Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  “Neither of which she heeded.” Miss Petunia faced them implacably.

  “Perhaps we should try again,” Marigold said nervously. “Surely, we can make her understand.”

  “Waste of time,” Lily said.

  “Quite right. The woman is obtuse!” Miss Petunia declared. “Furthermore, she is completely self-obsessed. She does not care what happens to us.”

  “Thinks only of herself,” Lily said. “Bone-selfish.”

  “We have established that, dear,” Miss Petunia said. “Now we must decide what to do about it.”

  “Chop!” Lily looked into the distance, her mouth pursed in a soundless whistle. Her hand came up to make a slashing motion across her throat. “Give her the chop!” “Oh, no!” Marigold gasped. “No! That’s too drastic!”

  “She’s trying to do it to us,” Lily reminded her.

  “I fear dear Lily is right,” Miss Petunia said. “The time has come for decisive action. Before it is too late.”

  “Too late?” Marigold’s eyes widened. “Oh, Petunia, whatever can you mean? However could it be too late?”

  “Only too easily, I fear,” Miss Petunia said. “Just suppose that our ... our Chronicler –” She gave the word an unpleasant sneering twist. “Our Author ... were to actually use one of those evil disgraceful chapters one day? Suppose that, either by accident or design, she ended the current book with it, sent it off to the publishers – and they published it?”

  “Oh, Petunia!” Marigold reeled with dismay. “Surely they wouldn’t do that! They’d expostulate with her, make her rewrite the ending ... Wouldn’t they?”

  “They might,” Miss Petunia conceded. “Then again, they might not. They might consider that the publicity she would achieve by killing us off might outweigh the disadvantages.”

  “Barmy bunch, publishers,” Lily agreed. “Never can tell with them.”

  “But ... all those books ...” Marigold did look as though she were fading. “All those years ...”

  “Precisely,” Miss Petunia said. “They might think we’d run our course.”

  “Outstayed our welcome,” Lily said. “Time for a change.”

  “Precisely! Especially if Lorinda Lucas has an idea for a new series. The publicity attendant upon our demise would get it off to a flying start.”

  “And she’d never look back,” Lily said.

  “But ... but ... we’d be ... gone.” Marigold could not encompass the thought. “Of course” – She brightened – “there are still all those previous books.”

  “Much good they’d do us,” Lily said. “Oh, she could lean back and still collect royalties from them, but we’d be on the shelf. In our graves.”

  “I fear dear Lily has put her finger on the nub of the matter.” Miss Petunia adjusted her pince-nez and gazed sadly at her sisters.

  “But ...” Marigold was still unwilling to believe it. “Has Miss Lucas another series in mind? Surely, we’d know about it. I ... I haven’t received any intimations. Have you?”

  “That is why we must act now,” Miss Petunia said. “Before she does. Her mind is a blank on other characters at the moment, but there are pernicious influences afoot. She is being unsettled by the company of her peers and all their dissatisfactions. Things have not been the same since the fateful day she moved to Brimful Coffers!”

  “Then why don’t we ask her to move away again?” Marigold suggested brightly. “Then everything can be the way it was before.”

  “No.” Miss Petunia shook her head gravely. Even Lily was shaking her head. “The situation is too advanced. There can be no going back.”

  “No going back ...” Lily echoed grimly.

  “But ...” Marigold’s mood veered, now she seemed on the verge of tears. “But ... what can we do?”

  “Now, Marigold,” Miss Petunia said gently. “We have discussed this before. You know the options.”

  “But we can’t!” Marigold wailed. “It would be too brutal ... too cruel ...”

  “Too soft-hearted for her own good,” Lily snorted. “Any less brutal or less cruel than what she has been doing to us?” Miss Petunia asked bluntly.

  “But ... but we have always stood for law and order.” Marigold raised tear-drenched eyes. “For justice! We ... we’re the good guys!”

  “Do it right,” Lily muttered, “and nobody will ever suspect it was us.”

