Read Online The Spring Cleaning Murders by Dorothy Cannell - Free Book Online Page B

like a storybook character who was three inches tall and lived among the hollyhocks could not be easy.
    Finally Sir Robert drew breath and looked my way. He was a man well into his fifties, red-faced and bulldoggish in his country tweeds with a mustard-and-maroon cravat tucked into the neck of his shirt. “Come along, Ellie.” He waved a pudgy paw in my direction. “Doesn’t do to stand around like a lamppost, you know! We need your opinion on what should be done about the church secretary’s behavior.”
    “But Miss Hardaway is in charge of the flower fund.” I looked from one face to another. “Isn’t she supposed to send a plant or a bunch of daffs when someone is ill?”
    “Only when that someone is a faithful St. Anselm’s parishioner.” Sir Robert wagged a remonstrating finger. “She sent flowers to her cousin. A Mrs. Rogers who only comes to services at Christmas and Easter.”
    “But, dear, the poor woman almost bled to death after a hysterectomy.” It was the baronet’s wife speaking. I had always liked her. A pleasant-looking woman with softly waving grey hair, blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion, she looked as comfortable in her elegant lady-of-the-manor outfit as she had done standing behind the counter of her grocery shop on Market Street.
    Brigadier Lester-Smith turned pink all the way to his forehead. His crinkly hair, perhaps because of the bright sunlight breaking through the windows, already looked redder than usual. Clearly he was afraid her ladyship might elaborate on Mrs. Rogers’s gynecological problems. There had always been something sweetly innocent about the man, making me wonder if even at age sixty he understood exactly where babies came from. He was now staring down at his shoes. Both were polished to their usual mirror gloss, but I was stunned to see that they weren’t a matched pair.
    “The point is”—Sir Robert’s face puffed out like a blowfish—”Miss Hardaway had no business dipping into the flower fund to send that plant. You may all”—his eyes swept the group—”think me harsh, but I have never been able to abide anything that is sneaky, underhanded, or devious!” His voice was lost in a harsh buzzing sound coming from outside the house, commingled with a frenzied barking. After a minute or two the dogs quietened down, but the other noise continued.
    “Are the Millers drilling for oil in their back garden?”
    Tom Tingle cocked a gnome’s ear.
    “It’s like having all my teeth drilled at once.” Lady Pomeroy attempted a smile.
    “Someone’s using a chain saw,” supplied the brigadier.
    “It’s Jonas,” I snapped. “They’ve got him pruning that tree.” I was angry enough to have stormed from the room, demanding that the Miller sisters explain why they had put Jonas to work when all they had supposedly wanted was advice on what branches to lop off. But suddenly there was silence. The room stopped vibrating. The brigadier wondered aloud without raising his voice what could be keeping the Misses Miller from joining us.
    “I expect they’re busy in the kitchen,” said Lady Pomeroy. “You know how it is when you have people in for the first time. You want everything perfect, even down to the cherries on the cakes. Why don’t I go and see if I can lend a hand?” She had always struck me as a kindhearted woman, but I now wondered if Sir Robert’s spiel had upset her. Was she grasping at the chance to get out of the room and sort out her feelings?
    For several minutes after Lady Pomeroy had left the room the remaining four of us chitchatted about Hearthside Guild matters. Sir Robert, restored to amiability—perhaps because he no longer felt the need to flex his masterful-man muscles for his wife’s benefit— expressed regret at the morning’s small turnout. We usually had twice today’s number present. He voiced the hope the Millers would not feel that they had opened up their home for no good purpose. Brigadier Lester-Smith