Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  The waitress appeared and Lorinda prepared to pounce. It was pounce or scream. At least three of the Judases in that coven of critics had hailed the advent of each of Miss Petunia’s adventures with cries of seeming rapture. And this was what they really thought!

  No wonder Victorian bank managers had had such a reputation for omniscience. Their customers could never have suspected the acoustical betrayal of those impressive marble walls. One careless word to an accompanying spouse or friend and their doom was sealed, with foreclosure and bankruptcy proceedings in their future.

  “I have two cats at home.” With a charming smile to the waitress, Lorinda shamelessly plotted to denude the tray. “And they’d never forgive me if I didn’t bring home some treats for them.”

  “Oh, I know.” The waitress smiled back and Lorinda vaguely recognized her as one of the assistants in the local hairdressing salon. “You’ve got those two lovely splashy-coloured cats.”

  “That’s right. The tortoiseshell is Had-I and the calico is But-Known. They’re sisters.” Lorinda piled chicken, beef and even cocktail sausages into the thoughtfully provided napkin, prior to transfer into the plastic kitty-bag. For good measure, she took a couple of cheese-and-onion miniature quiches and bit into one recklessly. The cats were indifferent to pastry.

  “You want to take some more of these goodies home to your little kitties,” Elsie – yes, that was her name, Elsie – said understandingly. “There’s heaps of food out back – they’ll never eat it all. Look” – she thrust the tray at Lorinda – “you take this around and I’ll go back and pack up a takeaway for you to bring home to your cats.”

  “Oh, well ... thank you.” Lorinda caught the tray as Elsie rushed away. What a nice child. She hoped she had tipped her enough last time she’d had her hair done.

  “Lorinda! They’ve pressed you into service, have they?”

  “Aren’t you kind? How good everything looks.”

  The group she had so lately been eavesdropping on greeted her with enthusiasm and took their pick of her wares.

  “I hope this doesn’t presage a career change for you,” the scrawny female from the Sunday Special miaowed. “I’m so looking forward to the next delightful instalment from St. Waldemar Boniface.”

  Lorinda bared her teeth at her, just managing to bite back a sharp retort that would betray that she knew what they had just been saying.

  “Hold it! Don’t move!” It was as well she had been warned or she might have dropped the tray. She clung to it grimly as the wild explosion of black dots blinded her again. Damn! If Karla really wanted to murder Jack, there would be no shortage of witnesses to swear that she had been sitting innocently at the bridge table with them at the crucial moment.

  “Great! The murder writer as hostess! Would you take a canapé from someone who’s killed as many people as Lorinda Lucas has? It will make a great caption.”

  “Perhaps one of us should collapse at her feet,” the Sunday Special suggested acidly. “That would make a great picture, too.”

  “Hey! Terrific!” Jack raised the camera, then lowered it again as no one moved. “Oh, that was a joke, huh? But it’s still a great idea. Why don’t we do it?”

  This time Lorinda moved, sliding quietly away from the group while Jack was still looking hopefully from face to face. Really, the man was impossible! What had Karla ever seen in him in the first place?

  And what was taking Elsie so long? She had to get rid of this tray before Jack came after her again. Lorinda veered over to a marble table that was so much a part of the wall that it seemed to be growing out of it and rested her tray on it, shoving aside two bowls of olives, an ashtray, a saucer of peanuts and a flower arrangement.

  “Good work!” She was not alone. Macho materialized at her side, eyes gleaming as he reached for a napkin and began loading it up with chicken kebabs.

  “Clever you!” Gemma appeared on her other side and reached for the medallions of beef. “Just what we needed – a tray of our own.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” They were shameless. Lorinda cast an anxious glance around to make sure they were unobserved – at least by their host. “Be careful!”

  “I don’t care who sees me,” Macho said defiantly, but he took an uneasy look over his shoulder.

  “What about who photographs you?” Lorinda pointed out, as a series of flashes went off in the distance. “Talk about grounds for blackmail!”

  “He’d better not try it,” Macho growled. “Anyway, there’s nothing blackmailable about it. It’s not a criminal offense.”

