Murdering Americans Read Free Page A

obstinate.’
    ‘Obdurate.’
    ‘Mulish.’
    ‘Pig-headed.’
    ‘So where does messing up Rachel’s and my honeymoon come into it?’
    ‘My fault, I’m afraid. After I repeated some of my scarier warnings over dinner, she took in enough to realise that the Indiana locals might pall, whereupon she hit on the idea of importing good company from the old country. Ellis and I are non-starters because of our jobs, but Rachel’s still resting and you’re freelance so you’re fair game.’
    ‘We are not going to Indiana. Read my lips. That is, metaphorically read my lips. We are not going to Indiana.’
    ‘I told her you wouldn’t, but you know Jack. She always thinks she’ll get her own way.’
    ‘I may sometimes be a pushover, Mary Lou. I admit that in the past I’ve succumbed to wheedling, bullying or blackmail from Jack and indeed Ellis to do absurd and dangerous things. I’ve even on occasion played Watson to Jack’s Holmes, Hastings to her Poirot or Archie Goodwin to her Nero Wolfe, but I’m damned if, after all Rachel and I have been through, I’ll contemplate for one minute messing up our leisurely perambulation around Europe to keep Jack Troutbeck company in the middle of a prairie. This time I’ll be implacable.’
    ‘And even if you crack, I certainly won’t,’ shouted Rachel from the sofa.
    ‘And even if I crack, Rachel certainly won’t,’ added Amiss. ‘Not that I will.’
    ‘Sure, Robert,’ said Mary Lou, in a tone of the utmost sincerity. ‘You’ll be implacable. Of course you will. I don’t doubt it. Not one little bit.’

Chapter Two
    From: Robert Amiss
    To: Mary Lou Denslow
    Sent: Tue 14/03/2006 11.14
    Subject: Two Weddings and a near-funeral
    Sholem-aleykhem and all that, Mary Lou. (I’ve been throwing myself into my forthcoming role as ‘Jew for a Day’ by learning a bit of Yiddish for schmoozing purposes.)
    Well, now that all the hullabaloo has died down, I think I can justly report that your wedding can be classed as a knockout, in every sense of the word. If you’ve been foolish enough to answer your phones or pick up e-mails in Madrid, you’ve probably already heard about the spectacular dance sequence put on by Jack with your Uncle Lenny after you left. I hadn’t realised the extent to which Jack fancies herself as a jiver, but what she has never known or else has forgotten in the technique department, she more than made up for in chutzpah and vigour. As indeed, did your Uncle Lenny. For a man of such generous proportions, he covered the ground with real speed. Jack described herself afterwards as having been tripping the light fantastic. “Like Margot Fonteyn?” I suggested. “More like Dumbo the elephant,” she answered with commendable honesty, adding, however, that she liked to be the fastest elephant on the dance floor.
    It was, perhaps, a trifle tactless of her to tell your uncle so loudly at the end that like all blacks he had a natural sense of rhythm, but at least you’d taught her not to say ‘negro.’ Or worse. Uncle Lenny seemed quite pleased, but I wasn’t sure it went down too well with your brother. It was also a touch unfortunate that later in the evening—when they were both suffering from hubris—the klutzes crashed into Ellis’s Great Aunt Lavender and her zimmer.
    If you’ve seen the latest version of ‘The Producers,’ you’ll remember the dance of the old ladies with their walking frames. From my vantage point, for several seconds it looked as if Great Aunt Lavender was auditioning for a part in it, but she was in fact vainly trying to stay upright. Unfortunately, when she fell down, she hit her head on the edge of the table and passed out—but fortunately not away, which might have put a bit of a damper on the rest of the evening. For your Master of Ceremonies it was what I can describe only as what we Yiddishers call an oy vey ! moment, but I hope I rose to it competently.
    Apart from that minor drama, Rachel and I thought