I go along with the idea that people don’t get to pick their relatives. Vanessa’s never been my cup of tea. Not since I first met her in this house and she treated me like the hired help.”

It was impossible not to identify with this outburst. My cousin had treated me like an underling from the time we were both three years old. She was the family beauty, a successful model, the sort of woman who would have made Sir Walter Raleigh forget his cloak and lay himself down in the gutter.

“Motherhood changes women,” I said. “On Vanessa’s last visit here she even gave me some helpful hints on how I could improve my appearance without surgery. And...”—I was determined to think positively—”even if she should backslide and get snippy once in a while, you’re not the sort, Mrs. Malloy, to let anyone walk all over you.”

“That’s true enough.” She brightened momentarily. “But even if my daughter-in-law was to welcome me with open arms and bring me tea in bed every morning, I don’t like the idea of giving up me home and career. Between you and me and that refrigerator, Mrs. H., I wouldn’t agree to do it if every now and then I didn’t get time for George. The lad’s stood on his own two feet since he was six weeks old. Done wonders getting into business for himself. And now here he is for the first time asking his mum to help out.”

“But couldn’t they get a nanny for Rose and have you pitch in occasionally?” I asked.

Mrs. Malloy shook her head. “George was definite about wanting me full-time. Said my room’s already fixed up a treat. I suppose it should have warmed the cockles of me heart. And I did do me bloomin’ best, Mrs. H., to sound like I was bubbling over with enthusiasm. Like” —pointing a finger at the Aga cooker— "that there kettle’s doing.”

“Bother!” Leaping across the kitchen, I collided with the stepladder, to the annoyance of Tobias, who had been dozing on the top rung. I’d forgotten I’d put the kettle on for another pot of tea. Peering at Mrs. Malloy through a cloud of steam, I asked why she had to live with George and Vanessa. “Wouldn’t it work just as well if you were to have your own little place close by?”

“You think I didn’t suggest that?” She sat back down and closed her eyes. “Me own telly and bits and bobs? And who knows, perhaps some fellow I’d meet at the fish-and-chip shop who’d come along of an evening to help me hang curtains and fill up one of the easy chairs. But it’s no good dwelling on all that!” She heaved a broken sigh. “Why George wants me under his roof is a bit of a puzzle. But there it is.”

“I’m sure he’s devoted to you,” I proffered. “But, all the same, he and Vanessa are newly married.”

“I can’t stay rooted to this chair." Mrs. Malloy recovered sufficiently to eye me severely as she got to her feet. “You’ll need to get going on your spring cleaning, and I’d best be off to have a word with Trina McKinnley. She’s offered to keep an eye on me house till I decide if it’s best to sell up or let it to someone who’ll keep up the garden.”

“You will come again before you leave to say goodbye to the twins?”

“If I can face it. I did bring you something to remember me by.” So saying, she reached into her bottomless bag and brought forth one of her cherished china poodles. “This is one of me favorites. It’s a money box, as you can see if you look close. Won it I did, off a hoopla stand on the front at Margate years ago.”

“Thank you!” I took the garish thing in my hands.

“I can tell from the expression on your face you’re overwhelmed, Mrs. H., but there’s no need to feel overly beholden. I don’t know of no one as would take better care of Fifi.”

“I’ll treasure it always.” My eyes misted and it took me a moment to see that Mrs. Malloy was in an even worse state. Tears were pouring down her face, eroding the makeup that seemed to be the only glue holding her together. I knew she didn’t want me to hug her, so I simply touched her arm before she turned and walked to the door.

“I’ll do like I said about having a word with Mrs. Large about taking you on, Mrs. H. And now ta ta!” My incomparable Mrs. Malloy walked with the barest totter and not a backwards glance out the door and down the steps into the pale sunshine. Her heels clicked away down the path. The sun shone. Birds sang. And I was left with a china poodle in my hands and more memories than there were jobs waiting to be done in this season of new beginnings.

“I wish you’d forget about spring cleaning, Ellie. It’s not as though we live in squalor.”

Ben looked impossibly handsome, his dark hair rumpled and the morning sunlight bringing out flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes. We were in our bedroom getting dressed and, silly as it sounds, I still had occasional flashes of shyness with him. Something—a word or a glance—would sweep me back to the first time we met. Then I had wished fervently that a fairy godmother would appear to turn me into the sort of woman who would make this gorgeous man’s heart pound the way mine was doing.

Now he cupped my face in his hands and gave me a lingering kiss before reaching into the wardrobe for a navy-blue sweater. “You’ve got enough on your plate,” he said, “With the children constantly on the go and Jonas not up to snuff.”

“But there’s something primal about spring cleaning,” I explained, “the urge to spruce up the nest every once in a while. To throw out the old twigs and bring in the new.