  “Quite right.” Freddie appeared behind them. “It may be impolite, in bad taste and a trifle shoddy, but it’s not an indictable offense.”

  “It’s always nice to know what your friends really think of you,” Macho said sourly.

  The others regarded Freddie unmoved. It was all right for her, she was petless at the moment. There would be no hopeful little eyes to greet her when she returned home.

  “Sorry you disapprove,” Gemma said. “We can’t put any canapés back now though, it would look even worse – and so would they.”

  “Never mind.” Freddie shrugged and turned to Lorinda. “The great Plantagenet sent me over to fetch you. Your editor wants to talk to you.”

  “Where is she?” Lorinda looked around. “I didn’t see her here.” A strange man was talking to Plantagenet Sutton, but the familiar face she expected to see was nowhere in sight.

  “It’s a New York editor, I think,” Freddie said vaguely. “A new one.”

  “Oh, not another new one!” She might have guessed; the permanent tan on the stranger’s face marked him out as transatlantic. “Every time I get a letter from New York, there’s a different signature. Can’t these people ever stay put?”

  “It’s happening here, too, these days,” Freddie said. “Just remember the old adage: Be nice to the people you meet on the way up, you’ll meet them again on the way down – and they’ll be even more in need of kindness then.”

  Plantagenet Sutton and the new editor were both looking in her direction now. Lorinda waved to them and nodded to signal that the message had been received and would be acted upon as soon as possible. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elsie approaching with a freshly laden tray and winced inwardly. She moved slightly to one side, so that Macho was shielding her, and hoped the transfer of booty could be made inconspicuously.

  “There you are,” Elsie greeted her, and leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Too many people around. I’ll fill one of those little plastic tubs and leave it outside the back door. You can pick it up on your way home.”

  “Wonderful!” Lorinda beamed at her gratefully and went to meet her new editor unburdened and with a moderately clear conscience.

  By the time she was able to get away, the party was breaking up. Freddie and Macho were nowhere in sight. The local catering staff had also disappeared and only Betty Alvin and Gordie Crane were still on duty, looking tired and tight-lipped, collecting up the used glasses as soon as they were set down and carrying them away to the improvised pantry behind the screens. A clear signal the party was over.

  Plantagenet Sutton’s wavering gaze did not quite focus on Lorinda as she thanked him for a delightful party and made her escape.

  Outside, she hesitated. The night seemed extraordinarily dark and a chill wind was rising. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, presaging rain, and trees and bushes rustled ominously. She shivered involuntarily.

  The streetlamp marking the turning into the narrow aperture that was Coffers Passage seemed to have burned out. No wonder the night seemed so much darker.

  It took her a long moment to argue herself into taking the short cut. Yes, it was dark. Yes, it looked sinister. Yes, it was the sort of thing she groaned about when one of the colleagues sent the heroine into such a foolhardy venture. But this was real life; this was Brimful Coffers, not some urban jungle with danger lurking around every comer. Of course, it was a perfectly safe thing to do and it
would enable her to pick up the cats’ treats and get home so much more quickly.

  She was halfway down Coffers Passage when she heard the faint echoing footsteps.

  They were so faint... even furtive ... that she could not tell whether they were behind her or in front of her.

  She looked over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the long dark alley behind her. Nor did anything seem to be looming menacingly in the shadows ahead.

  There was a perfectly simple explanation. The last guests were still leaving the party, she was hearing their footsteps as they walked along the pavement outside Coffers Court. Sounds carried strangely in the still night air, often distorted and seeming to come from a different direction.

  Nevertheless, she quickened her own steps, instinctively tilting forward onto her toes to minimize any sounds she might make. The end of the passage seemed an endless length away; she moved toward it steadily, forcing herself not to run.

  As she reached the end of the passage and turned into the back street, she realized that the footsteps were no longer audible. The relief that swept over her left her feeling silly. There had never been any threat in them – why had she allowed them to disturb her so? The dark night and restless wind preying upon her imagination probably, not to mention the lavishness with which the catering staff had dispensed the champagne.

