Murdering Americans

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘Of course you do, Jack.’

  ‘Any word from Robert and Rachel? I rang his mobile phone, but it seems to be out-of-order.’

  ‘As I explained before, Jack, it’s switched off. They’re set on avoiding avoid any post-wedding hysteria from Rachel’s family or demands from you, so they respond only to text messages and emails.’

  ‘I don’t have a mobile here so I can’t send a text message, even if I knew how. And obviously I can’t do emails.’

  ‘If you choose to handicap yourself through intellectual laziness and stubbornness, Jack,’ said Mary Lou icily, ‘don’t expect any sympathy from me.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘You’re very sharp today.’

  ‘You’re very provoking.’

  ‘Well, so be it. I am what I am. You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I had a brief email from Italy. They’re happy.’

  ‘Remind them America awaits them.’

  ‘Sure, Jack. But it’s quite clear they are not awaiting it.’

  ***

  From: Mary Lou Denslow

  To: Robert Amiss

  Sent: Mon 15/05/2006 22.15

  Subject: Be afraid. Be very afraid

  She’s bored. She’s frustrated. For her to ring two nights in a row—ostensibly to ask about Plutarch, which is improbable enough—but really to moan about her troubles, is unprecedented. She’s had a horrid time on the food-and-drink front and the object of her lust has proved to be unworthy, but though she’s now showing off about her success in kicking ass rather than simply wailing and fulminating, I detect a whiff of bravado. What’s more, she must realise that going on and on about culinary deficiencies is going to win her no friends in her new town.

  She’s missing us and she’s missing Myles and she knows she’s been a complete idiot to go where she’s gone, but of course she won’t admit it. She went so far as to ask about you—not, of course, in the sense of “Are they having a good time? Where are they going next?”—but so she could yet again pass on the info that you would be welcome in Indiana.

  Of course you must feel free to sacrifice Austria for New Paddington, but I have faith that you’ll resist the temptation. I’m hoping this Indiana experience might teach Jack to value the people in her life more than she does now. I’m an American. I believe in redemption. But suffering has to come first.

  Love,

  ML

  Chapter Five

  The baroness was in a much sunnier mood the following morning after a ten-hour sleep and an edible breakfast consisting of a fresh orange (which on her insistence had been kept at room temperature), two boiled eggs (disparaged for blandness, but eaten), and rye bread. The hotel manager, just back from his long weekend, was summoned to her room, where she was cleaning out Horace’s cage and trying to teach him to sing ‘Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?’ As she answered the door, Horace had got bored listening and was complaining that he was only a bird in a gilded cage. To the baroness’s horror, he followed that up with an ear-splitting ‘Whoo! Whoo! Wah! Wah!’

  ‘He thinks he’s a freight-train,’ she explained to the thirty-something with dark curly hair and a tentative smile, who came into her room and bowed. ‘I am Stefano Ricciano, Lady Troutbeck. At your service.’

  ‘You mean you’re Italian? That augurs well.’

  ‘American-Italian. But still Italian.’ He beamed. ‘You like Italians?’

  ‘Well, you may not be people to go into the jungle with, but you are…’—she cleared her throat dramatically to herald that she was attempting to speak in a foreign language—‘…sympatico. In general you certainly add to the gaiety of nations. And from what I’ve seen so far, this is one nation that needs all the gaiety it can get.’

  ‘Beverages!’ roared Horace. ‘Beverages! Beverages!’

  Ricciano jumped. ‘So your little bird talks as well as whistles.’

  ‘All sounds are grist to his mill, if you follow that convoluted metaphor.’ She went over to the cage, where Horace was swinging himself on the door, and picked him up. ‘Come and meet Mr. Ricciano, Horrie. Mr. Ricciano, this is Horace.’ Ricciano stretched out his finger and she grabbed it. ‘No, no. Don’t touch him. He bites pretty well everyone, I’m sorry to say. But otherwise he’s gregarious. Perhaps you might teach him a little Italian. He already knows “Bravo!”’.

  ‘Perhaps another time, Signora. You had some problems you wanted to tell me about?’

  ‘Call for some Prosecco, Mr. Ricciano, and we’ll discuss it.’

