Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  “I can’t see a thing.” Freddie reached for the light switch on the wall, but Macho caught her hand.

  “Don’t touch an electric switch when you’re standing in water!”

  “Thanks, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll open the curtains instead.” Freddie started across the room. “Uuggh! I’ve stepped on something!”

  That was enough to discourage Lorinda from venturing further without light. She and Macho hovered just inside the doorway.

  “There!” Freddie swept back the curtains and daylight flooded the room. They could now see the extent of the devastation. “Oh, my God!”

  The carpet was littered with tiny dead fish, sprayed out across it from the gaping jagged hole in the side of the glass tank. A few remaining fish – tiny Neons – darted about hysterically in the few inches of water at the bottom of the aquarium, dodging in and out around the glittering shards of glass that loomed like icebergs in their midst.

  “Well...” Macho broke the stunned silence. “He can’t blame the cats for that!”

  “It must have happened hours ago.” Lorinda began to recover. “Perhaps during the night. The carpet couldn’t have got so saturated in any shorter space of time.” She became aware that a steady trickle of water was still dribbling from the tank, emanating from the little device Dorian had installed to keep fresh water circulating for the fish. There was another faint background sound ... she looked around for the source.

  “Oh, God!” Freddie found it first. She stared at the other side of the room where Dorian’s big desk skewed across a comer, where he could sit, back to the wall, commanding the room. He was slumped in his desk chair now, watching them through half-closed eyes.

  “Dorian! We didn’t realize you were here.” No, that didn’t sound right. Lorinda corrected hastily, “I mean, we thought you’d caught the early train to London –” No, that was worse. “I mean –”

  “Frightfully sorry, old boy,” Macho apologized. “We wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding had we known you were still ...”

  “Gug...” Dorian said faintly. He seemed to be trying to rise. “G ... g ... gug ...” He pitched forward, face down on the desk. It was then that they could see the dark red smear congealing on the back of his head.

  It was hours before they were able to return to their homes. First they had to wait for the ambulance and the police, carefully restraining themselves from touching anything – except for Freddie, who wiped the squashed fish off the sole of her shoe and threw it into the wastebasket. (Something which required explanation when a policeman looked into the wastebasket and thought he had discovered a clue.)

  Darkness had fallen on Brimful Coffers by the time they returned. They had followed the ambulance in Freddie’s car, waited at the hospital while Dorian underwent emergency surgery, notified his sister when he was safely settled in intensive care, snatched a meal they had neither tasted nor noticed, and now looked without favour at the dark empty shells of their respective homes.

  “All I want is to collapse.” Freddie halted the car and rested her head on the steering wheel for a moment. “I want to fall into bed and sleep for a week.”

  “You do remember that you promised –” Macho began.

  “I promised to meet Dorian’s sister at the train station in the morning and drive her to the hospital,” Freddie said. “I know. Me and my big mouth.”

  “You’ll feel stronger in the morning,” Lorinda encouraged, opening the car door. Collapse suddenly sounded like the best idea she had ever heard. She felt so exhausted she wondered if she’d have the energy to change into her nightgown.

  “Don’t bet on it.” Freddie pulled her keys from the ignition and opened her own door, shuddering as she looked at the encroaching mist. “At least we got home before the worst of the fog sets in. It’s going to be a filthy night.”

  “I hope Dorian lasts through it.” Lorinda stepped out of the car and a movement beyond the mist drew her attention.

  “He’s pretty tough,” Macho said. “And the doctor was what I’d call cautiously optimistic. But it was lucky for him we found him when we did.”

  “Thieving cats have their uses,” Freddie said dryly. “If they hadn’t filched those fish ... and speaking of devils –”

  Three little forms bounded toward them, scolding.

  “Oh, darlings, have we gone away and left you all day?” Guiltily, Lorinda stooped and gathered up her two. There was always dry cat food left out for them to nibble, but they expected more than that in the course of a long day.

  “Here, Roscoe. Come here, boy. What’s the matter with you?” Each time Macho bent to pick up his cat, Roscoe evaded him, backing just out of reach, then returning when Macho straightened up. He was uttering plaintive little cries.

