Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  “And I will,” Lorinda promised again. “Unless they put me in the padded cell next door to you. It looks as though it might fall to Freddie to take care of all three cats.”

  “Much as I’d like to oblige,” Freddie said, “I wouldn’t advise you to count on me. The way things are going, you’ll find me in the padded cell on the other side.”

  “What are you talking about?” Macho looked from one to the other with a faint puzzled hope beginning to dawn on his face.

  “You find bottles.” Since she had started it, Lorinda accepted that she should go first. “I found Miss Petunia’s pince-nez, but they disappeared again and I keep finding chapters I haven’t written.” There was no need at the moment to confess to the chapters she had written. “And the latest wrinkle was a message from Marigold on my answering machine that disappeared when I tried to replay it.”

  “Then it’s not just me.” Macho quivered with relief. They both turned to look at Freddie.

  “OK,” Freddie said. “I can admit it now. Wraith O’Reilly has staked out the old graveyard. I keep seeing her there. Just glimpses, almost out of the corner of my eye, a flash of red hair, a flutter of the grey skirt. She’s gone when I try to approach for a closer look. So far, she’s confined herself to the graveyard, but I sometimes wonder for how much longer. It scares the hell out of me to think that I might turn around some day and find her in the house with me.”

  “That’s it exactly!” Macho said. “Where is he? What is he doing? What does he want? There’s no overt threat, but the feeling of menace is there underneath.”

  “Actually,” Lorinda said, “mine are threatening. Miss Petunia and Lily are definitely out to get me. Marigold is softer and kinder, but she always is. Of course,” she added apologetically, “I’m afraid I’ve given them good reason to be annoyed with me.”

  “Wait a minute,” Freddie said. “Wait a minute. We’re talking about fictional characters. These people are all figments of our imaginations. Let’s all pull ourselves together and try to be sensible about this.”

  “That’s right.” Macho was looking better. “We can’t all be going mad. And in the same way. Can we?”

  “Highly unlikely,” Freddie said. “Someone has to be behind this.”

  “A common enemy,” Lorinda said, feeling both relieved and frightened by the thought.

  “Who do we know who hates us all?” Macho asked. “One of us, perhaps. Possibly even two. But all three? And who would go to such lengths?”

  “It’s rotten joke,” Lorinda said.

  “It’s too nasty to be a joke. There’s genuine malice there,” Macho said.

  “That’s right,” Freddie agreed. “Trying to make us think we’re losing our sanity is hitting below the belt.” She grimaced. “That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.”

  “What enemy do we have in common?” Macho was single-minded in his determination to track down the culprit. “Think!”

  “I wonder if there are any more,” Lorinda said. “We each thought we were the only one it was happening to. Now that we’ve found we’re not ... how many more of us do you think there are?”

  “Not Karla,” Freddie said, after a reflective moment. “She spends all her spare time locked in mortal combat with Jack. An army of backpackers could march through that house and neither of them would even notice.”

  “And Rhylla has Clarice living with her right now,” Lorinda contributed. “She’s completely caught up with trying to work and keep the child busy. Clarice also has sharp little eyes and an inquiring mind. No one could try any of these tricks with her around.”

  “Whereas we live alone,” Macho said slowly. “When we’re working, two or three days can pass without our seeing anyone. We don’t have any human contact until we run out of supplies and have to go shopping. That makes us ... vulnerable ... to someone who is trying to turn our own imaginations against us.”

  “What about Dorian?” Lorinda had a sudden thought. “He lives alone, too. Perhaps that’s why he went off on that cruise so suddenly. Things have been happening to him, too, and he decided to get away – as far as he could go ...” She trailed off; Freddie was shaking her head with a slightly condescending smile.

  “Haven’t you sussed that one out? Our Dorian went on that cruise because the cruise line were paying him to go. He was a guest lecturer on the English mystery and doubled as detective on one of those Murder Mystery Cruises they run every so often. He got a free trip, expenses and a small honorarium for a very pleasant job.”

  “Trust Dorian!” Macho said bitterly.