  “Quite right, dear,” Miss Petunia approved. “As dear Marigold has pointed out, we are the ‘good guys.’ For that reason alone, no one would ever suspect us. Apart from other reasons ...” She let the thought trail off delicately.

  “What other reasons?” Marigold asked innocently.

  “Well, dear, we are ... after all ...” Miss Petunia tried to think of a tactful way of phrasing it.

  “Fictional.” Lily had no such compunction.

  “Er, yes. We do exist ... for the most part ... on the printed page,” Miss Petunia admitted reluctantly.

  “Then ... then how are we going to do anything?”

  “We will find a way,” Miss Petunia vowed.

  “Oh ...” Marigold brightened. “You mean like ‘Love will find a way’?”

  “Not exactly,” Miss Petunia said. “In this case it’s more like ... hate.”

  “No two ways about it,” Lily said. “Only one thing to do.”

  Marigold covered her face with her hands and sobbed as her sisters chorused in unison:

  “Lorinda Lucas

  m

  u

  s

  t

  d

  i

  e.”

  “I was shattered to get the news,” Dorian said, squinting into his champagne glass. “Quite shattered. However, we can be thankful for one thing. He went the way he’d have wanted to go: drunk.”

  There was no doubt that he relished the shocked gasps from some of his audience; those who knew him well wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “That guy is beginning to get on my nerves,” Jack snarled quietly to Lorinda. “It was nice and peaceful while he was away, now everybody’s on edge again.”

  Lorinda nodded, more in acknowledgment than agreement. So far as she had noticed, life had not been especially peaceful in the two weeks that Dorian had been on his cruise, and everyone had been on edge well before his return. Freddie and Macho in particular.

  True, the holiday season had passed by quietly. Plantagenet’s demise had put paid to any festive spirit that might have been stirring. Once the police had wrapped up their perfunctory (Plantagenet’s reputation was well known; there were rumours the wine merchant was going to drape his windows in black) inquiries, those who could manage it escaped Brimful Coffers for their holidays. Rhylla Montague had picked up a last-minute reservation at a Country House Hotel and taken off for Devon with Clarice. Gemma Duquette and Betty Alvin had retreated to the respective family Christmases they had been congratulating themselves on avoiding before the prospect seemed an improvement on staying in a depleted Coffers Court. The Jackleys, in an excess of hospitality, or possibly because they couldn’t face each other’s unadulterated company, had invited Lorinda, Freddie, Macho and Professor Borley to Christmas dinner and they had all found it the line of least resistance to accept.

  Everyone was relieved when the holiday season ended and life began to chug slowly back to normal. Except ... except ...

  Lorinda tore her mind away from the thought of that new and menacing chapter she had discovered beside her typewriter. Her mind ... her mind ...

  “Oh, I’m sorry –” She became aware that Jack was staring at her questioningly. She hadn’t heard a word he’d been saying. “I – I’m afraid I missed that. It’s noisy in here, isn’t it?”

  “That’s OK. I’m getting used to it with you people. Either you snap my head off when I make a little joke, like Freddie. Or you look right through me, like Macho. And even my own wife. And the excuse is always you’re thinking about the new book.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lorinda was beginn
ing to feel guilty about Jack and resented it. “But we are.”

  “Not your fault.” His attention was on the group surrounding Dorian, where his wife was being breathlessly attentive. He gripped his new camera so tightly that he winced.

  “Jeez!” he burst out. “I’d like to nail that guy. I’d like to get a picture of him picking his nose, or something worse. I want him in pieces. I want him –”

  Dead. The unsaid word hung in the air, resonating clearly. Jack darted a furtive look at her to see if she had heard it, too. She tried to keep her face blank and appear oblivious.

  “Dorian’s in great form.” Freddie came up to them. “His cruise seems to have done him a world of good.”

  “Maybe we should all try it,” Macho said, closing ranks on the other side. “We need something. There are still a couple of months of damp and fog until spring. I’m not looking forward to February here – or March, either.”

  “Why don’t we just send Dorian away again?” Jack was bitter. “That would improve the atmosphere one hundred percent for me.”

  “Shhh!” Freddie said. “He’s coming this way.”

