How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law Read online

  Praise for Dorothy Cannell’s

  delightfully lethal novels

  HOW TO MURDER YOUR

  MOTHER-IN-LAW

  “Ms. Cannell beguiles us with a genteel ambience of tea cozies, rosy-cheeked babies, and urban hanky-panky, but beneath all of this lurks a hilariously wicked wit. An invaluable guide for spouses with a problem-in-law.”

  —JOAN HESS

  “America’s P. G. Wodehouse strikes again! If there’s anybody funnier than Dorothy Cannell, I don’t want to meet her until my sides stop aching.”

  —NANCY PICKARD

  FEMMES FATAL

  “Dorothy Cannell has perfected the recipe for an outrageous brew of genteel wit and wicked satire in Femme Fatal. I giggled to the end of this intricate plot of love-starved ladies, exhausted husbands, and discreetly kinky murder.”

  —JOAN HESS

  MUM’S THE WORD

  “Witty.”

  —Daily News, New York

  THE WIDOWS CLUB

  “Romps along with a judicious blend of suspense, frivolity, and eccentric characters.”

  —Booklist

  DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

  “Sparkling wit and outlandish characters.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  THE THIN WOMAN

  “[A] likable debut—combining fairy-tale romance, treasure hunts, and a homicidal maniac.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  This edition contains the complete text

  of the original hardcover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  HOW TO MURDER YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition published April 1994

  Bantam paperback edition / May 1995

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1994 by Dorothy Cannell.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-31149.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81665-8

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Mother-in-law dear,

  Pray do come to dine,

  We’ll have roasted pheasant,

  And a fine hemlock wine.

  Some women are born to meddle. They lurk in bathrooms, sticking their noses into medicine cabinets and rehanging the toilet paper. They lecture other people’s children and put their neighbours’ houseplants on diets. They would tell God what was wrong with heaven if they got half a chance. Enough is enough! I say they should be shot at dawn, every last one of them, including Mrs. Bentley T. Haskell, of Merlin’s Court, Chitterton Fells; for if anyone should have the words I will mind my own business monogrammed on her forehead, it is I.

  In a flush of family feeling I decided to host a wedding anniversary dinner party for my parents-in-law—Magdalene and Elijah Haskell. Nothing elaborate, you understand. Just a beef stew with a slight French accent, a salad jardin, and perhaps a chocolate blancmange masquerading as a mousse. “Ellie, you’re the salt of the earth,” Dad would say. And Mum would pipe in with “I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to appreciate your wonderful qualities.” Being the occasional wet blanket, my husband wasn’t keen on the idea. How I wish I had listened to Ben! And how sad it is to say that all I ever seem to learn from my mistakes is how to make new ones.

  When the big day arrived, I was still feeling on top of my game. Ben had offered to come home early from Abigail’s, his restaurant in the village, but I stuck to my guns. I know I’m not as eclectic in my choice of lettuce as is my beloved. And I once wore out a pair of shoes looking for clarified butter in every supermarket in town. I eat a lot better than I cook, as is woefully apparent. But I had this mad urge to show Mum and Dad that in their honour I could put a decent meal on the table.

  If I’d had my son, Tam, and daughter, Abbey, eighteen-month-old twins, on my hands that fateful day, things could have been a nightmare. Merlin’s Court is a large house, and I’d long ago abandoned the naive notion that if I gave it a thorough go-through once a month, it would repay me by keeping itself clean the rest of the time. Luckily, Jonas, who fronts as the gardener but is in truth one of the family, helped out with the twins during the morning. And in the afternoon my cousin Freddy, who lives at the cottage at the gates, ambled over to announce that he was taking a few hours off, as is his wont twice or thrice a day. Freddy is Ben’s second-in-command at Abigail’s; but he never lets this stand in the way of allowing me to impose on his services, for the trifling loan of a fiver. Abbey and Tam, who adore Freddy, with his ponytail and dangling earring, greeted him with gurgling cheers and toys tossed in the air.

  Everything was going swimmingly, for—not to sound like a pampered puss, I was additionally blessed in having the assistance of Mrs. Roxie Malloy. Mrs. Malloy always “does for us” of a Monday. She had graciously consented to come in a little earlier than usual and stay on through the evening to help with the clearing-away and washing-up.

  After flying about the house like Batman, zapping windows and mirrors with ammonia, buffing the furniture with Johnson’s Lavender Wax, hosing down the bathrooms, making up beds, and feverishly wiping away fingerprints as if we were expecting a visit from the constabulary instead of my in-laws, I met up with Mrs. Malloy at four o’clock in the wainscotted dining room.

  “What a team!” Smiling smugly, I faced her across the great divide of linen-clad table, set out with the Indian-tree china and crystal that had belonged to Abigail, the former mistress of Merlin’s Court. “My in-laws aren’t due for several hours and here we are, almost ready.”

  “Not so cocky, Mrs. H.” Mrs. Malloy thrives on gloom and doom. “Them candlesticks could do with a trimming.” She eyed the pair as if they were a couple of naughty schoolboys. Hands on her stalwart hips, she looked the room up and down for all the world as if she were Lady Kitty Pomeroy, the terror of our little community, checking out the stalls at St. Anselm’s Summer Fête.