  “I’m sure,” Freddie added, “he also sold a good many of his own books to the happy holidaymakers and got in plenty of publicity for the tours he’s planning to run through here.”

  “What a busy little beaver.” Lorinda was bitter, too. “Right, but that also means he’s too wrapped up in his own machinations to take time out to play games with us – or to notice anyone trying to play games with him.”

  “Then who hates us that much?” Lorinda felt chilled. “It keeps coming back to that.”

  “There is one person ...” Macho said slowly. “Ask yourselves: who has always had it in for us? Who has jeered at and humiliated us at every opportunity? Who has a cruel and vicious streak in him? And” – Macho was warming to his theme – “who could very easily get his hands on a case of tequila – and probably at a discount?”

  “Plantagenet Sutton!” Lorinda identified correctly. “Good thinking, chums.” Freddie applauded silently. “There’s just one little flaw in it. Plantagenet Sutton is dead.”

  “Yes ...” Macho deflated slowly.

  “And our problems are still going on,” Freddie pointed out. “I take it that bottle of tequila wasn’t in your refrigerator the last time you looked?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Of course it wasn’t.”

  “My latest episode happened after his death,” Lorinda agreed. “Well after. But they started before.”

  “That’s right. So did mi –” Macho broke off abruptly, staring at Roscoe.

  Roscoe had halted his ablutions, one hind leg still pointing skywards, and raised his head, ears cocked, listening intently to something they could not hear.

  “What is it, boy?” Macho looked around the room, looked over his shoulder, looked back to Roscoe. “What do you hear?”

  After a moment, they heard it themselves. The all-too-familiar whoop of an approaching ambulance.

  Roscoe scrambled for safety as they leaped out of their chairs and charged across the room.

  “Whoa! Slow down!” Freddie recovered herself first. “We’re in the wrong business to be ambulance chasers.”

  “It’s stopped in front of Coffers Court.” Macho reached the High Street first and reported back to them as they came panting up to join him.

  “Maybe Rhylla has finally snapped and murdered that kid,” Freddie suggested. Macho threw her an impatient look before turning and leading the way along the High Street. They hurried towards Coffers Court, where a small cluster

  of onlookers had already materialized on the pavement outside. There was a buzz of excited speculation, fragments of which met their ears.

  “Throat cut ear to ear ...”

  “No, burglary and they bludgeoned ...”

  “Gas fire exploded. Lucky the whole place didn’t go up ...”

  The rumour factory was working well, Lorinda realized, but hard facts did not appear to be available.

  “Isn’t it awful?” Jennifer Lane greeted them.

  “What happened?” Freddie asked.

  “We’re not quite sure yet.” Jennifer watched avidly as one of the medics carried a stretcher in. “But something serious.”

  “Used to be a nice quiet village,” someone muttered behind them. “Before that lot moved in.”

  “There’s gratitude for you,” Freddie observed, adding unfairly, “This place was a dead-and-alive hole before we moved in.”

  “Now dead is winning,�
� the voice hit back.

  “Who’s ... hurt?” Lorinda intervened, trying to recall Freddie to decorum. This was not the time to antagonize the villagers.

  “Has Gemma been taken ill again?” Gemma had never really looked quite well since her mysterious gastric upset. Lorinda stepped back and scanned the windows, but the curtains defeated her. In the absence of a light in Gemma’s living room, nothing of the inside could be seen.

  To her embarrassment, the curtain was pulled back abruptly and Gemma was staring out at her over the window box. She said something Lorinda could not hear and Karla appeared in the window beside her. Gemma battled briefly to open the window. Karla gesticulated frantically and puzzlingly over Gemma’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Gemma won and leaned out of the window. “Can you see? They won’t let us out into the foyer.” From somewhere behind her, there came the sound of sobbing.

  “Listen, don’t let them shove you around like that!” Karla said, shoving Gemma aside to take her place at the open window. “Come in here with us. Tell them you’re visiting Gemma. And take a good look at what’s going on as you come through the hall.”

