Canapés for the Kitties (11 page)

“He'll be out of the way for a while, then.” Gordie handed the barbecue fork to Betty. “Hold the fort while I dispose of the corpus delicti.” He retrieved the guilty bundle from its hiding place and started down the terrace steps with it.

Lorinda was not the only person to have noticed the byplay. As Gordie stooped to bury his parcel in the bonfire, a flash illumined the scene. Gordie straightened up in a whiplash motion and whirled to glare up at the terrace.

“Good one.” Jack lowered the camera and gave him a cheery wave. “You're doing a great job,” he called. “Keep that fire stoked.”

Gordie's lips moved; it was probably just as well that his voice didn't reach the terrace. He pushed the bundle farther into the bonfire with a stick and kicked a few embers over it before returning to the terrace and resuming his place at the grill.

Jack had wandered away and was taking more pictures, his earlier promise to Karla evidently forgotten – if he had intended to keep it at all. Karla, deep in conversation with Rhylla, did not appear to notice.

“If he comes near me, I'll break his camera,” Macho said, moving defensively behind Lorinda. “How much longer do we have to stay? I'm ready to leave now.”

“Have something to eat first,” Freddie soothed. “They've begun serving. Look! Jack's first in line. He won't be able to eat and take pictures at the same time. You're safe for another half hour. Come on, it's better than going home to the microwave.”

She had used a telling argument. Macho followed her meekly. Lorinda, swerving to avoid Karla, ran straight into Professor Borley.

“Allow me.” He took possession of her glass and passed it to Plantagenet. “How is the book coming along?”

That was a question she did not wish to answer. She smiled vaguely and was rewarded with another question she did not want to answer.

“Is it possible to set a time for our interview?”

How about when hell freezes over?
“Oh, not just yet,” she said quickly. “I'm at rather a tricky bit just now.”

“And you don't want your concentration broken.” He nodded sagely. “Well, just let me know when you're ready. I hope it will be soon.”

Lorinda smiled falsely again and accepted her now-refilled glass. The urge to kill was rising in her. She wondered whether she could strangle Miss Petunia with her own pince-nez cord.

Then she wished she hadn't thought of that. The spectre of those pince-nez, the broken cord dangling, rose at the back of her mind. Perhaps someone had already tried ... NO! No, it wasn't possible. She took a deep breath as the world seemed to tilt suddenly and reality began to slide away.

“Are you all right?” Professor Borley asked anxiously. “You've gone so pale.”

Freddie and Macho walked past, laden with booty from the barbecue, and signalled to her.
They
were reality. She watched them take over the stone bench set against the wall of the house at the other end of the terrace, where they would have the best view of the proceedings while remaining apart from them.

“Can I get you anything?” Professor Borley put a steadying hand on her arm. “You're not going to faint?”

“No, no, I'm all right.” She was suddenly aware that Plantagenet Sutton was watching her with a sardonic smile. Was it possible that he had put something in her drink?

“I just felt a little faint.” If he had, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see that it had affected her. “The ... the smell ...”

The bonfire was burning merrily and crackling festively, but the smell of scorched meat wafting from it was slightly repugnant. She was not the only one fanning the air with a protesting hand. She watched as the flames licked upwards towards the sprawled dummy.

“Lorinda,” Freddie called. “Your sausages are getting cold.”

“Perhaps I ought to sit down,” Lorinda excused herself, sliding away from his grasp.

“A. B.” Gemma was ready to pounce; she pronounced it Abbey.

“Come and get your bonfire food. It's delicious.” Hand on Professor Borley's elbow, she firmly guided him over to the grill.

Plantagenet had abandoned his post and was helping himself to a selection of sausages. Betty Alvin was looking around to make sure the others had all been served. They had.

Dorian had rejoined the party, wandering about amiably, holding a plate with a safe bland baked potato and a small sausage he had no intention of eating. He appeared faintly on edge, with a curiously expectant air.

“He's up to something.” Freddie had noticed it, too. She looked around suspiciously. “What's the betting?”

“No takers.” Macho narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “He was being very insistent that we should bring the cats along – as though I'd let Roscoe out on a night like this. Do you think that might have something to do with it?”

