from the hospital?’’
I wanted to know.
‘‘No, I just got home.’’
‘‘How was she today?’’
‘‘Holding her own, the doctor says.’’
‘‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’’ I told him.
‘‘Now go eat, and I’ll talk to you soon.’’
We hung up, and I spent a few minutes bracing myself for the exciting event I’d planned for the remainder of the evening: tearing my apartment apart. The necessity for this had evolved because Charmaine, my every-other-week
cleaning woman, had failed to show up for so many weeks that I’d lost track of which week she was due. And while I’d been filling in for her myself on a fairly regular basis, I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly committed to my work. That night, however, I made up my mind to devote myself body and soul to dispelling the dust, mopping the floors, and scrubbing the toilet.
After all, it wouldn’t do to have Will think that Ellen came from a dirty family.
I got up early on Sunday morning to prepare my doahead dishes. By a little past one, I was out of the kitchen and just getting ready to set up the folding table in the living room. That’s when Ellen called.
‘‘I need your help, Aunt Dez.’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
73
‘‘Sure. What’s up?’’
‘‘I can’t decide what to wear tonight. I’ve narrowed it down to the blue wool or my black ribbed turtleneck with the black leather skirt.’’
‘‘Gee, I don’t know. You look good in both.’’
‘‘You’re a big help.’’
I made up my mind. ‘‘The blue, I think; it’s a great color for you.’’
‘‘I was kind of leaning that way myself. Thanks.’’
Ellen showed up at seven-fifteen that night—in the black
leather outfit. But that was okay. She looked really cute. Will Fitzgerald was at my door at seven-thirty, right on schedule. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers which, I have to admit, really impressed me. But the minute I introduced him to Ellen, I could see from his expression that they would not be heading for the altar.
Now, as I said, Ellen looked very cute. But then, Ellen is cute: tall (from where I stand, five-six is tall) and boyishly slim, with large dark eyes, silky brown hair, and a lovely smile. I think she resembles Audrey Hepburn. Maybe not a lot, but a little, anyway. Besides, all Will had said was that he was interested in meeting a nice girl; he didn’t list any physical requirements.
At that moment, though, I was pretty positive that Will’s idea of ‘‘nice’’ was 38-24-36.
I served the hors d’oeuvres—a wonderful baked clam dish and these tiny mushroom tarts for which just about everyone requests the recipe. Then I left it to Ellen to see to the drinks while I went to check on dinner. From the kitchen, I could hear Ellen trying to make conversation and Will responding in monosyllables.
I basted the rib roast, gritting my teeth. I’d decided on prime ribs because I knew Will was a meat eater—he was always scarfing down hamburgers at his desk. With the meat, we’d be having Yorkshire pudding with horseradish sauce, a potato and cheese casserole, and a large salad with a tasty vinaigrette dressing. A really nice menu, I thought. Too nice for Will Fitzgerald.
When I returned to the living room, Will was devoting himself entirely to the hors d’oeuvres, and Ellen was sitting there with this tiny, pathetic smile plastered on her face, bravely trying to cover her feelings of rejection. Things got even worse at dinner when Will made an at
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Selma Eichler
tempt at humor. ‘‘You should have another helping of pota
toes,’’ he told Ellen. ‘‘The way you are now, if a man jumped your bones, that’s what he’d get: bones.’’ (Did I say humor ?) His accompanying laugh was almost as offen
sive as the remark.
Ellen turned crimson. Oh, God, I thought, how can she ever forgive me for Will. How can I ever forgive me for Will?
Did I want to tell that bastard off! But that
I wanted to know.
‘‘No, I just got home.’’
‘‘How was she today?’’
‘‘Holding her own, the doctor says.’’
‘‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for,’’ I told him.
‘‘Now go eat, and I’ll talk to you soon.’’
We hung up, and I spent a few minutes bracing myself for the exciting event I’d planned for the remainder of the evening: tearing my apartment apart. The necessity for this had evolved because Charmaine, my every-other-week
cleaning woman, had failed to show up for so many weeks that I’d lost track of which week she was due. And while I’d been filling in for her myself on a fairly regular basis, I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly committed to my work. That night, however, I made up my mind to devote myself body and soul to dispelling the dust, mopping the floors, and scrubbing the toilet.
After all, it wouldn’t do to have Will think that Ellen came from a dirty family.
I got up early on Sunday morning to prepare my doahead dishes. By a little past one, I was out of the kitchen and just getting ready to set up the folding table in the living room. That’s when Ellen called.
‘‘I need your help, Aunt Dez.’’
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
73
‘‘Sure. What’s up?’’
‘‘I can’t decide what to wear tonight. I’ve narrowed it down to the blue wool or my black ribbed turtleneck with the black leather skirt.’’
‘‘Gee, I don’t know. You look good in both.’’
‘‘You’re a big help.’’
I made up my mind. ‘‘The blue, I think; it’s a great color for you.’’
‘‘I was kind of leaning that way myself. Thanks.’’
Ellen showed up at seven-fifteen that night—in the black
leather outfit. But that was okay. She looked really cute. Will Fitzgerald was at my door at seven-thirty, right on schedule. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers which, I have to admit, really impressed me. But the minute I introduced him to Ellen, I could see from his expression that they would not be heading for the altar.
Now, as I said, Ellen looked very cute. But then, Ellen is cute: tall (from where I stand, five-six is tall) and boyishly slim, with large dark eyes, silky brown hair, and a lovely smile. I think she resembles Audrey Hepburn. Maybe not a lot, but a little, anyway. Besides, all Will had said was that he was interested in meeting a nice girl; he didn’t list any physical requirements.
At that moment, though, I was pretty positive that Will’s idea of ‘‘nice’’ was 38-24-36.
I served the hors d’oeuvres—a wonderful baked clam dish and these tiny mushroom tarts for which just about everyone requests the recipe. Then I left it to Ellen to see to the drinks while I went to check on dinner. From the kitchen, I could hear Ellen trying to make conversation and Will responding in monosyllables.
I basted the rib roast, gritting my teeth. I’d decided on prime ribs because I knew Will was a meat eater—he was always scarfing down hamburgers at his desk. With the meat, we’d be having Yorkshire pudding with horseradish sauce, a potato and cheese casserole, and a large salad with a tasty vinaigrette dressing. A really nice menu, I thought. Too nice for Will Fitzgerald.
When I returned to the living room, Will was devoting himself entirely to the hors d’oeuvres, and Ellen was sitting there with this tiny, pathetic smile plastered on her face, bravely trying to cover her feelings of rejection. Things got even worse at dinner when Will made an at
74
Selma Eichler
tempt at humor. ‘‘You should have another helping of pota
toes,’’ he told Ellen. ‘‘The way you are now, if a man jumped your bones, that’s what he’d get: bones.’’ (Did I say humor ?) His accompanying laugh was almost as offen
sive as the remark.
Ellen turned crimson. Oh, God, I thought, how can she ever forgive me for Will. How can I ever forgive me for Will?
Did I want to tell that bastard off! But that
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