Free How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law by Dorothy Cannell

chair, I thought about fetching in one of the twins’ booster seats for her. But once more Mrs. Malloy shattered the moment by wheeling in the trolley.
    “No rest for the wicked!” Smacking her butterfly lips, she proceeded to clear away the plates as if walking a slippery deck. But if she had been imbibing in the kitchen, at least I didn’t have to worry about her driving home. I had already decided to ask Tricks if she would share a taxi with her. My treat, of course.
    “Anyone for pud?” Having loaded up the top of the trolley, Mrs. M. lifted the tray of chocolate mousse glasses from the bottom shelf and went around the table, plonking one down in front of each of us. “Don’t anyone ask me to sit down and join the party. I mightforget meself and say yes. Too late to beg, Mrs. H., I’m off to soak up to me elbows in Fairy Liquid.”
    Duty calling, she tottered out, never knowing how dearly I would have liked her to drag up a chair and plant herself in our midst. Mrs. Malloy could always be counted on to complicate a situation sufficiently that whatever else was going on seemed insignificant. To my surprise, Mum did not return to the cliff-hanger disclosure of Tricks’s unmarried state. Instead of sticking in the knife, she dug her spoon into her chocolate mousse. I held my breath, naively hoping she would turn an awestruck face my way and say “Ellie, I’ve been wrong about you all these years. A woman who can make a chocolate mousse of this calibre is deserving of my one and only son.”
    The sad truth is, she ate as if unaware what she was doing. Her spoon might move, but her eyes didn’t. They were fixed straight ahead, as if directed upon some distant shore. The men were so busy making sure Tricks wasn’t worrying her spiked red head over any misconception that her revelation had lowered her in their estimation that not one of them touched their mousse. Tricks in turn chose to stick to her dandelion wine, for which she would appear to have developed a taste—being now on her third glass. As for myself, I was (for once) not in the mood for chocolate.
    “It b’aint easy being a woman with a lad to rear all on her lonesome.” Jonas exerted all his rustic charm on Tricks’s behalf. “Makes you a heroine in my book, it do.”
    “I had my struggles,” chirped Florence Nightingale. “But I managed.”
    “Magnificently, I’m sure!” Dad raised his glass to her.
    “It’s hard enough bringing up children when you’re married.” That was Ben, who tended to think he had invented parenthood. Belatedly mindful of his responsibilities to his coworker in that endeavour, he flashed me a smile and finally tasted his chocolatemousse. Eyes closed, he touched the spoon to his lips … and immediately dropped it with a hideous clang.
    “Ellie, there is something dreadfully wrong!”
    “You mean it didn’t set?”
    “I’m talking about the
chocolate
! What kind did you use?”
    “The regular baking …” The protest died on my lips and I clapped both hands to my burning cheeks.
    “What is it?” demanded the Grand Inquisitor.
    “I’ve just remembered, I hunted high and low for the box and finally found it on the shelf with the medicines.”
    “That wasn’t no baking chocolate,” Jonas growled. “That was my Choco-Lax.”
    “You mean”—Tricks giggled—“she made the pudding from a laxative?”
    “Anyone can make a mistake.” In avoiding Ben’s eyes I looked towards Mum and was instantly stricken by a dose—horrible word—of remorse. “Oh, my goodness!” I snatched her spoon away. “You of all people, with your health problem, eating that stuff! Perhaps we should phone the doctor.”
    “She’ll be all right,” Dad said with husbandly conviction. “I’m always telling her she should eat more figs.”
    “But what if there are complications?”
Death
was the one that sprang to mind, Already I could see the headlines in the newspapers.
Woman Given Overdose of Laxative.