Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  “London? I told you I wanted to go up to London the next time you –” Karla stopped, obviously choked off by the retort from the other end of the line. “But you promised ...” she wailed.

  Freddie winked at Lorinda and bent over Had-I, shaking her hair in a wicked parody of Karla’s mannerism. Had-I stretched up a paw and swiped at a lock of hair as though sharing in the joke. Lorinda caught back a laugh and moved hastily towards the kitchen.

  When she returned, Karla was still in possession of the phone, but seemed calmer. Dorian was always at his best when spreading oil on troubled waters. Possibly that was all he had been doing in New York and Karla had misinterpreted it as some sort of personal invitation to join him in England and ... who knew what? Jack’s presence would put a damper on most plans.

  “Yes, it does sound like fun,” Karla was admitting grudgingly now. “You won’t mind if Jack brings the camera along and records it? I’ll try to see that he doesn’t overdo the shooting – he just got sort of carried away last night.”

  There was a short silence while Karla nodded agreement to whatever was being said on the other end of the line, then she turned to Lorinda. “He wants to talk to you,” she said, holding out the phone.

  Not surprisingly, since he had telephoned her in the first place. “Thank you,” Lorinda said dryly, taking the phone.

  “Lorinda?” Dorian asked cautiously. “Have I got you now?”

  “Yes, Dorian.” Lorinda watched Karla resume her seat. “What is it?”

  “Forgive the informality, but it’s an invitation. I’ve decided to have a little Guy Fawkes party on November fifth. Small and old-fashioned. Just our crowd, potatoes roasting in the bonfire, loads of sausages, perhaps a few sparklers but no fireworks. I thought those of you with beasties could bring them along to share the sausages – so much less messy than trying to wrap up titbits to take home to them, don’t you think?”

  “How kind.” So he’d noticed that and was going to rub it in. He wouldn’t say anything to Plantagenet Sutton, of course, but he was not above insinuating that he might. Dorian liked to keep people off-balance. She wondered if he had been responsible for those pince-nez. It was just the sort of thing he might do.

  “It sounds like a lovely party. I’ll be delighted, but I think the cats had better stay at home. You might not have fireworks, but others in the village undoubtedly will. I don’t want them frightened or worried.” Or startled into running away in territory that was still unfamiliar to them. Dorian didn’t have to worry about such problems with his tropical fish, but pet owners with lively four-legged companions were in a different category.

  “I suppose you know best.” Dorian obviously didn’t believe it for a moment. “Pity. I thought they’d enjoy it.”

  “Another time, perhaps, when the proceedings aren’t likely to get so noisy.”

  Had-I and But-Known came over to sit at her feet, blinking at her as though realizing they were being discussed.

  Lorinda blinked back and it seemed to satisfy them. They slumped down into a sleeping position and closed their eyes.

  “Yes, Freddie’s here, too.” Lorinda answered Dorian’s next question. “Do you want to speak to her or shall I just pass your invitation along?”

  “I’ve already heard it,” Freddie said. “And, yes, thanks, I’ll go to his party. There obviously isn’t going to be anyplace else to go that night.”

  Karla drew in her breath in a shocked hiss. Lorinda nodded and conveyed Freddie’s acceptance, suitably bowdlerized.

  “Ooops!” Freddie gave Karla a severe look. “That was off the record, you understand.”

  “Look,” Karla said, “I’m beginning to get a pretty good idea of what you think of me and I’m not happy about it. Jack and I are two different people, you know. I don’t approve of everything he does and he –” She broke off and lurched to her feet.

  “I’m sorry. I told you my nerves –” She raised a hand to her head. “And I’m getting a ghastly headache, it keeps coming and going ... I can’t get rid of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Freddie apologized in turn. “It’s the idea that you’re doing a book about your winter with us that’s unnerving me. Plus the fact that we have Professor Borley prowling around with the same intention. I’m not very tactful and I know it. I don’t like the feeling that I’ve got to watch everything I say.”

