Whiskers & Smoke

by Marian Babson

  “Greg—” Lois plucked at his sleeve. “Greg, take it easy.”

  “I can see you had quite a session with Chief Rogers,” Noah said drily.

  “It isn’t funny.” Abruptly, Lois turned hostile. “That was a terrible fire—people died! Chief Rogers has no right to even suggest any of our campers had anything to do with it. We could sue him for libel!”

  “Slander,” Noah corrected automatically. “Libel is written, slander is spoken.” They didn’t appreciate it.

  “Let’s get back to our table, Greg,” Lois said coldly.

  “Sure” Greg started to turn away—which gave him a clear view of the entrance. “Oh-oh,” he said, “look who’s here.”

  Dexter came through the doorway and was half way towards a table for two marked RESERVED when he seemed to become conscious of watching eyes. His anticipatory smile faded, he sighed and came over to us.

  “Hi, everybody,” he said. “Hi, Greg.”

  “Hello, Dexter,” Greg said. “What a surprise seeing you here. I don’t recall giving you a late pass.”

  “Uh, no, you didn’t. Benjie did. Aunt Luci turned up unexpectedly and wanted me to have dinner with her. She’s touring the Straw Hat Circuit on a pre-Broadway tryout and they’re starting in Manchester next week.”

  “Is that a fact?” Greg sounded unbelieving. A collective gasp from the diners made him look over at the doorway.

  Lucienne Tremaine made an entrance, came over to join Dexter, allowed us to be introduced to her and bore Dexter off to the reserved table.

  “I guess,” Greg said, “Benjie did give Dexter a late pass. I would have, too.” They went glumly back to their table.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Noah. “Is Lucienne Tremaine really Dexter’s aunt, or is it a courtesy title?” It would have been hard to believe, except that Lucienne Tremaine was sitting at a table for two with Dexter, smiling as he ordered from the menu. Our waiter was bowing almost double every time she uttered a word. It was clear that he thought this was more like it.

  The rest of the diners had resumed their conversations, although still casting envious glances at our table—and at Dexter. It was obvious that most of the male diners thought Dexter didn’t deserve such luck.

  “I believe she’s an extended-family aunt of some sort. Through one of his mother’s marriages—or perhaps one of his father’s. Do you mean to say—” Noah looked at me curiously—“you don’t know who Dexter is? Doesn’t the name Dexter Herbert ring any bells at all?”

  “He’s Dexter Herbert the Fifth,” Timothy prompted. “And he’s going to give us free tickets to his father’s new film.”

  “Good heavens!” It all fell into place. “Is that who he is? I never heard his surname before, he was just introduced to me as Dexter. He really is—is—” I remembered the Fifth—“in direct line of succession?”

  “One of our great stage families,” Noah said. “They may not be the Barrymores, but they’ve run them a pretty close second across the years.”

  “I never expected to meet anyone from that family,” I said. “What on earth is he doing at Camp Mohigonquin?”

  “Going through the awkward stage. His mother doesn’t want him around to remind her public that she has a son that old; and his father doesn’t want him around until he’s lost seventy-five pounds, preferably more. So Dexter has been star boarder all summer long at Camp Mohigonquin for the past two years. In the winter, they send him to boarding-school.”

  Rudi brought our orders and set them in front of us with the air of one throwing pearls before swine. He disappeared into the kitchen again. When he returned, he was wheeling a laden trolley on which a small conflagration blazed merrily. He careered through the dining-room with it, coming to a dramatic stop at the Tremaine-Herbert table.

  “Hasn’t he got that spirit lamp turned rather high?” I asked uneasily.

  “He likes it that way,” Noah said. “Makes a bigger effect. Just watch. Lucienne Tremaine is about to learn that she isn’t the only one who can give a performance.”

  Indeed, most of the room was watching. All that was lacking was a spotlight. With a flourish, Rudi dropped a dollop of butter into the shallow frying-pan and added the steaks when it began to sizzle. Apparently, both Dexter and his aunt had ordered the Steak Diane. No wonder Rudi was not going to waste his time on lesser appetites.

