and Mrs. Malloy, had produced a sumptuous feast, making it hard for me to decide what to dig into first. The spinach salad with cilantro, garlic shrimp, and toasted pecans, the golden-crusted French onion quiche, or the little sausages simmered in a Bordeaux sauce?
“You told Ellie what, Betty?” Tom scrunched in his fair eyebrows and focused his protuberant blue eyes on his wife. Mrs. Malloy and Ariel picked up their knives and forks. Ben passed me a silver basket lined with white damask. Admiring the artfully arranged slices of crusty French bread, I wondered if it would appear piggish to take two.
“Come on, Tom, you know what I’m talking about!” snapped Betty.
Puzzlement faded; light dawned. “You mean the vicar, Mr. Hardcastle, bringing a retired clergyman over for Sunday tea tomorrow? Something about the old chap having visited Crag-stone as a boy and wanting the see the place again before he cops it. And here we are with Mrs. Cake off her feet and no possibility of putting on a decent spread.” Apparently satisfied that he’d answered well enough to avoid being sent to his room, Tom applied himself in an absent manner to the quiche on his plate.
“That’s not it.” Betty set down her water glass with a bang that would do little for its longevity. An hour earlier I would have dismissed this as outraged Barbie behavior. Our brief talk, however, had brought her into better focus. I wasn’t sure whether or not I liked her, but she was no longer a plastic doll. For better or worse she was flesh and blood. There was a spot on the lapel of her blue suit and several chips in her nail polish.
“Then if it’s not the tea party…?” Mrs. Malloy was well on her way to being admitted into the CPC (clean plates club), an honor unequal to that of being a lifelong member of the CFCWA (Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association) but nonetheless nice to have on one’s resume.
“It’s the big swank that’s set for Thursday afternoon,” said Ariel, her mouth full.
Betty ignored the curled lip. “The Milton Moor annual garden party. As I told Ellie, hosting it here has been a tradition. Reverend Hardcastle’s predecessor suggested it to the Gallaghers as a treat for the village children. It was arranged that it be held on the Thursday closest to the middle of July, children to be accompanied by at least one parent. Over the years the event expanded to include any of the local people who wished to attend. We weren’t here for any of the previous ones. But there are games for the children, three-legged and egg-and-spoon races, that sort of thing. Lady Fiona asked if we’d keep the tradition going after we moved in. She made quite a point of saying how much her husband had enjoyed it.”
Rather sweet of her, one would think, fondly sentimental, and yet Betty somehow succeeded in making her ladyship’s request sound sinister. An opportunity to enjoy the delightful sight of laughing, squealing children and thumping adults dancing on her husband’s grave?
“They didn’t entertain much otherwise.” Tom, having finished his quiche, made this contribution without prompting. “Very likely they couldn’t afford to splash about with the fizzy drinks. Apparently they’ve been short of funds for some time now.”
“Think that’s why Mr. Gallagher performed his disappearing act?” Ben raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“She was the one with the money and the house when they married.” Betty’s expression made its point: Lady Fiona, having discovered that her husband had squandered her inheritance, had lost her temper, slapped him with a shovel, and popped him in the wheelbarrow for future planting. “But to get back to the garden party. A couple of hundred people usually show up. Tents and chairs have to be set out, but that can be managed. The huge problem is the food. The Gallaghers, despite any financial difficulties, always put on quite a spread: catered of course, by an exclusive firm. She gave me the name, so that’s who I phoned, weeks ago. But late yesterday afternoon, when I rang to check that they had everything down pat, this nasty male voice ‘reminded’ me”-Betty clenched her hands-“that I’d phoned a couple of days ago to cancel.”
“Did you?” Ariel displayed wide-eyed interest.
“Of course not!”
“Well, I never!” Mrs. Malloy looked suitably shocked.
