The Marsh Madness by Victoria Abbott Read Free Book Online

ginger haired (a good thing), solid in a crisis, he was the right-hand man. He reminded me of Uncle Mick, although clearly on the other side of the law. At least one of the Kelly family was on those pages. I loved the running gag about Fox studying French, which the upper-class Alleyn spouted effortlessly. There were clownish types flitting through the pages too. I wondered what Ngaio Marsh would have made of Uncle Kev.
    Smiling, I dressed for dinner.
    *   *   *
    WE DINE AT eight at a splendid Sheraton table in the formal dining room. Vera at one end, me at the other, Kev halfway between us. We are not late if we know what is good for us. I wore my knee-high boots to prevent Bad Cat from giving me some new scars. Tall boots were a wise choice, because Bad Cat’s claws raked at my ankles from the moment I took my seat. Good Cat watched benignly from the black walnut sideboard. Whenever the signora left the room, Good Cat would join Vera.
    Signora Panetone was ready for an army even though wewere only three. The signora never joins us. She’s too busy serving, fussing and hovering. I’ve learned to accept this as the way it is and stay in my seat.
    Tonight the signora had promised tiramisu for dessert, my favorite.
    She began by serving homemade spinach fettuccine with a mild but savory tomato sauce and lots of fresh Parmesan. Kev and I each accepted a small mountain of it. Vera took a tablespoon, if that. The signora uttered her familiar bleats. “Eat, Vera! You need to eat.”
    Vera has selective hearing, and she never seemed to hear a word the signora said. Kev eased the situation by asking for seconds before I’d finished my first mouthful.
    Conversation turned to Ngaio Marsh and her work.
    Vera said, “Alleyn is the finest of all the detectives, in my opinion.”
    I was mindful of what happened not that long ago when I’d yanked Vera’s chain over Archie Goodwin from the Nero Wolfe books. Suggesting they should have been the Archie Goodwin books had been painful.
    “Mmmm,” I said. “I thought Marsh glorified the upper classes. The totally perfect Inspector Roderick Alleyn is proof of that in book after book.” I chose not to add that I thought he was a bit too upper class, too constrained, far too elegant, not to mention annoyingly calm. Of course, I liked Alleyn as a detective, but he didn’t have enough flaws for me to fall for him.
    Vera shot me a venomous look. “Absurd, even from you, Miss Bingham.”
    “I like his wife, the painter Agatha Troy, more.” I ignored the dirty look. “She’s a bit messy, compared to Inspector Perfection.”
    Vera scowled as I spoke. The signora edged closer to try to slide a bit more fettuccine onto the plate.
    I kept going. “And I like his mother. Alleyn had a warm relationship with her. I was kind of happy that he had amother. Not enough detectives have mothers. Imagine her dining with the Dowager Duchess of Denver.”
    Even from the length of the table, Vera’s stare was chilly. “We read stories, Miss Bingham. We don’t make them up.”
    “But the Dowager Duchess is Lord Peter Wimsey’s mother and—”
    Vera sighed dramatically. “I know who she is. Sometimes you are too fanciful, silly, even. It’s all about Roderick Alleyn. He is the glue that holds the books together. I believe he was the love of her life.”
    “Even more than the theater? Do you think?”
    I imagined Alleyn looking a bit like Cary Grant (my mother’s favorite actor from back in the day): laid-back, elegant and intelligent. Not only was the gentleman detective soigné, he was very nice to his mother. It would be pretty easy to spend time with a sleuth like that. I could see an author being in love. But I couldn’t resist teasing Vera a bit. You’d think I’d learn.
    “I don’t know. Sergeant Fox also won me over, especially with his brave attempts to master the French language. Imagine how frustrating it would be, struggling with a language that came effortlessly to