Canapés for the Kitties (26 page)

“Coming in for a drink?”

“Thanks, not now.” He also seemed uneasy and glanced around with foreboding. “I'll just collect my wandering boy and get back to my book, I think. I've been away from it all day.”

Roscoe was still sleeping and barely blinked as Macho gathered him up. Had-I and But-Known were more alert; they eyed Lorinda hopefully, trying to decide whether she had brought any treats for them.

“Don't open the fridge door until I've got Roscoe out of here,” Macho directed. He opened the back door, looked left and right as apprehensively as though he were about to step out on to a motorway, and left hurriedly.

Lorinda watched from the window until he reached his own house, sliding from shadow to shadow, acting like a fugitive and always looking back over his shoulder. Was he heading for a nervous breakdown? Or could there be some other explanation for his increasingly eccentric behaviour? Had his ex-wife surfaced again, possibly issuing some sort of writ he was trying to evade?

Had-I made an impatient remark, pacing back and forth in front of the fridge. But-Known sat quietly with a trusting look on her face. In deference to that trust, Lorinda gave them rather more tinned salmon than she had intended.

She had noticed the glow of the Message Waiting light on her answering machine earlier. With no sense of urgency, she strolled into the living room and proceeded to retrieve the message, hoping that there was one and that the light hadn't been lit by one of those technophobes who hung up on discovering that they were expected to converse with a machine.

For long moments, there was silence, then a voice spoke. It was a voice she had never heard before, but she recognized it instantly. It sounded just the way she had always thought it would.

“Oh, you
are
terrible!” it pouted. “You must stop, you really must! They're getting so angry. I can't reason with them much longer. They want to ... dispose of you ... before you dispose of us. They mean it. They won't believe me when I tell them you'd never do such a thing ...” The voice wavered. “Would you? You wouldn't, would you? No, no, you couldn't! But they don't understand. They're plotting to finish you. Please, tell them you'll let us go on forever. Promise them you won't –”

“Marigold!” A sharp, autocratic, suspicious voice called imperiously in the background. Lorinda recognized that voice, too. “Marigold, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Petunia,” Marigold gasped guiltily. “Nothing at all. Please –” she whispered urgently. “Please – The dial tone buzzed abruptly. She was gone.

Lorinda stood frozen, staring down at the machine in horror. The cats strolled into the room, licking their chops, and paused to watch her, sensing something wrong.

Lorinda pushed the Rewind button, holding her breath as the message tape wound back into position. She took a deep breath and pushed the Play button.

Nothing happened.

The tape whirred quietly; no message emanated from the speaker. Lorinda let it run for a long time before pushing the Rewind and trying again.

Still there was no sound but the quiet whirr of tape.

She spent several frantic minutes stabbing the Rewind and Play buttons alternately, but she could not retrieve the message. She could not make Marigold speak again.

If Marigold had ever spoken in the first place.

She sank into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. The cats jumped into her lap anxiously, trying to comfort her. She clutched them to her, burying her face in their fur.

Her mind ... her mind
... she grieved quietly.

What would she do without it?

In the morning, Lorinda woke late and reluctantly. A new day seemed almost too much to bear. She pulled aside the curtains to discover blue skies and such an aggressively brilliant sun that she nearly closed them again and went back to bed. That wouldn't solve anything. She forced herself to dress and go downstairs; she could not force herself to glance in the direction of the answering machine. The Message Waiting light would always signal terror to her from now on.

The cats were not in the kitchen. On a day like this, they would be disporting themselves outside, or perhaps lying in a patch of sunlight, enjoying the weather before it changed. Which was more than she could do.

Tea and toast did not really interest her, but were the line of least resistance; she ate automatically, trying to keep her mind a blank. Her mind ...

All last night's horrors rushed back into it. She got to her feet quickly and carried the dishes over to the sink. She
would
not think about it. Not now ... not yet.

Keep busy, that was the thing. There was plenty to do. She could clean the house, do the shopping, work on the book – No! No, she could not bring herself to go near her study, and the thought of having to write about the loathsome Miss Petunia made her mind recoil. Her mind ...

