by M. E. Eadie
***
The incipient little bell rang, and then rang again, as Colin and Spike entered the parlor with their trays. Sergeant Peary hung back. For a moment, Colin thought that Peary was going to behave himself. However, the ghost turned invisible and the platter of hors d’oeuvres that Colin was carrying was swiftly tugged out of his grip, and floated in the air. He groaned inside, his stomach turning in knots. The ghost left the kitchen and entered the dinning room. He grabbed another platter and followed along with Spike.
Sitting in full view of the kitchen door was Rhea’s mom, Mrs. Li. Colin gulped as his purloined tray of food, hovered in front of Grizzelda. Colin caught up with the floating tray. He stared at his aunt who, much to his surprised wasn’t even a little bit disturbed. Unlike her, the other guests were in awe of the floating tray, thinking it must be some magic trick.
“Very resourceful,” said Grizzelda under her breath so that only Colin could hear her. “We will talk about this later, young man. I do not approve of having a ghost do your work.”
Colin didn’t like the sound of the word ‘talk,’ but he was stunned with the fact that she could actually see Sergeant Peary, but why not, Ofelia could.
Principal Devonish, clothed in a black and red flowered muumuu, glowered warily at the floating platter, but as it came her way she couldn’t resist reaching greedily for the food. After popping one of the morsels into her cavernous mouth, a wide smile twisted unnaturally on her face.
“Wonderful, I’ve never tasted anything like it, and the presentation is divine!” She cleared her throat, trying to sound natural, but failing. “What is it?”
“Oh, a little recipe that I found in one of my Grandfather’s journals. It’s from Africa. Chocolate- covered locusts. Just the right combination of crunch and chew, don’t you think?” said Grizzelda, placing one on the tip of her pointy tongue and chewing with obvious relish.
Devonish’s face twitched, but she kept her false smile glued on as she forced a second down. “Yes, divine she repeated,” with effort.
Colin rushed back to the kitchen for another platter of hors d’oeuvres, and entered through the side door where Mrs. Li sat. “Sorry,” he whispered to her.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “I’ve had them before.”
“You will have to introduce me to your invisible friend,” said Mrs. Li, making a point to smile at the hostess and eat a chocolate covered locust. She couldn’t see Sergeant Peary, but decided to play along. “These are very good,” she said, her eyes widening in surprise. “Who made them?”
“My Chef. You can meet her later, if you like,” Grizzelda said with feigned, condescending lightness.
“I would like that, very much, thank you,” responded the educational psychologist with a smile.
Colin had no desire to be caught in the veiled hostility that crackled between the two women. He just couldn’t figure out why his aunt would invite Mrs. Li.
Ofelia appeared at the parlor entrance announcing that dinner would be served in fifteen minutes.
The order of the table running counter-clockwise, on Grizzelda’s right, was Marcus Dundas; Miss Pepperridge, the librarian; Mr. Blandish from the bank; Mrs. Li; Principal Devonish; and (much to Colin’s distress) his soccer coach, Mr. Bone; and beside him, a mousy little woman that Colin assumed, by the way she fussed over the big man, was his wife. Every place at the table was filled, except the head of the table, which remained empty. Colin thought this odd because Grizzelda had instructed them to pour water and wine into the goblets and to fill this place setting first as they brought around the different courses. He wondered who Grizzelda was expecting.
Spike and Colin served the first course of creamy, seafood chowder and Ofelia’s freshly-baked savoury biscuits, then the salad of mixed baby greens and scallops. Next came thick slices of rare beef and roasted vegetables.
Blandish, over the top of his glass, glowered, his eyes darting furtively from one guest to the next. Then, holding up his glass toward Grizzelda, “I have to admit, you have done marvels with the place.”
Grizzelda took a cautious sip of wine. Spike stood beside her, awkwardly holding a bottle of wine, a white towel over his arm. She then drained her glass and held it for him to refill.