“It might. He seemed quite annoyed,” Lorinda remembered, “when I told him Had-I and But-Known were staying in their own home with tranquillizing saucers of cream tonight.”

“Gemma didn't fall for it, either,” Freddie said. “And thank heavens for that. A couple of overexcited pugs chasing around would be all we needed.”

“He probably hoped they'd start chasing the cats and add a bit of excitement to the party.” Macho was darkly suspicious. “Not that this party couldn't use something to liven it up.”

“Oh, it's not that bad,” Freddie defended. “The food is good. It isn't actually raining and, so long as we stick together, the company is agreeable.”

“That's about to change,” Macho said darkly, as Plantagenet Sutton headed towards them.

“Anyone want a fresh drink?” he offered. “We're switching to wine now. Dorian wasn't sure what to serve but, for an outdoor occasion like this, I advised a good rough chianti or rioja – about the only wines tough enough to hold their own with spicy sausages.”

“What a good idea,” Lorinda responded automatically, realizing that the others, their eyes glazing over with boredom, were not going to bother to answer.

“Yes. Yes, he was a trifle disappointed, I fear. It's his first big party here, isn't it? He wanted to make a splash, but it would be an insult to good wine to waste it on –”

A high piercing scream cut him off. All eyes turned to mid-terrace where Jennifer Lane was pointing to the top of the bonfire, still screaming.

“Oh, my God!” Freddie gasped.

The dummy on top of the bonfire was moving.

Slowly at first, it writhed on the blazing pyre, then began jerking as though in agony as the flames engulfed it. A strange hissing sound came from it, like the whistling exhalation of a thousand last breaths. The stench of burning meat became overpowering.

“Do something!” Jackley bellowed, leading the rush from the terrace.

The women screaming, the men shouting, they dashed to the base of the bonfire, then wavered, unable to approach closer because of the heat and the flames.

“Hang on a minute.” Freddie caught Lorinda's arm as she started to run. Macho and Plantagenet had already bolted along the terrace and down the steps.

“But we've got to
do
something,” Lorinda protested. “We've got to
try
–”

“Steady on,” Freddie said. “I'll panic when Mine Host does.” She nodded toward Dorian, who was standing at the top of the steps, sipping his drink and looking down with amusement at the scene below.

Some of the men had begun kicking at the wood at the base of the fire, trying to collapse it. Jack and Karla glimmered like twin ghosts as they ran around to the other side of the bonfire, obviously hoping that it wasn't burning so furiously there.

“Where's the garden hose?” someone shouted. Gordie broke away and ran toward the garden shed.

“Call the Fire Brigade!” someone else shouted.

Dorian gave a wave of acknowledgment and stayed where he was.

“Nice night for a murder,” Freddie said between clenched teeth. “But not even Dorian would have the nerve to –”

With a gigantic roar, the dummy burst apart, sending rockets thundering in every direction. Most of them erupted into the sky, but some fell back and slithered down the bonfire or snaked along the lawn. The explosions were deafening.

The world was a sudden terrifying nightmare, a war zone thrust into their midst. Abruptly, everyone deserted the bonfire and, covering their ears or trying to shield their faces, ran for the shelter of the house as out-of-control rockets showered their coloured starbursts all around them. The sky was alight with a display that must have been visible miles away. An ear-splittingly noisy display. If it had this effect on humans ...

“And Dorian wanted us to bring our pets along,” Lorinda said bitterly. The mental pictures running through her mind didn't bear watching: Had-I and But-Known, Roscoe, Lionheart and Conqueror, terrified out of their wits, bolting away into the darkness, running for safety and winding up lost, alone, frightened, hungry ...

“Relax.” Freddie patted her arm. “It didn't happen. You're all nice responsible pet owners, so Dorian didn't get his cheap laugh. What does he know about pets and responsibility? That tank of stupid fish is just about right for him – he's a cold fish himself.”

The excitement was almost over now. Only a sporadic rocket issued from the heap of rags to explode against the sky. Shrieks and gasps were giving way to nervous ripples of laughter.

