Read Online How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams by Dorothy Cannell - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Cannell
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successful fashion model and quintessential femme fatale, had only once in her life looked at me with a flicker of envy in her luminous, sherry-coloured eyes. That was on the glorious occasion when I announced my engagement to Ben. But she had very quickly weaseled around that weakness by informing me that a man of Ben’s looks and charm could be marrying me only for my money.
It was hard for me not to blame Mrs. Malloy for the hideous turn of events that would land Vanessa on my doorstep after a halcyon period of absence.
“According to George,” his aggrieved parent said as she plunked the kettle down on the cooker, emptying half its contents in a shower that watered the plants in the greenhouse window, “they met at some party or other in London. It was love at first sight.”
“Your son must be a real catch.” I stared morosely out into the garden, where Gerta was playing chasing gameswith Abbey and Tarn, the object of which appeared to be who could fall over fastest. It should have been a day-brightener, given my now-jaundiced view of life, that she hadn’t absconded with my children to parts unknown for the fell purpose of holding them captive until they learned how to yodel. But I had trouble working my face up into a smile. At the back of my mind was the conviction that if Mrs. Malloy had kept a closer eye on her offspring, Vanessa could never have got her claws into him.
“George isn’t what you’d call handsome.” Mrs. M. unearthed a bottle of gin from the supply bag and poured a slug into her tea. “When he was a few months old I took him to a plastic surgeon, but there wasn’t nothing as could be done short of turning his face inside out. The poor little bugger took after his father, who if I remember rightly was my second … or it could have been my third … husband.” On this mournful pronouncement, Mrs. Malloy came over to the table with the teacups and flopped onto a chair. “I changed George’s surname to coincide with mine when I got married for the last time, and this is the thanks I get for doing right by the lad. He gets himself engaged to a woman who’s bound to look down her snooty nose at me.”
Here was an interesting thought. Why would Vanessa, the ultimate snob, have stooped to such a misalliance? Her mother, my aunt Astrid—of the gold pince-nez and the pedigree of a prize Pekingese—would hardly be falling over herself to place the announcement in
The Times
.
“If Vanessa isn’t marrying George for his looks”—I picked up a teacup and stood tinkering with the spoon—“he must have sex appeal to spare.”
“Not so as I ever noticed.” Mrs. Malloy pursed her butterfly lips, the better to blow on her tea. “What he does have is cash. Pots of it!”
“Really?” The unpleasant image presented itself of Vanessa appearing on the doorstep of Merlin’s Court with an engagement ring the size of the Rock of Gibraltar on her finger.
“I have to give George his due”—Mrs. Malloy poured another swig of gin into her teacup—“he’s done well for himself, all right. Him and a friend opened an exercise equipment business some years back and he’s been rakingin the lolly ever since. The last time I had a Christmas card from George he mentioned as how he was about to open his third factory.”
“Vanessa finds that sort of thing incredibly sexy. She loves nothing better than to skip barefoot through a forest of crisp, crackling fifty-pound notes and to inhale the sensual fragrance of Avarice upon the wind while the birds in the trees tweet ‘Spend! Spend! Spend!’ ” I failed in my attempt to speak lightly.
“Well, you certainly know how to put the finishing touches on my happiness.” Mrs. Malloy dabbed at her eyes with a purple hankie and gusted a sigh that toppled Tobias off the Welsh dresser. “No, don’t say another word, Mrs. H., it’s clear you blame me for giving George ideas above his station and—”
“Rubbish.” I took the teacup out of
It was hard for me not to blame Mrs. Malloy for the hideous turn of events that would land Vanessa on my doorstep after a halcyon period of absence.
“According to George,” his aggrieved parent said as she plunked the kettle down on the cooker, emptying half its contents in a shower that watered the plants in the greenhouse window, “they met at some party or other in London. It was love at first sight.”
“Your son must be a real catch.” I stared morosely out into the garden, where Gerta was playing chasing gameswith Abbey and Tarn, the object of which appeared to be who could fall over fastest. It should have been a day-brightener, given my now-jaundiced view of life, that she hadn’t absconded with my children to parts unknown for the fell purpose of holding them captive until they learned how to yodel. But I had trouble working my face up into a smile. At the back of my mind was the conviction that if Mrs. Malloy had kept a closer eye on her offspring, Vanessa could never have got her claws into him.
“George isn’t what you’d call handsome.” Mrs. M. unearthed a bottle of gin from the supply bag and poured a slug into her tea. “When he was a few months old I took him to a plastic surgeon, but there wasn’t nothing as could be done short of turning his face inside out. The poor little bugger took after his father, who if I remember rightly was my second … or it could have been my third … husband.” On this mournful pronouncement, Mrs. Malloy came over to the table with the teacups and flopped onto a chair. “I changed George’s surname to coincide with mine when I got married for the last time, and this is the thanks I get for doing right by the lad. He gets himself engaged to a woman who’s bound to look down her snooty nose at me.”
Here was an interesting thought. Why would Vanessa, the ultimate snob, have stooped to such a misalliance? Her mother, my aunt Astrid—of the gold pince-nez and the pedigree of a prize Pekingese—would hardly be falling over herself to place the announcement in
The Times
.
“If Vanessa isn’t marrying George for his looks”—I picked up a teacup and stood tinkering with the spoon—“he must have sex appeal to spare.”
“Not so as I ever noticed.” Mrs. Malloy pursed her butterfly lips, the better to blow on her tea. “What he does have is cash. Pots of it!”
“Really?” The unpleasant image presented itself of Vanessa appearing on the doorstep of Merlin’s Court with an engagement ring the size of the Rock of Gibraltar on her finger.
“I have to give George his due”—Mrs. Malloy poured another swig of gin into her teacup—“he’s done well for himself, all right. Him and a friend opened an exercise equipment business some years back and he’s been rakingin the lolly ever since. The last time I had a Christmas card from George he mentioned as how he was about to open his third factory.”
“Vanessa finds that sort of thing incredibly sexy. She loves nothing better than to skip barefoot through a forest of crisp, crackling fifty-pound notes and to inhale the sensual fragrance of Avarice upon the wind while the birds in the trees tweet ‘Spend! Spend! Spend!’ ” I failed in my attempt to speak lightly.
“Well, you certainly know how to put the finishing touches on my happiness.” Mrs. Malloy dabbed at her eyes with a purple hankie and gusted a sigh that toppled Tobias off the Welsh dresser. “No, don’t say another word, Mrs. H., it’s clear you blame me for giving George ideas above his station and—”
“Rubbish.” I took the teacup out of
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