“Hey, Grace,” Bernie called out. “Nice job with the decorations.”
Grace grunted.
“Is everything okay?” Libby asked.
Grace pointed to the dress she was wearing. “Would you be happy in this?”
“Heavens no,” Bernie responded. It looked like a pink bubble with large white polka dots. The dress started slightly above the knees and ended with cutout sleeves and a high collar. It was the kind of dress that flattered no one, and Bernie couldn’t imagine who could have designed something like that. “It’s hideous.”
Grace nodded. “Exactly. I look like a giant pink bonbon with legs.”
“It’s not that bad,” Libby said, trying to be diplomatic.
“Yeah. It is,” Grace retorted.
“Okay. You’re right. It is. Where did you get it?” Libby asked. She couldn’t imagine anyone actually selling it.
“My aunt had it specially designed for me.”
“Good God,” Bernie said, truly appalled.
“She says it makes me look cute.”
“Cute?” Bernie repeated. “Not the word I would have used.”
“No. Pregnant is,” said Grace. “The only bright spot is that none of my friends are going to see me in this. I’d never live it down.” She gestured to the three guests moving to take their seats in front of the altar. “Although having those women see me is bad enough.”
Libby pointed to Marie Summer. “The last time I saw her, she was banging on Susie Katz’s door.”
“Yeah. She was definitely steaming that day,” Grace remarked.
“About what?” Libby asked.
Grace shrugged. “It had something to do with the cat show they both entered.”
“What?” Libby asked.
“I think Marie was questioning Boris’s lineage, or it could have been something about a piece of property,” Grace said. “I’m not sure. They were talking so fast, I couldn’t tell. Then my aunt closed the door, and I couldn’t hear anything else.”
“Whatever it was, I guess they resolved their differences,” Bernie remarked.
“Why do you say that?” Grace asked.
“Because she’s here,” Bernie answered.
Grace snorted at Bernie’s naïveté. “Quite the opposite.” She scratched her chin with a ragged fingernail. “All these ladies are here because they have a beef with my aunt.” And she filled Libby and Bernie in on the details. “Charlene Eberhart tried to enact a law limiting cats to three to a household and making it a fineable offense to have them go outside, while Allison Hardy works for an organization that wants to liberate all companion animals.” Grace used air quotes around companion animals. “That’s why they’re here.”
“I still don’t get it,” Libby said.
Grace indicated the tent with a wave of her hand. “This is my aunt’s demonstration of power,” she said. “She gets off on making people do things they don’t want to do.”
“But they could have said no,” Bernie observed.
“And, theoretically, I could have said no to the dress,” Grace told her. “But I didn’t.”
“So, why didn’t you?” Libby asked.
Grace laughed bitterly. “And risk the wrath of the great Susie Katz? No. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Bernie inquired. “What could she do to you?”
“Aside from fire you,” Libby added.
“Yes,” Bernie said. “Aside from that.”
Grace shook her head slowly. “You obviously don’t know her very well, do you?”
“I don’t know her at all.”
“Exactly. Because if you did, you would never say what you just did.”
Grace’s statement stayed with Bernie. She knew Susie Katz was rich, but really? What could she do? Lop off everyone’s heads? Consign them to the outer reaches of hell? As she thought about the possibilities, she watched Mrs. Gertrude Van Trumpet, the high priestess of cat weddings, slowly mount the dais. Bernie looked at her watch. It was almost three. The wedding was about to begin.
Chapter 4
When Bernie first caught sight of Mrs. Van Trumpet, she couldn’t help thinking that she was a very short woman to have such a long name. Gertrude Van Trumpet cleared four feet ten at the most. But to be fair, Mrs. Van Trumpet’s hair added another foot to her height. At least. It was piled into a beehive and lacquered in place sixties-style. If a zombie apocalypse occurred, Mrs. Van Trumpet might not survive, but her hairdo would remain intact.