“Yes, it took a while to track down all my grandfather’s rightful possessions, but with your help it was all possible. I am in your debt, Blandish.”
“No, I am in yours,” he said stiffly, clearly uncomfortable at having to return to the scene of the crime. He had indeed been the one who had auctioned off a lot of the house’s paintings and statues after Horwood’s death, accumulating a tidy profit, but now he had accumulated a tidy cost having to retrieve many of them. And somehow this woman had known exactly what had gone missing.
Mr. Bone, working his square face, attempting to sound self-important, waved his empty wineglass at Spike, “Boy! Could I have some more wine?” His thick fingers choked the delicate stem of the goblet, and he seemed about to launch into some fawning commentary when Spike purposely spilled some of the dark red liquid onto his hand. Spike knew all about Colin’s soccer coach. “Clumsy kid!”
The mousy woman beside him sprung into action dabbing his hand with her serviette, as though he had received a mortal wound. He shook his hand free of the woman, giving her a threatening look. She sank back down into her chair, hands folded meekly on her lap, but for a moment, before she became entirely neutral, Colin saw a look of extreme unhappiness on her face.
“So, Marcus, I understand the real-estate market has taken a sharp upturn?” asked Blandish casting a dark glance at him.
Marcus didn’t seem to notice.He gave a loud laugh, dispelling the gloom that had settled over the table. He reached over and amicably patted Grizzelda’s hand.
“Only due to our delightful hostess, only due to her. Up until then, I would definitely describe the market as rather flat, but you know, flat is as flat does,” giving another laugh and turning to Grizzelda in anticipation, a little boy unable to restrain himself. “Is it time?”
“Time for what?” barked Bone, resentful that somebody he regarded as ‘fat’ and ‘unhealthy’ was garnering more attention than he was.
“Time to, how does one put it, time to wake the dead?” she said serenely, pleased with the silencing effect her words had on everyone at the table, except, of course, for the mouse, Mrs. Bone, and Miss Pepperridge, who had been nothing but silent through the whole of the meal.
“Wake the dead?” blustered Bone, sputtering out some wine over the table.
The wife’s serviette leaped to action again.
Marcus stood up, reached for his bagpipes and shouldered it tenderly into position. Placing the blowpipe close to his lips, he eyed everyone ecstatically. “Figuratively speaking of course! It has been said the pipes can disturb the dead, but I’ve never seen a dead person get up and do the He’land fling!” He laughed. “Now that would be something to see! No, no, don’t look so aghast, I’m just going to pipe in the beauty of the highlands, the light of the glens, the delightfully palatable – the haggis!”
Back in the kitchen, Sergeant Peary, after whispering something in Ofelia’s ear, and making her smile, had taken the haggis from her.
“What?” said Sergeant Peary, who had transformed his clothes from tuxedo to full Highland dress. “Haven’t any of you ever seen a ghost in a kilt before? It shows off a good, sturdy pair of legs, am I not right, lass? You know why Caesar wore those floor length togas? He had legs like a chicken! There’s nothing that makes a dictator more tyrannical than chicken legs! Hitler, Napoleon, Stalin, Mussolini, all had chicken legs!”
Spike, Melissa and Ofelia laughed. Colin rolled his eyes, determined not to. The pipes, bass and tenor drones screeching in dissonance, began to fill the entire house. The melody skirled like a thousand harpies at choir. Sergeant Peary’s right foot started tapping to the music.
Everyone was waiting for G
rizzelda.
“So,” said Spike staring at the numerous glasses balancing on his serving tray, “who gets what?”
“I thought Grizzelda was going to serve those? I don’t think you were supposed to pick those up,” cautioned Colin.
Spike’s face went white, and he was about to put the glasses back down, when Grizzelda burst into the kitchen. She glared at him.
“What are you doing?” she hissed lividly. “I told everyone that I would handle those drinks!” She cast Sergeant Peary a vitreous glance and pushed her way out the door.
“She can see you?” asked Colin who already knew she could.
