The Widow's Club
“I had told these strange women my macabre tale and now must go home to my husband.“The important thing is that Ben is going to be all right.” Hyacinth interrupted my thoughts.“The important thing,” I contradicted, “is that Charles Delacorte is dead. And by my hand. He was allergic to seafood as well as other things such as cats. That was why he was always picking through the sandwiches and occasionally sniffing them for good measure. But I outfoxed him. I made some of my chicken tarts with tuna..., remember?”“My dear, dear Ellie.” Primrose proffered the smelly salts. “Of course we remember. And you should remember that although these club women may not be our sort in some ways, they are not stupid. They would never have banked on your running out of chicken. No, indeed! One of them will have brought along something fishy in disguise—possibly a look-alike tart—and fed it to Mr. Delacorte when he wasn’t looking. You had received many requests for them.”My shoulders sagged.MoreLess
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