No Cooperation from the Cat (15 page)

“This is the start of the trip,” Tom explained. “See, you can spot the plane that brought us in. Over there, in the corner of the picture.”

Sure enough, you could just make out the tip of a wing. Just barely. Behind Banquo, who was centre stage in every photo and wasn’t going to be upstaged by his transportation.

There was a moan. I looked up to find everyone watching Jocasta, who seemed, once again, to be trying to crawl into the fridge without opening the door. She had gone pale, her eyes were wide and distressed, her breath coming in gasps.

“Come on,” Mick said roughly. “The ball is in your court. Sit down and let’s get to work.”

“We
are
working,” Martha said coldly. “Clear those pictures off the table and let us get on with it.”

Poor Jocasta, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Generously, I allotted the deep blue sea to Martha.

“This is more important,” Tom said.

“Not to me!” Martha’s eyes flashed. “You have thirty seconds to take that stuff off my table or I’ll tear it up and bin it!”

“Don’t try it,” Mick warned.

“Evangeline—no!” She had picked up a large frying pan and was hefting it thoughtfully. We didn’t need a fight here. At the same time, I slid my hand under the photographs to pick up the jam jar. If that bully dared to lay a finger on Martha—

“All right, all right, if you feel like that…” Tom began gathering up the contact sheets. “It’s too bad, though. Banquo is going to be bitterly disappointed … terribly upset…”

Jocasta wavered. We all saw it. Her gaze followed the shots of her hero as Tom stuffed them back in his portfolio. The last thing she wanted was to upset Banquo.

“Yes, right.” Mick recognised that Tom had found Jocasta’s weakest point and changed tactics. “Poor old Banquo. He’s been planning to get stuck into the book right away to help take his mind off losing Melisande. Now he’ll have to hang around waiting, grieving—and having too much time to brood over his tragedy.”

“Oooh…” Jocasta was on the verge of tears.

“We have a contract,” Martha reminded her.

“So have we,” Tom said. “And the original contract for that book was with Melisande.”

Martha’s head snapped back as though he’d slapped her. Oh, dear—and she’d just been coming to terms with her discovery that she had been second choice.

“And it’s a tie-in with the expedition,” Mick said. “That means that Banquo’s book should come out first.”

“It is
not
a tie-in!” Martha flared. “It is sponsored by the Lady Lemmings and the proceeds are to go to their charity.”

“That’s what they thought,” Mick said. “Banquo and Melisande had other plans for it.”

“Well, Banquo can forget them!” Martha snarled. “
I’m
in charge now and I’m going to see to it that the Lady Lemmings are treated fairly!”

“The Lady Lemmings are the ones who can forget it! They only got a look-in because they were paying to part subsidise the book. Melisande might have had plenty of her own money, but she was … careful … with it—and the expedition itself was costing her a bomb. She wasn’t—”

Shut up!
was the angry signal Tom flashed at Mick just before he said mildly:

“The fact remains: notebook or cookbook, you’ve still got just one editor between you. Jocasta might have something to say about who takes precedence.” He looked at her expectantly.

Evangeline still hadn’t relinquished that heavy frying pan. I watched her uneasily. For a few nasty moments, I was afraid she might use it on Jocasta, who was looking from the Banquo faction to Martha and back again … and again … and again. Evangeline never could stand a ditherer.

“Ah!” Nigel had reappeared in our midst. I had never been so glad to see him. Especially since he was carrying the bucket and mop, which provided an instant change of subject.

“Where’s Teddy?” I asked.

“Ah, gone. Took off as soon as he finished the mopping up. I let him go. I didn’t think anyone would want me to urge him to stay.”

“Quite right,” I said. Nigel was growing on me, or maybe he was just growing up. His judgement was improving no end.

“Good riddance!” Mick said. “We can do without blokes like that.”

“Ah! He did say he’d be back,” Nigel added, somewhat nervously.

“We never doubted that for a minute,” I assured him wearily. However, any respite was welcome.

Cho-Cho appeared from nowhere, obviously sensing the coast was now clear, and sat at my feet.

Jocasta relieved Nigel of the mop and bucket and put them away where the cleaning service would eventually deal with them.

Martha was reaching for the mixing bowl when her cell phone rang. “Hugh!” Her cry of delight rang out and my eyes misted over. It was so good to see my darling so happy.

