Canapés for the Kitties

by Marian Babson

  Had-I and But-Known turned to her with comforting purrs. Roscoe came over to rub against her ankles. As a stray human, owned by no proprietary feline, but always ready to welcome a visiting cat with warmth, snacks and cuddles, she was extremely popular with them.

  “Aaah ... thanks.” She accepted the glass of deep amber liquid and slipped off her shoes, absently scratching Roscoe’s neck with a stockinged toe. Relaxation was setting in.

  “Are the neighbours being difficult again?” Lorinda looked at Freddie with some concern. Freddie’s hairdo was in a disintegrating preshampoo condition, not helped by the way she was running her hands through it, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “All night,” Freddie sighed. “Shouting, screaming and throwing things. I didn’t get a wink of sleep. Every time it got quiet and I started to doze, they began again.”

  “Poor Freddie,” Macho sympathized. “You should have banged on the wall.”

  “I couldn’t!” Freddie said. “They’d die if they thought I could hear them so clearly. Especially with some of the home truths they were hurling at each other. We’d never be able to look each other in the face again.”

  “You’re going to have to do something,” Lorinda said. “You can’t go on like this. Especially if it’s true that they’re going to stay here year around this year.”

  “Oh, it’s true, all right.” Freddie shuddered. “They’re collaborating on a nonfiction book. One of those A Year In ... with lots of photographs. Guess who’s going to do all the work while he swans around pointing his camera at everything so that he’ll get his name on the title page as co-author. The last shot to save an ailing marriage. How many times have we seen it?” She shuddered again.

  “I’m thinking of moving my bedroom,” she went on. “If I clear the box-room and move the bed in there, leaving the bedroom as a dressing room ...”

  “You can’t squeeze yourself into the box-room!” Lorinda was horrified. “There’s no window – you’ll have no air.”

  “Especially if I keep the door closed, which I shall have to do to keep it soundproof,” Freddie nodded gloomily. “Damn Dorian and all his machinations!”

  “Dorian can’t be blamed if the Jackley marriage is breaking up.” Lorinda was assailed by sudden doubt. “Can he?”

  “I wouldn’t like to swear to anything.” Freddie was suddenly very interested in her drink. “It’s possible that they’ve just discovered they can’t stand each other.”

  “And who can blame them?” Macho murmured. Diplomatic relations had been strained ever since Jack Jackley had pointed out the antiquity of much of his hard-boiled American slang. He had been particularly annoyed to be told that “roscoe” was even worse than “gat” for a gun. Nor was Jackley’s humour appreciated when he suggested alternative names for Roscoe. Nothing on earth could induce Macho to change Roscoe’s name to Capone.

  “I was so exhausted by the time they decided to call it a night,” Freddie went on, “that I overslept disgracefully this morning. I didn’t wake up until Karla threw the toaster at the wall.”

  “How do you know it was the toaster?” Macho always liked to get these little points clear.

  “I heard Jack shout, ‘You’ll electrocute yourself!’ and then, ‘Those were the last two slices of bread.’ It wasn’t hard to deduce – that is our business, you know.”

  “True.” Lorinda and Macho nodded.

  “Then there was a long silence. I hoped one of them was strangling the other with the electric cord, but no such luck. I looked out of the window a while later and saw them setting off for the shops. They had their shopping basket with them –” She forestalled Macho’s next question.

  “Anyway, I took advantage of the quiet to get some work done. When I heard doors slamming over there again, I decided to get out and do some shopping myself. I had nearly finished and was walking down the High Street when I saw that – that toad!” She spat the word out and the cats turned their heads to look at her with a wary interest bordering on alarm. They were not accustomed to that tone of voice from her.

  “He was hopping out of the wine merchant’s – wouldn’t you know it? – and looking too pleased with himself to be true. I’d hoped I was hallucinating, but he spoke to me and said he’d just moved in to Coffers Court and was looking forward to living here amongst all his old friends and colleagues.”

