Free Femmes Fatal by Dorothy Cannell

smile. “I began to see that under their toffee-nosed exteriors and my cockney ways we were sisters after all.”
    “Anyone got a harp?” asked Mrs. Malloy.
    Bunty went on as if there had been no interruption. “It was just that some women never let themselves be women . I’d been thinking for some time that it might be fun to go back on the stage and work summers. There’s a bloke runs the theatre on the Shipston pier who’d been after me—in more ways than one. Then my hairdresser suggested I teach aerobics and it came to me like a stroke of genius. I’d teach the works. I’d offer a program for women wanting to be Fully Female. Li saw the possibilities right off. We sold The Laurels …”
    Mrs. Malloy’s brow darkened. “Sold it out from under me without so much as a do-you-mind—after all me years of loyal service. That’s when I walked out their door, Mrs. H, for the last time.”
    “Worst day of my life,” Bunty said. “I haven’t been able to smell Johnson’s Lavender Wax since without bursting into tears.” Her wink surprisingly wiped the cross look off Mrs. M’s face.
    “Now where was I? Oh, yes … Li was all for my becoming an entrepreneur. He sent me to spas all over Europe and to the States. I studied aroma therapy, vita-nutrition, aphrodisia, you name it, and … Bob’s your uncle.”
    My eyes followed Bunty’s to a cabinet lined with clear plastic jars such as Mrs. Huffnagle had carried out earlier. “Everyone who signs up for Fully Female uses our diet supplement and herbal beauty aids prepared forus by a clinic in Switzerland. And things are going great, despite the occasional bugaboo. Can’t get good secretarial help, as you can tell, Mrs. Hapskill.” Wrinkling her cute little nose, Bunty tossed down the pencil she had been twirling, raised her arms above her head, clasped her hands palms upward and stretched. “One of the things we teach, duckies, is to always take time out to remobilize after you’ve been sitting for a while—no matter where you are, even in church.”
    “I’d like to see the vicar’s face.” Mrs. Malloy gave a heathen chuckle.
    “Bit of an old stick, is he?” Bunty arched her neck, so that her blonde curls shone golden in the full beam of electric light. “Must be why he’s being put out to pasture.”
    “Oh, but he isn’t!” I cried, aghast. “He’s a healthy young man.” Church would never be the same without Reverend Rowland Foxworth. “Where could you have heard such a thing?”
    “From Gladys Thorn, I suppose. You know, the church organist. Which brings us back to what I was saying about office help. Li even suggested I offer her a secretarial job. She’s been pitching in at his office since his secretary left. You remember Teddy Peerless? She finally tied the knot with Edwin Digby, the mystery writer. From what Li says, old Glad Bag is a whiz at the typewriter but to be frankly bitchy, she isn’t exactly front desk material. I ask you! A woman whose hobbies are bird-watching and collecting telephone directories! Everyone clucks about the mystery of her sex appeal, but if you ask me, it’s the con of the century. Even my miracle products couldn’t help—”
    Bunty was rudely interrupted by the telephone. “Won’t be a sec.” Reaching out a manicured hand, she held the receiver to her ear. “Li, darling! You’ve got it, sugar, this isn’t a good time but … oh, no, don’t changethings around and come home for dinner. I’m up to my belly button in work. At this very moment I have two women in my office who are considering signing up.” She placed a hand over the receiver, eyes dancing, and mouthed, “You are going to join? Pretty please!”
    “What do you think, Mrs. Alvin Vincent-Malloy?” I asked.

In the days of my spinsterhood I fantasized about the Halcyon Hour, that moment gentled by twilight when on the last stroke of six, the front door would open and that sweet serenade would be heard: “Darling, I’m