“Overnight? Yes, yes, we thought you would … No, everything was fine here. We lost all power, of course, but it’s back on now. Otherwise, it was quiet…”

Mick snorted and Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Are you still here?” Evangeline turned to them. “Shouldn’t you be on your—” Her own cell phone rang.

“Yes? Oh, Cecile … that’s right. Completely dark, a bit—but nothing we couldn’t handle. And you?”

Another cell phone tootled and Mick pulled it from a pocket, turning away from us to speak softly into it.

I began to feel left out, which was ridiculous. The most important person in my life, Martha, was right here with me. Evangeline, too, had been here all along. I had no need of anyone calling me.

“No, not yet…” I tuned in to Mick’s conversation. An edgy note had come into his voice. “The subject hasn’t come up. No, I didn’t talk to her last night. There were … complications…” He listened again, then held the phone out to Jocasta. “The rest of this is for you—”

Automatically, Jocasta accepted the phone. “Hello?” An expression of horror crossed her face as someone spoke to her.

An unspoken communication passed between Tom and Mick. Mick shrugged.

“No!” Jocasta screamed. “No!” She hurled the phone from her. It hit the floor, bounced, then skittered across the room.

Cho-Cho, spooked, ran off in the opposite direction, after sending me an accusing look, as though this further disturbance of the peace was somehow my fault. I turned that look where it belonged—on Jocasta.

“Murderess!” Jocasta choked. “She called me murderess!”

Chapter Fifteen

“I’ll ring you back, Cecile,” Evangeline said. “We seem to have a bit of a problem here.”

Jocasta had burst into tears. I started towards her, but Nigel beat me to it.

“Did you have to let her talk to her?” Tom asked Mick.

“It was bound to happen, sooner or later.” Mick shrugged again. “You know how she is.”

“Who?” Martha asked. “Who called you a murderess?”

Good question. From where I stood, it looked as though there were three candidates—all of them Banquo’s harpy cousins.

“Don’t let them upset you.” Nigel had a protective arm around Jocasta’s shoulders, but she didn’t appear to notice it.

“Who dared to say that to you?” Martha also had ended her call abruptly. “Hugh has the best lawyers on tap. We’ll sue—”

“Hearsay!” Mick, the complete troubleshooter now, threw cold water on that one. “Only Jocasta heard her say it. You didn’t hear it yourself. Her word against yours and, believe me, she’d deny it. No lawyer would be happy with that one.”

“He’s right, I’m afraid.” Evangeline’s depth of experience with the law was mostly from the divorce courts, but she’d learned a fair amount.

“I don’t know—” Jocasta wailed. “I can tell them apart when I see them, but they all sound alike to me.”

“You know who you were talking to—” Martha whirled on Mick. “Which one was it?”

“Yes,” Evangeline chimed in. “Which witch was it?”

“We’re not going to get anything more here right now.” Mick looked to Tom. “Time we were leaving. I need a shower, a change of clothes, and a few hours’ sleep.”

“Not necessarily in that order,” Tom agreed.

“You’re not leaving here until you’ve answered my question!” Martha snapped.

It was an order that couldn’t be enforced—and they knew it. They were already halfway down the hall.

“Stop them!” Martha cried. “Don’t let them get away!” She looked around for help.

Nigel was patting Jocasta’s back as she sobbed. It was doubtful that he’d noticed a thing.

Evangeline shrugged.

“Let them go, darling,” I advised as she turned to me. “We’ll find out, sooner or later.”

“Come back!” Martha shouted after them, seething with fury and frustration.

The door slammed shut behind them.

“Please stop crying.” Nigel started to offer his handkerchief, realised belatedly that it was in no fit state, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “They’ve gone now. It’s all right.”

“They’ll be back.” Jocasta sobbed, tearing a kitchen towel off the roll and using it. “They’ll
all
be back!” She tore off another towel.

“Don’t worry,” Martha said grimly. “If they do, we won’t let them in.”

“You don’t understand,” Jocasta wailed. “We’ve
got
to!”

“Why?” Martha spoke for all of us. By now, we were getting as adept as Cho-Cho at scenting a rat.

“The pictures—”

“The pictures can wait. Banquo hasn’t even written the book yet. And we have a contract.”

“So have they.” Jocasta reached for another paper towel. “And not just for the expedition story. Tom is going to do the photography for the cookbook. Melisande arranged it all—it’s all part of the deal.”