  He turned the steaks, then poured brandy into a larger sized copper ladle than I would have used and set it alight. With loving care, he poured the blazing spirit over the steaks. Yellow flames billowed upwards, then changed to blue. The blue flames raced round and round the frying-pan, flickering, then spurting upwards with fresh fury, persistent, unwilling to die out. When they did begin to show signs of exhaustion, Rudi carefully tipped in a ladle of vermouth which set the whole thing off again.

  Bemused, we all stared at the small inferno. I was quite happy that I had not ordered the Steak Diane—what would be left of the steak after all this was not something I cared to contemplate. Others obviously felt differently; I was aware of audible sighs of envy from surrounding tables.

  Gino himself brought their meals to Greg and Lois. Absently I looked over—and was startled by the expression on Lois’s face. Why should she suddenly look so horrified? I followed her gaze.

  She, too, was staring at the blazing frying-pan and I was abruptly in tune with her thoughts: the fires. Slowly, fearfully, her gaze crept round the tables.

  Lois was a Registered Nurse; her training would have included a course in abnormal psychology. Could she identify the arsonist in our midst? Or did she only think she might? Her suddenly cool professional gaze halted at a certain face.

  Oh no—not Dexter! And yet, it was the classic retribution of a rejected adolescent. Dexter was staring avidly at the flames, a strange expression on his face. That didn’t mean he was a firebug. But the rapt fascination with which he stared into the flames was disturbing. Certainly, he was clever enough to time the fires so that the outgoing campers would seem guilty if suspicion fell on the camp.

  I looked away, disliking myself for even entertaining the thought—although it was Lois who had unwittingly planted it in my mind. I glanced at her again.

  Now she was looking directly at Greg. He was staring at the flames with a dark brooding expression that revealed a different side to his character. He was no longer Good Old Greg—everybody’s pal. Greg the Ghoul was more like it. He was suddenly transformed into someone I would not like to meet alone on a moonless night.

  Lois seemed to feel that way, too. She was frowning with concern and leaned forward as though to speak to him and break the spell, then seemed to think better of it.

  Still the flames danced on. With another flourish, Rudi selected a tin from the rack, aimed the nozzle at the frying-pan and sprayed something over it. The flames flickered and died.

  There was a burst of applause from the audience. The lights returned to their normal brightness—I had not realized that they had been dimmed—and all the dark shadows disappeared. People were themselves again.

  “Some production, eh?” Noah and the children had joined in the applause. I had not.

  “Yes,” I said. Lois still looked frightened and worried. I could not blame her. “Quite … spectacular.”

  Chapter 13

  I rang Celia in the morning to suggest we carry out that long-projected shopping expedition into Boston. All of us. Especially the children. The bright sunshine had not quite dispersed the shadows of the night and I had begun planning ways to wean them away from Camp Mohigonquin—just in case. I no longer felt that they were in such good hands there.

  “We might as well,” I urged. Celia was curiously reluctant. “I’ve given up hoping for cooler weather. Anyway, the stores are all air-conditioned. We’ll be more comfortable inside than out. Unless you feel the drive is too much for you?”

  “Oh no.” Celia had always hated admitting to weakness. “It’s just that—” She broke off and I could almost hea
r her mental calculations.

  “You may be right,” she said. “Patrick won’t want to come—cities and crowds make him too nervous these days—but I’ll bring Luke. There’ll be sales on and it isn’t too early to be think about back to school clothes. The only thing is, I’ll have to stop and do an errand on the way.”

  “That will be fine,” I said. “We’re in no hurry.”

  The postman brought another letter from Nancy—and I hadn’t answered her first one yet. I was oddly disinclined to open it. It was not that reading about what was going on at home would bring too many memories flooding back—they had never left me.

