How to Murder Your Mother-In-Law by Dorothy Cannell

to your guest.”
    Lo and behold, Beatrix Taffer was right behindher. And what a shock! This was not the frail lady I had pictured in my mind—the one suffering through her geriatric exercise when I spoke with her daughter-in-law on the phone. This elderly woman did not hobble into the room on two canes, wheezing with every breath. She elbowed Mrs. Malloy out into the hall and rushed forward, throwing her arms wide open, in palpable eagerness to hug everyone and everything in sight. My heart sank. Here was a seventy-year-old harum-scarum if ever there was one.
    “Mags! Elijah! You haven’t changed a hair!”
    Neither one of them moved or spoke. Indeed my in-laws looked as incapable of action as the twin suits of armour out in the hall. Thank heaven for Ben. His smile was every inch as suave as his smoking jacket as he strode towards Mrs. Taffer, looking deep into her eyes. “Welcome to Merlin’s Court.”
    Inspired by her son’s good behaviour, Mum got her act together. Extending a stiff hand, she said in a voice guaranteed to cause freezer burn, “It’s been a long time, Bea!”
    The newcomer beamed. “Well, if that don’t turn back the clock! No one calls me Bea anymore; I’m known to young and old as Tricks.”
    “Suits you!” Dad stood up, looking in his white whiskers and red cardigan as if he would be quite happy to come down Mrs. Taffer’s chimney any time. Not to be outdone, Jonas scrambled out of his chair with more speed than befitted an invalid.
    “Pardon me muddy boots, m’lady! I just come in from digging up the veggies for your dinner.”
    Suppressing a quiver of unease, I said, “It’s lovely to have you here, Mrs. Taffer.”
    “Love-a-duck, Mrs. Haskell! I’m over the moon at being invited.”
    Tricks was certainly something to behold. She was on the short side of five foot. Her roly-poly figure was augmented by a bosom that quite cast Mrs. M.’s into the shade and made Mum look as if she had only justgraduated to a training bra. Her frock was an Indian muslin affair with three dozen dancing tassels. She vibrated energy that sent the standard lamps swaying like palm trees and the chairs scuttling out of her way.
    Amazing! Her face, for all its wrinkles, belonged on a schoolgirl. A mischievous, funky schoolgirl whose ultra-red hair stood up all around her head in porcupine spikes reminiscent of a punk rocker. And … a thrill of shock and admiration shot through me … her ears were triple pierced.
    When Ben’s eyes met mine, I knew exactly what he was thinking. This live wire could not be a contemporary of his mother’s! The very idea was idiotic. Almost as idiotic as Jonas clumping to the forefront to inform our guest that meeting her was the thrill of a lifetime.
    “I’ve read all your books.” He was shaking her hand until it almost flew off. “I know they do be for little kiddies, but Peter Rabbit and his pals has always been my heroes.”
    “Jonas”—unmoved by ye olde simpleton’s tactics, I placed a hand firmly on his elbow—“this lady is not Beatrix Potter.”
    “I should say not!” Tricks gave him a playful poke in the ribs with a pudgy finger. “Mags and I are old friends, but we aren’t neither of us
that
old.” She beamed at my mother-in-law, who did not return the favour.
    “You don’t look your age … either of you.” Dad rose gallantly to the occasion in addressing Tricks—in particular her cleavage, which was indisputably one of the scenic wonders of the world. Needless to say, Mum was not tickled pink.
    “No one ever described me as mutton dressed up as lamb.” Virtuous sniff. “But then, my religion teaches that the body is the temple of the soul.”
    It was an uncomfortable moment but, far from appearing put out, Tricks gave a snorting little laugh and appealed to the rest of us: “Same old Mags, isn’t she? Always too good for the likes of us sinners. Come here,old duck, let’s kiss and make up.” So saying, she grabbed hold of Mum and