Alice-Miranda to the Rescue (3 page)

Myrtle Parker pinned a pillbox hat onto her helmet of brunette curls before wrestling into a bold floral coat that matched her dress. She applied her favourite coral-coloured lipstick and smacked her lips together, then hurried to the kitchen to pick up the cake.

Reginald met his wife at the front door.

‘What in heaven's name are you wearing?' she said, looking him up and down.

Without a word, the man walked back down the hall and changed out of his favourite brown
cardigan and into the checked sports jacket his wife had bought for him.

Myrtle smiled her approval and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Much better. You look very handsome.'

Reg didn't agree. He'd always thought the jacket looked like it had been made from one of Myrtle's tablecloths. Her own ensemble could have been sewn from the lounge-room curtains, but at this stage in life there was no point arguing. It would only upset her.

The mismatched pair walked down the front steps and onto the driveway. Myrtle glanced over at Ambrosia Headlington-Bear's front garden and tutted. ‘Ever since that woman got herself a job, that garden has been in sharp decline. She really should do something about it.'

‘I'll pop over and mow the lawn this afternoon,' Reg said, glad for the excuse to escape.

‘Good, but she'll have to find a more permanent arrangement. We can't have Wisteria Cottage letting the street down, can we?' Myrtle nodded, apparently forgetting that her own weed-infested garden had blighted the landscape until Ambrosia had set to and performed nothing short of a miracle makeover.

Rosebud Lane ended in a cul-de-sac just over the rise from the Parkers' plain bungalow on one side and pretty Wisteria Cottage on the other. The house on the curve of the road was a rambling affair with a thick hedge shielding it from the neighbours. The previous owners had extensively remodelled and updated the house but had only ever used it as a weekend retreat. Myrtle had hoped that Mr Cutmore and his wife would become more involved in village life, but her entreaties were always met with a curled lip and protestations that Mr Cutmore was far too busy with his work commitments. The man was a barrister of some repute and Myrtle would love to have had him on the Show Society Committee. In the end, she wasn't terribly disappointed when the ‘For Sale' sign had gone up, although the prospect of new neighbours always set her teeth on edge.

One large removal van was still parked in the driveway and another on the street but the four-wheel drive and trailer were nowhere to be seen. Outside the front gate was the sign Reginald had told her about. Written in swirly script were the words ‘
Nobel Kennels, Breeders of Exquisite Afghan Hounds
' beside a painting of a regal-looking dog. Myrtle squinted at the name. Surely it was a spelling mistake, she thought to herself.

A spotty young fellow in a blue singlet walked down a ramp at the back of the truck balancing a large armchair above his head. Myrtle and Reg followed him up the path to the front door.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the owners of the house are?' Myrtle asked.

‘Last I saw, Mr Dankworth was in the sitting room,' the man replied. He shifted from one leg to the other, his muscles straining under the weight of the chair.

‘And what about the dogs?' she asked, peering into the hallway. ‘Are there any dogs in the house?'

‘No, they're in the palace up the back,' the fellow replied, as a trickle of perspiration snaked down his left temple.

‘Thank you.' Myrtle nodded at the man, wondering what on earth he was talking about. A palace – what nonsense! The fellow grunted as he repositioned the chair and continued down the hallway.

‘I think we should come back tomorrow,' Reg murmured as several burly removalists barrelled towards them on their way back to the truck.

‘We're here now,' Myrtle insisted. ‘I'm sure they'll be glad of a cup of tea and a slice of cake.' With a look of determination, Myrtle set foot into
the house. ‘Hello! Hello!' she called in a singsong voice. ‘Are you there, Mr Dankworth?'

She manoeuvred around a huge pile of boxes and walked through the door at the end of the passage. It opened into a large kitchen and dining room on the left and a sitting room to the right, with a grand central fireplace dividing the spaces. A man was up a ladder, hammering a picture hook into the wall. Standing beside him was a thin woman wearing a black velour tracksuit with the letters HH in swirly silver script across her bottom. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore a full face of make-up, including glossy pink lipstick and eyelashes that would have made a Jersey cow weep with envy. A large picture frame was resting on her leg.

‘Hello there, neighbours, welcome to Winchesterfield,' Myrtle sang out just as the man swung the hammer. Startled, he missed and hit his finger.