  “You should have spat in his face!” Macho was overidentifying with his character again, although the fictional Macho wouldn't have stopped at mere spittle, a few broken teeth were more his style.

  “I have a book coming out next month,” Freddie apologized.

  “Maybe he’ll be nicer when he realizes that he has to live among us and meet us every day.” Lorinda tried to look on the bright – or, at least, hopeful – side.

  “Hah!” Macho spat.

  Had-I and But-Known jumped down from the arms of the chair and Roscoe joined them on their tactical retreat into the kitchen; the atmosphere was getting too violent around here for a respectable cat to countenance. They didn’t even look back when the telephone rang again.

  Lorinda recognized the voice the instant it greeted her in the unctuous tones it used when being introduced on television or radio (the waspishness came later, when he launched into the actual reviews). She leaned weakly against the wall, faintly echoing the more pertinent of his remarks, aware that her breathless audience was hanging on every word.

  “Yes ... yes, I’d heard.” She could not bring herself to say, Welcome to Brimful Coffers. Apart from anything else, that audience might lynch her if she tried.

  “Ye – oh ... No, no, they’re here with me now, as a matter of fact.” She nodded to the semaphoring arms wildly instructing, Don’t ask him round.

  “Oh, how – how nice ... Yes, I’ll ask them. Just a moment.” She took the precaution of covering the mouthpiece before announcing, “Plantagenet is inviting us to a party on Saturday night. He’s having a house-warming.”

  “Warm it?” Macho was still posturing. “I’d rather burn it down!”

  “Oh, hell,” Freddie moaned. “I suppose we’ll have to go -”

  “They’d be delighted,” Lorinda said firmly into the phone. “Eight o’clock? Yes, we’ll all be there. Thank you so much.” She managed to replace the receiver before the chorus of groans and complaints broke out.

  A sudden gust of wind tore a shower of leaves from the trees and hurled them against the windows like hail. Lorinda watched gloomily as a splattering of raindrops joined them.

  It was going to be a long winter.

  2

  Saturday came all too soon, however. They foregathered at Macho’s for a preliminary drink to brace themselves for the house-warming party.

  “House-warming!” Freddie snorted. “Danegeld is what it amounts to.”

  “I’d like to geld him,” Macho muttered.

  “Anyway,” Freddie went on cheerfully, “I found the perfect present for him at the antique shop. On the principle of sweets for the sweet ...”

  “An antique pendant?” Macho murmured hopefully. “Better than that. An old gargoyle beer mug! Not only is it hideous, but we all know he wouldn’t be caught dead drinking beer. And, since it’s an antique and cost quite a bit, he’ll never be sure whether I was getting at him or not.”

  “Oh, well played!” Lorinda applauded. “I wasn’t nearly so adventurous. I got him an eighteenth-century ship’s decanter.” Unimaginative but safe, she hoped.

  “The antique shop has been doing a rushing business.” Macho’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “I got him a framed print of the Spanish Inquisition – Torquemada doing his stuff. He can make what he likes of that.”

  Roscoe, mindful of his duties as co-host, was padding from guest to guest offering help in disposing of any unwanted items – like the last bite on the cocktail stick. He was not importunate about it – Macho would not have stinted him in the kitchen – he simply wished to remind everyone that further handouts were always welcomed a
nd appreciated.

  Lorinda sighed and surrendered to the hopeful eyes, handing over a bacon-wrapped chicken liver she had barely nibbled. Roscoe made quick work of it and looked around for more. No wonder he wouldn’t fit through a catflap.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go,” Freddie said. “I wish we could stay right here and have a pleasant evening.”

  “Think of it as part of the job,” Lorinda advised. “Like signing sessions and speaking at libraries, schools and clubs.”

  “All right for some,” Macho said darkly, and Lorinda realized she had been tactless. It was well known that no school or club in its right mind would invite what it imagined Macho Magee’s creator to be like to come and address their tender charges.

