by Joan Hess
“You’re right,” I said. “You go on to the room where the luncheon will be held and make sure everything’s ready. I’ll go see what I can do about the cat.”
“You want me to make sure everything’s ready?” Inez squeaked. “What if it’s not? They’re not going to pay any attention to a geeky high school kid with grass-stains on her knees.”
I smiled grimly at her. “This will be your finest hour, Inez. You have complete authority. If you don’t like the color of the napkins or the placement of the centerpieces, tell them to make changes. If you think pickles are better than olives or vice versa, demand a replacement. Anyone who challenges you can call Sally Fromberger at the Farberville Hospital and argue with her. Approximately one hundred people will be having lunch shortly. Go for it.”
“I’ve always hated olives, especially those green ones with pimentos. They look like eyeballs that were dissected years ago and left to ferment on the back shelves in the refrigerator.”
“Then you shall have pickles,” I said. “Tell the staff to put out whatever kind you prefer. Dill, sweet, whatever. The power lies with you, Inez. Go in there and make sure everything’s on schedule. I’ll be back.”
She did not looked convinced, but obediently trotted toward the student union. I could not bring myself to imagine the ensuing confrontation as I headed for my duplex, where, if nothing else, I could call the Farberville Animal Shelter to inquire about Wimple. Cats were rarely picked up, but it was all I could think to do before I found myself in the presence of Sherry Lynne Blackstone, aka one very unhappy person who had blithely fictionalized the deaths of more than two dozen people, all of whom had been unkind to cats. My benign negligence might not be an adequate defense.
I arrived home in less than five minutes. In her distress, Inez had left the front door unlocked, but very few thieves had their eyes on my cheap television and a VCR that had last played Star Wars in a galaxy long, long ago. I opened the kitchen door that led to the porch and ascertained that Wimple was not cowering under a bench or clinging to the ceiling. The outside door was ajar. The gourmet catfood had been eaten. Like Elvis, the cat had left the building.
I went down to the yard, praying I wouldn’t encounter Sherry Lynne blundering across backyards in a blind frenzy. What I found nearby was worse: a greasy blue baseball cap that was recognizable—Arnie Riggles’s calling card. Odds were that he had not kidnapped Wimple, who would have not come along harmoniously and might well have been responsible for bloodstains on the steps had he been manhandled. No, Arnie had opened the door to the back porch, perhaps in all innocence, and possibly to explain why the door to Room 130 was locked.
Which did nothing to resolve the situation. Excuses are irrelevant. They are seized upon by almost everyone to explain away what can only be described as incompetence. I’d long since lost the wherewithal to tolerate long-winded stories of why that which should have been done had fallen through a crack. Sally Fromberger, bless her anal-retentive soul, knew how to avoid such things—she did them herself. In her case, she might have shared a bit more, but I sympathized with her approach. Leaving Earlene as the second in command would have resulted in us all standing in the street like a flock of sheep.
None of this was producing a cat, however. I headed for the Azalea Inn, bleating Wimple’s name every other step. I knew it was futile. I also knew Sherry Lynne would be there, and I would be up a certain cradely named creek sans paddle, life preserver, or even a wimpy excuse (which I myself wouldn’t buy without a two-for-one coupon).
My car was not parked in front of the inn, but Inez had mentioned Caron’s extracurricular safari. I braced myself for an emotional onslaught, then went inside. The front parlor was uninhabited, as was the sun porch. I went into the kitchen, where I found Lily grimly chopping clumps of green things.
“Basil,” she said as if I’d inquired. “Pesto sauce for the pasta. I prefer to mince by hand rather than resort to a food processor. It enhances the flavor.”
“Have you seen a large cat?” I asked, eyeing her nervously.
She slammed down the cleaver with enough fervor to send leaves flying into the air like mutilated butterflies. “Have I not made it clear that the Azalea Inn will not tolerate animals, Ms. Malloy? Does this concept confuse you? Shall I make a drawing? The very thought of tobacco smoke has driven me to the edge, but I have done my best to deal with it. You are pushing me. If there is a cat on the premises, I shall bar the inn and put your precious authors on the railroad tracks, in hopes a freight train will flatten them. Any further questions? If not, I would like to focus on the pesto!”
