Christmas is Murder by C. S. Challinor Read Free Book Online

needs to move with the times. She should retire and have someone manage the place for her.”
    Beyond the French doors, a ring-tone blared out the Star Spangled Banner. “I made it to page 30 of the manuscript you sent up,” Miriam Greenbaum told her caller, “and I have to say I just didn’t get off on it. The writing was nowhere near ready for prime time … Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Send the standard rejection.”
    With the arrival of Ms. Greenbaum, Rex observed an atmosphere of constraint settle upon the guests. Wanda, in particular, made no effort to veil her hostility, staring pointedly at the intruder. She was a woman who wore her emotions on display. Helen, on the other hand, with a barely perceptible tightening of the jaw, confined herself to studying a women’s magazine with probably more attention than it deserved. Patrick and Anthony, exchanging a glance of complicity as Miriam crossed to a vacant sofa, took up their books in unison.
    She appeared not to notice the sudden cessation of chatter. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she pulled a manuscript from a box file and became engrossed in its contents, from time to time scratching annotations in the margin with a blue pen.
    “Does anyone know where the name Swanmere comes from?” Rex asked his neighbors, after a few minutes of awkward silence.
    “ Mere means ‘pond’, doesn’t it?” Wanda said, stretching her elegantly slippered feet toward the fire. “There’s a big pond down by the village. It’s frozen up now, but there are swans there.”
    “I’d like to sketch it,” Patrick said wistfully. “Swans are such graceful creatures.”
    “Oh, you have to be careful,” Helen interjected. “The cob has a wingspan of eight feet. They can be quite vicious, you know, coming at you with flapping wings and outstretched beaks …”
    Finally, Rosie summoned the guests to dinner.
    In the dining room, the wainscoting below the flocked wallpaper was just as Rex remembered it. The Victorian dresser displaying a Royal Albert service still stood in a corner. It was as though time had stood still. Heavy brocade curtains shut out the frigid night, while a crystal chandelier cast its glow upon the guests seated at the table spread with white linen. Rex was pleased to find that his place, reserved by a hand-written name card, was beside Helen.
    “How’s the wee dog doing?” he asked Clifford, who crouched by the hearth, banking up the fire.
    “I ’ad to put ’im in the cellar.”
    “What dog is this?” Miriam Greenbaum demanded from across the table.
    “A stray I found shivering in the snow on my way to the hotel this afternoon.”
    “Oh, bless you,” Helen said. “Why can’t we have him in here with us?”
    “A dog would make it seem more homey,” Wanda Martyr added, unfolding her napkin.
    “Aye, but from what I hear Mrs. Smithings won’t have it in the house. No doubt she sees it as a health hazard.”
    “I should think the almond tarts are more of a hazard,” Anthony quipped, presiding at the head of the table.
    “Mrs. Smithings should have turned this place into a boarding school,” Ms. Greenbaum remarked. “There are more rules and regulations at Swanmere Manor than in a sorority house.”
    Rex chuckled. “Aye, she’s already made me feel like an ill-favoured schoolboy on occasion.”
    “What sort of dog is it?” Helen asked.
    “A Jack Russell terrier, I believe. He’s a bonny wee thing.”
    Miriam Greenbaum grabbed a bread roll. “Well, the old harridan can’t very well turn him out into the snow. And the cellar’s no better. It must be icy cold down there.”
    The guests heatedly debated what to do about the dog while Rosie filled the water glasses.
    “So what’s on the menu tonight, Rosie,” Anthony inquired. “I brought up red and white wine from the cellar.”
    “Oh, you should have sent Clifford down for it,” Rosie said.
    “The cellar steps are steep and badly lit. It’s too dangerous for an old fellow like Clifford.”