Flip-flop ... flip-flop
... The familiar sound brought her back to normality.

“There you are, my darlings.” She turned to smile down on them. And froze.

They advanced toward her trustingly, well pleased with themselves. Especially But-Known, who had something long and black trailing out of her mouth.

“What have you got there?” She had a terrible feeling she already knew. “Come here, let me see it.” She crouched down and tugged gently at one end. But-Known resisted playfully for a moment, then opened her mouth and let the ribbon slide over to Lorinda. Another ribbon ...

“Where did you get this?” Having expected praise, But-Known started and backed away at Lorinda's tone. Had-I sat down and began washing her face, emphasizing that she had nothing to do with her sister's scavenging. She only brought home nice, sensible, edible offerings.

“Where – ?” Lorinda pulled herself together and straightened up, still clutching the black velvet ribbon. But-Known couldn't answer and she was only frightening the poor darling.

“I'm sorry. Good girl. Come on.” To make amends, she crossed to the fridge and distributed largesse.

She knew where But-Known must have got that ribbon. Only Macho wore such a ribbon now. The question was: what condition had he been in when she helped herself to it?

Lorinda looked down at the two sleek little heads bobbing over their saucers and poured some milk into their bowl, putting off the inevitable moment when she would have to do something.

She'd try it the easy way first. She went into the living room and dialled Macho's number. The phone rang just that couple of times too many before the click.

“BANG! Ya missed me, sucker! You don't get –”

She replaced the receiver. He wasn't going to answer the phone. Perhaps he couldn't answer the phone. She was going to have to find out the hard way.

But she didn't have to do it alone. She hoped. This time she tried Freddie's number.

“Hello?” Thank heavens Freddie was still answering the phone.

“Freddie ... have you seen Macho this morning?”

“No. Why?” Freddie caught the uneasy note in her voice. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know. It may be nothing. Only ... But-Known has just dragged in one of her offerings. It's Macho's ponytail ribbon. The last time she brought home a ribbon ...”

“Oh, no!” She didn't need to finish, she had already told Freddie about that. “I'll meet you at Macho's. We'll break down the door, if we have to. Or climb in through the window. Or something.” Freddie hung up abruptly.

As a precaution, Lorinda immobilized the catflap before leaving. Doing so gave her a strange pang. Would she be bringing Pud – Roscoe – back with her to take up residence? What had Macho foreseen in his future to wrest that promise from her?

“Hurry up!” Freddie was waiting impatiently, her face pale and drawn, at Macho's front door. “Let's get this over with.” She began pushing at the door.

“Why don't we try the bell first?” Lorinda pushed it. “Just for form's sake.”

“Form!” Freddie snorted. “At a time like this!”

They were both taken aback when the door swung open suddenly and a stranger stood there. Macho hadn't mentioned that he was expecting a guest. The man looked vaguely familiar, perhaps a relative ...

“Macho!” Freddie recognized him first. “You've cut your hair. And shaved. You
do
have a chin!”

“Come in.” Macho stepped back. “And thank you for those kind words, Freddie. Of course I have a chin.”

“With that beard, who could tell?” Freddie shrugged. “I thought you grew it because you were a chinless wonder.”

“Hmmph!” They had a fine view of the back of his head as they followed him into the living room where Roscoe, obviously roused from his nap by the doorbell, yawned and chirruped a greeting to them.

“Macho.” Lorinda eyed the uneven lengths of hair. He had clearly hacked it off himself, perhaps in a fit of temper. “What did you do with your ribbon?”

“Oh.” He looked slightly abashed. “I gave it to But –

Known, she always fancied it and I have no use for it anymore.”

“It's an improvement.” Freddie eyed him critically. “At least, it will be when you get those ends tidied up.”

Neither of them quite dared ask him why he had made this sudden drastic decision. There was an awkward silence.