  Perhaps it was that I simply did not want to be faced with any more proof that my life—all the important parts of it—was out of my control. Now another woman and her family occupied my home and, inevitably, there must be changes. (How much of the hedge was destroyed? Would Lania blame me for allowing strangers to disrupt our quiet little world?) I looked at the smooth curving American writing on the envelope and knew that I did not wish to read any more unsettling bulletins.

  Then I reminded myself that Nancy was Patrick’s cousin. He was bound to inquire after her. Perhaps she had written to him, too, and he would question me about information we were both presumed to share. With some trepidation, I slid my finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope.

  “Dear Rosemary—” Nancy wrote with more formality than was usual with her. “I haven’t heard from you yet and I hope everything is all right.”

  I began to feel somewhat less beleaguered. Nancy, too, must be having her own doubts about turning her home over to strangers.

  Don’t be afraid to tell me if it isn’t—I know how these things can happen. If Errol has thrown up on the living-room carpet again, don’t worry about it. That carpet has spent more time in the cleaners than it has on the floor. We have a charge account there, so just call them up and tell them to come over and collect it.

  Errol strolled into the room just then and I looked at him with new surmise. “How’s the old tum?” I asked suspiciously. “Feeling all right? If it isn’t, you can get right out of here—I have enough to contend with.”

  Errol twitched his whiskers huffily, sharpened his claws on a corner of the sofa just to show me whose territory this was, then turned and made a dignified exit. I went back to Nancy’s letter.

  I hope I don’t sound paranoiac or anything—but I haven’t heard from a living soul over there since I left. I’m beginning to feel as though some great catastrophe the Powers That Be are keeping from us has wiped the whole continent off the face of the earth and everybody is afraid to admit it. When you see Patrick, tell him he’s a lousy fink for not writing.

  I found myself smiling and reading the letter became less of a chore. Nancy was sharp and funny, her pen-pictures of my old friends, and neighbors were recognizable, although oddly askew, viewed through her New England eyes. I wondered if she would think the same if I wrote her my impressions of Pixie Toller, Greg, Lois, Noah Peterson and the rest. I must get down to a letter to her—perhaps tomorrow.

  I had relaxed too soon. Nancy’s PS carried a sting in the tail:

  By the way, I’m awfully sorry about this—but you know that Victorian jardiniere in the hall? Well, the kids were trying their new roller-skates—it had to be inside, because it was raining as usual——and Donald crashed into it. It’s good and sturdy. When I picked it up, there were just a few chips missing (I’m afraid Donna crushed them to powder under her skates before she could stop herself.) But I rubbed over the chipped places with my green eyeshadow—it was almost a perfect match—and, really, you’d never notice it was damaged. Of course we’ll buy you a new one—I mean, a replacement. I do hope you’ll forgive us. It was an accident and couldn’t be helped.

  For a start, she could have kept her little monsters from making a skating rink out of my front hall—

  “Mummy—” Tessa had been watching outside. “Auntie Celia’s here.”

  “Fine, darling.” I pulled myself together and determined to stop worrying about what couldn’t be helped. “Call Timothy and we’ll be off.”

  Patrick was in the front seat, along with Luke. Celia was driving. “You lot get in back,” she said. “Patrick is just hitching a lift to town with us. We’ll leave him off and then we won’t be so crowded.”

  “I have a message for you, Patrick,” I said, getting in. “Someone thinks you’re a lousy fink.”

  “You’ve heard from Nancy!” He turned round, eyes alight with pleasure. “How is she? What does she think of things over there? What else did she say?”

  Celia ground the gears as we leaped away from the kerb.

  “Here, read it for yourself—” I handed the letter to him. He took it eagerly. “She wants a letter from you.”

  “She hadn’t sent me one.” His voice was aggrieved. “Unless—” he brightened—“it’s in the post. Maybe she’s had a letter-writing session and sent off a lot at once. Look, Celia—” he waved the missive at her. “A letter from Nancy! Isn’t that great?”

  “Yessss,” Celia hissed.

  “Do you mind—” Patrick turned back to me—“if I hold on to this and read it later?” He fingered it appreciatively. “It feels nice and thick.”