“That was quite a show, Dorian. You really had them going for a minute.” Plantagenet spoke as though he hadn't joined the panic-stricken rush to rescue the dummy himself. He was busy behind the bar again. Not surprisingly, there was a rush for more drinks.

“I can see that having you around is going to liven up the village no end.” Jennifer Lane spoke with a certain amount of reserve. Lorinda remembered that the bookshop had a resident cat; had Jennifer been urged to bring it along? “You're going to keep us on our toes.”

Dorian was smiling blandly, nodding approval as Gordie spread the last of the sausages on the grill. Betty Alvin appeared from the kitchen regions carrying a tray of fruit-and-whipped-cream tarts, to be greeted with appreciative cries. The bonfire was dying down, the flickering glow not quite lighting the terrace anymore. Most of the light was streaming out from the drawing room, most of the guests were gravitating to the warmth and comfort inside, where someone had ignited the logs in the fireplace. One of them cast a lingering glance back to the guttering bonfire.

Once again, shrill screams rang through the night. This time the finger was pointing to the pale ghostlike figure lying face down in the smouldering embers of the dying bonfire.

In that silent horrified moment before people began dashing forward, the edges of the fawn jacket smouldered, blackened and lit with a pale flickering flame.

“I wish I didn't feel so damned guilty,” Freddie said. “Here I've been moaning for weeks about all the noise and fighting and wishing for some peace and quiet – and now that I've got it, do I feel pleased? No, I just feel guilty.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Macho said. “And it isn't as if he were dead. It's a good thing he threw up his arm to protect his face as he fell. The arm is badly burned, but he'll be able to use it again ... eventually. And,” he added with satisfaction, “the camera is a complete write-off.”

“But,” Freddie said, “there's such a thing as ill-wishing.”

“In that case, it's my fault,” Macho said. “I'll guarantee I wished him iller than you did.”

“Oh, stop it, both of you!” Absently, Lorinda held out a potato crisp for Roscoe to nibble. “You're beginning to sound like Dame Isolde Llewellyn!”

“You needn't be insulting,” Freddie said.

Dame Isolde Llewellyn was Rhylla Montague's series character, a concert harpsichordist and possibly a spy, and, even more possibly, a white witch with a sideline of dabbling in spells and mixing strange potions to ensure love or other useful reactions. (How else had she been created a Dame before her fortieth birthday?)

“Poor Rhylla.” Macho was diverted. “Imagine having a grandchild descending and a deadline in the same month.”

“I saw her driving past this morning, looking rather martyred,” Lorinda said.

“She's gone full-tilt at the martyr's crown,” Freddie said. “She even stopped to pick up Karla to drop her off at the hospital on her way to the station to collect Clarice. Karla will take a taxi back when she's had enough of cheering the patient. That shouldn't take long. Since the accident didn't actually kill him, she's pretty annoyed with him for his clumsiness.”

Had-I and But-Known strolled in from the kitchen, where they had been sampling Roscoe's rations, licking their chops. Had-I halted abruptly as she saw Lorinda cosseting Roscoe; her eyes narrowed. Ostentatiously, she marched over to Macho and jumped into his lap. Automatically, he began stroking her.

But-Known reacted more with sorrow than anger. She gave Lorinda an accusing look, then slowly walked over to leap up on to the arm of Freddie's chair. Equally automatically, Freddie reached out to rub her ears.

“God, how I miss my darling little Horatio,” she sighed. Her eyes misted over. “It's all very well having your darlings come visiting, but I want a cat of my own.” She brightened. “Now that we're getting settled in, perhaps I could manage one. If you'd be willing to look after it occasionally when I have to go up to London or over to New York?”

“No trouble at all,” Macho agreed quickly.

There was a moment's silence, while Freddie blinked several times, as though restraining tears. Macho visibly grew more nervous; he hated tears.

The throb of a diesel engine outside broke into the uneasy atmosphere, promising relief.

“A taxi!” Macho leaped out of his chair, sending a protesting Had-I tumbling to the floor. “That must be Karla. Why don't we invite her to join us for tea?” He dashed for his front door and they heard him hailing her.