  “You might trust me more,” Karla said reproachfully. “I wouldn’t do that to you – any of you. I’m not some kind of investigative reporter. It’s just going to be a light-hearted informal history of a year in England. And I’ll make sure Jack clears the photos with you before we use any of them.”

  “That’s something.” Lorinda and Freddie exchanged glances, repressing the information that Macho would never authorize any picture of himself for publication.

  “Perhaps it would be a good idea if we passed the word along,” Freddie said helpfully. “It might make life easier.”

  “Oh, would you?” Karla asked gratefully. “I’d try to tell people myself, but I don’t often get a chance to get out without Jack. He’d kill me if he knew I was apologizing for him and making promises about his photographs.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Freddie assured her. “Everyone will be glad to know that they’re not going to spend the winter under two microscopes. Professor Borley and his interviews will be bad enough.”

  Lorinda felt an uneasy qualm. Something about this situation was...

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” Karla said. “I’d be so grateful. After all, I – I don’t have any friends here yet. And I do want people to like me.”

  “Of course.” There was something quizzical about Freddie’s smile, but only someone familiar with her expressions would know that.

  “Well ...” Karla looked around restlessly. “I’m sorry, but my headache is getting so much worse. There’s nothing for it but to go home and lie down in a darkened room. But I’m so glad to have had this talk with you both.”

  “Yes.” Lorinda and the cats escorted her to the door and saw her out.

  “Poor dear,” Lorinda said, returning to the living room. “She hasn’t a clue about Dorian’s ‘arrangements,’ has she? Or do you think he’s ready to turn over a new leaf and settle down?”

  Freddie snorted. “I think our Dorian prizes the quiet life too much to change it now. And he’s too much of a snob to swap a titled lady in London for a not-yet-divorced American termagant.”

  “You don’t think you might be too hard on her? She’s trying so desperately to fit in. And she is rather sweet, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, absolutely charming,” Freddie agreed. “You’d never dream that she’d even heard some of the words that have come through my walls when she’s in full screech.”

  “We can all have a surprising vocabulary when we lose our tempers – and that husband doesn’t seem to bring out the best in her.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. Only ...” Freddie looked thoughtful.

  “Yes?” Lorinda prompted.

  “Do you ever get the feeling that you’ve just been very cleverly manipulated?”

  4

  By the fifth of November, Lorinda was in no mood for a party. Not after the week she had just endured.

  First, Had-I had suddenly begun moping about the house, resisting But-Known’s invitations to play, picking at her food and sleeping most of the time. Just as Lorinda was about to take her to the vet, she had begun retching and heaving and had slowly disgorged an enormous hairball. No wonder she had been so uncomfortable.

  Then Freddie had dropped in frequently with further complaints about the Jackleys. So had Macho, who couldn’t stop worrying about the pictures that Jack had taken.

  “I’ve got to get those photographs,” he brooded. “And the negatives. My Macho Magee would break in, burgle the house, take what he wanted and perhaps smash up some of the furniture as well – but I haven’t had any experience in that sort of thing. Do you think I should send Jackl
ey a solicitor’s letter?”

  Now, at her feet, But-Known looked up anxiously and gave an experimental little throat-clearing cough. After all, she might be incubating a hairball, too.

  “Oh, But-But, baby.” Lorinda stooped and gathered the little calico into her arms. “Haven’t you been getting your fair share of attention this week? I’ll try to do better, I promise.”

  In the distance, a string of firecrackers rat-tat-tatted into the dusk and But-Known flinched.

  “All right,” Lorinda soothed, holding her close. “It’s all right.”

  Nearer to the house, a rocket hissed up into the darkening sky. Had-I leaped up on the windowsill and hissed back. The rocket burst with a thunderclap into a shower of scintillating multi-coloured sparks. Had-I jumped down, skittered across the room, leaped to the top of the desk and gazed up at Lorinda indignantly.

  “Sorry, my darlings.” Still cuddling But-Known, she reached out a hand to ruffle Had-I’s fur gently. “I’d stop it if I could, but it’s out of my control. This is Guy Fawkes Night.”

