Defenestrated through a greenhouse window."
"Eskimo Pie, defenestrated!" hooted the party people. "Dear Joshua, you are a card!"
"I speak only the truth," Joshua protested.
"What won't you think of next?"
"One wonders what did happen to old Schlagel and that rascal Smith."
* * *
"What did happen to Schlagel and Smith?" Missy inquired some days later.
"Let me explain. The Eskimo Pie was my dessert. But the croquet hoop? No! Did you spot it in the wrong place, hoping I'd pop by and lunge through the greenhouse panes?"
Missy turned to stone; he had touched a nerve.
"Well, now, it's time for a wee talk," he said. "Cancel the parties. One more victim and sirens will announce the arrival of the law."
"Yes," Missy agreed. "Our target practice seems to wind up in ricochet. About that croquet hoop. You always take midnight greenhouse walks. Why was that damn fool Schlagel stumbling about out there at two a.m.? Dumb ox. Is he still under the compost?"
"Until I stash him with he-who-is-frozen."
"Dear, dear. No more parties."
"Just you, me and-ah-the chandelier?"
"Ah, no. I've hid the stepladder so you can't climb!"
"Damn," said Joshua.
That night by the fireplace, he poured a few glasses of their best port. While he was out of the room, answering the telephone, she dropped a little white powder in her own glass.
"Hate this," she murmured. "Terribly unoriginal. But there won't be an inquest. He looked long dead before he died, they'll say as they shut the lid." And she added a touch more lethal stuff to her port just as he wandered in to sit and pluck up his glass. He .eyed it and fixed his wife a grin. "Ah, no, no, you don't!"
"Don't what?" she said, all innocence.
The fire crackled warmly, gently on the hearth. The mantel clock ticked.
"You don't mind, do you, my dear, if we exchange drinks?"
"Surely you don't think I poisoned your drink while you were out?"
"Trite. Banal. But possible."
"Well, then, fussbudget, trade."
He looked surprised but traded glasses.
"Here's not looking at you!" both said, and laughed.
They drank with mysterious smiles.
And then they sat with immense satisfaction in their easy chairs, the firelight glimmering on their ghost-pale faces, letting the port warm their almost spidery veins. He stuck his legs out and held one hand to the fire. "Ah." He sighed.
"Nothing, nothing quite like port!"
She leaned her small gray head back, dozing, gumming her red-sticky mouth, and glancing at him with half-secretive, lazy eyes. "Poor Lila," she murmured.
"Yes," he murmured. "Lila. Poor."
The fire popped and she at last added, "Poor Mr. Schlagel."
"Yes." He drowsed. "Poor Schlagel. Don't forget Smith."
"And you, old man," she said finally, slowly, slyly. "How do you feel?'
"Sleepy."
"Very sleepy?"
"Un-huh." He studied her with bright eyes. "And, my dear, what about you?"
"Sleepy," she said behind closed eyes. Then they popped wide. "Why all these questions?"
"Indeed," he said, stirring alert. "Why?"
"Oh, well, because . . ." She examined her little black shoe moving in a low rhythm a long way off below her knee. "I think, or perhaps imagine, I have just destroyed your digestive and nervous systems."
For the moment he was drowsily content and examined the warm fire and listened to the clock tick. "What you mean is that you have just poisoned me?" He dreamed the words. "You what!?" He jumped as all the air gusted from his body. The port glass shattered on the floor.
She leaned forward like a fortune-teller eagerly predicting futures.
"I cleverly poisoned my own drink and knew that you'd ask to trade off, so you felt safe. And we did!" Her laugh tinkled.
He fell back in his chair, clutching at his face to stop the wild swiveling of his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered something and let out an incredible explosion of laughter.
"Why," cried Missy, "why are you laughing?"
"Because," he gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth
"Eskimo Pie, defenestrated!" hooted the party people. "Dear Joshua, you are a card!"
"I speak only the truth," Joshua protested.
"What won't you think of next?"
"One wonders what did happen to old Schlagel and that rascal Smith."
* * *
"What did happen to Schlagel and Smith?" Missy inquired some days later.
"Let me explain. The Eskimo Pie was my dessert. But the croquet hoop? No! Did you spot it in the wrong place, hoping I'd pop by and lunge through the greenhouse panes?"
Missy turned to stone; he had touched a nerve.
"Well, now, it's time for a wee talk," he said. "Cancel the parties. One more victim and sirens will announce the arrival of the law."
"Yes," Missy agreed. "Our target practice seems to wind up in ricochet. About that croquet hoop. You always take midnight greenhouse walks. Why was that damn fool Schlagel stumbling about out there at two a.m.? Dumb ox. Is he still under the compost?"
"Until I stash him with he-who-is-frozen."
"Dear, dear. No more parties."
"Just you, me and-ah-the chandelier?"
"Ah, no. I've hid the stepladder so you can't climb!"
"Damn," said Joshua.
That night by the fireplace, he poured a few glasses of their best port. While he was out of the room, answering the telephone, she dropped a little white powder in her own glass.
"Hate this," she murmured. "Terribly unoriginal. But there won't be an inquest. He looked long dead before he died, they'll say as they shut the lid." And she added a touch more lethal stuff to her port just as he wandered in to sit and pluck up his glass. He .eyed it and fixed his wife a grin. "Ah, no, no, you don't!"
"Don't what?" she said, all innocence.
The fire crackled warmly, gently on the hearth. The mantel clock ticked.
"You don't mind, do you, my dear, if we exchange drinks?"
"Surely you don't think I poisoned your drink while you were out?"
"Trite. Banal. But possible."
"Well, then, fussbudget, trade."
He looked surprised but traded glasses.
"Here's not looking at you!" both said, and laughed.
They drank with mysterious smiles.
And then they sat with immense satisfaction in their easy chairs, the firelight glimmering on their ghost-pale faces, letting the port warm their almost spidery veins. He stuck his legs out and held one hand to the fire. "Ah." He sighed.
"Nothing, nothing quite like port!"
She leaned her small gray head back, dozing, gumming her red-sticky mouth, and glancing at him with half-secretive, lazy eyes. "Poor Lila," she murmured.
"Yes," he murmured. "Lila. Poor."
The fire popped and she at last added, "Poor Mr. Schlagel."
"Yes." He drowsed. "Poor Schlagel. Don't forget Smith."
"And you, old man," she said finally, slowly, slyly. "How do you feel?'
"Sleepy."
"Very sleepy?"
"Un-huh." He studied her with bright eyes. "And, my dear, what about you?"
"Sleepy," she said behind closed eyes. Then they popped wide. "Why all these questions?"
"Indeed," he said, stirring alert. "Why?"
"Oh, well, because . . ." She examined her little black shoe moving in a low rhythm a long way off below her knee. "I think, or perhaps imagine, I have just destroyed your digestive and nervous systems."
For the moment he was drowsily content and examined the warm fire and listened to the clock tick. "What you mean is that you have just poisoned me?" He dreamed the words. "You what!?" He jumped as all the air gusted from his body. The port glass shattered on the floor.
She leaned forward like a fortune-teller eagerly predicting futures.
"I cleverly poisoned my own drink and knew that you'd ask to trade off, so you felt safe. And we did!" Her laugh tinkled.
He fell back in his chair, clutching at his face to stop the wild swiveling of his eyes. Then suddenly he remembered something and let out an incredible explosion of laughter.
"Why," cried Missy, "why are you laughing?"
"Because," he gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth
Similar Books
