Free Death of a Hussy by MC Beaton Page B

meal.
    It was when they were sitting over coffee after dinner that Maggie casually announced that she wanted to get married again and that any husband of hers would find himself a very rich man, ‘and probably sooner than he thinks,’ said Maggie, one hand fluttering to her bosom. ‘Got this terrible dicky heart.’
    It was all very neat, thought Alison, sensing the sudden stillness in the room. Maggie had said it all. She was rich and she hadn’t long to live. Then the conversation became general as the men began to reminisce about old friends and acquaintances.
    Maggie was the centre of attention. She was wearing a clinging dinner gown in a soft material. It was smoky blue and she was wearing a fine sapphire and diamond necklace. The skirt of the gown was folded over so that when she sat, she revealed one long leg encased in a gossamer fine stocking. Her breasts, expertly reduced in size, were displayed to advantage by the low neck of the gown. She was playful, she was amusing, she was teasing, and she threw only a few barbed remarks in Alison’s direction. But she did order Alison around. ‘Fetch Peter a drink,’ or, ‘Move that ashtray nearer Crispin.’
    But as the evening wore on, the tension in the air grew, and the men, with the exception of Peter Jenkins, the advertising executive, began to vie for Maggie’s attention. Maggie persuaded Steel to get his guitar and perform. The pop singer returned with an electric guitar. While he was singing what seemed to be a protest song, Maggie began to tear up little pieces of paper napkin and pass them around to the other three men to use as earplugs. Fortunately for Steel, he was too absorbed in his performance to notice his audience was sniggering. Alison found it all very unpleasant. Her head ached. She mourned her lost days of freedom. She hadn’t been able to bear to look at the car when Maggie had brought it home, a Maggie full of stories about how Hamish Macbeth had called her ‘a miracle’.
    The guests, fortunately, were tired after their journeys and an early night was proposed. Fully dressed, Alison lay in bed, waiting until she heard the large bungalow settling into silence. Then she rose and put on her coat and went downstairs and out to the garage. She opened the small side door, switched on the light and stood looking at the little red car. There was a vicious scrape along the right side. Alison began to cry in a dreary, hopeless sort of way. She had to get away from Maggie, but how could she find the strength to make the first move?
    She heard steps crunch on the gravel and switched off the light and walked outside. A tall dark figure stood outside the house, watching her.
    ‘Who is it?’ asked Alison, her voice barely above a whisper.
    ‘Peter Jenkins.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘Just need to get some air.’ He moved closer, sensing rather than seeing her distress. ‘You upset about something?’
    ‘It’s the car,’ whimpered Alison. ‘She scraped the car.’
    ‘Maggie did? I don’t understand. Is it your car?’
    ‘No.’
    There was a long silence.
    Then Peter let out a faint sigh. ‘I don’t want to go back in there yet. I may as well hear your troubles. Come and sit in my car and tell me all about it.’
    ‘I’ll bore you,’ said Alison.
    ‘More than likely. But come along anyway.’
    His car turned out to be the latest model of Jaguar. It was parked with the others in a bit of open space outside the gateposts. He turned on the engine and switched on the heater. ‘It’ll get warm pretty quickly,’ he said. ‘Cigarette?’
    ‘I can’t,’ said Alison. ‘I’ve had cancer.’ She began to sob and hiccup again.
    He handed her a handkerchief and waited for her to stop, then gently urged her to tell her story. Bit by bit it all came out. ‘If only she would die,’ said Alison. ‘She’s going to change her will as soon as she chooses one of you as a husband.’
    ‘She can’t choose me,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t want