‘Ow!' The man jammed his thumb into his mouth and looked over at Myrtle and Reg.

‘Be careful, Barry,' the woman chided. She leaned the picture against the wall and walked over to the visitors. ‘Oh my, we weren't expecting anyone today. I must look an awful mess.'

‘You're fine, dear,' Myrtle said. She eyed the woman, who appeared to have applied her make-up with a trowel. ‘Are you all right, Mr Dankworth?'

‘Don't mind Barry,' the woman said. ‘It's not the first time he's hit his thumb this morning and I dare say it won't be the last.'

‘I'm all right,' the man mumbled and stepped down from the ladder.

‘My name's Myrtle Parker and this is my husband, Reginald. We thought we'd welcome you to Winchesterfield and especially to Rosebud Lane,' Myrtle said. ‘You must be Mr and Mrs Dankworth?'

‘We prefer Barry and Roberta,' the woman replied.

‘I've brought you a hummingbird cake,' Myrtle said, thrusting the cake box into Roberta's hands. ‘It's home-made. I think you'll find we're very good at that sort of thing around here.'

‘Thank you.' The woman smiled, revealing the whitest teeth Myrtle had ever seen. It was as if the lighting in the room had suddenly been turned up a notch.

Reg walked over to shake Barry Dankworth's hand. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair and warm brown eyes. ‘Sorry to land on you today,'
Reg said quietly, ‘but once Myrtle has it in her mind to do something, I'm afraid there's no getting around it.'

‘Nonsense,' Myrtle scoffed. ‘I think Mr and Mrs Dankworth look as though they need a break. Why don't I put the kettle on?'

Roberta glanced over at the half-empty boxes in the kitchen. She doubted whether she'd be able to find the kettle let alone the crockery, but Myrtle Parker was on a mission. The woman was digging about in the kitchen before Roberta had time to object. Within ten minutes Myrtle had located the silver kettle as well as plates, forks and some rather unusually wide mugs (she had searched in vain for china teacups and saucers) and, to Roberta's great surprise, she had even unearthed a tablecloth.

Meanwhile, Reginald had busied himself by holding the spirit level for Barry, who was hammering another picture hook into the wall. ‘I thought most people only got around to hanging the artwork weeks after they'd unpacked everything else,' Reg said, picking up the heavy frame. He spun the picture around and came face to face with the head of a very large dog.

‘Not in our house,' Roberta replied. ‘My babies are the first things to go up.'

‘How lovely,' Myrtle said as she set about clearing some space on the dining table. She looked up just as Reginald passed the painting to Barry. ‘That's not a baby!' she blurted.

Roberta laughed. ‘Of course she is. That's my Emerald,' the woman said. ‘She was my first champion, God rest her soul.'

‘Do you have other …
children
?' Myrtle asked.

‘Oh, yes,' Roberta replied with a smile. ‘They're in the Poochie Palace. Except for Farrah Fawcett – she's hiding.'

‘Where?' Myrtle gasped, her eyes darting about.

‘Under the covers in our bed. She's been very anxious about the move, the poor princess. The vet said I should just let her find a warm spot where she feels safe, and eventually she'll come out when she's ready.' Roberta hurried over to another large framed picture and picked it up. ‘I just love this shot of me and Farrah. Isn't she divine?'

Myrtle Parker flinched at the sight of Roberta Dankworth nose to nose with what appeared to be some sort of miniature poodle. ‘So that one's not an Afghan?' she squeaked.

‘No, Farrah Fawcett's my little bubba. We always do our hair the same way. Well, I do hers
and
mine because, of course, she can't manage a hair dryer, although given half a chance I think she'd try. You should see her with the curlers in – she's adorable.' Roberta could have prattled on for days. ‘And don't you love that outfit? I had her blouse made exactly the same as mine and it got
so
many compliments – it's part of our Haute Hound Spring/Summer collection.'

Myrtle stared and shook her head. ‘And where is this Poochie Palace?' she asked.

‘Out the back. We had it built before we moved in,' Roberta said. ‘Would you like to see it? I can take you to meet the family.'

‘Perhaps later,' Myrtle replied quickly. She wasn't especially keen to meet the beasts, though she did want to find out just how many there were.