I backed out of the kitchen. I checked the garden, but no one was sitting on any of the benches or wandering among the azaleas, and Wimple was not, as far as I could tell, stalking squirrels in the foliage. I therefore brilliantly surmised that the authors were in their rooms, entranced by botanical caprices or powdering their noses, so to speak.
I went back inside and sat down on the step that had previously accommodated Earlene, doing my best to force my mind to stop spinning. The cat was out there; Sherry Lynne was up there. Arnie was in cyberspace. My boxes of revenue were sweltering behind locked doors.
I’d pretty much opted for total despair when Earlene came through the front door. “Oh, Claire,” she said as she thudded down next to me, “this is a disaster. The panel this morning was . . . well, unpleasant, and I have no doubt this afternoon’s will be worse. These authors are so hostile. Our only hope was Roxanne Small, but I doubt we’ll see her anytime soon. Sally will be very disappointed with this effort. I truly dread calling her, but I suppose I must.”
I grabbed her wrist before she trudged off to do the dirty deed. “You know where Roxanne is?”
“Yes, indeed. I was sitting on a bench doing my best to come to terms with Ammie’s death when she came outside. I told her what had happened. She said she wanted to call Ammie’s parents, then decided to drive out to the little town to offer her condolences. I was touched by her concern.”
“Have you seen her since this conversation?” I asked.
Earlene shook her head. “She never came back to the panel. There’s a rental car parked out by the street, though. My best guess is that she’s upstairs.”
“That seems logical,” I said. “None of the authors rented a car. Maybe I’ll have a word with her about this afternoon. If I can deflect some of the discussion toward manuscripts and submissions, I may be able to prevent fisticuffs.”
“The guestbook says she’s in the Hibiscus Room. She may have felt the need to lie down after visiting Ammie’s family. I know I would have.”
“Me, too.” I patted her arm, then went upstairs to the second floor. All the rooms were identified with plaques uncannily similar to those on the skybox doors. I knocked on the door of the Hibiscus Room.
There was no reply. Although I expected the door to be locked, I turned the knob and eased into the room. “Roxanne?” I called hesitantly. Everything about the room was tidy except for the schematic abundance of flora on the carpet, the curtains, the wallpaper, the ruffled lampshades, and even the twee collection of potpourri baskets and mint dishes (not to be mistaken under any circumstances for ashtrays). Fresh hibiscuses—or should that be “hibisci”?—in a vase dominated the bedside table.
The bathroom was empty, and there was no indication Roxanne had returned to the room in the aftermath of Lily’s bedmaking, vacuuming, dusting, and disinfecting. An open laptop computer sat on a small desk next to a stack of what appeared to be manuscripts.
I went downstairs to the sitting room, found a telephone directory in a drawer, and called the animal shelter. I explained the situation, described the cat, and was informed that none of the current inmates met the criteria. There’d been an incident not too long ago in which a very nasty man had been engaged in selling stolen animals to laboratories. Luckily, he was no longer with us, and I’d seen no stories in the local paper. Arnie’s involvement had been peripheral at best. Or at worst
, considering the subject, but I doubted he’d found a way to constrain Wimple.
Laureen came into the room and sat down beside me. “I’d like to send flowers to Ammie’s family,” she said as she lit a cigarette. “From what I gathered, she lived with her parents. Could someone find out their address from her conference registration?”
“I should think so,” I said. “That’s a kind gesture.”
“Oh, I put up a pretense of being a nice person to make my readers happy. My secretary sends out a newsletter several times a year, gabbing about my cats, my rose garden, and my secret family recipes. One of these days I really must read one.” She inhaled deeply, then glanced around for an ashtray. None of the fragile china bowls looked promising, so she tapped ashes into her hand. “I felt sorry for the girl. She went to a small, rural high school, but made it through a couple of years of college before family obligations forced her to drop out. She wasn’t destined for Harvard Law School, but she would have made an adequate teacher or social worker. Or, with the heavy-handedness of a mentor, even a writer. Exceptionally clever plots can overcome clumsy writing, if one has a dedicated editor. Look at the New York Times best-seller list if you doubt me.”