“Why shouldn’t she be able to?” said Sergeant Peary nonchalantly, “She’s my niece, isn’t she? Can’t you see the family resemblance? We’re both nuts.” He turned his ear to the music and started to march on the spot, the pleats in his kilt swinging attractively back and forth. “Not bad, not bad. I do believe the boy can play!” he said. “Forward, march!”
Led by Grizzelda, the haggis, floated into the room, levitating six-feet above the sparkling marble floor, and fully circled the dining table, then continued until it hovered by Grizzelda’s chair. As the pipes skirled away, Grizzelda went methodically to each person, placing a small glass of wine before them and Colin followed her, placing a delicate slice of the haggis on their plates. He noticed that his aunt hesitated before placing the glass beside Mrs. Li. What was she playing at? thought Colin. Grizzelda returned to her seat and lifted her own glass in toast. Dundas’ face, nearly purple with the effort of piping, his fingers flashing over the chanter, looked relieved and stopped playing. He reached for his own glass, the pipes giving a plaintive last moan as they slumped into the crook of his arm.
“I wish to make an announcement, and a toast,” began Grizzelda her eyes shining with glee. “A while ago, I had Mr. Blandish send a sample of my DNA for analysis. Mr. Blandish?”
The thin, ferret-like man rose to his feet, his fingers fumbling to unfold a piece of paper. He cleared his throat. “The evidence has determined the identity of the sample as belonging to the only surviving relative of the deceased Zuhayer B. Horwood.” He looked up removing his long nose from the paper and regarded the table. “There is no reason to believe that Grizzelda Star Blanket is not Zuhayer B. Horwood’s granddaughter, Millicent Horwood, the rightful heir to the Horwood estate.” He remained standing and lifted his goblet in salute.
“This wine,” said Grizzelda in an expository tone, “is from Zuhayer’s own cellar, and as you will find, is of an excellent vintage.” She lifted her glass high, and the sound of chairs scraping the floor filled the room as everyone at the table rose to their feet. “To my grand-father!” she targeted her toast to the head of the table where the empty chair resided, “May he once again reside amongst us.” And with this she toasted the empty chair.
She drank, but the rest of her guests were caught in stupefied shock. Out of a desire to protect Grizzelda from embarrassment, Marcus lifted his goblet even higher and in addendum added: “To you, the new Lady of Horwood House.”
“To the new Lady of Horwood House!” repeated everyone, and everyone drank.
Marcus drained his goblet. “Ah, that was truly delightful.” Then he paused, wavering a bit. “Strange,” he said quizzically patting his stomach, “I feel suddenly rather famished!”
To Colin’s surprise, and Grizzelda’s growing look of consternation, Dundas wolfed down several slices of haggis and several more helpings of the main course. Colin watched as Grizzelda’s expression went from one of surprise, to contorted agony, to horror, until that horror, unable to be contained any longer, exploded. She began to scream at everyone, shouting at them, telling them to get out. Everyone confused got up from the table, except Marcus who had eaten himself into a stupor and passed out, his face partially buried in a mound of roasted new potatoes. Then suddenly, the candle chandelier above the table blew out and the rest of the lights in the house flickered and went out, casting them into pitch darkness.
Colin felt a force shoving him from behind. He stumbled trying to remain upright and stumbled again.
“Hey, what’s going on?” cried Colin.
“Over to the side,” growled Sergeant Peary, “now! There’s a Nix in this room like nothing you’ve ever seen.”
The lights came back on, revealing Sergeant Peary standing in front of everyone, invisible to most, his machine gun sweeping the room, looking for a target. Melissa’s Raven was hovering over her head, wings flapping protectively while Spike’s Coyote prowled back and forth snarling.
Over by the table, on the floor, cradling Marcus’ bagpipes was Grizzelda. She was weeping, her tears flowing down her cheeks and onto the tartan plaid of the bag cover. The food at the head of the table was gone, and so too was Marcus Tiberius Dundas.
