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Authors: Marian Babson

Canapés for the Kitties (19 page)

BOOK: Canapés for the Kitties
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“You can forget that one,” Freddie said, returning. “I wouldn't even sew for myself, let alone a dead rat. And neither would Lorinda.”

“Who was it?” Lorinda asked.

“Nemesis!” Freddie rolled her eyes heavenwards.

“We've just paused to blow our little nose and dry our tears. They'll be with us in a minute.”

Had-I, with a thoughtful look, got up and strolled away. But-Known had already disappeared. The abandoned corpse lay in the centre of the kitchen floor.

“BOSWELL!” The agonized cry tore through the air, propelling Clarice into the room and to her knees by Boswell's side. She burst into noisy anguished sobs.

Rhylla came into the room more slowly, a long-suffering look on her face. She watched her granddaughter's histrionics with a certain wry amusement.

“You wouldn't think, would you,” she remarked sotto voce, “that she's only had the thing three weeks? She originally wanted a Gila monster, but her mother, I'm happy to say, put her foot down.”

“Boswell ... Boswell ...” The broken-hearted wail rose and fell. “My poor little Boswell.” The scene was rather marred by a sudden sidelong glance from Clarice to gauge the effect she was having on her audience.

“Is she going into the theatre when she grows up?” Freddie asked with interest. “She'd do a smashing Lady Macbeth.”

“More of a touch of
East Lynne
there,” Macho observed critically. “ ‘Dead, dead, and never called me Mother' – you know. The Drama Society did it at school one year.”

Two small furry faces peeked around a corner and wisely decided to withdraw again. The sobbing continued unabated.

“Would she like a glass of water?” Lorinda offered diffidently.

“Fortunately, she's too young for anything else,” Rhylla said. “I, however, am not – and I would appreciate a large measure of the strongest liquid you have on hand. Or perhaps Macho would donate one of his slugs of tequila.”

“That isn't funny!” The colour drained from Macho's face, his eyes blazed.

“Well, I'm sorry.” Rhylla was taken aback. “I meant Macho, your character. I know you wouldn't have the stuff in your house.”

“Who told you that?” His face burned with hostility.

“You did.” Rhylla was affronted. “Often.”

They glared at each other wordlessly for a moment, while Clarice's sobs dwindled to an occasional hiccough as she became distracted by the sudden inexplicable animosity between the two adults. Lorinda took advantage of her distraction to slide a paper towel over the small corpse.

Clarice did not seem to notice. She rose slowly to her feet, seemingly absorbed in some new thought. She raised her head and faced her grandmother challengingly.


Now
can I have a Gila monster?” she demanded.

“Over my dead body!” Rhylla snapped.

For an instant, something nasty flashed in the depths of Clarice's eyes. If looks could kill, that Gila monster would have been riding on her shoulder in the morning.

“Keep looking at me like that, young woman, and you won't get your pocket money, either!” Already in a bad mood from Macho's unwarranted attack, Rhylla was not prepared to tolerate dumb insolence.

Not for the first time, Lorinda envied the cats. How nice, how wonderful, how peaceful to be able to melt away at times of strife and not reappear until the atmosphere cleared and the world was calm again.

While Clarice seethed, trying to settle on a form of mutiny that would not bring reprisals, Macho had recovered his composure. With a conspiratorial nod to Lorinda, he slipped behind Clarice, scooped up the remains of the late Boswell and made an inconspicuous exit through the back door, closing it silently behind him.

He need not have bothered. The battle order had changed and Clarice moved forward without a backward glance at her erstwhile pet. The threat to her pocket money outweighed all lesser considerations.

“I'll tell my mother,” she threatened.

“Go right ahead,” Rhylla said. “You can also tell her that I now recognize some of the mistakes I made with her husband and I am not about to repeat them with you.”

The one consolation was that they were moving steadily toward the front door. If nothing impeded their progress, they would soon be gone.

“Who was it,” Freddie murmured, “who said that children keep you young?”

“Someone who never had any!” Rhylla snapped, slamming the door behind them.

“All this,” Freddie said into the silence, “and Dorian's party tomorrow night, too.”