“Could she have gotten an editor?” I asked.
Laureen sighed. “Not without help. Roxanne is forever complaining she gets over a hundred manuscripts every week, and that’s standard for the industry. They’re farmed out to readers, but eventually she herself has to look at those with potential. Two or three of them may get a third read. It’s a tough business.”
“No kidding,” said Allegra as she came into the room. “I just spoke to my publicist. I was hoping to go home tomorrow, but instead I go to New York to do another round of satellite television and radio. The snootiest hotel in the entire city lacks the charm of my one-bedroom condo in Jackson Hole.”
“You poor dear,” Laureen murmured. “Paradigm House has enslaved you, simply so that you can remain on the best-seller lists for another week or two. It hardly seems fair. Once you get to the deck of the condo, you’ll have to spend hours on the phone with your investment broker, trying to decide what to do with all the ill-gotten gains.”
Allegra stiffened. “You’ve made your millions, Laureen. Could it be time for a new generation of mystery writers? Tastes change. Your loyal readers aren’t on the corporate fast track; they’re on Social Security and Medicare. Dilys’s are on medication, and most of Sherry Lynne’s are liable to be in nursing homes . . .”
She had enough sense to shut up as Sherry Lynne came into the sitting room. “Claire,” she said, “we must speak.”
I stood up. “Yes, I’m afraid we should. Why don’t we go to the porch?”
“What could have happened to Wimple?” she demanded as we went out the front door. “You assured me time and again that he would be taken care of, but he’s gone. He doesn’t know this area, nor does he have any idea how to find me. There are movies in which a cat, usually accompanied by a dog or two, traipses across thousands of miles to find its owner, but Wimple lacks that kind of radar.”
I resisted the urge to point out that in her books Wimple would have expended only minimal energy to contact a travel agent. Dimple had a passport, for pity’s sake. Doolittle meowed in French, German, Italian, and probably Latin.
“I called the shelter,” I said, “and they’ll watch for him. He knows where the pate and pet carrier are, and he’s intelligent enough to return there when he gets tired of exploring the neighborhood. As soon as Caron has taken us to the luncheon, I’ll have her go back to the duplex and keep an eye out for him.”
Sherry Lynne did not look especially pleased with my optimistic take on the situation. “Cars seem to drive along the alley behind your house at a reckless speed. Wimple is not accustomed to prowling.”
No, I thought, he was better versed in yowling. However, as I was preparing more platitudes, Dilys came huffing up the sidewalk, burdened by half a dozen shopping bags.
“I found the most divine little shops just around the comer,” she said. “I bought a lovely antique quilt for Wilmont, hand-sewn and made of silk. I was sorely tempted by a crystal figurine of a fairy for my granddaughter Eliza, but she has so many of them already. Is it time for us to get ready for the luncheon? I should like a moment to determine if the beaded vest I bought might go with my ginger and sienna trousers.”
I glanced at my watch. “Caron will be here any moment, but she can take some of the others while you decide.”
Dilys paused. “Sherry Lynne, is something wrong? You’re looking ever so flushed. Should you sit down and put your head between your knees? It’s always struck me as a ridiculous posture, but all the American authors seem to find it useful. My mother used to say that nothing was better than a cup of tea to bring one to one’s senses.”
“I’m fine,” Sherry Lynne said. “I’ve been walking around the neighborhood, and the heat must be affecting me. You’re rather rosy yourself.”
“Merely the afterglow of successful shopping,” said Dilys. “I’d best trot upstairs and leave my parcels in my room. Do have a sip of water, dear; you look quite dreadful.” She glanced at me. “And you, too. We want to look our very best at the luncheon, don’t we?”
She went inside before either Sherry Lynne or I could concoct a sufficiently scathing response.
“Have you seen Roxanne?” I asked.
