How to Murder the Man of Your Dreams (23 page)

It had obviously taken his breath away. The brigadier was wheezing heavily as he got to his feet, and I wondered if I might be witnessing that trademark of romantic fiction—love at first sight. Personally, I felt as if a cannon ball were lodged in my chest as I realized that he might react with starry eyes to the discovery that I was lunching with Mrs. Swabucher and request diffidently that I introduce him to the Venus in Pink. Thank God for Mr. Wiseman. He intercepted a waiter, and after a few moments of murmured conversation, imparted the news that there wasn’t a spare table to be had in the next thirty minutes, and suggested to Brigadier Lester-Smith that they try their luck at the nearest pub, The Dark Horse.

“We’d better hurry so as not to make you late back to your office, Lionel.” This response contained a definite note of relief, causing me to suspect, as the two men bade me good afternoon and made their departure, that the brigadier’s courage had failed him and he preferred to
moon upon the lady’s charms from a safe distance rather than risk his hopes being forever blighted by her indifferent response to his impassioned gaze.

Mrs. Swabucher was studying the leather-bound menu and looked up only when I sat down at the table and spread my serviette across my knees. If she had seen me talking with the two men, she gave no sign of it, and I forgot all about the brigadier as I contemplated her cheerful face.

“You’re back, Giselle.” She lifted her water glass and took a sip. “Did you find the brooch?”

“The what? Oh, you mean …?”

“The one that belonged to your grandmother.”

“Oh, that one.” My hand moved to the neck of my blouse. “It wasn’t in the foyer and I’m beginning to think I didn’t wear it after all.”

“Very likely, but you’re still worrying about it, aren’t you, dear? You’re all flushed, and who can wonder in this warm weather. What you need is to have a nice cold drink. The waiter, such a nice young man—very handsome in an Italian sort of way—came to take our order, and I told him we would have the pheasant, roast potatoes, and parsnip fritters. No counting calories on such a special occasion, those are Aunty Evie’s orders. If Ben had wanted a skinny wife, he wouldn’t have married you, would he, dear?”

“I suppose not,” I muttered, staring at the table.

“He loves you just the way you are. Always remember that and don’t try to change; time will take over that job for you. One day before you know it, you will look at Ben and discover that seemingly overnight you have both grown old and wrinkled—”

“Mrs. Swabucher!” Desperation drove me to interrupt the flow of her voice. “I will always be grateful to you and Eligibility Escorts, but—to be completely blunt—I’m not interested in participating in a national advertising campaign!”

For a moment I thought she was choking. Then I realized I was hearing a chuckle. “Silly me! I should have known, Giselle, you were bound to think I was talking about Eligibility when I spoke of a business matter, but in fact I sold that business a couple of years ago, for a very
tidy profit, when I decided to embark on my new adventure.”

“Really?” I was dimly aware of the waiter setting our luncheon plates before us.

“I had grown disenchanted with Eligibility.” Mrs. Swabucher broke her roll apart and spread butter with a liberal hand. “Except in rare situations such as yours and dear Bentley’s, I found the element of romance lacking in the escort business and, as I am sure you realized at our first meetings I am a romantic to the core.” She pressed a hand to the breast of her powder-pink suit. “Leafing through my files day after day to find the right gentleman to escort a sad little widow to a West End play failed after a time to make my heart sing.” She smiled impishly at me. “Would you please pass the salt and pepper?”

Struggling to overcome my astonishment, I pushed the little pots towards her and picked up my knife and fork without any immediate plans of using them. “Do … tell me about your new venture.”

“As my late husband, Reginald, used to say”—Mrs. Swabucher cut into her pheasant with enthusiasm—“we learn far more from our successes than our failures. And Eligibility taught me how to assess masculine potential for extraordinary romantic appeal at the commercial level. I became the business agent for a young man who had ambitions of working as a cover model for novels. The rest, as they say, is history. And I know you will agree with me, Ellie, that no one has ever added such luster to romantic fiction as the heroically handsome—”

“Karisma!”

“So now you know why I am here, Giselle.” Mrs. Swabucher had managed to polish off most of her pheasant while I sat gawking at the woman who had guided the dream lover to the pinnacle of fame and fantasy. “When my secretary took your phone call yesterday, asking if Karisma would come to Chitterton Fells for a benefit, I was not present. But later, when she told me, I was most upset that I had missed speaking to you. Because a request from you, or dear Bentley, makes for a very special circumstance.”

