Canapés for the Kitties (2 page)

Flip-flop ... flip-flop
... the familiar sound was followed by the thud of soft little paws on the stairs as the cats bounded up and headed unerringly for her study.

Had-I was in the lead, of course, with But-Known right behind her. They made a quick tour of inspection, then sat down side by side and regarded her with bright-eyed improbable innocence. She knew that look.

“
Now
what have you done?” She was instantly suspicious.

Flip-flap ... flap... flap, scrabble ...
“Aaarreeeooow ...”

“Oh, not again!” she scolded.

“
Meerryooowrrr...
” The wail of distress soared upwards, filling the air, beginning to border on panic.

“All right, all right, I'm coming,” she called. The cats rose to their feet and followed her down the stairs. “Let's go and see what the damage is,” she told them.

The huge orange cat was well and truly jammed into the catflap. Head and shoulders protruded, wriggling, with one trapped paw waving under his chin. He looked up piteously at Lorinda and renewed his struggles, but he could move no farther forward, nor could he back out.

“Oh, Pudding,” she said reproachfully. Pudding was not really his name, but it should be. He was sweet and thick. “Will you never learn?”

“
Arrreeeoooww,
” he moaned, trying to twist around.

“No, no, don't do that. You'll only make it worse.” She stooped to pet him comfortingly. “Just be calm and I'll get help.”

Had-I was going to be no help at all. Was she ever? With a disdainful look at the helpless captive, she strolled over to her bowl and ostentatiously began to munch.

“
Meeeyyyaaooo ...
”

Had-I shot him a smug look and took another morsel, crunching it loudly. She was clearly saying,
“Yum-yum-yummy.
”

“You stop taunting the poor thing!” Lorinda pushed Had-I aside, scooped up a few of the tiny fish-shapes and carried them over to the catflap.

“Here...” She popped one into the eager mouth and then another. He was calming down now, with his mouth full and a trusted figure stroking his fevered brow.

“That's better.” Lorinda went to the telephone in the living room and pushed the automatic dialing button for one of the frequently called numbers. Then she held the receiver a safe distance from her ear, waiting for the shot that began the answer tape.

“BANG!! Ya missed me, sucker! You don't get Macho Magee that easy! I'm on the prowl down those mean streets with my trusty Roscoe, looking for trouble. Maybe I'll find it. If you want to find me, leave a message when the screaming dies ...” A long shrill scream ended the announcement.

“You'd better come over here and pull out your trusty Roscoe,” Lorinda announced briskly. “He's stuck in the cat-flap again.”

“They do it deliberately.” There was a click and the querulous voice began complaining. “I've seen them. Those wretched creatures of yours lead my poor Roscoe on.”

It was too true to argue with. Had-I and But-Known all too clearly thought it was the best joke in town to lure poor Roscoe into their catflap and then laugh at him when he couldn't clear it and jammed halfway through.

“He ought to know better by now,” Lorinda said. “But he's well stuck in this time and I'm afraid of hurting him.”

“Oh, all right. I'll be right there.” He slammed down the phone and Lorinda went back into the kitchen.

“All right, Roscoe,” she said carefully; she mustn't get caught calling him Pudding. “Daddy's on the way.”

Still tranquillized by his snack, Roscoe regarded her amiably. But-Known, perhaps with a belated attack of conscience, was busily washing his face, which was also helping to soothe him. He had stopped struggling, but still looked terribly uncomfortable.

Had-I had abandoned her food bowl, finding no fun in it if Lorinda was going to be such a spoilsport as to share the munchies with Roscoe, and was perched on a chair watching the others. Now she lifted her head and turned toward the window, aware of an approaching presence before Lorinda could see or hear it.

It had to be Macho. Taking her cue, Lorinda gently eased the door open, trying not to panic Roscoe.

“Steady on, boy. It's all right. Don't worry.”

Reassurances were useless. Roscoe let out an unearthly shriek at discovering he was moving horizontally through the air at no volition of his own and without human arms around him.

“I'm coming! I'm coming, Roscoe!” The figure at the far end of the garden broke into a shambling run and lurched forward precipitously. “Hang in there!”