She was dressed in white. Obviously, Bernie thought, the rule about not wearing white to a wedding if you weren’t the bride didn’t apply to cat weddings. Bernie was fairly certain that Mrs. Van Trumpet’s silk suit, her white silk blouse with a bow tie around her neck, and her matching white silk pumps had all been made to order. She had a small white shoulder bag slung over her left shoulder and was carrying a red briefcase decorated with pictures of cats in her right hand. Once Mrs. Van Trumpet had settled herself behind the dais, she took a large white binder out of her briefcase, opened it, and began going over what Bernie assumed were her notes.
Grace pointed to Mrs. Van Trumpet. “If truth be told, I don’t think she’s such a big fan of Susie’s, either.”
“Why do you say that?” Bernie asked.
Grace shrugged. “Just a feeling I get.” She looked at her watch. “Gotta go and get the little darlings ready.” She frowned. “Cross your fingers that nothing bad happens.”
“It won’t,” Libby declared, trying to be positive.
Grace looked at Libby as if she was insane. “With eight cats? Are you nuts?”
“So, what if it does?” Libby asked.
“Then there’ll be trouble,” Grace told her.
“Okay,” Libby said. “But surely, she won’t be able to blame you for the shenanigans of—”
“Of course she will,” Grace snapped, interrupting Libby. “She blames me for everything. Well, me and Ralph. We’re her whipping boys.”
“What happens if something does happen?” Bernie asked.
“Good question,” Grace answered. She looked at her watch again and said, “I have to go. The ceremony is about to start.”
Libby turned to Bernie after Grace left, and said, “I wonder why she stays. I wouldn’t.”
“Me, either, but she must need this job.”
“Or she really, really likes cats,” Libby suggested.
“She’d have to in order to do what she does,” Bernie noted, after which she changed the subject to the question of when she and Libby should get the ice swans.
Five minutes later, the song “Memory” from Cats came on, signaling the start of the event. Marie, Allison, and Charlene turned to look at the wedding procession, while Mrs. Van Trumpet put down her notes, folded her hands on the dais, and waited for Boris and Natasha to march down the aisle. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Since cats don’t march. Ever. For anything.
Susie’s nephew Ralph entered from the far aisle with the groom’s best cats, while Grace entered from the nearer aisle with the bridal party. Like Grace, Ralph was dressed in head-to-toe pink, and while his outfit wasn’t quite as outrageously awful as Grace’s, it was bad enough. Susie had dressed her nephew as a footman. No wonder he looked so unhappy, Bernie reflected. What male wanted to be seen in pink tights and a waistcoat? The only thing lacking was a wig. Instead, Ralph was wearing a bright pink fedora, which somehow made everything even worse.
Libby and Bernie watched as Susie’s niece and nephew pushed two small white coaches down their respective aisles. The coaches had been decorated with pink and white streamers, leopard flowers, pink leopards, and red roses and covered with white netting to keep the cats from jumping out and taking off. Inside each coach sat three pissed-off Russian blues. Ivan, Vladimir, and Serge had bow ties affixed around their necks, while Anya, Olga, and Katya were wearing white lace collars.
A panoply of noises issuing from the coaches ranged from mews to yowls to hisses and growls, although given th
e netting, it was hard to tell who was doing what. Bernie was thinking that Susie should have given the cats something a little bit stronger than catnip as she watched the procession wend its way slowly down the aisles.
“I guess Grace and Ralph aren’t the only unhappy beings here,” Libby whispered to Bernie.
“I know I wouldn’t be happy if I were them,” Bernie replied as she watched the procession advance.
“Are you talking about the niece and nephew or the cats?” Libby asked.
“Both,” Bernie said. “I’m talking about both.” And the guests, she added silently.
Once they reached the altar, Ralph and Grace turned and faced the entrance to the tent. The music was playing louder now, successfully drowning out the cats. A moment later, Susie Katz, wearing a gold sequined caftan that swooshed as she moved, entered the tent and walked down the center aisle. Or tried to, because Boris and Natasha were not cooperating.
Natasha was wearing a white veil that fastened behind her ears, while Boris had on a black tux. Both wore sapphire-studded leather collars. The attached leashes echoed the theme. A line of sapphires ran down the leashes’ length. Susie had planned to have Boris and Natasha trot down the aisle beside her.