  “That’s odd,” Macho said. “He usually only behaves this way when I’m going to take him to the vet.”

  “Why aren’t you in the nice warm house?” Lorinda asked Had-I and But-Known. She ruffled their fur and frowned. “They’re wet and cold. They didn’t just run out to meet us – they must have been outside for some time.”

  “Roscoe’s wet, too.” Macho finally captured his skittish friend. “He hates being wet or cold. Why isn’t he inside?”

  “You know” – Freddie closed her car door silently – “I think I’m going to revise my scenario. Suddenly, collapse doesn’t seem like a very good plan. Not until we know what’s going on around here. When comfort-loving, spoiled-rotten little creatures like yours take to the great outdoors on a night like this, there’s got to be something nasty in the woodshed ... or in the house.”

  They looked at the dark silent houses awaiting them. “Roscoe?” Macho sniffed sharply, lowered his nose to Roscoe’s head and sniffed again. “Roscoe reeks of liquor.” He looked thoughtfully at his own house. “Probably tequila.”

  “I’m not going to sleep tonight,” Freddie said, “until all our houses have been searched top to bottom.”

  “We’ll have to search them ourselves,” Lorinda said. “I’m not keen on the thought of what the police might say if we call them in for something as vague as this. I’m afraid they have a fairly low opinion of us already.”

  “In the best old tradition,” Macho said.

  “And I wouldn’t like to tell them that story about us being haunted by our own characters, either,” Freddie said. “Here, let me take one of the cats, you can’t manage them both.” She took But-Known into her own arms. “No, a story like that would be a one-way ticket to Colney Hatch.”

  “Which is undoubtedly what was intended – and why we tried to hide what was happening to us.” Macho stared at the unresponsive facade of his cottage. “At best, people would think we’re harmless lunatics; at worst, they’d suspect we’re so disturbed that we’re behind all the death and destruction in Brimful Coffers.”

  “Someone is.” Lorinda knew there could be no doubt about that now.

  “Yes – and our best suspects are dead. Or dying.” Macho was grim. “I think we can consider Dorian exonerated ... the hard way. And Plantagenet has been dead for weeks.”

  “Again in the best tradition.” Freddie shivered. “Look, I’d rather be doing something other than standing here catching pneumonia. Suppose we start with Macho’s house and see if there’s anything ... or anyone ... to find.”

  Roscoe twisted uneasily in Macho’s arms and mewled distress as they entered the house. Macho snapped on the front hall light. Nothing happened.

  “Of course, the bulb was there when I moved in,” Macho said. “I suppose it could have burned out naturally.”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm ...” Lorinda said.

  Freddie snorted.

  There was nothing wrong with the living room lamp ... or the room, either. Roscoe renewed his struggles as they headed for the kitchen. Macho walked more warily.

  The kitchen light responded to the click of the switch, flooding the kitchen with a harsh bright glare. Too harsh and too bright. They glanced upwards instinctively.

  T
he frosted globe that diffused the light had been shattered, only a few jagged remnants still curved out from the fixture. The rest of the globe lay in a trail of shards across the floor, ending at the far wall where a broken tequila bottle lay in a reeking puddle.

  On the kitchen table, another tequila bottle, two-thirds empty, stood beside a glass with an inch of liquid still remaining in it. The chair lay on the floor, as though it had been pushed back so roughly it had tipped over.

  “Ah, yes.” Macho took it in quietly. “A very pretty picture. Macho Magee, drunk as usual, hurls bottle at the light, possibly because pink elephants are lurking behind it, tips over chair and, presumably, staggers upstairs to bed. Through the pitch-black hallway.” Macho crossed to a cupboard and took down a small flashlight.

  “Shall we go upstairs and see what was waiting for him?”

  They didn’t need to go upstairs. As Macho swept the beam of light up the staircase, something glimmered at the top that shouldn’t have been there.

  “Ah, yes.” Macho swung the light back to illuminate it. “Very neat.” A transparent nylon cord stretched taut at ankle level across the top step.