“I think I'll go back to London,” Lorinda said.

As though in protest, Had-I and But-Known reappeared. After a quick, almost disinterested, glance at the empty spot on the kitchen linoleum, they cut their losses and followed Lorinda and Freddie into the living room where they made it clear that it was time for laps and loving. They barely contained their impatience while Lorinda poured drinks.

“I don't know,” she sighed, as Had-I sprang into her lap and curled up. “I suppose Dorian meant well, but I don't think this was one of his better ideas.”

“Only you could give Dorian credit for meaning well,” Freddie said, shifting slightly to accommodate But-Known. “I must admit I'm not looking forward to this party. I keep remembering what happened at his last one.”

“At least there won't be a bonfire for anyone to fall into.”

“There's always the fireplace.” Freddie would not be reassured. “He's sure to have a blazing fire in it.”

The party went smoothly, however, helped by the fact that Jack Jackley was still unable to operate a camera. Unfortunately, he appeared to have developed a form of paranoia; he stood with his back against the wall, clutching a large drink he had poured from a fresh bottle, insisting on breaking the seal himself, and obviously intended nursing through the evening lest any other drink offered to him might be noxious.

“Honestly, he makes me
sick!
” Karla came up to Lorinda and Freddie, eyes flashing. “He's so afraid something's going to happen to him. He didn't even want to come tonight.”

“Well, something
did
happen to him at the last party,” Freddie said. “You can see his point.”

“If he hadn't been so damned clumsy –” Karla gulped savagely at her drink. “And then he tries to pretend he's not so stupid by claiming someone pushed him! Who'd want to? That's what I asked him – and he couldn't answer me.”

Lorinda and Freddie stared thoughtfully into middle distance, no more anxious to answer the question than Jack had been, even though they were not in such a vulnerable position for reprisals.

“Dorian's parties are always so marvellous!” The uncritical voice at their elbows made them turn, and quick bright smiles spread across their faces. No author was going to dispute an issue with the proprietor of the town's only bookshop. Jennifer Lane beamed back at them. “He's certainly revitalized this town. He's so full of wonderful ideas!”

They all agreed automatically and with some relief. At least she was changing the subject. Not even Karla would continue her complaints in front of a third party who was so innocently sure that they were all one big happy family.

“Gemma, feeling better?” Lorinda turned her bright social smile on Gemma Duquette, who was wandering past, clutching a glass of white wine.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Gemma joined the group gratefully. “I'm still being careful, though.” She raised her glass. “This can't hurt me, I'm sure. I'd have had orange juice, but I'm afraid it's just that little bit too acid for my stomach right now.”

“Can't be too careful,” Freddie agreed. “You had a nasty do. What was it, do you know?”

“I wish I did. Probably some new virus going around.” Gemma flinched as Betty Alvin appeared beside them with a tray. “Oh, no, I couldn't possibly dare!” She regarded the king prawns and spicy dip with horror. “It's more than my life's worth. I must be very careful, you know. I'm really still convalescent.”

The others had no such inhibitions and rapidly depleted the tray. “I'll get a refill,” Betty said reassuringly. “There's plenty more out in the kitchen.”

Perhaps there was, but the party was low on catering staff, Lorinda noticed. Poor Betty and Gordie were doing overtime ... again. Betty didn't seem to mind, but Gordie appeared vaguely discontented. He hovered near Dorian, as though hoping for an introduction to the prosperous-looking strangers Dorian was being so attentive to that they had to be publishers. Poor Gordie. She wondered just what Dorian had promised him when he lured him into moving to Brimful Coffers and acting as general factotum, as well as his caretaking duties at Coffers Court.

There were fewer Londoners at this party. Presumably, now that the weather was worsening, with freezing conditions and even snow forecast for tonight, they preferred not to risk getting stranded in the country. They would undoubtedly be back in full force for any parties Dorian gave in the summer. There was, of course, a good sprinkling of townspeople.

Plantagenet Sutton, as had become usual, had usurped the bar, leaving Dorian free for socializing. Bursts of ostentatiously coarse laughter were resounding from another corner where three males from London were obviously recounting the latest dirty jokes.

A slight movement at waist level caught Lorinda's eye, and she saw Clarice edging closer to the riotous group, anxious to be in on any jokes going around. Since everyone had been invited to the party, there had been no baby-sitter available and Rhylla had had to bring her along. It was more than possible that Rhylla would regret it – especially if Clarice picked up any of those jokes.

Professor Borley appeared to be in a quandary, looking from group to group, nearly overcome by an embarrassment of riches. So many authors at his fingertips, as it were. It was a hard choice to make; he swerved toward Lorinda's group, then detoured in response to something Plantagenet called to him. He went over to the bar and they conferred earnestly.

Rhylla was trying to be nice to Jack Jackley, who did not appear to be appreciating her effort. He looked around restlessly and almost smiled.

Rhylla followed his gaze, arriving at the source of his amusement just as a further shout of raucous laughter brought a nervous, slightly puzzled smile to Clarice's face. Rhylla gasped and swooped across the room to snatch a protesting Clarice away from the circle of deeply embarrassed men who belatedly became aware of her presence.


Wha-at?
” Freddie's outraged squawk wrenched Lorinda's attention back to the group.

“Oh, yes.” Jennifer smiled nervously. “Hasn't he mentioned it to you yet? I believe he's going to announce it tonight. Just informally, of course. He'll announce it again at a proper launch, with full media presence, once we have all the details finalized.”

“I'll finalize him!” Freddie muttered.

“Oh, I don't know.” Karla had brightened. “It sounds like a really great idea to me.”

“You're not trying to work,” Freddie said.

“I
beg
your pardon!” Karla drew herself up huffily. “I am working my butt off. Especially since Jack got home. I practically have to feed him half the time. He can't even cut his meat, the way his hands are.” There was more annoyance than sympathy in her voice. It was clear that any help Jack got from his wife was reluctant and under protest.

Freddie twitched her eyebrows and looked away.

“It won't be so bad,” Jennifer said. “It shouldn't interfere with your work.”

“I'm afraid I've missed something here,” Lorinda said softly to Freddie. “What are we talking about?”

“I thought you were too calm.” Freddie did not bother to lower her voice. “The crux of the matter is that Dorian is planning to turn Brimful Coffers into a sort of Literary Disneyland-Cum-Zoo. With us as unpaid employees and captive exhibits.”


Wha-at?
” Lorinda found herself echoing Freddie's earlier incredulous gasp.

“No, no, nothing of the sort. Freddie exaggerates.” Jennifer sent Freddie an impatient glance. “Honestly, the schedule won't be intrusive and you needn't participate in any of the events unless you want to. There'll be the usual signings at the bookshop as your new books are published – you'd do that anyway. And giving the occasional talk to tours passing through and perhaps joining them for drinks and dinner.”

“What tours?” Freddie asked ominously.

“Oh, just fans.” Jennifer shied back nervously. “People who really admire you and your works. They'll be small tours and only stay in town a night or two before going on to take in the usual historical sites and have a few days in London ... and meet other authors in other places ...” She trailed off, perhaps sensing that her audience was not as enthusiastic as she was.

“Did she just say what I thought she said?” Unnoticed, Macho had joined the group.

“You heard.” Freddie was grim.

“Did you just arrive?” Lorinda tried for a more social tone.

“I had to ... settle Roscoe first,” Macho said.

“Isn't he well?”

“He's fine – and he's going to stay that way.” Macho's mouth tightened. “What I want to know is what's going on here?”

“We're just finding out ourselves,” Lorinda said.

“Treachery!” Freddie glowered at Jennifer. “Sheer outright treachery. We've been set up!”

“Oh, no, you mustn't think that.” Jennifer was sinking under the combined weight of their disapproval. “I – I've explained it badly, that's all. When Dorian makes his announcement, it will all be much clearer.”

“Dorian ...” Macho shifted his brooding gaze to their debonair host, now raising his glass as though in a toast to his companions. “The plot thickens.”

BOOK: Canapés for the Kitties
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