‘At least come and have a peek through the curtains,' Roberta pressed. ‘They won't bite you from here.'

‘They'd better not bite me from anywhere!' Myrtle put down the cake knife and followed Roberta Dankworth to the back of the house, where she pulled the drapes aside. ‘Good grief!' Myrtle reeled. ‘Reginald, you must come and see this!'

In the back garden was a house, about half the size of the Parkers' bungalow but much prettier. It was almost like a slightly smaller version of the Dankworths's main house with its own picket fence too.

Her husband padded over to the window. ‘Now,
that's
what I call a doghouse,' he said, his eyes sparkling.

Roberta smiled. ‘I'm going to be featured on
Dog Days
– they're coming to film me and my babies. Barry's company sponsors the show.'

‘What sort of business are you in, Barry?' Reg asked.

‘Accessories for dogs,' the man said. ‘We sell everything from puppy ponchos to hound haircare. Designer clothes, shoes, collars, beauty products – you name it, we've got it.'

‘Ah, Haute Hound – Couture for Designer Dogs. Is that you?' Reg said. He'd seen it advertised on the telly the other night after the movie had finished.

‘That's us!' Roberta beamed, all teeth and lips. She wiggled her bottom with the HH logo on it in Reg's direction.

‘It gave me a laugh seeing all those dogs on the runway,' Reg said. ‘Beautiful creatures, they were.'

Myrtle rolled her eyes.

‘Two of them were my big girls and Farrah Fawcett, of course. She's a natural when it comes to modelling – you've never seen a dog with a more effortless twirl,' Roberta said proudly, pushing her shoulders back and her bosoms forward.

‘Do you really mean to tell me that's where your hounds live?' Myrtle asked. ‘That's preposterous!'

Over on the ladder, Barry Dankworth winced. He wished Myrtle hadn't said that. Roberta never took kindly to criticism when it came to her beloved dogs.

‘No, it's not!' Roberta snapped. ‘My babies deserve only the very best.'

Myrtle snorted. ‘Next you'll be telling me it has central heating and a swimming pool out the back.'

Roberta glared at the woman. ‘Well, for your information –'

‘Perhaps we should let you get on with moving in,' Reg interjected. ‘I think we've intruded for far too long, Myrtle.'

‘We haven't had our tea yet,' the woman bristled and hurried back to the kitchen.

There was a stony silence as Roberta stalked along behind Myrtle and picked up the cake knife.

‘How many hounds do you have?' Myrtle asked.

‘Six,' the woman replied curtly, ‘including the current Chudleigh's Grand Champion.'

Myrtle poured water into the teapot. ‘Are they barkers?'

‘I can assure you they are
not
, and even if they were, you wouldn't hear them anyway. We had the Poochie Palace fully insulated, double-glazed and soundproofed,' Roberta replied tartly.

Myrtle had never heard anything so ridiculous – a double-glazed doghouse! She and Reginald only had their windows upgraded a few years back. ‘Oh, I've just remembered I have some urgent things to attend to before the Show Society meeting tomorrow,' Myrtle said. ‘I'm the president, you know.'

A thin smile perched on Roberta's otherwise extremely full lips. ‘Never mind then.'

Reg Parker shook Barry's hand and nodded at Roberta. ‘It was lovely to meet you,' he said, apologising with his eyes.

Myrtle was already halfway down the hall when she called out her goodbyes. ‘Well, that was disappointing,' she sniffed as her husband caught up to her on the garden path.

‘It was kind of you to make the cake but, really, I'm sure it would have been better received if we'd waited another day or two,' Reg said, gently touching his wife's arm.

Myrtle flinched. ‘She didn't even say thank you. Did you see that, Reginald? Not a word of thanks from that woman's overblown lips.'

Meanwhile, back at the Dankworth residence, Roberta's mood was similarly glum.

‘Who's she to tell me what my babies should and shouldn't have?' Roberta huffed as she put away Farrah's tea set.

‘She's probably just never seen anyone as dedicated as you are,' Barry said, trying to placate her as he popped a piece of cake into his mouth. ‘Mmm, this is delicious.'

‘Make sure you enjoy it because you won't be having another one ever again,' Roberta said. ‘I can assure you Myrtle Parker and I are
not
going to be friends.'