  ‘Alas, Signora, we have no Prosecco, but if you have finished tending to the little bird, please come downstairs and we will find what the bar has to offer.’

  ***

  An hour later, they approached the end of room inspections and complex negotiations.

  ‘It is not as good as the bridal suite, Signora, but I am glad you are satisfied.’

  ‘Well, if the price of getting the bridal suite is to get married, it’s too high a price for me.’

  ‘What a pity, Signora. You are a loss to matrimony.’

  ‘It’s hard to flatter me too much, Mr. Ricciano, but you’ve almost reached that point. I can’t imagine any of my friends visualising me as a blushing bride.’

  ‘I remain to be convinced.’

  ‘What I want to be convinced of is that the fridge will be installed by the time I get back with the groceries.’

  ‘That was confirmed in that last phone call I took. It will be in your room by midday.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘And all your possessions will have been transferred by then too. Do you wish to look after Horace yourself, Signora? Or shall I move him?’

  ‘I’ll install him in the non-bridal suite before I leave the hotel. Now, you won’t forget to tell the chef that he is to cook what I provide him with in the manner in which I instruct him?’

  ‘Of course not, Signora. I’ll do that right away.’

  ‘And you are sure that I can rely on the parrot being looked after in emergencies? However long they last?’

  ‘I come of Sicilian stock, Signora. You have my word and my cell-phone number. Ring me any time in an emergency.’ He paused. ‘You do know what I mean by an emergency?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘When I need something.’

  ‘No, Signora. I have a job. I have a family. When you need something that is truly important and there is no one else to call, that is an emergency.’

  She looked at him with mingled irritation and respect. ‘Dying parrot but not overdone steak, you mean?’

  He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I think we will do well, Signora.’

  ***

  ‘It’s no good, Betsy. Any more of this and I’ll explode.’ She extracted her diary from her handbag, opened it and handed it over. ‘Ring this number and then pass me the phone.’

  ‘It’s an emergency, Mr. Ricciano. And I mean an emergency. I’m in a supermarket the size of the Colosseum and I can’t find anything I want. Even the simplest products are mucked up. There are fifty kinds of milk. When it isn’t described as “lite” it’s full of additives. There are a hundred kinds of flavoured coffee, mostly decaffeinated. Who in hell’s name wants blasted flavoured coffee? And there are miles and miles of plastic bread, and what they call ‘flavoursome fruit’ look like the product of some plastic factory and…’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, Signora. Calm down. Calm down. You should have consulted me.’

  ‘I would have, had I realised you can’t get food in American supermarkets. Now what do I do?’

  ‘Pass the phone to your little Betsy and I will tell her how to find the delicatessen my wife and I shop in.’

  ‘What do you eat at home?’

  ‘My wife’s cooking. It is beautiful. She cooks just like her mamma. And mine.’

  ‘You mean real food?’ asked the baroness suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, yes, Signora. Real food. Ragouts and pastas and saltimbocca and it is all belliss
imo. You should come home with me for dinner sometime.’

  ‘I’ll come tonight if that’s all right, Mr. Ricciano. Now, before I pass you to Betsy, just one question. If you like real food, why do you serve garbage in the hotel?’

  ‘We serve what the customers like, Signora. And most of them like it.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ she grunted, and returned the phone to Betsy.

  ***

  ‘We’ll have a picnic in my suite, Betsy,’ said the baroness, as they staggered towards the car.

  ‘Sorry, Lady Troutbeck….’

  ‘Oh, God. Of course. You’re banned. Any idea why?’

  ‘I think there was like some trouble,’ said Betsy hesitantly.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said the baroness. ‘I wish to feed you, not corrupt you.’ She dumped the bags beside the car. ‘Get me the Provost.’

  The Provost caved without a fight.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve seen sense, Helen. Now I want you to ring the hotel manager immediately and tell him I can entertain any Freeman student anywhere I want—bedroom, bar, anywhere. And the same applies to the bars in town, if there are any….What?…Only two….Don’t be so sure I wouldn’t like them. It’s already clear our tastes are dissimilar. Give me a letter of authorisation tonight saying that the rules barring students are waived if they are accompanied by Lady Troutbeck. Is that understood?…Good. And by the way, has what’s his name?…yes, yes, Gonzales, sorted out my hunting needs yet?…No?…Tell him to get a move on.’

