G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

He stared now at his laptop screen, rereading what he had written, not quite satisfied that he had conveyed in full the adventure of his new life in England:

Dear Mother:

How are you? I am fine. I just received your letter…

(This was not quite true, but she would blame the delay in his response on the overseas mail service, which she seemed to believe was still being conducted via whaling ship.)

… and was, as always, glad to hear you are feeling well…

(This was also not quite true, as Mrs. Spencer’s letters tended to be one long and tedious recitation of her various imagined ailments.

Jeffrey had found that sympathizing with these ailments only made the recitations in her toilsomely penned replies longer.)

… You asked what kind of ‘boss’ Sir Adrian was. Liege Lord is more like it, with myself in the role of vassal. Let’s just say Sir Adrian is quite a challenging employer. He cannot write a line without rewriting it a dozen times, which makes him cross. I must be the only living person who can decipher the resulting mess of a manuscript, which does at least offer me some form of job security. Yes, he writes everything by hand, unbelievable in the era of the PC…

(Here Jeffrey backspaced, realizing that she probably wouldn’t know what PC meant, substituting the word “computer” instead.)

…and passes along the resulting chicken scratch to me. I think sometimes I will go blind from trying to decipher what it is he means to say, but whatever he’s been working on lately he’s been keeping awfully close to his vest, which gives me some free time.

His family are all at Waverley Court at the moment-quite interesting for me, of course, to see them all together at last. They arrived last night.

Ruthven, Sir Adrian’s eldest son, arrived first, with his wife, Lillian. She looks a bit standoffish…

(Jeffrey didn’t feel he could tell his mother Lillian looked like a prize-winning Rottweiler.)

… but Sir Adrian’s daughter, Sarah, is quite a jolly girl.

(Well, Jeffrey felt she had the potential to be jolly, although rather skittish at the moment.)

There is George, who is the second son, and Albert, the youngest. Both are quite well-known in London circles. George brought a young friend with him. She’s extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps in her early-to-mid thirties, sensible-looking, yet graceful as a swan.

Satisfied with what he had so far written, he resumed typing:

But the person here who is causing the most speculation is Sir Adrian’s ‘intended.’ I wrote you about her earlier. Her appearance, at long last, has been an occasion for rampant speculation among the staff. She arrived just hours before the others, which is odd in itself-that I hadn’t seen her before. I caught just a glimpse, but there is no question she is a strikingly attractive woman, for her age, slim and dark-haired…

He paused. Something had raised a flag in his mind, but he couldn’t think what the matter was-what elusive thought or memory had surfaced as he tapped away unselfconsciously. It had submerged itself again so quickly he couldn’t spear it now, whatever it was. Then he remembered his mother was probably the same age as the bride and backspaced diplomatically over the potentially offending phrase referring to her age.

Jeffrey paused, rereading, hoping he had failed to convey the toxic atmosphere he felt brewing within the house. Mrs. Romano had told him at length about her own trepidations. She had taken a liking to Jeffrey ever since she’d learned he’d been in the service. In her mind, Jeffrey was one with the World War II American servicemen who had marched through her native Italy, dispensing food, chewing gum, and hope.

“I never,” she had told Jeffrey “saw anything like this family. I suppose Sir Adrian can marry who he wants, but… She cannot possibly love him-do you think?”

They had sat in the kitchen late the night before over a brandy and coffee, a ritual they occasionally shared when there was gossip to go around.

He found himself wondering if there weren’t a little jealousy behind her words. She and Sir Adrian had been together a long time.

“How did they meet?” he asked.

“He says in London, at a dinner party given by his publisher.”

“He says?”

“You know Sir Adrian. It may or may not be true. But however they met, it is clear this is what they call a whirlpool romance.”

“Whirlwind. I rather think the word you want is whirlwind.”

“I think I had it right the first time.”

Jeffrey laughed.

“Well, you know, Mrs. R, at his age, it’s not right he should be alone.”

“He’s not alone. He has his work. He has people he can trust around to take care of him.”

“You mean his family? Yes, of course, that’s a blessing-”

“No,” she said simply. “I mean me. And Paulo, of course. This family of his, it is no blessing.”

Jeffrey, who had yet to speak with most of the key players in this drama, wasn’t quite sure what she meant. But he trusted Mrs. Romano’s instincts, and some of her anxiety had rubbed off on him as well.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” he’d said.

But now, having seen them all and gained some definite first impressions, he wondered. George, he felt sure, was no prize. And he rather had the idea Albert drank.

Omitting these impressions, he was concluding his letter with a reiterated promise to return home at Easter for a visit, a promise he had only vague intentions of keeping. He liked being just where he was, more so than before. As he reached across his desk for an envelope, his eye caught a movement beyond the sheltering evergreen trees outside his window. It was Paulo, carrying a plastic bag of rubbish out to the gardening shed.

He didn’t pause to wonder why Paulo would be carrying rubbish to, not from, the shed: There was a dumpster affair hidden near the kitchen wall. But he did pause to think that Paulo, despite his mother, was a man he wouldn’t trust an inch.

DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS the kind of extravaganza at which Mrs. Romano excelled. Where one entrée would do, she offered three. Where two savories would have sufficed, she produced four.

But as Paulo cleared course after course, bringing down the plates for washing by the local girl brought in for the occasion (her name was Martha, and she seemed to suffer from adenoids), he thought only Sir Adrian might entirely be enjoying the repast.

Jeffrey, who sat in chummy silence watching Mrs. Romano and Martha work, occasionally offering a helping hand with the heavier dishes, listened to Paulo’s bulletins with increasing interest. Really, it was like one of those nighttime soap operas.

Sir Adrian had emerged from his bedroom at seven PM, a cumberbund stretched like a rubber band to breaking point around his colossal perimeter. Trotting into the drawing room, he found his family already amassed, and stretched his rosebud lips into a semblance of a welcoming smile. He skipped over to Violet-it would seem in his present good mood his gout wasn’t troubling him as much-and made too big a fuss of noisily kissing her cheek. Or so it seemed to Sarah, who, with Albert, warily watched the pantomime from near the fireplace.

George sat snaked across one of the Queen Anne sofas, which Natasha stood behind, both of them managing to look disheveled, but in an interesting, expensive way, like an advertisement for Ralph Lauren bed linens. Natasha wore a silk poet’s blouse with long sleeves ending in ruffles at her wrists; George, a velvet coat that recalled Lord Byron about the time England was asking him never again to darken its shores.