Free The Spring Cleaning Murders by Dorothy Cannell Page B

know my way around a kitchen.” I wouldn’t have been surprised had he added the information that he didn’t drink or smoke, possessed a healthy bank account, had been good to his mother, didn’t object to pets, and enjoyed entertaining in moderation. But he left the room without another word, after bumping into only one chair. Clarice took a seat on the sofa.
    “I’m sorry I was late.” She accepted a scone from Vienna and moved it around her plate. “My clock must have been wrong.” She wasn’t even close to being a good liar. I could guess what had kept her from getting to the meeting on time. She had rifled through her wardrobe, emptied out half her bedroom drawers, and spent half an hour sitting among the rubble on the bed regretting the fact that she had nothing to wear—nothing at any rate that would make her look ten years younger and five times more attractive than her mirror bluntly informed her was the case. I thought she looked very nice in her paisley wool frock, but I doubted she had any idea that she had knocked the socks off the brigadier.
    He seemed to be an age coming back with that coffeepot. Had it taken him five minutes to steady his hands sufficiently to fit the plug in the socket to brew up another batch? Or was he even now primping in front of a mirror, smoothing down his crinkly auburn hair, sucking in his tummy and straightening his tie? The dogs started barking again and Lady Pomeroy asked if they spent most of their time in the kennels.
    “Damn fine chaps, dogs,” her husband put in. “But I prefer the working sort m’self. Got a black lab, Daisy--going on fourteen, she is, and still the best bird dog I’ve ever had.” He thrust his face round to eye Tom Tingle. “Do you shoot? I’m also master of hounds, don’t you know, and could provide you a decent horse. Or are you one of those bleeding hearts who’d like to see fox hunting banned?”
    Torn Tingle drew himself up so that his head reached the top of the mantelpiece. “I dislike all sports. I know it’s un-English, but there you are.”
    Silence settled heavily on the group. Was I wallowing in melodrama? Or was there really something unsettling about this house? Something dark and depressing, despite the freshly painted white walls? I shivered even though there wasn’t a hint of a draft, only half listening as Lady Pomeroy tried to get the conversation back to Hearthside Guild business, with the suggestion that we hold a bring-and-buy sale in August. I moved closer to the fireplace, pretending to pay attention, but really looking at the portrait of the Norfolk terrier.
    “There will never be another like Jessica.” Madrid touched my sleeve and I almost jumped out of my cardigan. “So good! So beautiful! We had absolutely no trouble finding a suitor for her paw in marriage. We held an engagement party for her and the Baron Von Woofer. He was best of breed at Crufts two years in a row, but even so”—Madrid’s voice cracked—”he wasn’t good enough for her. There wasn’t a dog alive who would have been. Madrid and I had to provide the ring. It was a ruby, our angel’s birthstone. We had the artist paint it on her paw, but she wore it on a little chain around her neck.”
    “Did they have a wedding?” I focused on Brigadier Lester-Smith, who was back at last with the coffeepot.
    Madrid parted her flowing hair to peer at me through her rimless glasses. “We had it in the garden of our old house, under the rose arbor. Vienna had made Jessica the sweetest little veil with an orange blossom wreath and she woofed in all the right places when the clergyman— who specialized in pet ceremonies—read the service. The Baron wasn’t nearly so cooperative. ‘Uncouth’ is the word I would use, which just goes to show the best pedigree in the world doesn’t always make for a gentleman. He kept sniffing around Jessica’s dear little rear and even tried to climb on top of her when she was woofing ‘I do!’ He