  It sounded worth a try. Macho was already shouldering his way through the crowd. Lorinda and Freddie fell in behind him. After a momentary hesitation, Jennifer Lane followed them. You couldn’t blame her for trying, either.

  The paramedic just inside the door was not happy about allowing them through, but realized his authority did not extend to barring visitors to residents, especially as Gemma was standing in her open doorway beckoning them on.

  Macho stood back and gallantly waved the women ahead of him, thus ensuring that he had more time to take in the situation. In her brief glimpse, Lorinda saw that two of the medical team were standing at the opened doors of the lift, leaning into it and looking down. The stretcher-bearers, led by an anxious Gordie wringing his hands, were being ushered to the stairs leading down to his quarters, the box-rooms – and the bottom of the lift shaft.

  Gemma let them into her flat, even Jennifer, then tried to bar the way to Macho. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this is a private – Oh!”

  “That’s right,” Freddie turned back. “You do know him. Macho’s just changing his image.”

  “Oh, of course, I’m sorry. Forgive me.” Thoroughly flustered, Gemma closed the door behind them and leaned against it, still staring incredulously at Macho. “Uuuh, it’s very effective.”

  “So you gotta haircut,” Jack greeted him. “About time. And the beard is gone, too. Good. Hey, you do have a chin!”

  “Yes.” Macho ground his teeth, chin jutted forward. “Gonna keep the old soup-strainer, are you?” No one could ever accuse Jack of being sensitive to the nuances of a situation. Lorinda became aware of another set of teeth grinding. They were Karla’s.

  “Do you have to be such an asshole?” she snarled at her husband.

  Now that they were in the living room, Lorinda could trace the source of the sobbing. Rhylla clasped a shuddering, shaking Clarice to her bosom, rocking her, patting her back, murmuring soothing meaningless sounds.

  “I’m afraid poor little Clarice discovered the body,” Professor Borley informed them in measured tones.

  Betty Alvin was making no sound at all. She sat in a corner of the room, her back to the wall, her face whiter than the paint on the woodwork. A glass of dark-brown liquid was clasped in her hands, unnoticed, untouched. She appeared to be in deep shock.

  “Perhaps you could talk to Betty,” Professor Borley said. “I just can’t seem to get through to her.”

  “What’s the matter with her?” Freddie asked. “I thought it was Clarice who found the body.”

  “Well, yes. But Betty was the last to see her alive.” He lowered his voice. “I’m afraid Betty blames herself.”

  Betty Alvin seemed to make a habit of blaming herself, Lorinda thought in faint irritation. That was probably why Dorian liked having her around. Betty was one of life’s martyrs, always ready to be put-upon, always ready to take any blame that was going around. And Dorian was very good at apportioning blame.

  Outside, another siren sounded briefly, but was quickly silenced, as though acknowledging that there was no reason to hurry any more. Lorinda glanced out of the window in time to see a Fire Rescue van pull up in front of the building. A police car was immediately behind it.

  Macho had been looking around the room like the teacher he once was, taking roll call. Now he turned to Gemma and asked, “Where’s Ondine?”

  The question brought a fresh paroxysm of tears from Clarice and a faint protesting moan from Betty. Rhylla hugged Clarice closer. Gemma bent to stroke the dogs at her feet. Professor Borley cleared his throat and looked thoughtful. No one seemed in any hurry to answer.

  “Well, hell, they’re gonna have to know,” Jack said. “Thing is, she’s at the bottom of the elevator shaft.”

  “Wha-at?”

  “Lift, you idiot!” Karla snapped. “They don’t say elevator. She’s at the bottom of the lift shaft. Well, not exactly. The lift is at the bottom of the shaft, she fell on top of the lift.”

  “Hey!” Ignoring her criticism, Jack had stalked over to the window. “There’s a Fire Rescue truck out there.”

  “Sure, there is,” Karla said. “It’s going to take some doing to get her out of the lift shaft. The ambulance people can’t do it all by themselves.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Betty Alvin moaned. “All my fault.”