  Mrs. M. would lend character to any room. Her jet-black hair always shows two inches of white roots as part of her fashion statement, not because she is between dye jobs. Her rouge would appear to be applied with a trowel, her lipstick is a violent purple, and her eyes are done up like stained glass windows. Since that memorable day when she took me on as a client (strictly on six months’ approval), we have had our run-ins.

  “The candles are fine.” I adjusted the dripless beeswax in their pewter holders. “And dinner is all set. The beef
ragout is in the fridge, waiting to be heated up. The salad dressing is made, the endive rinsed, and the rolls rising for the second time.”

  “What about the chocolate goop?” Mrs. M.’s damson smile assured me of her complete faith in my ability to flub dessert.

  “The mousse is chilling in little glass dishes. What took the time was finding the baking chocolate. Some nameless person had stuck it on the top shelf of that cupboard, where I keep the aspirin and cough syrup.”

  “Think the silver could do with a buff-up?”

  “The secret of successful entertaining is to know when enough is enough, Mrs. Malloy.” My voice was as crisp as the folds in the damask serviettes. I leaned against the sideboard, already groaning under the weight of enough silver chafing dishes to keep an industrious fence in business for a year. “The mantelpiece clock does not need winding, the pictures do not need straightening, and Jonas does not need to be reminded to take a bath.”

  Arms folded beneath bosoms, as always in danger of popping like a pair of overblown balloons, Mrs. Malloy pursed her butterfly lips and looked sad. “Pride goes before a fall, Mrs. H.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” I laughed blithely. “What are you trying to do, put a curse on me?”

  “Don’t have the knack.” Mrs. M. gave her organdy apron a twitch and assumed a modest mien. “I leave that sort of thing to me former friend, Edna Pickle. Edna’s great-great-grandma was a witch, and they do say that sort of thing crops up, like twins, every so many generations.”

  “What do you mean”—I fastened on the juicy part of her statement—“former friend? You and Mrs. Pickle have been pals forever. You’re always going in to see her at the vicarage on your way home from here.”

  “We’ve had words,” she replied meaningfully. “No, don’t ask me any more, Mrs. H., me lips is sealed.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Go on!” She let loose a bone-weary sigh. “Force it out of me. Yesterday Edna was telling me she has high hopes of winning the Martha—that’s the trophy given at the summer fête, in honour of the woman who was always scrubbing the kitchen sink in the Bible. It goes to the person who comes in tops among the winners in the homemaking events—jam-making, marrow-growing, and all that nonsense. But you know that, Mrs. H. And when I answered, nice as you please, that I couldn’t sit listening to that sort of talk, what with you being this year’s chairwoman, Edna turned right nasty.”

  “What—Mrs. Pickle?” I couldn’t believe it. The woman never seemed to me to have enough energy to get worked up about anything. Whenever I went round to the vicarage, it invariably took her two hours to answer the door and another fifteen minutes to troop down the hall to the study to announce my arrival to her employer. I wasn’t greatly surprised that Eudora Spike kept her on, because our deacon is an immeasurably warm-hearted woman. The wonder was that Mrs. Pickle also worked as a daily for several other people, including the exceedingly formidable Lady Kitty Pomeroy.

  “Edna’s got an ’orrible temper when roused,” said Mrs. Malloy, who never forgot her haitches unless the situation called for major emphasis. “The old story of still waters running deep, if you get my drift. And along them lines, Mrs. H., you haven’t said one word about how the mister is taking this dinner party of yours.”

  “It’s for his parents.”

  “And he’s jumping for joy, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Oh, you know how men are,” I hedged.

  “After four husbands, I should say I do, duck.” Mrs. Malloy could be incredibly sympathetic when her nose got the better of her.

  “Ben wasn’t immediately in favour of the idea.” I busied my hands straightening knives and forks that didn’t need straightening. “But it’s not as though I were talking about entertaining the postman and his wife. He’s known his parents for years.”

  “So what was his problem?”

  “He went on about the journey, as if Mum and Dad would have to take the dogsled from Siberia instead of the train from Tottenham. If it had been dead of winter instead of June, he might have had a point. But what it came down to was his belief that Mum and Dad had never made any fuss over their anniversary and he thought they’d be happier with a nice card. You know the sort, with the satin heart that you can use for a pincushion later, and a verse on the inside such as ‘Still singing love’s song, while the world hums along.’ ”

  “Spit it out.” Mrs. Malloy blew on a serving spoon before giving it a buff with her apron. “How did you bring him round?”

  “The babies. I reminded Ben that the last time his parents saw the twins, they weren’t putting words together, let alone staggering all over the house. And the moment he started to waffle, I picked up the phone and issued the invitation.”

  “And I suppose your in-laws was over the moon?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I admitted. “Dad hemmed and hawed a bit about having to bring the dog, and I could hear Mum in the background saying she didn’t want to be a burden. But I knew they really wanted to accept. Why wouldn’t they? And in the end it was all arranged that they would come down today for the dinner and stay the week.”

