G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“It makes him happy, all right, knowing he’s screwing his children out of any hope of a decent inheritance and embarrassing them to boot by marrying this silly trollop. Happy? I’m certain he is. I can just see him gloating now.”

“What makes you say she’s a trollop? Have you met her?”

“No, in actual fact. Just stands to reason. She appears out of nowhere and the next thing we know there’s this pink horror in the mail. Clearly she wasted no time getting her talons into him.”

“He’s a grown man, Albert. I don’t suppose we can have any say in it. Although one is tempted to try.”

“There must be laws-”

“Waste of time, while he’s alive,” she said too quickly. So, her mind had already traveled down the same path as his. “Even if we had the legal right to challenge this, which I’m sure we don’t. He’ll have seen to that-or rather, his solicitors will. And he’s not insane, at least by any standards that can be proven.” She sighed heavily, adjusting the temperature under the yellowish mass thickening on the cooker. She was mixing ground sesame seeds, honey, and almonds. This, once stirred to the right consistency, was to be poured out into bars to make halvah. She was on her third try, and still the result was something you could use to build a house. But she was certain the Magdalene would have served this to all her friends, including Jesus. That and Chicken Provençal.

Sarah had reached this particular tortured conclusion after reading the legend that Mary Magdalene had done missionary work in the south of France following Jesus’ death. This opening up all kinds of French/Middle Eastern gastronomic avenues for her book, Sarah had seized on the myth with all the fervor of the convert. Looking at the hardening glob in the pan, she wished the Magdalene could have indulged herself once in awhile with chocolate fudge, but, sadly, there was little evidence for this, in or out of the Bible.

“What difference does it make, anyway? I never had any great expectations of him,” she said now, not entirely truthfully. Albert knew that, as with most of them, expectations there had been on countless occasions, but those expectations had been quickly, mercilessly dashed. Adrian liked to change his will as often as some women will change their hairstyles; it was part of the game he liked to play to keep them all on tenterhooks. “Although Ruthven and Lillian…”

“Yes, the most recent beneficiaries. I wonder how himself and Lady Macbeth are taking this.”

Sarah snorted.

“What do you think she sees in him?” Sarah asked.

“Lillian? I should think that would be obvious. His Visa card, his Barclay’s account…”

“No, I mean-what is her name, I suppose now I’ve got to make an effort to remember if she’s going to be my stepmother.” There was a pause while the ludicrousness of the situation penetrated even Sarah’s otherworldly brain.

“Violet. Same answer. Visa, et cetera. You can be taken by them anywhere.” He paused as another thought struck him. “I suppose there’s just a chance…”

Albert trailed off, calculating that since the marriage couldn’t possibly last, there might be wisdom in simply holding one’s tongue until Violet did simply take what she could carry and run with it. God knew there was enough money to go around. The old man’s last book, Miss Rampling Decides , was still high on the best seller lists a year from its launch, and the old horror-his father-had been cranking them out like that every year for decades. The British public seemingly couldn’t get enough of the wizened, serene old biddy who, by rights, should be well over 110 years old by now, living alone in the small village of Saint Edmund-Under-Stowe, its tiny population reduced to one by its mysteriously high crime rate.

Perhaps Adrian would finally write a book in which Miss Rampling was herself shown to be the killer of everyone in her village over the years, thought Albert. Wouldn’t put it past the old bugger to play one last nasty trick on his reading public.

Although Albert had years ago given up reading his father’s books, on principle, he had to admit his famous last name had helped him no end in his checkered theatrical career. Not without a painful self-knowledge, Albert recognized his career might have been even more checkered without the name to get and keep him in front of the footlights. The trouble was, he was fast reaching an age where even the rather wispy roles of pale yet interesting young supporting men suitable for Coward and Rattigan revivals were getting beyond his reach-or rather, he amended reluctantly, his age, despite nightly jaw-firming facial exercises. His brief flirtation with being a leading man had been just that-brief-for Albert, in spite of his looks, had always lacked the presence to command that sort of role. Becoming that dreaded thing-a character actor- was, he reminded himself firmly, at least five years in the future. But what to do in the meanwhile?

His sister’s voice drew him back to the present.

“-although I don’t think I want to go, I suppose there’s really no choice.”

“To the, er, nuptials, you mean?”

“What else? Not going isn’t an option, of course; it would hurt his feelings-”

As if the old reprobate had feelings!

“-and it might look as if I cared”-that, at least, sounded nearer the truth-“but I’m on deadline for my next book, for one thing. And it might be awkward all ’round, don’t you think? If George is there it will be unbearable.” George was their elder brother, second in line behind Ruthven. Another thought gave an edge of panic to her voice. “And who-who is going to tell Mother?” There was a tentative pleading as she said that last that suggested she was hoping Albert might volunteer.

Not a chance, thought Albert. Let her favorite break it to her.

“I should imagine Ruthven is on the telephone to her right now, never you worry,” said Albert.

Ruthven was in fact on the telephone to his mother, but it was she who had called him. The instrument rang just as he was getting ready to pick up and dial. Any distraction at all was welcome from the grilling he’d been receiving from his wife for the past half hour.

“Ruthven, is that you? It’s your mother, dear. I’ve just had the most amazing, er, communication.”

“He didn’t.”

“He did. Some cherub thing. The envelope looks like it was addressed by a twelve-year-old.”

“That would be Violet. Not far off on the guess at age, I’d say. Oh, sorry, Mother, I didn’t-”

“Never fear. The poor girl has my sympathy, not my envy. At my age, one is relieved to be past the attentions of men. But what can he-she-both of them-be thinking, to invite me? Surely he doesn’t imagine I’ll come, bearing gifts. Is he that far gone, do you think?”

“When I last saw him, which, admittedly, was several months ago, he seemed to be much as ever. Argumentative, repellent. Perhaps more reptilian than usual. Looking to pick a fight, as always. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to give him one. This takeover bid with Grobbetter has been like perching in several rings of Hell simultaneously.” Ruthven had made and lost several fortunes buying up small Midland newspapers, sacking most of their workers save the sales staff whilst sucking the places dry of every conceivable asset (“increasing productivity,” was how his press releases put it), and selling the newly productive yet emaciated product to a competitor.

His take-no-hostages philosophy had made him a legend in the publishing world, certainly in his own mind. Thinking he would one day in all likelihood inherit his father’s fortune made it easier for him to be fearless than other men.

“Funny. That might have been the last time I saw him, too. At any rate, it was several months ago.”