  Celia hurtled around a corner with unnecessarily violence.

  “Quite all right,” I assured him, deciding not to mention the earlier letter. “You can give it back when you’re finished with it.”

  “Here we are—” Celia slammed on the brakes. She glared at her oblivious husband. “This is where you get off!”

  “Oh, yes, thanks.” Patrick got out, displaying more animation that I had yet seen in him. “And thank you, Rosemary, thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t bother doing supper for us,” Celia snapped. “We’ll eat in Boston.” She sent him a deadly smile. “That will give you more time to write to Nancy.”

  “Good idea.” He was left staring after us blankly as we roared away.

  The children didn’t seem to have noticed anything, so I held my peace. In any case, I knew better than to cross Celia when she was in this sort of mood. I was surprised, though. I had had the impression that she and Nancy were good friends. It was beginning to look as though all the friendship was on Patrick’s side—and bitterly resented by Celia.

  We drove through town in silence, except for the prattle of the children. Just before we reached the turn for the main highway, Celia slowed down.

  “I just have to run in here for a minute.” She pulled up in front of the Singletons’ antique shop. “It won’t take long.”

  “Oh, good.” I started to get out. “I haven’t seen this place yet. I’ve been wanting to—”

  “Can we come too?” Tessa and Timothy tried to crowd out behind me.

  “You can all wait here!” Celia snapped. “There are too many of us. The shop isn’t big enough.” She reached over and took a small wrapped parcel from the glove compartment before getting out. “And it’s the kind of place—” she warned me—“where, if you break anything, you’ve bought it.”

  “You’d better stay here,” I told Tessa and Timothy. “We won’t be long.”

  Celia gave me a venomous look and I smiled at her blandly. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t break anything.”

  The shop bell tinkled as we opened the door and stepped inside. I was immediately glad that we had left the children in the car. It was one of those artfully-cluttered places, lacking only fake cobwebs sprayed in corners, that set warning bells ringing at the back of one’s mind. Viv and Hank would know the placement of every item to the fraction of a millimeter and the cost of breakage would be excessively high.

  “Hi, there—” Viv emerged from a room at the rear of the shop and came forward beaming. “You finally made it!” she greeted me, while her eyes slid sideways to the parcel in Celia’s hand.

  “Sorry it took so long,” I told her. “But I’m here now.”

  “Wonderful!” She couldn’t care les
s. Long experience had undoubtedly taught her the difference between a buyer and a browser. A seller, however, was another matter. She transferred her welcoming smile to Celia, allowing a slight pre-bargaining chill to creep into it, but she could not hide the acquisitive gleam in her eyes.

  “I’d like to speak to you for a minute—” Celia was not prepared to waste time. “If my sister will excuse us.”

  “Don’t bother about me,” I said. “I’m quite content to browse.”

  “Certainly.” Viv answered us both, a certain sardonic tilt of one eyebrow betraying that I had answered as expected. She continued to look with favor on me, however. Celia’s home was a storehouse of potential profit; who knew what goldmine her sister might possess back in England?

  Not even I knew that. Nor would I know until Nancy and her tribe had finished their dilapidations and I got home to see what had been left intact.

  Celia and Viv disappeared into the back and I heard a brief murmur of voices before the door was firmly closed. With a mental shrug, I began my browsing.

  After I had picked up the thistle-etched Jacobean drinking glass and looked at the price, I didn’t pick up anything else. My fingers had gone quite weak at the sight and I didn’t want to tempt Providence. I contented myself with twisting my head to try to read the price tags; those I could decipher made me feel increasingly giddy. The more exclusive items were priced in code, still others were unpriced: the universal code for If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

  I moved over to the other side of the shop where an opulently unobtrusive butler’s tray and stand held a selection of delicate porcelain. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at.

  The set of Four Seasons figurines, the Lalique lamp—even the butler’s tray itself—were all too familiar. The last time I had seen them—apart from photographs—was when I had helped Celia to pack them.