  “So when did you come up with the bright idea of including Mrs. Haskell’s long-lost friend in the invite?”

  “Just a few days ago,” I said, looking around as if the walls not only had ears but their own telegraph system. For this was to be the big surprise. “Last time she was here, Mum mentioned she had learned through the grapevine that her girlhood pal, Beatrix, lives a few miles from here. And that her married name is Taffer. But when I suggested ringing up and inviting her over for lunch or tea, Mum went on as she does about not wanting to make work for me. Such a shame, because I knew she had to be dying to see her friend and chat over old times. So when I got down to organizing the dinner party, I rang up and spoke to Mrs. Taffer’s daughter-in-law. The old lady couldn’t come to the phone herself because she was upstairs doing her exercises—arthritis I suppose, poor dear. But Frizzy Taffer couldn’t have been nicer or more excited about Beatrix having a night out.”

  “Very nice.” Mrs. Malloy gave a lordly sniff. “But if you ask me, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “I keep telling you, everything is under control.”

  “Says you, Mrs. H., and what I says is you’re forgetting your mother-in-law can be a real pain up the rear.”

  “That’s unkind.”

  “What was unkind”—Mrs. M. drew herself up on her stilt heels—“was her calling me the Harlot of Jerusalem when her hubby gave me a peck under the mistletoe last Christmas. Then again, perhaps I took offence where none was meant. My third—or was it me fourth?—husband always said I was too sensitive for me own good. But we can’t none of us change our natures.”

  I was Wondering what Eudora Spike would have to say about that. Uncannily, Mrs. Malloy proved to be a mind reader.

  “Take a lesson, Mrs. H., from our poor vicar.”

  When Mrs. Spike had arrived at St. Anselm’s Vicarage as a temporary replacement for the Reverend Rowland Foxworth, there had been quite a few chauvinistic grumbles, but, after a few months, most parishioners seemed to forget she was a mere deacon; and Mrs. Malloy wasn’t unusual in addressing her as “vicar.”

  “What sort of lesson?” I asked.

  “Where’ve you been living, in an igloo? Her mother-in-law came for a fortnight the beginning of May and is still buggering up the place.”

  “Really?” Not only had I not seen the elder Mrs. Spike in church, but Eudora hadn’t brought her to visit me, or invited me over to the vicarage to meet her.

  “I expect they’ve been busy cutting each other’s throats,” Mrs. Malloy said kindly. “I’ve been getting the lowdown from me ex-chum, Edna Pickle. Edna’s not like me, Mrs. H., for as I told you the first day I walked through your door, I don’t do drains, I don’t do cellars, and I don’t gossip about me clients. As I said, I’m too meek and mild for this world, and I worry about you and your good intenti
ons, Mrs. H.; I tell you straight and no mistake, you’ll end up looking like Lady Kitty Pomeroy’s daughter-in-law, Pamela. My friend Edna, in the days when we was speaking, said you could hold the poor girl up to a light and see right through her.”

  The thought of my being reduced to a waif had a certain appeal for me. All this rushing around had played havoc with my diet, which I had planned to start after lunch. Or, rather, after the box of chocolates I had eaten after lunch.

  “Speaking of Lady Kitty,” I said, “you’ve reminded me I have to speak to her about the tents for the fête. I understand she gave last year’s chairperson a real drumming for not consulting her. And rightly so, I suppose, considering the event is held on the grounds of Pomeroy Manor.”

  “The woman’s a bloody tyrant,” Mrs. Malloy said vehemently, wiping the complacent smile off my lips. “You have only to look at her to see that. And no one ever gets a look at Sir Robert. Edna says the poor old bugger hasn’t been off the grounds since he went hunting without permission twenty years ago. But some would say as compared to your mother-in-law, her ladyship is a prize. Mark my words, the old girl won’t be in this house five minutes before she has you in tears, insisting the cat be put down.”

  “This isn’t helping, Mrs. Malloy.” I looked around the dining room for some telltale sign that my darling feline, Tobias, was listening in on our conversation from under the sideboard. “My mother-in-law and I have had our differences in the past, but I see now they were mostly my fault. I’ve been too quick to take offence. But no more. This dinner party is to be a new beginning.”

  “Whatever you say.” Mrs. Malloy heaved a disbelieving sigh. “But if she asks to have me put down, Mrs. H., I hope you’ll make it quick and painless.”

  “Let’s talk about the flowers,” I said firmly. “I’m having second thoughts about those peonies.”

  “They look all right to me.”

  “Are you sure?” Suddenly I was wondering if marigolds wouldn’t have looked better in the bowl, which is the size of the church font, on the sill. The sunlight foisting its way through the leaded glass window did rather clash with all that pink. Thank heavens for Ben. His classic good looks are always complementary to any decor. Jonas is another story. Our resident gardener takes pride in looking as grungy as possible, from his hoary moustache to his clumping boots. A good thing Lady Kitty didn’t have him in her clutches, or Jonas might have found himself stashed away with the Hoover under the stairs.