She Shoots to Conquer by Dorothy Cannell Read Free Book Online Page A

better,” I announced valiantly, “so much so that I think we should leave right away. I am sure Mrs. Malloy agrees with me. We are all eager to get home at the end of our holiday. The fog’s bound to have lifted sufficiently by now.”
    “I wouldn’t think so,” Mrs. Malloy demurred.
    “I’m a chef,” Ben informed Mr. Plunket. “I’m entirely capable of dealing with the most resistant kitchen equipment and making my wife a cup of tea.”
    “A chef!” Mr. Plunket sounded taken aback.
    “That’s correct. I’ve even written some cookery books that have been reasonably well received, so if you would kindly direct me toward the kitchen . . .”
    “What kind of meals? English . . . or the Frenchified sort?”
    But for my increasing headache, I might have pondered the intensity of Mr. Plunket’s response. Before Ben could demand either a compass or a map, the door opened to admit a tall, gangly man with very black hair and eyes in contrast to his chalk white face. Even though not at my sharpest, I was struck by his resemblance to Lurch of the Addams family. He stood gaping, awkwardly dangling a hand on the knob, presumably in hope of preventing the door from closing on the woman endeavoring to enter behind him.
    “Ah!” Ben sucked in a relieved breath and shot toward her to remove the tray she was carrying. Not surprisingly, she appeared startled at finding herself standing hands spread, holding up thin air by the handles. But her surprise was nothing to mine. Hers was the face I had glimpsed through horror-glazed eyes peering down at me through the banisters. In the dimly lit room there was the grainy quality of a bad photo to her form and features, but she did not now send a chill through my bones.
    Truth be told, it was impossible not to experience a woman-to-woman pang of sympathy for her unfortunate appearance. She wastall, so often a good thing, but in her case not an enhancement. She loomed in the manner of a man playing the part of a woman in a farce. Her smile, uncertain . . . experimental, was cruelly ridiculed by the absence of her front teeth. The shapeless dress and plodding shoes seemed as false as the clumpily curled shoulder-length gray locks that elongated her nose and chin to an extreme degree. Sadly it probably wasn’t a wig which could be taken off and tossed in the wastepaper basket. Remembering how often I had condemned my own form in the mirror, I internalized a prayer of gratitude for mercies received. I dared not look in Mrs. Malloy’s direction, but counted on her being a churchgoing woman, when she remembered it was a Sunday, not to exude an air of smug complacency.
    “This here’s Mrs. Foot,” Mr. Plunket waved a hand in my direction, “her as is his nibs’s housekeeper.”
    It could have been Mrs. Danvers, I reminded myself, as I added my murmur to Ben and Mrs. Malloy’s chorus of “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foot.” Ben had placed the tray on an already crowded table and now poured and passed me a cup of dishwater-colored tea, accompanied by a biscuit of the same shade of gray as Mrs. Foot’s hair. Her smile broadened, losing the uncertainty but gaining in the display of missing teeth.
    “And that there behind her,” continued Mr. Plunket, “is Boris, his nibs’s odd job man.”
    Lurch flopped a flaccid white hand, intoning in an expressionless voice: “Can always count on Boris.”
    “One in a million.” Mrs. Foot was now positively beaming as she clumped further into the room. “Always the one to get the job done when needed.” She even sounded like a man pretending to be a woman and I mentally dared Mrs. Malloy to titter. “Feeling better, are you, dearie?” She stood staring down at me, and I have to admit to feeling a quiver of—not exactly revulsion . . . more awkwardness—on spotting the curiosity verging on thirsty fascination in her pale, globular eyes.
    “Much better.” I took a resolute sip of tea. “Thank you so much for bringing