Alice tucked up a bundle of hair that had escaped from a large tortoiseshell comb. “However many cupboards there may really be, I hope to locate a sewing machine and repair as much of the linen as I can. It doesn’t match up to Judy and the wall, I know.” There was none of Mrs. Malloy’s rancor in her voice and Judy responded appreciatively.
“Kind of you to say, but we all do what we can. I can’t sew a stitch.”
“Same here,” said Molly. “Working in a supermarket isn’t my life’s dream,” no faltering or conscious look here, “but like I said this morning, I started out stocking shelves.” That must have thrilled Mother Knox. “Boring, unless you learn to take pride, and it taught me a thing about being quick to get organized. So I think I can help organize the furniture, at least to make better paths through it.”
“I could help you with that,” I offered, realizing with surprise that for several minutes now I had been unaware of Georges, crew, and moon-sized stare of the camera.
Livonia turned to me. “Oh, Ellie, you are kind. I said if it would help I’d make up inventories of what’s in each room. Being a bank teller isn’t the most exciting job in the world either, but you have to be quick and make sure you’re correct to the penny. The only difference is I’ll be adding up tables and chairs.” She beamed at me. “Could you also give us some ideas of what is and what isn’t valuable so I can make note of that, too?”
“I’ll tell you what I think.”
“That is nice.” Molly looked directly at me for the first time. There was nothing in her gaze beyond gratitude, nothing to suggest that she connected me in any way with the library.
“This is all well and good,” proclaimed Mrs. Malloy with a toss of her black head with its two inches of white roots and a heightening of rouge, “but what the place needs more than anything is a start on a good clean. From the looks of it, that’ll be left to Muggins here.”
Before offers of assistance in this nearly impossible endeavor could pour in, Mrs. Foot entered the dining room wheeling a trolley with one of Ben’s delectable chocolate orange gateaux ornamented with Chantilly cream, candied almonds, and marigold petals. Knowing it to be laced with Grand Marnier, my tongue melted at the sight. Behind her came Mr. Plunket, bearing a tarnished silver coffeepot. Creeping in last came Boris. A cheery raspberry pink short-sleeved shirt emphasized quite horribly his zombie appearance. That he carried a knife, admittedly a cake one, served to heighten the impression that he had been given his orders and would perform them in glassy-eyed fashion.
Mindful, one presumed, of the need to display aplomb worthy of the mistress of Mucklesfeld even when faced with having their throats cut, not one of the contestants squealed. Indeed, a smiling Judy complimented him on the shirt.
“Taken from a dead man.”
“Oh!” Livonia committed the solecism of turning pale.
Seizing the moment for additional points, Mrs. Malloy said in her best high falutin’ voice: “How frightfully nice of some… body,” capping off this bon mot with a posh-sounding chuckle.
Mrs. Foot placed the gateau on the very edge of the table, either unaware of the risk or daring it to attempt a flying leap so she could flatten it with a hand that outmatched it in size. “The word’s corpse.”
“So it is! So it is! Trust you, Mrs. Foot, to know the medical terminology.” Mr. Plunket chuckled appreciatively. “Comes from all her years as a ward maid,” he confided to the gathering, which at that moment decreased considerably with the clanging exit of Georges and the crew. “But to explain clearer, Boris didn’t himself take that there shirt of his off the bod… corpse. He got it from an undertaker acquaintance of ours. Amazed you’d be,” Mr. Plunket was now wending his way around the table with the coffeepot, missing more cups than he hit but not appearing to notice the sloshy saucers, “proper amazed at how many people don’t want the clothes back that their loved ones is brought in wearing. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Foot?”
“True as you, Mr. Plunket, and Boris is standing there looking so handsome. And not just clothes, neither. Tell the ladies, Boris.”
“Glass eyeballs and false teeth, too. Always got customers waiting for them has our friend.” The zombie voice would have produced a chill regardless of subject. As it was, Molly pressed a hand to her mouth. She had been correct in saying that the word dentures had a far less dribbly sound than false teeth.
“Nothing wrong with economizing is what I say.” Mrs. Foot took the knife from Boris and began hacking up the gateau, sprinkled liberally with gray hairs.
Mrs. Malloy drew on her better nature to pass Molly the first piece.
“The waste that’s going on out there in the kitchen makes my stomach turn.” The wiping of the blade on her grubby apron caused my insides to perform the same feat. “All that chocolate when a tablespoon of cocoa would have done just as well.”
What hadn’t been wasted on Mr. Plunket, I feared, was the Grand Marnier. I got a strong whiff of orange as he again paused at my side to tilt the empty coffeepot over my cup before weaving on to do the same for the others. But he managed to inform us steadily that the one exception to Mrs. Foot’s rules of economy was when it came to her tea making.
“Always a good strong cup.”
Sadly, his fondness for other beverages must have destroyed his taste buds. I exchanged glances with Mrs. Malloy and experienced a spurt of pleasure when her expression mirrored my thought. There would again be times when we thought as one.
“No one brews up better than Ma,” droned Boris.
“Now then,” Mrs. Foot stopped licking the knife blade (mercifully having finished passing round the portions) to give him and Mr. Plunket her broad, gap-toothed smile, “that’s enough about me, you two. Go to the stake for me, you would!”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” said Judy warmly.
“Oh, yes! Lovely!” Livonia laid down her dessert fork after raising it halfway to her lips.
“Nothing like true friends,” chimed in Alice.
“When they’re not being awkward.” Mrs. Malloy sailed a look over my head.
Molly ventured a closed-mouth smile.
“There was something I was meant to tell you ladies.” Mr. Plunket stood scratching at his face, when he didn’t miss it by a yard. “Now, what was it, Mrs. Foot? Do you remember, Boris? Never mind,” lowering a wobbly hand,” I’ve got it. His nibs asked me to tell you his cousin Miss Celia Belfrey will append… attend the archery contest. She sent word round just a few mim… minutes ago by Charlie Forester, who said he’ll be haffy… happy to…”
“Provide instruction? How very kind of him!” Poor Mr. Plunket, I had to rescue him before he stumbled over his tongue and fell flat on the floor. Presumably the same thought caused Mrs. Foot to grasp him by the elbow and airlift him out of the dining room with Boris lurching behind.
“He’s been at the booze!” Alice said, on the possibility, I supposed, that no one else had noticed.
“Ben will have done his best to keep it away from him.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive. “But he’d have to turn his back sometimes. He may not have seen Mr. Plunket come into the kitchen…”
“No one could blame your husband.” Livonia’s blue eyes brimmed with sympathy. Was she swept up in a new understanding of the burning need to protect one’s beloved against even a hint of unjust criticism?
“Never knows who’s there or who isn’t, does Mr. H, when he’s in cookery heaven.” Mrs. Malloy sounded so much like her old self that I found myself relaxing on her account as well as Ben’s.
“Mr. Plunket seemed all right when he first came in,” said Molly, seemingly restored after the false teeth business.