G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“If I want to use nutmeg, I use the nutmeg,” Mrs. Romano said flatly. “No mace. No nutmeg. The sauce, it is perfect, just as it is.” She made a grab for the mace jar in Sarah’s hand, which Sarah held aloft, just out of reach.

“Give it to me,” demanded Mrs. Romano.

“No!”

“Testa di cavolo!”

“How dare you call me a cabbage head!”

Just then, the colossal form of Sir Adrian dropped anchor in the doorway.

“Hello, hello, what’s all this?”

“I’m just trying to help Mrs. Romano.”

“Mrs. Romano, if she needed help from the likes of you, would not be employed here.”

Stung, Sarah said, “I have written a best seller about cooking, and my publishers think the next one-”

“My books are also best sellers. That doesn’t mean I’m an expert on killing people, any more than it means you’re an expert at cooking. Stay out of this kitchen.”

“They even want me to do a cooking show on the telly,” Sarah persisted.

“Really? Then I have a title for them. One Fat Lady.” Deciding this was rather a good one, he laughed uproariously; then, seeing the injured look on her face-her sadness always infuriated him, especially when he was the cause-reverted to his former cold manner. “I’m not saying it again. You are to stay out of this kitchen and leave Mrs. Romano alone.”

“It’s my kitchen, too, isn’t it?” she said.

This he didn’t bother to answer. Mrs. Romano, a person quick to anger and quicker to forget, felt sorry for the girl. Woman, she corrected herself. Sarah so clearly wanted her father to admire her intellect and achievements, while these were the last things Sir Adrian cared about in a female. Like all fathers, he wanted Sarah to make a good marriage and produce basketfuls of chubby grandchildren, to Mrs. Romano’s way of thinking.

Funny, how all of Sir Adrian’s children had let him down in that regard. It was, in her opinion, the real reason behind all this messing about with the will, like Henry VIII fiddling with papal bulls. A grandchild, especially a male, would have put an end to all that nonsense. His posterity assured, Sir Adrian might have been a happy man.

Albert had found the liquor cabinet, but he had found it locked, perhaps in anticipation of his visit. Mrs. Romano, he felt, and not for the first time, took a bit more upon herself than met her official job description. But Albert knew where the cellars were, and moreover, he had long ago taken the precaution of having an extra key made.

Getting to the cellar itself posed no problem, as it opened off the main hall, with entry through a narrow door, designed for tiny medieval priests, built into the paneling under the stairs. Looking exaggeratedly to left and right like a burglar in a silent film, Albert painfully opened the creaking door, exposing the stone stairway to the bottom. Good thing, he thought, he was usually sober on his way down. Coming up was another story.

The cellar, the inspiration for which might have been Tales from the Crypt , was original to the house, and Sir Adrian’s pride. Collected in temperature-controlled rooms and cabinets fitted snugly against the cold stone walls were vintage bottles-some, Albert reflected, worth more than his annual income in a bad year. Most years, he amended.

The small keys to the cabinets containing the most expensive bottles remained firmly in the care of Mrs. Romano. Albert suspected they nestled all day somewhere in the vicinity of her redoubtable cleavage. For all Albert knew she slept with them dangling from a chain around her neck. She did not appear to have a man in her life to object to that-odd, when he thought about it, because she exuded such an earthy appeal. Maybe giving birth to a shit like Paulo had put her off sex forever.

But for Albert’s purposes, the keys to the actual cabinets didn’t matter. There were plenty of good-quality spirits lying about that were not deemed worth locking up. They would do just fine. With any luck he’d be awake and sober in time for the cocktail hour.

It was a little early for whiskey, even for Albert, but he spied several cases of Guinness stout tucked against the wall. He reached up to drag a case off the top of the stack. As he did, he dislodged the case underneath, tumbling it to the floor. Bracing himself for the inevitable crash of broken glass, Albert was surprised when the box fell with a delicate thud on the stone tiles. Setting aside the top crate of beer, he bent down and pulled back the cardboard flaps of the fallen box.

Paper. A small stack of thin blue paper, slightly disarranged by the fall. The top page carried only a few words. A title page, laboriously printed in capital letters. Albert held it up to the light from one of the crenellated windows high in the wall.

“ A Death in Scotland ,” he read aloud. “By Adrian Beauclerk-Fisk.” It bore a recent date across the bottom of the page.

His latest manuscript, presumably. He flipped through the pages. Page after page of scrawl. Perhaps the light would be better in his room. Albert tucked the pages in his pockets, hoisted a case of the beer, and headed back upstairs.

AS ALBERT CARTED AWAY his treasure, Jeffrey was writing to his mother back home.

In coming to Waverley Court, Jeffrey had found himself in an Anglophile’s heaven. Having completed his B.A. in English back in the United States, he had found himself in the same position as all newly minted English majors-that is, unemployed and unemployable. He had mooned around his mother’s house in Minnesota for a while-Jeffrey’s father, who had emigrated from Britain, had died when Jeffrey was a toddler-implementing various of her DIY projects with decidedly mixed results. Then one day, bored and broke, he had joined the Air Force, beguiled by a recruiting poster showing hard-jawed men and women at the controls of F-15s. The Air Force had taught him Russian and transported him and his duffel bag to England, where he spent the next four years with headphones clamped to his head, translating risqué jokes swapped by Russian pilots cruising over the Baltics.

Not surprisingly, four years of this experience also left him unfit for gainful employment. But his first May week in England-one of those flawless, golden weeks only England could produce-had made him decide he must remain in the country forever-somehow. He responded to every promising advertisement in the Times without result until one day he saw an ad posted by the recruitment agency employed by Sir Adrian. That had led, by some miracle of good fortune, to his current position in the Beauclerk-Fisk household.

The woman at the agency had done her best to quell Jeffrey’s enthusiasm for the post.

“You’re the fifth one this year, you know.” It was then July.

“Then I’ll be the last,” Jeffrey had replied, with all of the optimism and determination imbued in his blood by pioneer ancestors.

The woman, Mrs. Crumpsall-middle-aged, tired, and ready for her afternoon tea-had removed her glasses, regarding him with basset-hound eyes. She felt it must be something in the American diet-all that corn, perhaps-that made them this way. But then-Sir Adrian had flattened every British specimen she’d sent his way. Perhaps Jeffrey’s unbounded, puppyish enthusiasm would see him through.

The building provided Jeffrey for his lodging predated the main house by many decades. It was a wattle-and-daub, timber-framed building that may once have housed people before being turned over to livestock in a later century. His rooms had only recently been nicely modernized into a self-contained unit over what were now the Waverley Court garages. The little flat came complete with kitchen, washing machine, and the snarl of cables required for television and Internet communication. Apart from the fact he still drove an American-model car the size of a UFO, Jeffrey had adapted admirably to his new environment.