How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams by Dorothy Cannell Page B

Potter crockery in the sink as Mrs. Malloy stowed the bucket and mop in the broom cupboard. “And she’s been a great new recruit for the Library League; in fact, I am hoping she will take over as secretary when my term is up.”
    “Proper back-breaking work.”
    “I’ll have you know that last month I sent out at least two get well cards to former league members, as well as purchasing and gift-wrapping Sylvia Babcock’s wedding present, which I shall personally deliver.”
    “And now I suppose you’ll be on the phone day and night, begging people to pitch in by crocheting doilies and what have you for this fund-raiser for Miss Bunch’s memorial.” Mrs. Malloy helped herself to some of the stew Gerta had left on the cooker and teetered on her six-inch heels over to the table. There she further vented her feelings with the pepper pot before picking up her knife and fork.
    “I don’t think we’ll have another bring-and-buy sale,” I conceded. “The last one the Library League put on was not a roaring success. If I remember rightly, we raised only five pounds.”
    “And the only reason there was that much”—Mrs. M. polished off her plate with a piece of bread to save on the washing up—“was that you went crackers and boughtthat pair of tin swords and the two whacking big sieves with the leather handles.”
    “They were fencing guards, but you’re right, they did resemble the medieval equivalent of a colander. Ben was quite chuffed until he realized his mistake. But I certainly don’t think I overpaid. The foils and the guards came from Pomeroy Manor and no doubt figured in some very romantic swashbuckling.”
    While putting away the children’s dishes, I pictured one of Sir Robert’s ancestors—a handsome wastrel in form-fitting breeches and gleaming Hessian boots—tossing a foil to a muslin-clad miss with golden ringlets, and exclaiming, “En garde, my dear Arabella, time for a little foreplay!”
    Trust Mrs. Malloy to break the mood. Getting to her feet, she said, “If you ask me, Mrs. H., you’ll save yourself and the rest of the Library League a lot of bloomin’ aggravation if you pick up one of those life-size inflatable dolls from a dirty-joke shop. I’m sure as how Bunty Wiseman can tell you where to go. Then you spray the dolly Lolita with bronze paint, and Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got your statue of Miss Bunch.”
    “I hardly think that would be suitable,” I was saying, when the garden door opened and my husband, of all impossible people, walked into the kitchen. Ben never came home at lunchtime. But there he was, looking far too real, with his tie loosened and his suit jacket unbuttoned, to be a figment of my overwrought imagination.
    “Men!” Mrs. Malloy eyed him darkly as he walked brazenly across her newly washed floor. “I could have told you, Mrs. H., you was making a horrible mistake bringing that Swiss temptress into this house. She may be old enough to be his mother, but she’s a new broom when all is said and done. The next thing we’ll know, she’ll be tying the master here to the bedpost with those braids of hers, and the two of them will be yodeling their heads off.”
    “You have an incorrigibly evil mind, Mrs. Malloy.” Ben’s scowl was at odds with the smile he gave her. “You’ve never forgiven me for resisting your attempts to lure me into the pantry while my wife’s back was turned. And you’re jealous because I’ve come home in the middle of the day to spirit Ellie away in the car parked, for a fastgetaway, within inches of the door. Come, my darling!” He held out his hands.
    “Who, me?” I glanced wildly around the kitchen as if expecting another Ellie Haskell to step forward into the limelight, coquettishly twirling her dishcloth.
    “I’m taking you out for lunch.” Ben crossed the room in two strides and, placing a husbandly arm around my shoulders, propelled me towards the garden door, which Mrs. Malloy with a poor attempt at servility