“And do some redecorating?” Ben’s voice was muffled by the sweater he was pulling over his head.

“The urge has come upon me,” I admitted. While buttoning my floral dress and bundling my hair into a loose knot, I glanced about the bedroom with its wallpaper of pheasants strutting about a silver-grey background. I was tired of the heavy mahogany furniture and the burgundy-velvet curtains and irritated that neither showed signs of wear. But like most men, Ben needed to be led gently by the hand when it came to making household changes.

“Wouldn’t you like a new desk for your study?” I asked.

“No.”

“But the drawer sticks.”

“That’s its best feature. I go to write a letter, can’t get to the paper, and have to give the whole thing up. And now, my darling”—he moved towards the door—”I have to be going.”

Restraining a sigh, I trailed after him. “Ben, you always run off to work when I talk about spending money.”

“Do I?”

The forced attempt at lightness in his voice made me quicken my steps. “Is something wrong at the restaurant? You haven’t told me much lately. Even Freddy has been unusually closemouthed.” My cousin continued to dream of life as a rock star while working for Ben at Abigail’s Restaurant and living in what had been the caretaker’s cottage at our front gates.

“Business has been down.” Ben leaned against the banister railing overlooking the hall. “The dreaded mad cow disease put a lot of people off eating beef ever again. And of course vegetarianism has practically become a national epidemic.”

“Don’t people bend the rules when eating out?”

“Not so as you would notice at Abigail’s. Just when we learn eggs aren’t as bad for us as we’ve been told all these years, I can’t give away an omelet. Never mind.” He flashed me a convincing smile. “Things will turn around.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I remember a couple of years ago having to wait ages to be served in Mrs. Dovedale’s corner shop-cum-post-office. A whole queue of people had boxed up their mink coats and beaver jackets and were sending them off to the headquarters of some anti-fur group for a ritual burning. And that fad passed. One of the women guests at the wedding, when Mrs. Dovedale married Sir Robert Pomeroy, was wearing a rabbit jacket. What’s important to remember is that Abigail’s is a wonderful restaurant. People have always raved about the food, the service, the ambience, everything. I have complete faith you will be back in high gear in next to no time. Still”—I hesitated, afraid of wounding his pride—”perhaps I should try and economize. No redecorating for a while. And I can tell Mrs. Large we won’t be needing her. She was meant to come for the first time today, but I’ll try to catch her in time to put her off.”

Ben moved away from the banisters. “Sweetheart, you need someone to replace Mrs. Malloy, and we can afford it.”

“She can’t be replaced.”

“Perhaps not, but you can give this Mrs. Large a try.”

“I suppose.” I gave him the smile I knew he wanted to see.

“And you won’t worry about Abigail’s?”

“Not if you promise to tell me the absolute truth about how things are going.” I took my husband’s hand and we went along to the room where our children were building a tower with wooden blocks on the rug between their little white beds. So far I hadn’t experienced a burning desire to update the nursery. I still loved its daffodil-yellow curtains, the cow jumping over the moon on the ceiling, and Mother Goose painted on the toy chest Jonas had made for the twins before they were born.

But as Abbey scrambled up, oversetting the tower in her enthusiasm to climb into Daddy’s arms, and Tam raced across the room to get his coloring book to show us his latest masterpiece, I knew I had to accept the fact that the twins were getting too big to be sharing a room. But no new furniture. There were plenty of offerings from the past to be found in the attic.

Tam and Abbey and I stood at the front door and watched Ben climb into the car and drive off. It was a glorious day, with the sun shining gold in a robin’s-egg-blue sky and a breeze blowing in from the sea. The trees showed that first lovely haze of green, like young girls standing around in gossamer slips, waiting for their mothers to iron their summer frocks. A sparrow stopped pecking around the base of a rosebush to flit onto the path and peek cheekily up at Tam, who had ventured out onto the stone step.

“Look, Mummy”—my son’s eyes widened— "he’s wearing a black bib.”

I was tempted to say that our feathered friend was clearly on his way to a funeral, where he would be a pallbearer in company with a couple of robins, a chaffinch, and a woodpecker—all close friends of the deceased. But my children were still at that impressionable age, so I settled for telling Tam that little boy sparrows tended to slop their morning cereal, which was why the mummy sparrows had them wear the little black bibs.

Tam bounded back through the front door and looked me squarely in the eye. “Actually, I already knew that.”

Abbey’s lip quivered. She hated being left out, but as she reached for my hand, the sparkle returned to her eyes and her elfin curls shone in the sun. “We saw a fairy in the garden the other day, didn’t we, Mummy?”

“Didn’t!” Her brother banged the front door shut, making the two suits of armor by the stairs jump, before he stomped behind us down the flagstoned hall.