  “She means libraries,” Freddie said helpfully, earning another dark look. The only time Macho had spoken at a library he had nearly been hooted off the stage by some louts who had strayed in to see what he looked like and commented loudly and freely on their disappointment and his deficiencies. The creator of the mountainous bully was not expected to be a weedy individual who could have passed for a university lecturer or tax inspector. In a way, Macho had brought it on himself. When his publishers had insisted on a photograph for the book jacket, Macho, conscious that he might not be exactly what his fans expected, had taken a leaf from the late Craig Rice’s book when she was faced with a similar problem and wished to conceal the fact that she was a woman. Thus, coat collar turned up, bundled up in a scarf, hat pulled low and pipe jutting out to mark the approximate location of mouth in a deeply shadowed atmospheric photograph, Macho had presented himself to the world. People could imagine any features or height they liked. And, judging from the behaviour of the louts, apparently they had.

  After that dire appearance, Macho had refused all further speaking engagements and confined his bookshop cooperation to signing bookplates. The reclusive reputation he was gaining had done nothing to limit the popularity of his books, and certain of the newer and more studiedly intellectual of the critics were beginning to refer to him as the J. D. Salinger of the mystery world.

  “Not now, Roscoe.” Macho deftly caught Roscoe in midleap to his lap. “We have to go out.” He glanced at his colleagues for confirmation. “We do have to go?”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, we do,” Freddie said. “Come on, bite the bullet. At least the wine ought to be good. And maybe even the food.”

  “Better a meal of bitter herbs with my friends,” Macho said darkly, “than a feast with my enemies. Or however it goes.”

  “Oh, come now,” Lorinda protested. “It isn’t that bad. Most of the guests are our friends.”

  Macho deposited Roscoe on the carpet, brushed a few red hairs from his trousers, carefully removed the cocktail sticks from the last two chicken livers and carried the sticks into the kitchen. They heard the clatter of the swing-lid rubbish bin.

  “We’ll be back soon.” Returning, Macho bent to stroke Roscoe and set the saucer of leftovers in front of him. “Perhaps very soon.”

  Plantagenet Sutton was greeting his guests expansively at the front door of Coffers Court itself, giving the impression that he was master of all he surveyed and not just one of the flats. He was holding his party in the marble-clad entrance hall, which was bedecked with flowers.

  The arrivals from London were suitably impressed, while the inhabitants of Brimful Coffers exchanged wry glances.

  “Welcome, welcome, so glad you could come!” He greeted them enthusiastically, shaking hands with Macho, planting kisses on Lorinda and Freddie’s cheeks. “Oh, for me? You shouldn’t have! It wasn’t necessary.”

  Lorinda noticed that there was a pile of gift-wrapped parcels on the little table beside him. It might not have been necessary, but it was advisable.

  “How well you look,” Freddie cooed insincerely, handing over her Danegeld.

  “Ah, Freddie.” He took the gift, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. “You have a new one out any moment, haven’t you?”

  “Next month,” she said.

  “Ah, yes. I thought I’d seen it. Well, have a good time.” He turned to the next in line. “And Lorinda, ah, thank you. And how is the criminous little world of St. Waldemar Boniface?”

  “Oh...” She tried for a becoming show of modesty. “Still chugging along.”

  “Now, now, don’t sell them short. Why, some of your scenes are almost believable.” He released her hand just as it clenched and greeted Macho.

  “Ah, Magee. Same as ever, I see.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  They faced each other warily, like two mongrel curs, fur bristling, but neither ready to make the first move to attack.

  They were too much alike, Lorinda thought, that was part of the problem. Both the same physical type: weedy, undersized, bald and overcompensating by too much facial hair and those ridiculous ponytails. On a dark night, it might be hard for the casual observer to tell them apart unless one of them spoke.

  On closer observation, it could be noticed that Plantagenet had gone one step beyond Macho, growing the hair on one side of his head much longer and combing it across his dome, giving the impression from the front that he still had some hair there. The longer hair at the back was gathered into a ponytail, tied with a black velvet ribbon to match his black velvet smoking jacket.

  A sudden explosion of light blinded Lorinda and left her blinking into a whirlpool of swirling black dots.