  Betsy, who had been industriously packing the groceries into the car boot, gazed at the baroness in awe. ‘Did you meet Dr. Gonzales when you visited with the Provost, Lady Troutbeck?’

  ‘Indeed I did. Ugly piece of work in more ways than one. And uncouth. Which is a criticism I rarely level at anyone, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘So you’re not scared of him?’

  The baroness snorted. ‘You have to show two-bit bullies like that who’s boss.’

  ‘Hey, you really know like how to kick butt, don’t you?’

  ‘Comes easily to Troutbecks. Does it come easily to…what’s your surname?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Does it come easily to Browns?’

  ‘To some, but not others,’ said Betsy quietly.

  ‘You’re not one of the butt-kicking Browns, I surmise. Who is?’

  ‘Mom….Hold on, you’re getting in on the driver’s side.’

  ‘It’s very annoying this business of you Americans driving on the wrong side,’ grumbled the baroness as she walked around to the passenger door.

  ‘Don’t you drive on the right in Europe?’

  ‘No. Well, that is, we don’t in the United Kingdom. They do in the rest of Europe.’

  ‘So why don’t you change?’

  ‘Change is bad,’ said the baroness. ‘Unless it’s change I approve of, that is. And I don’t approve of driving on the right. Now get going. I can’t wait to eat some of that mortadella.’

  ***

  Replete, the baroness sat back and looked about her happily. Horace was nibbling contentedly on a fig, and Betsy was finishing a large plateful of antipasti with relish. ‘There now,’ said the baroness, ‘there’s more to eat in New Paddington than muck. Now if only I could persuade you to drink wine rather than Diet Coke….’

  ‘Oh, I do, Lady Troutbeck. I drink lots of things. But I can’t be seen doing it in public. And I wouldn’t like risk it when I’m driving a Freeman U automobile.’

  ‘So the rules are ignored?’

  ‘They totally are.’

  ‘But you told me no one disobeyed Gonzales’s rules.’

  Betsy looked at her warily. ‘There are some rules Dr. Gonzales minds about. And others he doesn’t seem to much. We party a lot here. Half the campus is wasted every night.’

  ‘Is it really? I thought it was completely dominated by prigs like the Provost. Perhaps Gonzales is a cavalier at heart.’

  ‘What’s a cavalier?’

  ‘I’ll spare you the historical background for now, Betsy. Essentially it’s someone who likes to enjoy himself.’

  ‘Or herself. I guess you’re a cavalier, Lady Troutbeck.’

  ‘You guess correctly. That’s why I often wear feathers in my hats. Now tell me, do cheerleaders participate in this Bacchanalia?’ She saw Betsy’s expression. ‘I mean do cheerleaders drink?’

  ‘Do cheerleaders drink? I can’t believe you asked that, Lady Troutbeck. You gotta be like totally kidding. Haven’t you read the paper?’

  ‘What paper?’

  Betsy looked shifty. ‘Sorry, nothing. Just papers like go on about students sometimes. Anyway, you bet students drink.’

  ‘Well, well. Who’d have thought it of such Barbie dolls.’ The baroness caught sight of Betsy’s expression. ‘Oh, sorry, Betsy, I didn’t mean you. That is, you may look like a Barbie doll, but you don’t talk like one. Except for your strange turns of phrase, of course.’

  Betsy laughed. ‘You’re just so like totally tactless, aren’t you?’

  ‘So people tell me. Can’t see it myself. Anyway, back to the cheerleading. So these Barbies drink. Are they looking for Dutch courage?’

  Betsy’s brow furrowed. ‘Dutch courage? What’s that?’

  ‘Courage sought through alcohol. I’m amazed you don’t know that.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I remember now. It’s on the banned list of racist terms.’

  ‘Oh, God. Well, anyway, do Barbies resort to it?’ Absently, she refilled her glass with Sancerre.