  “I don’t care,” Jack muttered, but he subsided.

  “Ah, a cluster of colleagues.” Dorian was upon them, tanned, fit, the comers of his eyes crinkling with amusement. He glanced at Jack. “Almost,” he added.

  Jack responded by stepping back swiftly, raising the camera and firing off a shot he obviously hoped would blind Dorian, but Dorian was too quick for him and shifted focus just in time. Jack lowered the camera and walked over to join his wife.

  “Freddie, you’ve lost weight,” Dorian said. “You’re growing positively Wraith-like.” He chuckled at his own joke. No one else did.

  “And Macho, how many blondes have you bedded and blasted while I’ve been away?” Again the joke fell flat.

  “Lorinda, I won’t try to equate you with any of your characters. You’re still too pretty and too young ... perhaps in a few more years.

  Lorinda stared at him as coldly as the others. The thought of tiptoeing into the sunset years with Dorian was chilling. How had they allowed themselves to be persuaded into this trap? On the other hand, Brimful Coffers was quite a pleasant village, most of the inhabitants were congenial ... now that Plantagenet was no longer with them. It could be even pleasanter ... without Dorian.

  Dorian looked around with a vaguely dissatisfied air, probably wondering if there was anyone he hadn’t insulted yet.

  Lorinda saw Jack tense as Dorian looked his way then, with a dismissive smile to the rest of them, stroll in that direction. Karla’s face lit up as she saw him coming; she, at least, was glad to see him. Jack raised his camera defensively, as though it were a shield.

  “I don’t know about Dorian,” Freddie said reflectively, “but it definitely looks as though absence has made Karla’s heart grow fonder.”

  “Perhaps that was the idea,” Macho said. “If there really is something going on between them, Karla may not have been moving fast enough to suit him.”

  “If he wants her to move.” Freddie was still thoughtful. “He may have been hoping she’d cool down a bit, I think the situation suits him just the way it is; he doesn’t want to formalize it. What Karla wants is another story.”

  “I don’t see why she doesn’t just get a divorce,” Lorinda said. “She hasn’t any religious scruples about it, has she?”

  “Religion doesn’t come into it.” Freddie gave her a pitying glance. “Unless you count Mammon as a religion.”

  “But she doesn’t need to worry about alimony, does she? I’d have thought her sales were good enough to support her comfortably.”

  “Haven’t you heard about Equal Rights?” Freddie raised an eyebrow. “The trouble is, as a lot of women are finding out, that it works both ways. It’s not just the man who pays any more. If they divorce and he can show, as I’m sure he can, that he supported her through the early years of struggle, then he’s entitled to a half share in her copyrights.”

  “Wha-at?” Macho squawked incredulously.

  “That’s obscene!” Lorinda felt the blood drain from her face.

  “That’s the law – and it’s coming over here, too. Same principle as the Little Woman keeping house, raising the kids and providing a secure base while the Breadwinner goes out and builds up his business, in which she’s entitled to share because of her contribution to the joint welfare.” Freddie shot Macho a sardonic look. “Lucky you got your divorce when you did, you could really be taken to the cleaners nowadays.”

  Macho took a deep gulp from his glass. For a moment he looked as though, if there had been a worm at the bottom of the glass, he would have crunched it.

  “If you ask me,” Freddie went on, “that’s why Karla was so willing to take on the contract for the Miss Mudd books. There’s no question of her holding any copyright in them and she can use them to mark time and provide some income while she decides what she wants to do about her situation. Either bite the bullet and divorce Jack or ...” Freddie drained her own glass. “Shoot the bullet into him – which would be a lot neater and cheaper than a divorce.”

  “And Jack has already had one nasty ‘accident’ that could have been fatal.” It was unreal, perhaps surreal, to be standing in the gracious drawing room calmly speculating on whether people they knew socially might turn out to be killer and victim, but Lorinda could not keep her professional instincts from kicking in.

  “Accident would be the best way.” Macho narrowed his eyes. She was not the only one whose professionalism was showing.

  They all surveyed the group across the room, coolly assessing the chances of real-life drama overtaking fiction.