“Melisande again!” Martha was working up quite a head of steam. She took a deep breath, attempting to control herself. “Well, we’ll make sure he comes alone. We don’t need two people to do the photographs.”

“Actually—” Jocasta avoided eye contact with Martha. “We do. The food stylist will have to supervise everything.”

“Food stylist?” Martha was almost snarling. “What do you mean—food stylist?”

“It’s quite customary…” Jocasta faltered, shrinking back against Nigel’s supporting arm, which she still hadn’t noticed was there. “Real food won’t stand up to the hot lights and the length of time it can take to set up a shot. So there has to be a … a certain amount of … substitution … with some foods.”

“You mean fakery.” Trust Evangeline to make a bad situation worse.

“Fakery…? Substitution…?” Martha’s eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself!”

“Um, well … take lemon meringue pie.” Jocasta had been unhappy before, she was miserable now. “It wouldn’t stand up to an hour or so under the hot lights. It would dissolve into a gooey mess. So, instead of the … the real thing … we just take an empty pastry shell and, since you wouldn’t see the lemon filling anyway, fill it with mashed potato whipped into peaks and brushed lightly with gravy browning. It looks just like really delicious … meringue…” She faltered to a stop under Martha’s basilisk glare.

“Let. Me. Get. This. Straight.” Martha spoke between clenched teeth. “You mean, I’ve been slogging my guts out, not only to test these recipes, but working to make them look tempting, as well as being fast and delicious—and you’re not even going to use the real results in the photographs?”

“Everyone does it.” Jocasta flinched. “It’s standard procedure. The photography session is the only time the food stylist comes into it—”

“And fakes the whole thing!” Martha was losing her precarious control. “All my work—disregarded!”

“We ought to be able to use your casseroles,” Jocasta offered.

“It happens all the time. Everywhere.” Evangeline belatedly tried her hand at peacemaking. “Look at the substitute for window glass in films. Good old sugar and water panes. Looks just like glass, but no one risks getting cut when they’re thrown through them in barroom brawl scenes. That dates all the way back to the days of the silents, but they’re still using the formula today. Couldn’t be bettered.”

Actually, I thought everything was computer generated these days, but decided that this was not the moment to try to bring Evangeline up to date.

Martha ignored her, still concentrating on browbeating poor Jocasta. “And just who,” she demanded, “
is
this so-called food stylist?”

“That’s the trouble—” Jocasta gave way to a fresh bout of tears. “It’s Isolde!”

“Isolde!” Martha reared back, nostrils flaring. “I will not have that woman under my roof!”

Actually, it was my roof. Mine and Evangeline’s but, again, this was not the moment to debate the point. Suddenly, I felt very weary, ready to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head. I hadn’t had much sleep last night—none of us had. And it was showing.

“It’s not my fault—” Jocasta defended herself. “I don’t want her here, either.”

“I won’t have any of them here!” Martha stormed. “And that goes for your precious Banquo, too!”

“Especially Banquo,” Evangeline said.

“Now wait a minute—” Jocasta began.

Martha’s mobile rang abruptly. I think all of us breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yes?” Martha snapped into it. “Oh, Hugh.” Her face softened. “Yes, yes, I’m still here. You will? Good. How soon?… Marvellous! No, no, don’t come up. I’ll meet you downstairs. I’ll start down now. Do hurry—

“No, nothing’s wrong. Not really. It’s just—” Her gaze swept us all with impartial loathing. “I’ve had enough! I’m more than ready to leave. Ten minutes? I’ll be at the door, waiting…” She rang off.

“And maybe I’ll be back—” She addressed Cho-Cho, who was cautiously edging back into the room now that it had gone quiet again. The cat was obviously the only one of us she was still speaking to.

“And maybe I won’t!”

Chapter Sixteen

Morning arrived. Martha didn’t. Nor was Jocasta anywhere to be seen. Evangeline was obviously sleeping. The smell of coffee will wake them up, I thought. Then thought again and made myself a cup of tea instead.

Enjoying the peace, I shared scrambled eggs with Cho-Cho, then suddenly had what I thought was a bright idea. Jocasta had been working so hard—and rather against the odds. Plagued by Banquo and his importunate crew, putting up with Martha in one of her worst moods, cooking our meals—and we had all been taking it for granted. If anyone deserved a little treat like breakfast in bed … or at least a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin …