Canapés for the Kitties (29 page)

“I've tried Abbey. He isn't there.” Dorian looked at the glass of Scotch Lorinda had automatically given him and tasted it suspiciously. “Or else he isn't answering the telephone.”

That was only too possible. Lorinda was in no hurry to plug hers back in.

“Perhaps they went out for a meal.” Karla shrugged. “Or maybe they went back to the bookshop with Jennifer. She was there, too.”

“Why does everybody call him Abbey?” The question had evidently been bothering Jack for some time. “I know his initials are A. B., which I'd pronounce Abie. So why the Abbey stuff?”

“Because his name is Borley,” Dorian said impatiently. “Don't you see it?”

“See what?” It was clear he didn't.

“Borley Abbey,” Freddie elucidated. “The most haunted place in Britain.” He still looked blank. “It's a joke,” she explained.

“An English joke.” His voice was flat as he found the joke.

“That's right, dear.” With Dorian present, Karla cooed sweetly. “It's over your head.”

“You didn't get it, either,” he snarled. “And I'll give you odds Borley doesn't think it's funny.”

“On the contrary,” Dorian said. “He was quite amused. Once I'd explained it to him.”

“I'll bet.” Jack said. “The guy's got a proper name, hasn't he? Why the hell don't you let him use it?”

“Dorian –” Freddie broke into the dialogue. “You
do
know, don't you?”

“Know?” He looked blank.

“About Ondine?”

“Oh, that. Yes. Gordie reported to me. That was why I was trying to get hold of Betty. We'll need to draft a press release. Notify her publishers, agent, relatives ...” He faltered, perhaps sensing that he was not quite in accord with his audience. “It's all very sad,” he said quickly. “But she wasn't a young woman, nor, I suspect, a particularly well one. It's just very unfortunate that it happened here, when she'd just moved in an –”

The doorbell made them all jump. Lorinda hurried to answer it. She was conscious of a muted yapping as she approached, so it was no surprise when she opened the door.

“Hello, Gemma.” The pugs at Gemma's feet surged forward, then stopped and moved back uneasily.

Lorinda glanced over her shoulder to see Had-I and But-Known advancing with a territorial glint in their eyes. Roscoe followed behind them, bristled up to nearly twice his size, clearly ready to do battle for his females.

“Come in,” Lorinda invited, crossing her fingers and hoping for the best. Gemma looked even more upset than the last time she had seen her.

“Yes, thank you. Come on!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, but Conqueror and Lionheart had suddenly become reluctant to enter the hallway.

“Behave yourselves,” Lorinda said over her shoulder to the cats. They paused and waited in ominous docility.

“I beg your pardon?” Gemma was startled. “Oh –” She looked beyond Lorinda. “I see. Come on.” She tugged at the leashes again. “They're not going to bother you.”

With faint apologetic whines and bellies low, Conqueror and Lionheart scurried past the cats, keeping close to Gemma's ankles for protection. The cats watched implacably.

“Stay there,” Lorinda said to them, firmly closing the door behind her.

“I'm sorry,” Gemma said. “I just couldn't go home. I tried. I got there just as the light over the front entrance went on and – and I could see it! In big black letters! I couldn't walk under it. I couldn't go in.”

“See what?” Lorinda asked. Behind her, the doorknob rattled. She tried to ignore it.

“The graffiti.” Gemma looked frightened. “Someone has crossed out the ‘ERS' of COFFERS and written ‘IN' over it, so that the name reads COFFIN COURT. I couldn't –”

“So now it's vandalism!” Dorian exploded, more upset by that than he had been by Ondine's death.

There was a decisive click and Lorinda felt a draft on the back of her legs. The cats marched past her purposefully and took up commanding positions in front of the fireplace. The pugs cringed closer to Gemma, who was watching Dorian and didn't notice.

“Vandals!” Dorian raged. “They didn't chip off the bas-relief letters, did they?” he asked in sudden anxiety. “That would cost a fortune to repair. It was just the black paint?”

“Feelings are running pretty high in this town,” Jack said. “Next thing will be broken windows,” he added, as Dorian winced. He didn't appear to find anything strange in Dorian's attitude, but Lorinda was beginning to ask herself just why Dorian seemed to be taking it so personally.