  “Don’t be silly, Betty,” Gemma said. “You didn’t push her ... Did you?”

  “No, but I fought with her.” Betty seemed to be recovering; she noticed the drink in her hand and took a swallow. “That is, she fought with me. I was trying to be reasonable and explain that I couldn’t take on her work at a moment’s notice. I had too much else to do. It’s all piled up and I’m trying to get through it as fast as I can. I told her I was working on your book –” She glanced at Rhylla. “And Dorian brought stacks of notes back from that cruise and he wants them all sorted out. Then I’m in touch with Plantagenet Sutton’s sister-in-law about clearing the flat. She wants me to do it – but I don’t have the time, I really don’t.”

  “All right, all right,” Professor Borley soothed. “Take it easy. We’re on your side.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you, Abbey.” She smiled at him gratefully. “Anyway, she kept trying to persuade me to drop Rhylla’s work and do hers instead. When I wouldn’t, she got angrier and angrier and ... more abusive. She began saying perfectly awful things to me – and, of course, that didn’t make me want to help her at all. I – I’m afraid I was rather sharp with her.”

  “Quite right, too,” Rhylla said. “Ondine was always a bully on any committee she sat on. And bad-tempered with it.”

  “That’s right,” Betty said. “She lost her temper completely and, finally, she stormed out and I could hear her stamping down the stairs and the door at the foot of the stairs slammed. And ... and that must have been when it happened, but I didn’t hear anything because I went into the bathroom to take a couple of aspirins. She must have tried to get into the lift on the floor below – that’s as far as it comes up – they didn’t bother about the attic when they put it in. I suppose it was only used to store old records in those days and it never occurred to anyone that the place wouldn’t be a bank forever and that people might be living here some day.

  “Oh, I’m not complaining,” she added quickly. “I quite like the privacy of having my own little staircase. It gives me a bit of warning if someone is coming up to see me – Oh, not that I mind people coming unannounced! No one must think they’re intruding –” She broke off in confusion, realizing how much she was betraying and took another swallow.

  Now that it was called to Lorinda’s attention, she realized she had been guilty of such behaviour herself. In the comparatively short time she had been living here, there had been more than one occasion when she had mounted those attic stairs unannounced with a small sheaf of l
etters to be properly transcribed and dispatched. She could tell from the expressions on Freddie’s and Macho’s faces that she had not been alone in this transgression.

  “So Ondine van Zeet went plunging down the stairs in a rage and that was the last you knew about it.” Professor Borley led Betty Alvin back to the subject gently.

  “Yes ... until I heard Clarice screaming. But that was some time later. I ... I went downstairs to ... to investigate. I ... I found Clarice standing in front of the lift. The doors were open, but the lift wasn’t there. I pulled Clarice back and leaned forward and looked down myself and ... and ... I saw her. Dimly. Sprawled on ... on top of the lift.” Betty gave up the battle, groped for her handkerchief and allowed the tears to flow.

  Clarice, on the other hand, had become calmer. Listening to the events as recounted by Betty, she nodded agreement and pushed herself free of Rhylla, who let her go with obvious relief, flexing her cramped arms.

  “It sounds typical,” Rhylla said. “I heard the door to the attic stairs slam. I didn’t think it was Betty, but I wasn’t interested enough to care who it was, which is just as well. Ondine would have been, literally, in a blind fury. She must have seen the lift doors were open and quite naturally thought the lift was standing there. She’d have hurled herself into it and –”

  “But –” It was Karla who asked the salient question. “Why were the lift doors open without the lift being there? That’s dangerous. I know it’s an ancient contraption, but I thought even in those days, they had safety rules. The doors shouldn’t open unless the lift was at that floor.”

  “Kids!” A new bitter voice said. “You have kids around the place, you get them fooling around, messing up everything.” An exhausted, harassed Gordie stood in the doorway, glaring at Clarice.

  “I didn’t!” Clarice screamed. “I never touched those doors! Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “You’re a kid,” Gordie said. “Kids will do anything. You probably thought it would be funny if someone fell down the lift shaft.”