How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law by Dorothy Cannell Page A

his best to keep his eyes on the road as they chugged around one hairpin bend after the other, prickly with hedgerows on the right and open-ended on the left to the rocky incline that sheered off to the sea below. By the time the road straightened out again, night would have unloosed its shadows in the manner of a woman letting down her hair. Nothing would be cozier than that old car, nuzzled in darkness, perhaps silvered by a glimmer of moon and scented with rose. Tricks might even be stirred to poetry—such as John Masefield’s “Sea Fever.” Good heavens! I switched off my imagination along with the kettle, at the point where I heard her suggesting to Dad that he might like to take a walk on the beach before taking her home.
    Mercifully, the prosaic task of brewing up got me back on track, and I had just handed Mrs. Malloy her cup when a tap sounded at the garden door. So much for my evil mind! That would be Dad now! Returned full of contrition and fully prepared to negotiate the wedding ceremony. Wrong! The person who came barging in was Cousin Freddy, his eyes soulfully uplifted, his hands steepled in prayer.
    “Any leftovers?”
    “Only me!” Mrs. Malloy bared a fishnet knee in crossing her legs.
    “She’s spending the night,” I explained. “We’ve had a spot of bother and things are rather at sixes and sevens.”
    “Don’t spare me!” Freddy took a seat on the table,his skull-and-crossbones earring quivering with excitement. “Is somebody dead?”
    “Worse than that!” Mrs. Malloy took a restorative slurp of tea. “Turns out Mrs. H.’s in-laws have been living together these near forty years without benefit of clergy.”
    “No!” He slapped his knee so hard, his ponytail danced.
    “It takes a bit of getting used to,” I conceded.
    “I’ll say! What with the old girl looking like she still thinks babies are found in the cabbage patch and, from what I gather, dancing down to church every chance she gets!”
    “She’ll be drummed out of the Legion of Mary, that’s for sure.” Mrs. M. heaved a sigh that inflated her bosom two cup sizes. “Very strict about some things is the Catholic Church, as I’ve heard time and again from Mrs. Pickle, who was R.C. herself before she went to work at the vicarage and decided if she was to advance in her job she’d better turn C. of E.”
    “Talk about hypocrisy!”
    Understanding Freddy to be speaking about Mum, I hastened to her defense. “She put up a mental block in order to convince herself she was in good standing with the Church.”
    “And I suppose you’ve let her sleep in the same bed with her boyfriend with no thought to the moral welfare of your little children. Ellie, I ask you, where is this world headed?” My cousin fixed his eyes on me in sorry bemusement.
    “Don’t ask me! I am headed for bed.”
    I was nearly out the door when he stopped me with a question that happily had nothing to do with my errant in-laws.
    “Still want me to help out with the summer fête?”
    “What? Oh, yes! I did ask if you would go out collecting money for expenses such as the tent rental, didn’t I? You’ll find a list of potential donors on the study desk. And if you could get started this week, Iwould appreciate it. Good night, Freddy. Good night, Mrs. Malloy.”
    “If Ben needs a shoulder to cry on, I’m here!” My cousin’s magnanimous offer floated after me as I mounted the stairs to the bedroom, where my husband was not waiting for me with bated breath.
    He was positioned on the four-poster, feet together, hands folded on his chest, as if the district nurse had just finished laying him out. The funereal aspect of the room was heightened by the twin vases bulging with flowers on the mantelpiece. Never had the wine velvet curtain and wallpaper with its grey and silver pheasants looked more falsely festive. But I must admit that even in his state of rigor mortis Ben looked very fetching. I have always found him irresistible in his black silk