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

Author:Cannell, Dorothy [Cannell, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, England, Cozy, Fiction, Haskell, Ellie (Fictitious Character), Large Type Books, Mothers-In-Law
ISBN: 9780816159307
Publisher: G.K. Hall
Published: 1994-05-15T07:00:00+00:00

Absence does not always make the heart grow fonder. When I approached the bench—I mean the bar—and asked Mrs. Malloy if she had put the tape recorder behind the counter for safekeeping, she produced it with a wallop that would have given a woman with stronger insides than myself a prolapse.

“Anything else I can do for your majesty?”

In case she was on commission, I ordered a large gin and tonic. Then, horror of horrors, when she rang up the price I remembered I had not brought my handbag with me. The car keys were in my raincoat pocket, but no matter how far I pulled out the lining, I couldn’t come up with a penny in loose change. Asking if she would kindly keep a running tab, I looked around for a table that wasn’t under her eagle eye.

All were occupied except one, bang up next to the bar, so there I retreated with a drink that was almost as tall as I, which I couldn’t drink because I would have to drive home. Even if Mr. Savage should abandon his newfound musical collaboration with Dad and return to me this side of morning, I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting him drive in the dark.

Under different circumstances I could have asked Mrs. Malloy to let me write her an IOU. But given her present miffed state, the best I could hope for was to be ordered out back to do the washing-up. For a doleful few moments I sat twiddling the knobs of the tape recorder before depositing it on the floor in hope that it would be mistaken for a black leather handbag. I knew I was being silly. All I had to do was go upstairs to Room 4 and borrow some money from Dad. But on that particular night I balked at the thought of looking like a helpless female. If the shoe fits, you don’t have to wear it.

A woman had come into the pub. A woman wearing a headscarf and a furtive expression. Not only did I recognize her, I presumed on our brief acquaintance to stand up and hail her over to my table.

“Hello! It’s me, Ellie Haskell.” The welcoming smile died on my lips. Frizzy Taffer’s response wasn’t one of unbridled enthusiasm. She actually backed into a couple of people, a bald man in a loud plaid jacket and a woman in black leather, before moving with lagging steps towards me.

“What a nice surprise.” Her nose should have grown at voicing this blatant lie. It was already red and puffy, as were her eyes, suggesting either a bad cold (which she hadn’t had that morning) or a prolonged bout of crying. Frizzy’s face was as drab as her raincoat. Not knowing what else to say, I told her I hadn’t expected to see her again so soon.

“I never come here.” Frizzy checked the knot of her headscarf. Not a single hair escaped onto her forehead, making her look like a nun who, though prepared to humour modern times by wearing civvies, would not forgo her wimple.

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