  “So drunken Macho stumbles at the top of the stairs and pitches backwards down them and, if the fall doesn’t kill him, doubtless someone will be along to finish the job and remove the cord. Another tequila bottle will be found clutched in his hand, its contents liberally sprayed over and around him, as much as possible poured down his throat if he’s in any condition to do any swallowing –”

  “Don’t!” Freddie choked.

  “There’s a certain symmetry about it you have to admire,” Macho said dispassionately. “An echo of the Plantagenet Sutton demise, as another drunk falls – literally – prey to the bottle. And note the similarity of the violence of broken glass and spilled liquids in Dorian’s study and Macho’s kitchen. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few clues surfaced to point to Macho, in one of his uncontrollable rages, as the killer.”

  “Dorian isn’t dead yet,” Lorinda pointed out. “He’s got a fighting chance, thanks to our finding him when we did.”

  “Ah, yes. Someone’s plans are going wildly awry – and all because the cats interfered in their own little way. No one could have foreseen that.” Macho started forward.

  “No, please!” Lorinda pulled him back, nearly dropping Had-I as she did so. “Don’t go up there. You don’t know what else might be booby-trapped. Let’s wait until morning.”

  “Morning?” Freddie looked at her with a strange expression. “And how do we get through the night? I don’t fancy being in my house alone – and you shouldn’t, either. I think we ought to stick together for the rest of the night.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Lorinda said. “Since I’m the only one with enough rooms, that makes it my place. I suggest you be my guests.”

  “It’s a bloody great idea,” Macho said. “You’re on!” He started for the door.

  “Don’t you want to collect your pyjamas or anything?”

  “No, you’re right – this is no time to go upstairs. Anyway, who’s going to sleep?” Macho gave a lopsided grin. “You two can, but I’m doing guard duty.”

  “I’ll just borrow something from you,” Freddie said. “I’m not going near my place. I saw those next-door curtains twitch. The jackals are ready to pounce the instant I show up.”

  They saw the fog had closed in with deadly intent as they crossed the lawns between the houses. Another hour or so and it would be so thick someone could get lost crossing that short distance.

  Lorinda held her breath for a moment, but her hall light went on without a blink. Everything looked the way she had left it.

  Only the cats gave the game away. Had-I’s ears pricked, But-Known twisted uneasily in Freddie’s arms. Roscoe gave a menacing growl.

  “ ‘Steady, the Light Brigade,’ ” Macho said, stepping in front of the women. As one, the cats tensed and leaped from their arms to the floor. Roscoe was not the only one growling now.

  “Who’s there?” Lorinda called.

  Silence. Deadly silence? They could not be sure. The cats might be reacting to something that had already happened. A trap already set and waiting to be sprung, while the murderer was somewhere else ... establishing an alibi.

  The lamps in the living room responded instantly when Lorinda flicked the wall switch. The room was empty ... it appeared safe.

  “In here ...” She led the way. The cats brought up the rear, twitching and uneasy. They all looked around carefully.

  Freddie peered behind every piece of furniture and even, with an apologetic grimace, under them. Lorinda looked behind the drapes, then drew them closed. If the menace were lurking outside, it was better not to give him a clear view.

  Or her, she thought suddenly, unnervingly. Lily could be as dangerous as any man. Once there, the thought would not go away.

  “Would you like a drink?” Lorinda tried to pretend it was the usual social gathering.

  “Only from an unopened bottle,” Macho growled, bringing her back to reality.

  “Shouldn’t we search the house before we relax?” Freddie asked.

  They looked at each other. Beyond the pools of comforting light thrown out by the lamps, the rest of the house loomed large and dark.

  “Oh, well, perhaps not.” Freddie threw herself down on the sofa. “Personally, I’m quite happy to spend the rest of the night right here. Who needs a bed?”

  “Quite right.” Macho wandered over to the fireplace and picked up the poker, weighing it thoughtfully.

  “The only unopened bottle is Scotch,” Lorinda said. “Is that all right?” She began to break the seal.