  She walked purposefully along the vine-covered wall that enclosed the back garden of Coffers Court and opened the narrow wooden door set discreetly into the wall. It was usually kept locked, but not tonight; the caterers and delivery people would have needed access all evening.

  The little round white plastic carton was waiting in a corner of the top step, right where Elsie had promised it would be, just visible in the dim glow of the light from the windows looking onto the garden.

  It was heavier than she expected, Elsie must have crammed it full. Just as she began to pick it up, there was a sudden high-pitched burst of unamused laughter from somewhere eerily close at hand.

  Lorinda nearly dropped the carton. As it slipped, she heard a faint clink – what else had she dropped? Her groping hand encountered something small and flat and cold. Automatically, she gathered up the object and squinted at it in disbelief.

  Pince-nez ... gold-rimmed pince-nez ... their broken cord dangling from one side. There was only one person she had ever known – or, rather, imagined – who wore pince-nez ...

  The high-pitched mocking laughter sounded again, fading into the distance.

  Lorinda thrust the pince-nez into her coat pocket and stumbled down the flagstone path to the door in the wall.

  It was some sort of joke. Not funny and in poor taste – as though the autocratic Miss Petunia intended to reprimand her for... for ...?

  Impossible! She really had drunk too deeply of Plantagenet Sutton’s champagne to let it affect her like this.

  She did not even try to muffle her footsteps as she gained the street and turned towards home. This time she ran.

  3

  Chapter Twenty

  “Oooh!” Marigold squealed, clapping her hands girlishly. “It all looks so beautiful! Like Fairyland!”

  “Not bad, if I do say so myself.” Lily descended the stepladder, hammer swinging carelessly in her hand.

  “A beautiful job, my dear.” The vicar’s wife always seemed to speak through clenched teeth. “Although you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. My husband had planned to –”

  “No trouble at all.” Lily beamed. “Looks good.” Streamers stretched across the ceiling, clusters of balloons bloomed in every corner and fairy lights sparkled everywhere.

  “Oh, very good,” the vicar’s wife agreed quickly, smartly stepping back out of range of the swinging hammer.

  “Yes,” Miss Petunia approved. “This is going to be one of our most successful bazaars. I can feel it.”

  The church hall had never looked so attractive, if one did say so oneself. The tables were laden with needlework, knitting, homemade cakes, jams and preserves, books, bric-à-brac, and all the hundreds of offerings designed to charm the pennies and pounds out of pockets and purses.

  In one corner an artfully draped sheet represented a gypsy tent, within which lurked a heavily made-up volunteer who (on the strength of having read the two books on graphology and card tricks that comprised the library’s entire stock of unorthodoxy) was going to tell fortunes. In the opposite corner, the tombola spun merrily behind a table filled with numbered prizes to be won. A door in the far corner led to the little side room where teas were to be served and the last corner held the steps leading up to the stage where the judging was to be held. The long trestle table was set out on the stage, laden with the pies, cakes, preserves and jams, ready for the solemn procession of judges to taste and pronounce their verdict upon.

  “Best part of the whole day,” Lily said, looking around with satisfaction. “Too bad we have to let the public in to mess it all up.”

  Everybody laughed heartily. They always laughed heartily at Lily’s jokes. Which was just as well. Lily could become ... difficult ... if she thought she wasn’t appreciated.

  “Let me relieve you of that heavy old thing.” Deftly, Mrs. Reverend Christian abstracted the hammer from Lily’s hand. “Now that you’ve finished with it.” Still laughing gaily, she carried it into the tearoom.

  “I do feel the Reverend Christian is most fortunate in his choice of a life’s mate,” Miss Petunia said, watching her go. “We must keep watch carefully. Nothing like last year’s unfortunate happening must be allowed to mar today’s festival.”

  “Rotten hard luck on the vicar’s wife,” Lily agreed. “A duff mushroom in the mushrooms a la Grecque could happen to anyone.”

  “Rather harder luck on poor Mr. Mallory,” Marigold twinkled. “Still, it was a lovely funeral.”