Roscoe stretched and gave them a bright-eyed appreciative look. He knew what guests meant: food, drink, hospitality. He ambled towards the kitchen.

“Coffee?” Macho offered, reminded of his responsibilities. “Or ... something else?” He seemed to listen to himself and added quickly. “Sherry, I mean. Sherry? What time is it, anyway. I – I've lost track.”

“Coffee will be fine,” Lorinda said and Freddie nodded. “It's about eleven.”

“Elevenses, of course.” Macho nodded and seemed to get a firmer grip on the situation. “It will be instant, I'm afraid, but I do have some cream buns in the fridge.”

They all headed towards the kitchen. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged glances behind Macho's back. Something was wrong here. Was Macho going to tell them about it?

“Now then ...” It appeared not. Macho began fussing pleasantly with cups, saucers, plates, putting the kettle on. He looked younger without so much facial adornment – he'd left the moustache – and yet ... more careworn. The circles under his eyes were deeper and darker, his hands trembled slightly. Lorinda and Freddie exchanged another glance, this time with raised eyebrows, as he turned to the fridge.

“YAAAAAHHH!” A sudden cry of rage and despair brought them to their feet. Macho had opened the fridge door and a precariously balanced bottle had slid out and landed on his toe. He snatched it up and shook it with a violence disproportionate to the little accident. He could not have been seriously hurt.

“You filthy –” They gaped in awe as they were treated to a three-minute display of Elizabethan and Georgian obscenity. At least, Lorinda thought that was what it was, there were few words she even recognized.

“It isn't what you say,” Freddie observed as Macho slowed down, “it's the way you say it.”

“Christ's blood!” They were the first intelligible words he had uttered. He shook the bottle savagely again, then took deliberate aim and hurled it at the window.

“You're through! Do you hear me?” he shouted. “You're through! You're history! History – !” He slumped into a chair, leaned forward and buried his face in his arms on the table.

“Macho!” Freddie deftly caught the bottle just before it crashed through the window.

“What's wrong?” Lorinda asked. “What is it?”

“It's –” Freddie squinted at the bottle. “It's tequila! The stuff he always said he wouldn't have in the house.”

“I wouldn't!” Macho choked. “I don't! Only ... I keep finding it. Hidden all over the place. Them – the bottles. And I never saw them before. I didn't buy them. I didn't!” Roscoe padded over and stretched up, putting his fore-paws on his master's knee with an anxious little mewl. Macho scooped him up and clutched him tightly.

“I'm starting a new series,” he told them defiantly. “I'm going into historical mysteries. Listening to the rest of you talking about it set me thinking. History is my field. I'm ready to go back to it.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Lorinda said cautiously. He seemed to have a precarious hold on his nerves now and she did not want to dislodge it. “History mystery is very popular right now. What period?”

“Sixteenth century. Venice, that's popular, too. And –” He drew a deep breath. “My private investigator will be Portia!”

“Portia?” Lorinda began to feel faintly giddy. “Portia who?”

“I'll sort that out later.” Macho brushed the question aside. “Will didn't specify.”

“Will – ?”

“If you're going to steal.” Freddie was there ahead of her. “Steal from the best.”

“Why not? He did.” Macho was still defiant. “Only it's really borrowing ... following on ... continuing the story ...”

“The story ...” Lorinda said weakly.

“Yes. You see, Shylock was so impressed by her that, bearing no malice, he turns to her when he finds himself in fresh trouble. His dearly beloved daughter, Jessica, has disappeared. Dropped off the face of the earth. Lorenzo has been seen without her and claims they had a fight and she ran away from him and ...”

Freddie set the bottle of tequila on the table in front of him with a decisive thud. He trailed off and stared at it unseeingly.

“I'll invent a new persona, too,” he said. “For my author's biography, I'll be a lawyer turned journalist. You know how the media always hype books by one of their own, and lawyers buy like money is going out of fashion when one of
their
own has written a book. I suppose it's because both professions secretly think they could write bestsellers if they put their minds to it and it fuels their dreams when one of them succeeds ...”