But the best-laid plans of men and all that. First, Natasha refused to move, and when she did, Boris sat down and attacked his leash. Then Natasha attacked Boris’s leash. Boris retaliated and attacked Natasha. Susie stopped and separated them, putting one cat on one side of her and one on the other.
A couple of yards later, the same thing happened. Susie untangled the leashes again. They went another foot when the cats resumed their fighting. Finally, Susie conceded defeat, picked each Russian blue up, and carried them the rest of the way. Once they reached the altar, Susie put them down, and they proceeded to attack each other, leading Susie to pick them up again.
“Doesn’t look like the start of a good marriage to me,” Bernie leaned over and whispered to Libby. “I wonder if we’ll get to cater the divorce.”
Mrs. Van Trumpet glared at Bernie and loudly cleared her throat. Bernie took the hint and stopped talking.
“That’s better,” Mrs. Van Trumpet said. She took a pair of reading glasses out of her briefcase and rested them on the bridge of her nose, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin.
The music stopped. The service started.
Mrs. Van Trumpet looked around the tent, cleared her throat again, pushed her glasses up on her nose with her index finger, and began. “Boris and Natasha, we are here to join you in the sacred ceremony of catamony,” she said in a voice that could wake the dead.
Libby leaned over to Bernie and whispered, “For a little person, she’s awfully loud.”
“Ahem,” Mrs. Van Trumpet said, favoring Libby with a stern look.
Libby stopped talking.
“May I proceed?” Mrs. Van Trumpet asked.
Libby pointed at herself. “Are you asking me?”
“You were the one talking, weren’t you?”
Libby blushed. “By all means, continue,” she mumbled.
Mrs. Van Trumpet smiled a triumphant smile and looked back down at her binder. “Now, where was I?” she asked for dramatic effect. She turned a few pages, frowning as she did. “Ah, here we are,” she said a minute later. She looked up from her binder and cleared her throat for the third time. “We are here to join Boris Spectorski, son of Peter and Anastasya, grandson of Alexi and Dima, great-grandson of Serge and Olga, and Natasha Abramova, daughter of Polina and Igor, granddaughter of Vladimir and Svetlana, and great-granddaughter of Elena and Misha, in the bonds of holy catamony.”
Mrs. Van Trumpet gazed out at her audience. One member of the bridal party began licking herself. Mrs. Van Trumpet ignored her and continued reading. “Do you, Boris, promise to take Natasha in flea, tick, and lice infestations, through litters and weaning, through litter box problems, cat tree disagreements, and hair balls for your wedded wife? And do you promise to be true to Natasha, and to groom her the way she likes to be groomed, and not to go tomcatting around, even when she has grown old and feeble and can no longer clean herself adequately?”
Boris meowed.
“He does,” Susie said, answering for him.
Mrs. Van Trumpet turned to Natasha, who was now perched on the top of Susie Katz’s head, kneading her scalp and sucking on her hair. Bernie thought she saw little trickles of blood in Susie’s updo, but she couldn’t be sure.
Mrs. Van Trumpet cleared her throat for the fourth time, took a sip of water from the silver goblet Susie had thoughtfully provided for her, and continued with the ceremony. “And do you, Natasha,” and she repeated Natasha’s pedigree, “promise to stay with Boris,” here she repeated Boris’s pedigree, “through fleas and ticks and lice and whatever other infestations occur? Do you promise to share your Tender Vittles and poached salmon with him and make room for him on the cat bridge, on the bathroom shelf, in the linen closet, as well as in your cat bed? And do you promise to share any mice, rats, moles, or voles that you may capture with him?”
Natasha didn’t answer. Instead, she continued sucking Susie’s hair. Susie reached up and pulled Natasha’s tail, which was dangling in front of her face. Natasha let out a resounding growl and jumped onto the ground. Boris joined her a moment later.
Mrs. Van Trumpet looked up from her binder and readjusted her glasses. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Then she picked up a large stick of incense that had been lying on the podium and lit it with a gold lighter. The smell of patchouli wafted through the tent. She waved the incense stick from side to side, then up and down.