  “Although a most premature one,” Miss Petunia said severely.

  “Oh, but, Pet, he was dead.” Marigold’s eyes widened earnestly. “Everyone said so.”

  “I am not questioning the fact of his death.” Petunia lowered her voice and her sisters moved closer in order to hear. “But the manner of it!”

  “A duff mushroom in the mushrooms a la Grecque could happen to anyone.” Lily persisted stubbornly in her defence of the vicar’s wife.

  “That is why it was such a brilliant method of murder!” Miss Petunia pointed out triumphantly.

  “Murder!” Lily’s eyes gleamed. “I say, Pet, are we on the trail again?”

  “But who – ?” Marigold breathed.

  “The least likely suspect, of course.” Lily looked around the hall thoughtfully. “How about the gypsy fortune teller? Bad lot, those gypsies, anyway.”

  “She wasn’t here last year, dear,” Miss Petunia reminded her sister. “Besides, she’s not a real gypsy, she’s Miss Plotz, the librarian.”

  “Then who?” Lily’s eyes narrowed, the tip of her nose twitched. Everyone was under suspicion now.

  “You will remember that I was one of the judges last year,” Miss Petunia said. “After Lady Mallerwynn opened the bazaar and did her usual round of the stands, thoughtfully buying something at each, she then went directly to the judging platform on the stage. You might not have noticed it, but she had brought her own silver spoon and silver pickle fork to use in the tastings. The mushrooms a la Grecque were the first of the picklings to be judged. They were opened in her presence. When she removed the pickle fork from her capacious handbag, I noticed that there was something soft and small stuck on the tines – so that she shouldn’t inadvertently stab herself if she groped quickly for a handkerchief, she said.”

  “You mean that Lady Mallerwynn?” Marigold gasped.

  “Precisely! She was, of course, the first to taste – and it would be quite easy for her to add a mushroom as well as take one out! Then it was my turn to taste but – as everyone knows – ever since that terrible holiday we had in Athens, I have never been able to stomach Greek food. So I simply pretended to taste the mushrooms although, natur
ally, I gave Mrs. Christian the highest mark on my scoring pad, for everyone knows she’s a wonderful cook. Then poor Mr. Mallory actually did bite into his mushroom – and we all know the consequences!”

  “Lady Mallerwynn!” Lily’s fists clenched. “And she let the vicar’s wife take the blame!”

  “Oh, it’s so unfair!” Marigold cried. “Especially as poor Mrs. Christian is such a martyr to neuralgia!”

  “Is she?” Miss Petunia was intrigued. “How do you know that, Marigold?”

  “Haven’t you noticed? I have. Every time we’re talking together like this and I glance over at Mrs. Christian, she’s grimacing – bravely trying to hide her pain.”

  With one accord, all three turned their heads to stare at Mrs. Christian. Sure enough, she was grimacing, wincing – in fact, she flinched.

  “Poor woman!” Lily said. “We must do all we can to help her.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Petunia agreed. “That is why we are here. We must keep careful watch today and miss nothing.”

  “But, Pet,” Marigold demurred. “Lady Mallerwynn isn’t here this year, so how could anything go wrong? Besides” – her eyes clouded – “why on earth should she have wanted to kill poor old Mr. Mallory?”

  “Ah!” Miss Petunia adjusted her pince-nez and looked at her sister meaningly. “Just consider the similarity of their two names. It is my suspicion that Mr. Mallory, recently retired from a life in the merchant navy, was really the rightful Lord Mallerwynn and heir to all the fortune and estates. Since returning to his native village of St. Waldemar Boniface and taking up a hobby of genealogy, he would have begun to realize this and be making plans to lay his claims. If that happened, Lady Mallerwynn would be a Lady no longer, she would be forced to leave the Manor and move to a smaller house, the money would no longer belong to her, her sons would no longer be the heirs apparent ...” Miss Petunia lowered her voice. “She might even have to remove them from Eton. That, surely is a motive worth murdering for!”

  “Oh, Pet,” Marigold sighed. “You’re so clever!”