“I’m a member of the Library League …”

“A worthy organization, I’m sure.” Mrs. Swabucher
laid down her knife and fork. “And of course I also thought immediately that in addition to my desire to be of service to you, Giselle, you do live in that delightful little castle, which would be the perfect background for a series of photos of Karisma. We could use one for next year’s Dream Lover Calendar, or even put together an entire book of them. So what I am proposing, dear, is that Karisma, accompanied by myself, his hair designer, his athletic trainer, and his photographer, stay at Merlin’s Court for a couple of nights when coming down for your little library’s benefit. You don’t have to concern yourself, or dear Bentley, with preparing meals. Karisma eats only high-fibre, protein-sparing, vitamin-enriched meals prepared for him by his personal chef. Did I say that Emanuel will be coming too? Now, tell me, dear, are these acceptable terms, Giselle?”

Acceptable? Karisma, the realization of every female fantasy, a guest in my home? The concept of being able to gaze at will upon his breathtakingly handsome visage and unparalleled physique was so incredible that I dug my nails into my sweaty palms and welcomed the pain as proof that I was not dreaming.

Belatedly, I realized I wasn’t breathing either. “Mrs. Swabucher … Ben and I will be honoured.… Do you have some dates in mind, ones that would not coincide with Karisma’s really important commitments, that I could present to the Library League? And of course they will also need to know what fee he will charge for appearing at the benefit.”

“Karisma and I have discussed the matter and, in consideration of my relationship with you and dear Bentley, Karisma is pleased to forgo the customary honorarium. I won’t mention the amount because you would fall off your chair, Ellie. But we are talking about a national treasure.” Mrs. Swabucher adjusted her feather boa about her shoulders and smiled benignly at the waiter as he bent to remove her plate. “You haven’t taken a bite, Giselle,” she said as I indicated to the man that I had finished eating. “Still worrying about your weight, aren’t you, dear? So silly, because as my beloved Karisma will tell you when you meet him, he sees beauty in all women no matter what
shape, size, or age.” Her eyes grew misty. “He is truly a man for all seasons of the heart.”

“He sounds wonderful,” I opined with a quiver in my voice.

“The man is unique.” Mrs. Swabucher’s eyes shone with pride. “As you will see for yourself, Giselle, this coming Saturday.”

“That’s tomorrow!”

She was unruffled. “I know it’s short notice. But I am afraid Karisma is booked up with engagements for decades ahead and it is quite a fluke that he is available this weekend. The plan is for him to spend Saturday at Merlin’s Court for the photograph sessions and then make his appearance at your quaint little library on Sunday afternoon. After attending morning service at the Anglican church,” Mrs. Swabucher added, settling her handbag on her lap. “Karisma is a deeply spiritual man, Giselle.”

“That won’t present any problem,” I said. “St. Anselm’s is just a stone’s throw from Merlin’s Court. But I am concerned there won’t be time for us to publicize the benefit and attract a decent-sized crowd. Which would be unfair to Karisma and”—I hesitated to sound mercenary—“we would like to raise as much money as possible for the commemorative statue of Miss Bunch, our recently deceased librarian.”

But Mrs. Swabucher waved a genial hand at me. “Don’t worry about that. Word of Karisma’s appearances spreads like wildfire. My suggestion is that you arrange a meeting of your library group for this evening and you’ll see, dear, everything will fall into place. If you like, I will delay my return to London and accompany you …”

Before she could finish speaking, a waiter appeared at her side with a portable phone, ascertained that she was Mrs. Swabucher, and informed her that a gentleman was on the line, waiting to speak to her. She thanked him with a smile that promised a handsome tip as she lifted the receiver to her ear. “Karisma, is that you, my impetuous one?”

She chuckled softly, winked at me, and listened intently. “Yes, yes, everything is arranged. Giselle is delighted, positively
thrilled
to bits. We are to stay at Merlin’s Court; what could be more convenient!… No,
I haven’t got round to talking with her about who’s who in Chitterton Fells, but I am
sure
we will meet some sparkling personalities, and—who knows?—we may even be invited to tea on the vicarage lawn. It’s that sort of Victorian little place. Good-bye, my … oh, yes, she is, sitting across the table from me, just a moment.” Mrs. Swabucher handed me the telephone. “Karisma would like a word with you, dear.”