“In the name of the Egyptian cat goddesses Mut, Wadjust, Bastet, Menhit, Sekhmet, Mafdet, Pekhet, and Tefnut and the Egyptian cat gods Merui, Mihos, and Shut,” she intoned, “I join you, Boris, and you, Natasha, in the bonds of sacred connubial bliss. May you be fruitful and multiply, and may your kittens do likewise, and so on and so forth down to eternity, until they populate the earth.”
Then Mrs. Van Trumpet came down from the dais and walked over to where Boris and Natasha were standing and stopped. She waved the stick of incense in front of Boris and Natasha. They both sneezed. “By the powers invested in me by Orinnik and Hecate and by the gods of this universe and the next, as well as all the tigers and lions and leopards of this world, I pronounce you, Boris, and you, Natasha, married, and may the great cat goddess Bastet and her kittens watch over you and yours and grant you long and happy lives.” Then she turned and walked back to the dais, closed her binder, and put it in her briefcase.
There was a polite sprinkling of applause from the audience.
Mrs. Van Trumpet smiled, looked up, and said, “Let the festivities commence.”
Which was when things got interesting, depending, of course, on how you defined the word interesting.
Chapter 5
Libby and Bernie didn’t know who suggested opening the presents before the meal instead of after it, because they’d been getting the caviar and the ice swans out of Susie Katz’s fridge. When they’d left the tent, everyone had been heading toward the banquet tables, and when they came back, everyone, both felines and Homo sapiens, was congregating around the small round table that had been set up to receive the presents.
“Great,” Libby said, surveying the scene. “So much for scripted. How long do you think the present opening is going to take?”
Bernie shrugged. “At a guess, allowing for the oohing and aahing factor, forty minutes. Hopefully.” There were only six presents. How much time could that take?
By common consent, she and Bernie plunked the cooler they were carrying on the ground between the two tables earmarked for the meal.
Libby sighed. “The swans should be good for an hour at least, before they start to melt.”
Bernie flicked a speck of dirt off her shirt. “And the caviar?”
“It should be fine,” Libby replied. It had been messengered to them at the store this morning. “I hope it’s fine.” She didn’t have
any experience with this kind of product, so she didn’t really know.
“I wonder if it was really flown in from Russia?” Bernie said.
“Instead of repackaged in California?” Libby asked.
Bernie nodded. There was a lot of scamming that went on in the fish business, because it was difficult to ascertain sources. “I hope Susie can taste the difference, because I can’t.” Bernie and Libby had both had a taste. They hadn’t been able to resist.
“Me either.” Libby brushed a lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. She was trying to let her bangs grow out, and they had gotten to that annoying length at which they were too short to pin back but long enough to get into her eyes. “I don’t really like the stuff,” she confessed.
“Ditto that,” Bernie agreed. “But given the price she’s paying, I certainly hope Susie does,” Bernie told Libby as she studied the rest of the guests. Marie was wearing a tight black dress, a big picture hat, and light beige stilettos, Allison looked as if she was going to a garden party in the English countryside, while Charlene was wearing a navy suit that would have been at home in the boardroom. By now five minutes had gone by—okay, maybe three—and no one had made a move to open the gifts yet.
“We’d better ask Susie when she wants us to put the caviar out,” Libby suggested. The last thing that she wanted was to be responsible for it going bad. Given what she knew about Susie, she’d probably sue them for a million dollars, claiming emotional distress.
Bernie nodded. “And the swans.” She pictured their beaks melting as she watched Susie. Their client had clasped her hands together and was beaming as the sisters walked toward her.
“You shouldn’t have,” she was gushing to her guests while Boris and Natasha played with the edges of the white lace tablecloth covering the table. A moment later, Natasha caught one of her nails in the lace and pulled. The tablecloth began a slow slide to the ground. So did the presents.
“The tablecloth,” Bernie cried, pointing.
Susie looked. “Oh my God,” she said, catching the tablecloth with her right hand before everything fell. “Don’t just stand there gawking,” she snapped at Grace while Susie scooped Natasha up with her left hand and pulled the tablecloth back with her right. “Do something.”
A Catered Cat Wedding Page 3