“I said there’d been a mistake, some sort of mix-up, but there was no getting through to that wretched voice. He kept going like a recording, saying it was too late to set things back up; another job had been accepted for that date. And when I really got exasperated and may even have yelled a bit, he said in a horridly haughty manner that I was wasting my breath and his time.”
I sat puzzling over the matter. If there hadn’t been a mix-up-as in the caterer having confused one client with another-who had made that cancellation phone call and why? Was there any reason to look further than the thirteen-year-old girl now neatly arranging her knife and fork on her empty plate?
“Did you ask him if the voice sounded like yours?” Mrs. Malloy was teetering around the table on her high heels, pouring coffee from a silver pot into fluted rimmed cups, a paragon of helpfulness in her nylon and lace pinny.
“I didn’t think. I was too shocked.”
“Darling Betty!” Ariel sympathized. “You must have been ready to chew glass.”
“And then to find out you’d run off!”
“Upsetting,” agreed Tom.
“Think of the talk-lottery winners too stingy to put on a decent spread! I was on the phone all morning before you arrived.” Betty’s gaze circled the table and fixed on Ben. “First one catering firm, then the next, but no luck. Every one of them was booked solid for this coming Thursday. But now you’re here, and you
“Blood’s thicker than water,” Ariel chanted.
“I think what Betty is trying to say”-Tom twiddled with his coffee spoon, set it down, then picked it up again-“well, to put it in a nutshell, Ben, it’s like this. If you and Ellie would consider staying on here for a few days- that’s if you can spare the time and don’t need to rush back home-we’d be no end appreciative of your help in getting us out of this fix.”
Ben’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I think we can manage that, don’t you, Ellie? It’ll be like the old days at Uncle Sol’s. Those were some good times.”
“I suppose they were.” Tom looked awkward. “Working that old-fashioned cash register. Perhaps I didn’t get as much out of it as I should.” This not sounding quite right, his fair skin reddened. “What I mean to say is, I don’t think I was cut out to be behind the till.”
“We should have stayed in touch,” said Ben.
“It’s been a lot of years.”
“Tom! Do stop twiddling!” Betty scolded.
“Sorry.” Tom dropped his coffee spoon with a silvery clatter into his saucer.
Betty turned to me. “You said Ben would agree. Some women do know their husbands. Can you persuade him to also work his magic for tomorrow’s afternoon tea?”
“A mini trial run, what could be better? But I’ll need my support team.” His smile took in Tom and Ariel but lingered on Mrs. Malloy, who was looking seriously put out.
“Well, I don’t know as I can say what’ll I’ll be doing or where I’ll be tomorrow afternoon, Mr. H,” she responded huffily. “It could be my sister will beg me to stay with her. Then again, maybe she won’t and I’ll find meself a nice hotel with one of them services offering back massages and facials.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” cried Betty in alarm. “I meant for you to stay on here as well; I assumed that would be understood. We want you to feel like one of the family, just as you do at Merlin’s Court.”
“I’ll need time away to see me sister,” Mrs. Malloy said firmly.
“Her employer, Mr. Scrimshank, is invited to tomorrow’s tea.” Betty inspected chipped nail polish. “It seemed a good idea, considering his friendship with Lady Fiona.”
“In that case it’s good I’ll be here to meet him.”
“Lady Fiona is also invited. Mr. Scrimshank claims to have received a phone call from Mr. Gallagher after his disappearance. It was then the police decided there was no further need to investigate.”
“Yes, do stay, Mrs. Malloy! You’re such fun!” Ariel’s eyes sparkled, and again I noticed some pink in her cheeks. Perhaps she would turn into a pretty young woman. But would she be a nice one? That was the question. Was there any point in asking her if it was she who had canceled the caterer?
“Fun? Not when I’m working, I’m not. Can’t be any frolicking about when there’s important jobs to be done. That’s spelled out in the charter of the CFCWA.”
“A local business organization of which Mrs. Malloy is a founding member and two-time chairwoman,” I explained, for the benefit of Tom and Betty’s blank looks.