  “It’s no use.” Macho was the first to look away. “We’re all too civilized. We only do it on paper.”

  On paper ... Lorinda gave an involuntary shudder. She could push her own preoccupations to the back of her mind ... her mind ... but they came back to haunt her at a careless word.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.” Freddie was still watching. “But I might give you short odds on Jack launching a murderous attack on Dorian, if he thought he could get away with it.”

  “That could hold true for a lot of people.” Macho’s gaze swung around the room from group to group. Viewing people as potential suspects, it was suddenly unnerving to realize that everyone had a sinister side to them.

  Lorinda shuddered again and looked up to welcome the distraction of Betty Alvin and Jennifer Lane approaching. Betty kept looking back over her shoulder as though to ensure that she was putting adequate space between herself and Dorian. Of course, he would not easily forgive her for her defection on the morning he left and had to do his own last-minute packing.

  “Where’s the guest of honour?” Jennifer asked. “I thought she’d be here to greet us. Or is she planning a Grand Entrance?”

  “What guest of honour?” Freddie looked affronted. “I didn’t hear anything about that. Did you?” She glared at the others.

  “I thought this was just Dorian giving himself a Welcome Home party,” Lorinda said, refraining from adding: Since no one else was likely to.

  “I thought it was just a belated New Year gathering,” Macho said.

  “I think Dorian wanted it to be a surprise for everyone.” Betty hastened to spread oil on waters that were becoming troubled. “Of course, he had to tell Jennifer so that she could put some books on display.”

  “Hmmm,” Freddie said, echoing their thoughts. No one had failed to notice that the new window display had featured an interloper.

  “So we’re finally to be honoured by a visitation from Ondine van Zeet, are we?” Macho did not look pleased. According to local rumour, the lady had moved into Coffers Court, and then promptly gone back to London, with no indication of when – or if – she would return.

  “Where’s Rhylla?” Freddie looked around. “Does she know about this?”

  “She’s in Dorian’s study.” Macho had been keeping track. “I think she’s t
rying to convince Clarice of the delights of keeping tropical fish.”

  “I wish her luck,” Freddie said. “If you ask me, the kid is right. A Gila monster is just about her speed.”

  “AAH!” It was as much a fanfare as a greeting. “Ondine, my dear! How good of you to grace our little gathering!” Dorian swooped across the room to seize both her hands, somehow having disposed of his glass as he passed a side table. He raised both of her hands to his lips, in the manner of a monarch conferring favour, but it was easy to see who outranked whom in the pecking order.

  “Dorian, dear boy.” Ondine van Zeet freed her hands and used one to pat his cheek as she stepped back from further intimacies. “How sweet of you to invite me.”

  “I think you know everyone here.” He led her forward. “By reputation, if not personally.”

  “I’m sure I must.” She glanced around without interest. Dorian repossessed his glass and signalled Gordie to bring his tray over to Ondine. Eagerly, Gordie rushed to their sides.

  Gordie. Lorinda was assailed by a fresh attack of guilt. What had Gordie done over the holidays? They had all forgotten about him – although he would have been the first person they called for if anything had broken down. She made a weak resolution to try to be nicer to him.

  Ondine graciously accepted a glass of champagne from the tray with a mechanical smile and turned to survey the room. Was it Lorinda’s imagination, or did several people shrink back, trying to make themselves smaller and inconspicuous?

  This was in direct contrast to the very conspicuous Ondine, large and commanding in a shimmering iridescent silk kaftan, looking as though she were about to burst into an operatic aria. Lorinda remembered hearing, among other rumours, that Ondine van Zeet was one of those who had come to writing via an unsuccessful stage career – and she believed it. The other believable rumour was that, although the lady did not have the necessary talent for the stage, she certainly had the temperament. She stood there, radiating ego.

  “Somehow,” Freddie muttered, “I don’t get the impression that she’s going to make a valuable addition to our little community.”

  “Don’t look now,” Macho said, as Dorian began waving imperiously to them, “but I think we’re being summoned for an Audience.”