  “Grrrrrr...” All the hairs rose on Roscoe’s back.

  “Sssss... haaaaah!” Had-I spat, her suddenly bushy tail lashing.

  But-Known’s eyes seemed to grow to an enormous size as she stared at the doorway.

  The cats were all watching the doorway and the shadows in the hall beyond it.

  Lorinda took a tighter grip on the neck of the bottle. Freddie slid off the sofa, clutching a pillow defensively in front of her.

  “You’d better come in,” Macho said loudly. “We know you’re out there!”

  After a long hesitation, a female figure glided into view. She was wearing a long grey chiffon dress that seemed to float around her.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered huskily. She was levelling an evil-looking black gun at them. She had red hair.

  “Wraith!” Freddie gasped. “Wraith O’Reilly.”

  “Marigold ...” Lorinda said faintly.

  “I think not.” Macho had taken a colder, more dispassionate look at the figure, had seen past the wig and noted the bulge of the ever-present hammer at the waist beneath the flowing chiffon, the hammer that had already smashed a fish tank – and a skull.

  “Gordie,” Macho said. “Gug ... g ... g ... Gordie. Dorian tried to tell us.”

  “Very clever. No – don’t move!” Incongruously, even though he had been recognized, Gordie kept to the husky pseudo-female whisper. “Put down that poker.”

  “Make up your mind,” Macho said. “Do you want me not to move? Or do you want me to put down the poker?”

  “Put it down! Slowly! ... The bottle, too.” The gun moved to aim at Lorinda.

  He was mad, of course. And he hated them. All of them. Even if they obeyed his every instruction, what chance did they have of surviving?

  Slowly, Lorinda set the bottle down on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Macho replacing the poker.

  “Sit down!” The gun moved to indicate the sofa. “All of you. Together. Where –” He broke off, on guard as they moved towards the sofa.

  Where I can keep an eye on you ... Where you’ll make a better target ... The unspoken endings to his sentence hung in the air.

  Lorinda and Freddie sat on the sofa. Macho tried to perch on the arm.

  “Down!” He didn’t get away with it. The gun gestured imperiously. “On the cush
ions with the women.”

  But, having got them where he wanted them, Gordie didn’t seem to know what he wanted to do with them.

  “There are too many of you,” he complained fretfully, brushing back a red lock. “What are you all doing here? Why aren’t you in your own houses?”

  “We were invited here,” Freddie responded. “Which is more than you can say.”

  “That’s right! You never invited me anywhere! Any of you!” It had been the wrong thing to say. It fuelled his grievance. “I was nothing but good old Gordie. I could repair your typewriters, mend your fuses, fix your plumbing – but I wasn’t good enough to mix with socially.”

  “Oh, God! I’ve set him off.” Freddie shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Macho patted her hand absently. “Dorian’s, perhaps ... all those unrealistic promises ...”

  “Dorian!” Gordie snarled, his voice roughened. “Dorian – the Great I-Am! I hope he rots in hell!”

  “Well,” Macho said mildly. “You did your best to send him there. I think I can understand ... up to a point. What I don’t understand is why ...”

  “Why us?” Freddie cut in. “What did we ever do to you? All right, so we hadn’t invited you anywhere. But it’s early days yet. We haven’t lived here all that long ourselves. We’re still settling in. You might have given us a bit more time –

  The gun swung to point at her forehead, silencing her.

  “I can write better than any of you!” He waited but, with the gun pointed in their direction, no one was going to give him an argument.

  “I could write Wraith O’Reilly!” He pointed the gun at Freddie, then moved it on to Macho. “I could write Macho Magee!” He aimed at Lorinda. “And I can write Miss Petunia!”

  “You certainly can,” Lorinda agreed. “I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t done those chapters myself.”

  “Yes, they were good, weren’t they?” He preened. “Wait till you see the suicide note I’ve written for you. Only ... you won’t see it. No one will now.” His eyes shifted, as though he were listening to an inner voice.

  “I can’t do it that way now. You’re all together.” His voice took on a note of complaint. “You’ve ruined my plans.”