  “Tchaaah!” With an exclamation of fury, Macho moved away rapidly, his face suffused with rage.

  “Don’t move!” Jack Jackley called out. “Get back where you were. I want one more of the two of you together.”

  Macho stalked to the other side of the room, seething.

  “He’s a bit camera-shy, you know,” Plantagenet said, not trying to hide his amusement. Everyone except the Jackleys knew that Macho would go to any lengths to avoid being photographed. “You’ll have to watch your camera now, or he’ll have the film out of it and exposed before you know it.”

  “The hell he will!” Jackley clutched his camera protectively. “Nobody touches this camera but me. This little baby is going to provide the complete record of a literary year in England. And this is our first literary soiree.” He whirled suddenly, aimed at a group just entering and unleashed the flash, leaving the new guests blinded, disoriented and blinking on the doorstep.

  “Another London train has just come in, I see.” Freddie surveyed the newcomers.

  “Representing books or booze?” Lorinda wondered. Both women slid cautiously out of the range of Plantagenet’s bonhomie and Jackley’s camera.

  “Bit of both, I should say.” Freddie frowned judiciously. “Hard to tell. So many new people are coming along now and a lot of the others are falling by the wayside or retiring. It’s one of those Changing of the Guards times. End of an era and all that.”

  Lorinda nodded, only half paying attention. They were standing by the door of Gemma Duquette’s flat and whining, snuffling sounds, punctuated by the occasional yap, could be heard. It was only a matter of time before the yapping became more imperious.

  “I hope they’re not going to let those dogs out,” Lorinda said.

  “They’re bound to,” Freddie said resignedly. “Some sentimental ass will insist on it. Probably Gemma herself.” The yaps grew more excited.

  “They know we’re here. Move away.” Lorinda suited the action to the suggestion. “Maybe they’ll calm down.”

  “Over here!” Professor Borley, standing by the drinks table, hailed them. “You haven’t got your drinks yet. Let me give you a little tip.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “There’s a choice of champagne or red or white wine. I understand this is a classic ploy in wine circles. Those who don’t know any better choose the champagne, leaving the truly fine wines for the connoisseur.” He nodded at them wisely.

  “Oh, yes?” Freddie looked at the murky red wine swirling in his own glass. “And who told you that?”

  “Why, P
lantagenet himself, I’m proud to say. I took it as a word to the wise.” He nodded again for emphasis and took a sip from his glass. “This is very ... full-blooded ... memorable.” He paused. “But perhaps you ladies might find the white more to your taste.”

  Lorinda and Freddie exchanged glances, immediately suspicious. It would be just like Plantagenet Sutton to spread such a story to get rid of his unpalatable rejects.

  “Actually,” Freddie said, “I’m afraid my palate isn’t very educated and it’s too late to send it to school now. I think I’ll just settle for the champagne.”

  “So will I.” Looking around, Lorinda observed several knowledgable-looking strangers holding champagne flutes. A good non-vintage was preferable to an unknown red or white.

  “Well, I did tip you off.” Professor Borley took another sip of his red and nodded appreciatively, but one corner of his mouth twitched in a wince.

  “We appreciate it,” Lorinda assured him, registering the waiter’s nod of approval as he handed her the glass of champagne.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Gemma Duquette came up behind them. “At last, a proper writers’ colony in England! And more and more of our colleagues will join us as they realize that. Mark my words, Brimful Coffers will become a magnet to everyone in the field.”

  “Did she say maggot?” Freddie muttered in Lorinda’s ear.

  “Shhh!” Lorinda nudged her. “Behave!”

  “And what is this I hear?” Gemma cooed. “There’s an exciting rumour afoot that you’re thinking of killing off your series character and starting afresh.”

  “What?” Freddie stiffened. “Where did you hear that ridiculous idea? You must be thinking of a couple of other people.”

  Lorinda froze. It was a long moment before she was able to lift the glass to her lips and take what she hoped looked like an unconcerned sip of champagne.