“I have not been looking for Roxanne. I am much more concerned about Wimple.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “If Earlene will moderate the panel this afternoon”—I shuddered just a bit—”Caron, Inez, and I will knock on doors in the immediate area. The Kappa Theta Etas have tender hearts, if not sharp minds. Wimple may be happily munching caviar in their dining room, or watching soaps with them.”
“Caviar gives him constipation, and he does not care for daytime television,” Sherry Lynne said, frowning at me. “It might be best for me to skip the luncheon and afternoon panel in order to continue searching for him. At five o’clock, I’ll be obliged to call the police.”
I could imagine Jorgeson’s reaction. “I’m afraid the police won’t do anything except refer you to the animal shelter.”
“Wimple is a very valuable cat. My agent insisted that I insure him for fifty thousand dollars.”
“You could do that?”
“Betty Grable insured her legs. Enrico Caruso insured his voice. Wimple has as many fans as either of them, and has been featured on the cover of Cat Fancy magazine, along with Dimple and Doolittle, of course. I do not play favorites.”
“You still may have a difficult time convincing the police to bring in bloodhounds.”
“I would never allow that,” she said stiffly. “Wimple would be so terrified that he would dash into the street and be ran down by some irresponsible college student. I have several photos of him in my suitcase. Perhaps I’ll go on the local television news and offer a reward for his safe return.”
Which would not reflect well on the conference or the bookseller. I was about to mention as much as Dilys came out to the porch.
“There is a most peculiar message on Roxanne’s laptop,” she said. “I’m not sure what it means, but it concerns a cat. It reads: ‘Ding, Dong, Bell; Pussy’s in the Well.’”
Sherry Lynne banged open the screened door and ran through the hallway toward the garden. I wondered if she’d learned to yowl from Wimple, or he from her. Both of them had taken it to an exalted level.
“Oh, my goodness,” Dilys said. “Sherry Lynne has seemed to have taken a turn. So what do you think about this vest with my trousers? Is the overall effect a bit too much?”
Chapter
8
Allegra was lurking in the hallway, and after a palpably tense second, Laureen joined us from the parlor. “What’s going on?” they whispered in unison, if not perfect harmony. Dilys was attempting to explain when Lily barreled out of the kitchen, clutching the cleaver in what might have been a menacing fashion had I
not been aware of the pesto plight.
“Ms. Malloy,” she hissed, her bloodless lips barely moving, “if that was a cat racing down the hall . . .” The cleaver rose a fraction of an inch. Had she been dressed in a flimsy white prom dress, stained with blood, I would have abandoned all hope and called Stephen King for advice.
“Ding, dong, bell,” I said distractedly. “Pussy’s in the well.”
Lily’s cleaver rose another fraction (most of an inch this time). “There’s no bell—or well, for that matter.”
“And Pussy is not the cat’s name,” Laureen said as she gulped down a glass of wine. “It’s more like Pimple or Pustule or something equally repulsive.”
I frowned. “The cat’s name is Wimple, and he’s been missing since this morning. Sherry Lynne is distraught. He’s a major player in her books, as you know.”
Laureen’s wineglass slipped from her hand. The subsequent shatter resulted in a moment of petrified silence from all of us. “That sort of writing is what’s killing all of us,” she said with an unsteady laugh. “Does no one savor elegant prose and an old-fashioned, convoluted plot?”
I realized Laureen had found a bottle of wine and had been savoring it for the last half hour. “I need to go out to the garden with Sherry Lynne. It might be better if everyone else waited inside.”
“Poor Sherry Lynne,” said Allegra as she went past me. Laureen, Dilys, and Lily were on her heels. Walter Dahl came down the stairs, glanced at me, and then headed for the garden, his expression several degrees more condemnatory than mere contempt.
I trailed along for lack of anything else to do (such as buy an airline ticket to Timbuktu, which I would charge to Sally Fromberger’s personal account). Sherry Lynne was shrieking Wimple’s name and batting aside azaleas with such fierceness that Lily was in tears. Laureen and Dilys were doing their best to calm both of them down, while Allegra watched coolly and Walter found a bench to his liking and took out a pipe.