“He wants to talk to
me
?” I clung to the receiver for dear life, nearly slid off my chair, and croaked, “Hello?!?”

“Giselle … such a beautiful name!” The husky voice throbbed with emotion. “Already I am counting the hours until we meet, for I do not doubt you are as lovely as you are kind. Until Saturday I keep you as a dream in my heart.”

It was too much: I could picture him so clearly, kissing the tips of his fingers into the receiver. My head spun, and before I could unstick my tongue from the roof of my mind, I heard a click and I was left listening to the dial tone.

I set the phone reverently down and endeavoured to bring Mrs. Swabucher’s face back into focus. “Amazing … that Karisma should care enough about a small-town library benefit to track you down in order to find out what arrangements have been made.”

“I told him I planned to have lunch with you at Abigail’s, and that’s just the way he is, dear, always so considerate. A heart of gold.”

“I’m sure he’s devoted to you.” I was still starry-eyed. “And that you’ve become just like a mother to him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Mrs. Swabucher was occupied in opening up her handbag. “I’m not really the maternal sort. Reginald and I never had children together, although I helped raise his three by his first marriage and there’s a bond between us, as you might imagine. Reggie, the eldest one, named for his father, is always looking over my shoulder when it comes to my business affairs. A nice, kind man, but being a worrywart has aged the poor boy beyond his years and I’m concerned that he’ll end up with the health problems that plagued my Reginald’s last years.” She didn’t wait for me to respond, but swept on.
“Growing old can be pitiful, but believe me, Giselle, I’m fighting the erosion of time every inch of the way.” Mrs. Swabucher touched a couple of fingers to her pink-tinted head and put a dent in the beehive. “But I don’t plan on doing anything so childish as marrying yet again. End of subject on boring old me! Here”—she reached into her handbag and brought forth a handful of goodies—“these are for you, a few little gifts from Karisma—one of his Build-a-Body-Beautiful exercise tapes, an autographed photo in a heart-shaped frame, a calendar, and a sixteen-ounce bottle of his Desire perfume.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” I said, trying to get a grip on my emotions
and
the loot. And who was that dark-browed stranger approaching our table? Not surprisingly, given the amount of emotional overload to which I had been subjected, I had forgotten all about my tiff with Ben in the kitchen.

Unfortunately the evening was taken if I could arrange an emergency meeting of the Library League, but as I got to my feet, I vowed that as soon as this celebrity weekend was through, I would spend quality time with my husband. His smile was somewhat cool around the edges when he asked how we had enjoyed our lunch. Something kept me from bursting out with an announcement of Karisma’s impending visit. There would be time enough later when we were conveniently alone to discover Ben hadn’t a clue as to the magnitude of the honour being bestowed upon us and our humble abode. Being of the male persuasion, he probably wouldn’t respond enthusiastically to my demands that we redecorate overnight.

“Do you have to rush back to town, Mrs. Swabucher?” he asked pleasantly enough as he walked us out into the foyer.

“Not until this evening, dear boy.” The woman who brought us together resembled a bird of rare pink plumage as she took three steps to every one of his in keeping up with his long stride. “Giselle and I have a dozen plans to make for—”

“This afternoon,” I interjected hastily. “Oh, bother! I left Sylvia Babcock’s wedding present under the table! Would you be a dear, Ben, and fetch it for me?”

“I live to serve,” he replied, and while he was fetching the package I quickly explained to Mrs. Swabucher that Sylvia was a newlywed member of the Library League and that it would be killing three birds with one stone to stop at her house, give her the present before I lost it for good, and tell her about Karisma’s visit and the library meeting.

My husband did not delay our departure by engaging me in a three-minute round of kissing which necessitated a referee’s bell to break us apart. Indeed, as Mrs. Swabucher and I drove away from Abigail’s in my car, it occurred to me that Ben’s behaviour that day reminded me of someone, an extremely irritating someone, but I couldn’t think who it could be or why I experienced a sensation of discomfort bordering on foreboding.

The penny didn’t drop until we reached the Babcocks’ street of identical semi-detached houses, with their lace curtains, handkerchief-size front gardens, and names such as Dun-Romin or Myshatow. It was hot. Beastly, baking hot. The inside of the car was like an oven set at 450 degrees and I could feel myself crisping up like Yorkshire pudding.