Really, there wasn't much else Roscoe could do. He swung, suspended by his ample middle, from the catflap, hind legs scrabbling for purchase, and yowled his terror to the skies.

“Here I am! Daddy's here!” Macho Magee dropped to his knees beside his anxious pet and glared up at Lorinda. “I don't know why you have to have one of those porthole-type catflaps. It's antisocial!”

“It was here when I bought the house.” Lorinda sighed, they had been through this before. “And my own cats,” she pointed out, “have no trouble with it at all.”

“Nevertheless, the thing is a menace. You should take it out and replace it with a square flap with one end flush with the floor. That's the best kind. It's what I have.”

“It's draftier,” she said, without adding that she did not particularly wish to allow Roscoe, however sweet he might be, unlimited access to her house. Nor did she think Had-I and But-Known would appreciate an interloper roaming through their territory at will, however well they got on with him.

Roscoe had begun purring trustfully and Macho Magee got to his feet to assess the problem.

“It looks pretty bad this time,” he said fretfully, glaring at Lorinda as though it were her fault. “We may have to dismantle the flap.”

“No,” Lorinda said.

“Mmmm ...” He walked around the door, checking both ends of his cat. “Perhaps, if we grease him ...”

“We did that last time and he didn't like it.”

“True, and it took him days to get all the butter out of his fur.” Macho took another turn around the door. Roscoe was beginning to look anxious again.

“If you can work that paw loose from under his chin,” Lorinda suggested, “you ought to be able to back him out then.”

Had-I and But-Known just sat there and looked superior, quite as though they'd had nothing to do with luring Roscoe to his entrapment.

“I don't know ...” Macho knelt before his cat again and gently took hold of the paw. “Easy now ...” he soothed. “Easy ... does it ...”

If his fans could see him now
... Lorinda thought, not for the first time. She looked down on the polished pink dome of the creator of the eponymous Macho Magee, arguably the hardest-boiled private eye in print; certainly the most politically incorrect. What Macho Magee hadn't blackmailed, stabbed, strangled, set alight or blown away wasn't worth thinking about. He considered any book that didn't attract a minimum of fifty letters of complaint one that hadn't come up to scratch. The man's very name was a challenge. Deliberately so.

It had to be. His real name was Lancelot Dalrymple, a good enough name in ordinary life, but not one to stir the blood or set the cash registers jingling in the private-eye world, although it might do well in the realm of gardening books. A Dalrymple sounded as though he would be more at home mulching roses and bedding begonias rather than every tough blonde who strayed across his path.

“There, we've got it now.” He freed the paw, easing it through to the other side of the porthole. Roscoe immediately lunged forward, trying to get into the room with them.

“No, no, Roscoe.” Macho restrained him. “Just cup his head in your hands, will you?” he instructed Lorinda. “I'll go around and pull and you guide his head through. Mind that he doesn't catch his ears.”

Lorinda crouched and encircled Roscoe's head, murmuring softly to soothe him as he began moving backwards, his eyes rolling wildly.

“Nearly there ...” She protected his ears as his head vanished through the opening and the flap fell back into place.

“That's better. You're all right now.” Roscoe reappeared, cradled in Macho's arms and Lorinda swung the door shut behind them.

“Come and have a drink,” she invited. “You're through for the day now, aren't you?”

“I might do a bit more later but, basically, yes.” He carried Roscoe into the living room and settled in an armchair. Had-I and But-Known trailed along in his wake, eyeing Roscoe thoughtfully.

The fictional Macho Magee drank nothing but the genuine Mexican tequila with the worm curled at the bottom of the bottle (often the closest he got to ingesting any protein in the course of an entire book). Fortunately, Lancelot Dalrymple was quite content with a dry sherry. Lorinda poured sherries for both of them and set a bowl of mixed nuts within easy reaching distance.

Had-I and But-Known moved forward to investigate the bowl and retreated, flinging Lorinda looks of utter disgust. No cheese! No pâté! What was hospitality in this house coming to? They sat down together and concentrated their attention on Roscoe again.

Roscoe stirred restively in his owner's arms.

“No, no, stay here.” Macho tightened his grip. “Ignore them. You know they only lead you into trouble. Treacherous jades!”