  And she had promised to go to Dorian’s party. Now that the night had arrived, she would have preferred to spend a quiet evening with the cats, providing a reassuring presence against their fears. However, it was not to be. Dorian had rung from London last night to assure everyone that he would be back today and remind them that he was expecting them at the party. The best she could do was to shut the cats in the bedroom with plenty of food, close the curtains and leave the party early to get back to them. Not the most satisfactory solution, but it would have to do.

  She carried But-Known into the bedroom, Had-I followed close at her heels. They both settled at the foot of the bed while she changed. A hasty phone consultation with Rhylla and Freddie that morning had resulted in general agreement that trousers and heavy pullovers under jackets would be the most suitable clothes against the chilly night. If the festivities moved indoors, the jackets could be removed.

  The cats sniffed suspiciously at the gourmet cat food she set out for them and turned their backs on it. She was going out against their wishes and bribes were not going to pacify them – at least not while she was watching.

  “Suit yourselves,” she said, as they leaped back on the bed and settled down. “It’s there when you want it. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  Lorinda had just added a gold chain around her neck and freshened her lipstick when the doorbell rang. She went downstairs to greet Freddie and Macho, who had come to collect her.

  “I must admit,” Freddie said, as they crossed the High Street, “it is rather nice to be able to walk to places.”

  “No need to worry about your drink when you’re not driving,” Macho agreed. “I’ll wager Sutton takes full advantage of it tonight.”

  “No takers,” Freddie said. “That’s a sucker bet, if I ever heard one.”

  “Yoo-hoo, wait a minute!” a voice called out behind them. Gemma Duquette bustled up. “Oh, good, now we can all arrive together. I hate making an entrance on my own.”

  “Join the club.” Freddie moved over.

  “Trust Dorian,” Macho said bitterly, as they climbed the hill on the other side of the High Street, “to ensconce himself in the Manor House before any of the rest of us got a look-in at the property market in the town.”

  “It’s only a small manor house,” Gemma said defensively. “And he’s worked very hard.”

  “So have we,” Freddie said with a trace of belligerency.

  “Of course, of course,” Gemma said hastily. “I’m just so delighted and grateful that Dorian thought of me when he found that Coffers Court still had some flats available. I can’t tell you how good it is to be able to settle down among the friends and colleagues I’ve always worked with.”

  “Better than King’s Langley, I suppose,” Freddie muttered.

  “What? Oh, Dorian –” He had opened the door to them. “What a splendid idea for a party. Guy Fawkes Night – how I’ve been looking forward to it!”

  “About as original as most of his ideas,” Macho grumbled sotto voce, before advancing to offer a limp handshake and even limper smile.

  “Come in ... come in ...” Dorian looked beyond them with a slightly nervous air, then seemed to relax as he realized no one else was with them. “Drinks are being served out on the terrace ... just make your way through.”

  The drawing room doors opened out onto the long paved terrace with its stone balustrade and steps leading down to the lawn where an enormous stack of wood larded with rolled newspapers, kindling and magazines waited. On top, the traditional dummy sprawled uncomfortably awaiting its fate.

  The drawing room doors were wide open – so much for any idea of taking off their jackets; it was nearly as cold inside as out. A fire was laid in the fireplace, but not yet lit.

  Lorinda was relieved to see that a barbecue had been set up in a corner of the terrace; they were not going to have to stand at the edge of a roaring conflagration waving their sausages on toasting forks and trying to dodge stray spurts of flame. Foil-wrapped potatoes nestled among the burning coals; obviously they had been cooked in a proper oven and the baking process was being finished in the barbecue, no waiting until the bonfire died down and then scrabbling in the ashes for potatoes which might be only half baked.

  “How civilized.” The relief in Freddie’s voice betrayed that she also had had her reservations about an old-fashioned Guy Fawkes party. “Leave it to Dorian. We can eat properly and enjoy the bonfire without having to play around its edges.”

  “Over here!” Plantagenet Sutton, presiding over the bar, called imperiously. “What are you having?” Three drinks trolleys had been pushed together to form a bar on which was displayed practically every liquor known to man. “Name – dare I say? – your poison.”