“Just the paint,” Gemma said. “I'm sure Gordie will be able to clean it up. It will be quite a job for him, though. He'll have to scrub for hours. It's very messy.”

“If Gordie had been doing his duty, it wouldn't have happened in the first place,” Dorian snapped. “He should have been keeping watch at the door.”

“Gordie has had his hands full today,” Freddie pointed out. “He must be exhausted. I wouldn't blame him if he went to bed for the rest of the week with the covers pulled over his head.”

“I'll go over there and speak to him now.” There wasn't much chance of that with Dorian around. “If he starts on the graffiti now, he should have it cleaned up by morning.”

“You expect him to work all night?” Karla was scandalized.

“If he'd been doing his job properly, it wouldn't be necessary. He brought it on himself.”

“An awful lot of people around here seem to bring things on themselves,” Jack muttered. “At least, that's what other people keep telling them.” He rubbed his arm and flexed his fingers experimentally. He looked from Dorian to his wife, suspicious and unforgiving.

But Dorian had been on the terrace when Jack fell – or was pushed – into the bonfire. Hadn't he? Lorinda realized suddenly that they knew the moment Jack had been found smouldering in the ashes, but there was no conveniently broken watch to register the moment he actually had been pushed.

“You'd better leave poor Gordie alone for a while.” There was a distinctly bossy note in Karla's voice, perhaps she'd forgotten it was not her husband she was addressing. “Morning is time enough for him to worry about graffiti. He's going to have to clean up the top of the lift first, isn't he? Before it can be put back into service again.”

Although both true and practical, the pragmatic statement was too graphic for its hearers. There was an abrupt deep imbibing of drink in the silence that followed.

Inadvertently, Lorinda intercepted the look Dorian shot at Karla. It went through her like an electric shock. It was as embarrassing as finding you'd opened someone else's letter by mistake, as disturbing as though that letter had been a piece of hate mail.

Lorinda recalled abruptly that Jack and Karla had been dressed alike on Bonfire Night. In the darkness and excitement, it would have been quite easy for the wrong Jackley to receive that nearly fatal push.

“
SSSssss ...
” “
RRrrreeeeeoooow ...
” “
Aarrjff ...
” The uneasy truce was over. Hostilities broke out.

“No! Stop!” Gemma tugged at the leashes, ignoring the fact that the dogs were already scuttling for shelter behind her.

“Had-I, But-Known – No!” Lorinda tried, although she could see it was useless.

“Roscoe!” Macho frowned, but the effect was lost because his tone sounded admiring rather than censorious.

Paying no attention to human protests, the cats advanced on their prey. Almost languidly, Had-I stretched out a paw and raked the air an inch from Conqueror's nose. He backed away, yelping as though the claws had connected with his tender nose. Lionheart wriggled forward a bit, but Roscoe gave a warning growl and he retreated again. Even But-Known had the light of battle in her eyes; no canine was going to infringe on her territory. She feinted wildly, with more enthusiasm than skill. Conqueror yelped and reared back so sharply he pulled the end of his leash out of Gemma's hand. She turned to go after him and Lionheart got away.

“Back!” Gemma flapped her hands at the inexorably advancing cats. “Get back!”

But the only ones backing were the pugs. Not daring to take their eyes off the cats, they slunk backwards until their rumps collided with the wall and there was no escape.

“Had-I, that's enough! But-Known, stop it! You, too, Roscoe!” Lorinda might just as well have never spoken. She circled around behind the cats, waiting for her moment to swoop on Had-I, who was definitely the ringleader and bully-in-chief.

Gemma had abandoned her flapping motions and was making suggestive little movements of her feet.

Don't you dare!
Lorinda shot her a look as menacing as any of the cats' and Gemma subsided into shuffling.

“I can't understand it,” Gemma complained. “They all got on so well in my place the other day.”

Because they were the invaders. But this was not the moment to explain.