His language might also surprise his fans, as would the Byronesque ponytail tied with a black velvet ribbon trailing down to his shoulders. Both were probably a legacy of his years as a history teacher and his abiding interest in the subject.

“Book going well?” Ignoring his opinion of her cats (her own opinion of his wasn't all that high), Lorinda sank into the facing armchair and leaned back.

“Oh, well enough.” Now it was Macho who appeared restive. “I need to get the body count higher, but I should be able to take care of that in the next chapter.”

“I'm sure you'll manage it,” Lorinda agreed absently. She was mentally composing and discarding opening sentences, trying to find a subtle lead-in to the subject she wished to introduce.

“I suppose you've heard the latest?” Macho had no such inhibitions. He leaned forward intently, loosening his hold on Roscoe, who promptly slid to the floor and ambled over to join Had-I and But-Known.

“Which latest?” The way gossip was proliferating in this village, there was a multiple choice.

“They've rented the last of the flats in Coffers Court. And guess who's got it?”

“Mmmm ...” Macho was looking entirely too gleeful. “Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like the answer?”

“Because you're not. Go ahead.” He tugged at his goatee, pulling down his lower lip and disclosing a set of thin gnarled lower teeth. “Who's the last creature in the world you would care to tiptoe hand-in-hand into the sunset with?”

At the moment, Macho himself was becoming the leading contender in that category. Lorinda regarded him without fondness.

“There are so many,” she murmured. And most of them seemed to be congregating in Brimful Coffers.

“The absolute worst,” he insisted. “Beside whom the Marquis de Sade looks like St. Francis of Assisi.”

“No!” Lorinda leaped to her feet. Had-I and But-Known had closed in on either side of Roscoe and were hustling him toward the kitchen. “Come back here! You're not going to jump him through the catflap again!”

They stopped short and gave her injured looks. How could she think such a thing of them?

“Just a minute, Macho.” She hurried into the kitchen and turned the knob immobilizing the catflap. They could butt their heads against it in vain now.

“Roscoe! Come here, Roscoe!” Macho appeared in the doorway and advanced on his pet.

Roscoe evaded the outstretched arms and strolled over to the bowl of dry cat food and began to help himself. Had-I gave Lorinda a reproving look for spoiling all their fun and sat down and began to wash her face. But-Known went over to stand hopefully in front of the fridge.

“They're all right now,” Lorinda said. “Come and finish your drink.”

“I don't know.” Macho settled back in his chair and allowed Lorinda to replenish his drink. “Sometimes I think I should just get myself a tank of goldfish.”

“Not while Roscoe is still around,” Lorinda said.

“No, no. They wouldn't last ten minutes.” Macho was instantly cheered by the thought of his pet's hunting prowess. “I only hope he never gets a chance at Dorian's tank of tropical fish.”

“Amen, amen,” Lorinda said fervently. The mere thought of Had-I and But-Known getting within paw-dipping distance of Dorian's aquarium was enough to make her feel faint.

“Cold fish,” Macho mused. “Dorian, I mean. It quite amazed me when he began lobbying for all of us to come and occupy the same village. He's the last person in the world I would have suspected of having any desire for the company of his colleagues – on a long-term basis, that is.”

“Plantagenet!” Lorinda suddenly made the connection with Macho's earlier teasing. “Plantagenet Sutton! Tell me it isn't true!”

“True enough,” he sighed. “Pity. Coffers Court must have been quite a respectable place when it was occupied by flint-hearted bank managers foreclosing on widows and orphans.”

“How true,” Lorinda agreed.

The decommissioned bank building had been designed with typical late-Victorian lavishness to resemble a wealthy landowner's town house rather than a commercial establishment. Built of sandstone, now weathered to a rich gold, festooned with window boxes filled with seasonal blooms, it dominated one corner of the village green. Since the architect had been in the forefront of the technology of his time, along with the obligatory marble hall, it boasted a luxurious red-plush-and-mirrored lift with a padded bench curved invitingly around the walls. Thus patrons could be conveyed in solid comfort from the bank manager's office on the top floor to deposit their valuables in the basement vault. The vault had now been divided into a caretaker's flat and a series of boxrooms providing storage for the tenants of the other flats.