  “Oh, no,” Freddie groaned. “How I hate coyness. Especially in postmenopausal males.”

  “Not so loud,” Lorinda cautioned. “You’re up for review next.” A fugitive gleam in Gemma’s eye reminded her that any incautious remark might be repeated later, probably with embellishments, to the person concerned. There was also the possibility that Gemma would take inspiration from the activity around her and decide to write her memoirs.

  “We know what yours is,” Plantagenet smirked, waving a bottle of tequila at Macho. The worm curled up at the bottom rolled about wildly.

  “Not tonight,” Macho growled, hunching his shoulders defensively. “I’m in a bourbon mood tonight.”

  “Still a good Macho choice, eh?” Plantagenet winked, reaching for the Wild Turkey. He left the tequila ostentatiously in the front row of bottles, where everyone could see that it had never been opened. In sharp contrast, the Wild Turkey was well depleted.

  Macho snatched his drink with a growl of acknowledgment which was not quite thanks.

  “Now I’ll serve the ladies – sorry, women.” Plantagenet turned to them with a beaming smile. “No sexist nonsense here, I hope you notice. Macho made a decision, so he was served first. Have you browsed around all these fascinating bottles enough yet to have made your choices?”

  “I’ll stick to gin and tonic, thanks,” Lorinda said quickly, before an enraged Freddie could say something she’d be sorry for later.

  “Oh, perhaps just a teeny splash from that rather exotic purple curlicue bottle.” Gemma evidently felt that she had to live up – or down – to the Little Woman typecasting. She knew her Woman’s Place, as she often used to jest. Lorinda wouldn’t have risked it herself, that bottle looked too exotic; she wouldn’t put it past either Dorian or Plantagenet, or both, to have slipped a few perfume bottles in amongst the collection.

  “I’ll have a whiskey mac,” Freddie said, “on a night like this.” A cold wind gusted across the terrace, in the distance more fireworks exploded and stray rockets soared into the sky.

  “Ah, yes.” Plantagenet distributed the requested drinks. “Nice night for a murder, eh? With all the background noise, no one would notice the proverbial shots
ringing out.”

  “Red herrings,” Macho growled. “Check out that dummy on top of the bonfire first.”

  “What a good idea.” Plantagenet beamed at him, carefully refilling his own glass from a bottle secreted on the lower shelf of a trolley. “Why don’t you climb up and make sure? Be careful, that structure looks quite rickety to me. And, of course, you mustn’t let yourself be trapped on top when the torch is set to the kindling at the base.”

  “I know who I’d like to see on top of that bonfire,” Freddie muttered.

  They all turned to survey the bonfire, instinctively looking at the sprawled dummy. A sudden flash brought on the familiar light-splattered blindness.

  “Great shot!” Jack Jackley shouted. He and Karla had obviously been circling the bonfire, taking shots from different angles, and had come around it in time to catch the group on the terrace looking at it.

  “Alternatively,” Plantagenet said thoughtfully, “you could strangle the victim with his own camera strap. You wouldn’t need background explosions to cover that. It would be nice and quiet – and a public service.”

  Hmmm, interesting to know that Jack was also getting on Plantagenet’s nerves. One would never suspect him of objecting to being photographed anywhere, any time. Perhaps he felt he wasn’t looking his best tonight.

  Trailing in the wake of the Jackleys, more guests appeared; Rhylla Montague, talking with Professor Borley and Jennifer Lane, who owned the village bookshop. There were several other villagers as well, who had already learned that it was safer to be behind Jack and his camera than in front of him.

  Karla made a helpless apologetic gesture as she and Jack stepped up on to the terrace. Lorinda noticed that, although Karla seemed to wish to dissociate herself from her husband, they were wearing matching outfits. Both were dressed in cream-coloured jeans, cream turtleneck pullovers and fawn jackets, making them faintly ghostlike in the darkness. They obviously had no idea of the effect on their costumes of the smuts and ashes that would be flying through the air as soon as the bonfire was lit.