  Betsy chuckled. ‘Hey, you couldn’t drink before a game. You could kill yourself. Or someone else.’

  ‘Running around cheering?’

  ‘I guess you’ve never seen cheerleaders in action?’

  ‘No. We don’t do it in England as far as I know.’

  ‘It’s totally a sport here. I trained for like fifteen years.’

  ‘What! Trained at doing what?’

  ‘Gymnastics, mainly. Jumping and tumbling and twisting and lifting and so on and then you’ve got to learn to do everything in like close formation and develop squad stunts. Here at Freeman U we end our routine with a pyramid twenty feet high.’

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  Betsy jumped up, ran to the door, took aim and managed three backflips before she hit the opposite wall. ‘That’s like baby stuff, but you get the idea? And, of course, you have to be able to chant too.’

  The baroness was agog. ‘Chant? Chant? The only kind of chant I know about is Gregorian, but I expect what you do is different. Give me a sample.’

  ‘You have to have pom poms to do it properly.’ Betsy picked two small cushions off the sofa, jumped her legs wide apart, and leaped up and down as she moved the cushions in circles to the right and circles to the left and chanted:

  Buckle down,

  Buckle down,

  Do it, do it, do it!

  Buckle down,

  Buckle down,

  Do it, do it, do it!

  ‘Or,’ she added, ‘there’s “Go! Go! Go, Fight, Win, Freeman U!”, which we might chant a dozen times. Or—now you gotta imagine one of these poms poms is crimson and the other is blue, cos you shake them according to which colour you’re chanting about—we’d do:

  How about,

  How about,

  How about,

  How about a colour shout?

  Crimson, crimson,

  Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue,

  Crimson, crimson,

  Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue!

  She threw the cushions back on the sofa.

  ‘Thank you, Betsy,’ said the baroness, who had been watching transfixed. ‘I don’t think I’ll be taking it up. Why did you stop? Did you say you were fired?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Betsy. ‘I’ll tell you sometime. Now, aren’t we supposed to be like going to your office?’

  ‘Good Lord, is that the time? Come on, Horace. Back in the cage. We’d better rush. I had a d
ate to sort a few things out with Marjorie. Just drop me off there and don’t wait. I’ll walk back.’

  ‘Walk?’ said Betsy. ‘Nobody walks.’

  ‘I walk, Betsy. Otherwise I’d be as fat as an American.’

  ***

  ‘Are you going to dinner dressed like that, Lady Troutbeck?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it any thought, Marjorie. I don’t have to be there for another couple of hours.’

  ‘It’s a quarter after five now.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Drinks begin at 6.00, you’ll be sittin’ by 6.30, when the speeches begin.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’

  ‘Would you mind not blaspheming, Lady Troutbeck? I’m a Christian. We don’t take the name of the Lord in vain.’

  ‘Il ne manquait que ça,’* muttered the baroness, falling back for comfort on one of the few French phrases she knew. (‘It took me all my self-control,’ she told Mary Lou later, ‘but the biggest rule of survival in the academic jungle is to keep secretaries sweet.’) ‘I’ll try, Marjorie,’ she said, with as much humility as she could muster. ‘But if I fail, you will, I hope, forgive me. I come from a secular culture and I have a loose tongue.’

  Tall, elegant, stern Marjorie Heath Maloy visibly unbent. ‘Gotya, Lady Troutbeck. You’ll be pleased to know that even religious people say rude words in Texas. It just cussin’ we don’t like.’

  ‘I’m a bit fogged about the distinction, Marjorie, but it sounds like good news. Now why is this dinner so early?’

  ‘It’s the normal time. Do you eat later in England?’

  ‘Blimey!’ The baroness looked nervously at Marjorie, to whom fortunately the blasphemous origins of the word seemed unknown. ‘We certainly do. Now what’ll I do?’

  ‘I’ll take you back to the hotel and wait while you change into your glad rags.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the baroness, as she headed for the door. ‘What’s suitable? Top hat? White tie? Tails?’

  ‘You needn’t put on the Ritz, Lady Troutbeck,’ said Marjorie with a smile. ‘A nice frock will be just dandy.’