“Throw a bucket of water over them!” Jack and Karla had retreated to the far side of the room. It was clear that they were not going to get involved. Dorian had retreated just far enough to stay clear of the action, but not so far as to be suspected of opting out, although no one in their right mind ... mind ... would have looked for help from that quarter to begin with.

“Really, I think we'd better go now.” Gemma tried to recapture the leashes. “Conqueror! Lionheart! Come along! Home!”

The dogs were more than willing, but the cats blocked their way. With an anxious whine, Conqueror tried to sidle along the wall, but Had-I cut him off. Roscoe kept Lionheart paralyzed with a baleful stare.

“Call off your cats.” Jack was full of bright suggestions. “Let the poor dogs go.”

“Have you ever tried to call off a cat?” Freddie's question was rhetorical. Jack obviously knew nothing about feline characteristics.

Abruptly, the final onslaught erupted in a flurry of slashing, flashing paws, against high-pitched yelps and scurryings. Hisses, yowls and spitting imprecations filled the air.

Conqueror was the first to crack. He slithered down and rolled over, belly up, waving helpless paws in the air. Lionheart hesitated only a second longer, then Roscoe's paw caught him across the nose and he joined Conqueror in abject surrender, whining.

“Those dogs” – Dorian looked down at them with distaste – “give an entirely new dimension to the expression pussy-whipped.”

The cats hovered menacingly over the pugs for a moment longer then, honour satisfied and no doubt as to the victors, they exchanged glances and strolled away.

“Come
along!
” Gemma had the leashes now and tugged the dogs to their feet.

“I'll walk you back,” Dorian said. “I want to have that talk with Gordie.”

“I still think you should leave him alone for tonight,” Karla volunteered. “I told you, he's had a rotten day.”

“And I think I'll go up to London for a few days tomorrow,” Dorian added reflectively.

“Again?” Karla was indignant. “You're always going up to London. What's the big attraction up there?”

Dorian looked at her with almost as much distaste as he had shown for the cringing dogs. For a moment, Lorinda thought he might be going to tell her.

“Work.” He slid away from confrontation. “There are several projects that require my attention.”

“Yeah?” Karla's tone was unpleasant. “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a few projects around here that require your attention?”

Lorinda stooped and gathered up Had-I and But-Known, trying to pretend that the conversation was meaningless to her. It was so embarrassing when people thought that they were talking to each other in code, unaware that their listeners had long since cracked the code.

“I told you,” Dorian said, a trifle testily. “I'll see to it that Gordie cleans up the building immediately. That's the main priority. Anything else can wait until I get back.”

“Don't be too sure of that.” Karla was glaring at him. Jack was glaring, too, but probably for a different reason. Even the most untalented can eventually crack a code when it becomes blatant enough.

Lorinda hoped Dorian was learning his lesson and that this would be the last time he got involved with impressionable women he met abroad. She wondered whether there might be a further influx from the contacts he had made on his cruise. Dorian, pouring on that Olde-English charm and those tropical nights at sea, would undoubtedly have proved a dangerous combination on a shipful of vulnerable ladies looking for romance.

She had a further disquieting thought; with the deaths of Plantagenet Sutton and Ondine van Zeet, there was now accommodation available again at Coffers Court.

“The sooner that disgraceful mess over the entrance is removed, the better!” Gemma sailed through the front door as Dorian opened it for her. “And if you have to pay Gordie double for overtime, it will be worth it.”

The door slammed behind them with a vehemence that betrayed Dorian's opinion of that idea. Gordie would be lucky to be paid at all; he was more likely to get a lecture on his carelessness in allowing the graffiti artist to operate in the first place.

“We'd better go, too.” Jack had a firm grip on Karla's arm with his good hand. “Maybe I oughta get down and take a picture of the defaced building before Gordie gets scrubbing and destroys the evidence.”

“Evidence? What are you talking about?” Karla was prepared to fight about anything. Luckily, they kept moving toward the door. “What do you mean, evidence?”

“The way things are going around here, who can tell?” Jack opened the door.

“Yeah? Well, you'd better not let Dorian catch you taking any pictures. He wouldn't like it.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I don't care what Dorian likes. Some people around here may think he's God Almighty, but I sure as hell don't! He can –” The door slammed behind them.