Pure Dead Wicked (7 page)

. . . AND SUCH A NOSY ONE, TOO

“In answer to your impertinent questions, your mind
was
full of Banoffee Pie, but
now,
dear, you're feeling a wee bit ashamed. Curiosity killed the cat . . . ?”

“Meow,” whispered Pandora in as apologetic a tone as she could muster. “But, Mrs. McLachlan, what
is
it?”

The nanny passed the object across the table to Pandora. “Its official name is the soul mirror, but the manufacturers prefer us to call it the i'mat.”

“Is this what you swapped your makeup case for?” Pandora peered at the golden compact, admiring the intricate filigree engraved on its surface.

“Sort of.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled but didn't volunteer any more information as to its provenance. Pandora held the i'mat gingerly in the palm of her hand. “Don't worry,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, “it won't bite you, and unlike my makeup case, you can't actually use it to
change
anything; it's really just for
seeing
things. . . .”

Pandora was only half-listening. The compact lay in her hand, surprisingly heavy for such a small object. Something about its weight, its sheer presence, made her wary. Sensing this, Mrs. McLachlan leaned across and opened it for her. “Go on,” she said. “Try it out. See what Damp is dreaming of.”

Carefully, as if it might detonate in her hand, Pandora pointed the compact at her baby sister. Instantly, the mirror turned to gold and the powder popped out the incomprehensible message:

NUM NUM NUMM

“
What
?” Pandora squeaked. “What on earth . . . ?” Tinted with gold, the mirrored image was of a huge breast. “For heaven's sake, Damp, what
is
this?” Pandora groaned, not understanding at all. In the mirror, a tiny winged Damp clamped herself to the breast with a beatific smile.

“Eughhh. GROSS,” Pandora gagged. “I'm
never
going to have babies when I grow up.”

The powder in the compact shuffled to form the single word:

YUM

Snapping the compact shut, Pandora returned it to its owner. Damp stirred in her stroller, her lashes fluttered, and she awoke. In front of her, a bowl of tomato soup steamed invitingly. Trying to reconcile the food of her dreams with the hot soupiness of reality was too much for the baby. When Mrs. McLachlan dipped a spoon in the bowl and offered it to her, Damp took one look, opened her mouth, and burst into tears.

Despite Mrs. McLachlan's best efforts, Damp was still sobbing when they arrived back at the hotel. Signora Strega-Borgia was having an afternoon nap, and Pandora found her father in the residents' lounge helping Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell trim the Christmas tree. To Pandora's disgust, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell had turned this innocent activity into an opportunity for close physical contact with Signor Strega-Borgia. To wit: “Luciano, be a
darling
and pass me up that glass angel—oh, I'm
so
sorry, I simply can't reach, you'll have to come up the ladder here beside me. . . .” and: “Can I just pass this garland over your shoulder like
so
. . . ?”

At this tender moment, Pandora announced her arrival by jumping onto a box of decorations. “Oh, heck! What
have
I done? Gosh, sorry—I hope it wasn't too valuable?” Glancing upward as she delivered this patently insincere apology, Pandora distinguished her father's look of utter relief as he disentangled himself from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell's garlandy embrace as well as the manageress's slitty-eyed gaze of utter loathing.

Signor Strega-Borgia descended the ladder and wrapped an arm round Pandora's shoulders. “Let's go and wake Mum up, shall we?”

“With a kiss,” said Pandora, smiling fixedly up to where Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell perched, stranded in a tangle of abandoned greenery, looking for all the world like the Wicked Fairy in a geriatric version of
Sleeping Beauty
.

Beastly Behavior

M
ortimer Fforbes-Campbell (Brigadier ret'd) sprayed gray fluff out of an aerosol can onto a crate of bottles of inferior Bulgarian red. Earlier that day, he'd removed all the wine labels and replaced them with some that he'd had printed specially for the evening's festivities. The labels he'd removed had proclaimed the contents of the bottles to be
TANNIN UT TRANSYLVANIA
and sported a rather jolly illustration of a Bulgarian housepainter steeping his brushes in a vat of T ut T. Whether this was a warning or a recommendation was hard to tell, but the new labels re-identified the wine as
RIOJA DE TOROMERDE
. The tasting notes printed on the little label on the reverse of the bottle read, “Aged in oak stalls, this wine has been described as Old Spain's most famous export.”

Since
Toromerde
translates literally as “bull excrement,” the label was being disarmingly truthful. Mortimer, in a state of total ignorance of the meaning of any language other than English, was blissfully unaware of what the new wine labels signified. All he knew was that he could get away with charging more for Spanish Rioja than Transylvanian Brush Restorer. He finished spraying gray fluff over the bottles and stood back to admire his efforts.

“Top-hole, what?” he addressed his wife, who was busy decanting a vat of jaded calamari into a series of microwave dishes. “Pile 'em high, sell 'em dear, don'tcha know, old girl?”

“
Did
you invite Hugh?” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell picked out a decomposing specimen of shellfish, sniffed it, and dropped it into the waste disposal.

“Who?” barked Mortimer, disappointed at his wife's lack of interest in his endeavors.

“For God's sake, Morty, turn your hearing aid on.
HUGH:
DID. YOU. INVITE. HUGH. PYLUM-HAIGHT?” she bawled.

“Never heard of the fellow. Sounds foreign. Ghastly chaps, foreigners. That bally Italian bunch we've booked over Christmas. Keep on whingeing about the size of their bill. Chap's a bit too chummy with you, what?”

“Not chummy enough,” muttered Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, sliding a batch of calamari into the irradiation unit and switching it on. A ghostly blue light played over the rancid shellfish, rendering them bacteria-free but regrettably still well past their sell-by date.

“Whatcha say, old thing?” Morty struggled upstairs with two crates of seemingly venerable, dusty bottles of vintage Rioja.

“I SAID, ‘HAVE. WE. GOT. ENOUGH,' ” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell yelled, adding under her breath, “Moron.”

Mortimer's reply was lost as the buzzer went off on the irradiator. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell removed the first batch of steaming squid and slid the next trayful in. Checking that her husband was well out of earshot, she picked up the phone and dialed Hugh Pylum-Haight's private number. “Darling,” she said in her most seductive whisper, “it's me. . . .”

 

That night, the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms was hosting a Christmas Eve Wine-Tasting Event that rashly promised to
BANISH THOSE WINTER BLUES WITH A MEDITERRANEAN NIGHT TO REMEMBER
.
GO ON
—
YOU DESERVE IT
. And all for a mere twenty- five pounds per head. In a rare fit of financial madness induced by a total lack of ideas for what to give as Christmas presents, Signor Strega-Borgia had decided that not only did he deserve such a treat, but so, too, did his wife, nanny, and butler. This largesse was extended to the beasts and Tock, all of whom were vastly cheered at the prospect of a night in the hotel instead of the dank and depressing stable block. Permission for their re-entry into the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms had been sought from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and grudgingly granted with the proviso that this was a one-time-only indulgence and that after Christmas, the beasts would go back to being barred.

Consequently, freshly washed and pressed, the beasts were the first guests to arrive in the cocktail lounge. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder flamenco dancer's dress made of red chamois leather, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell greeted them in a less-than-effusive fashion. “I suppose you'll be wanting a drink . . . ?”

Sab took charge. “I'll have lemonade, Knot had better not, and Tock? Ffup?”

Catching sight of the platters of irradiated squid, Tock slid the contents of one down his throat, belched tactfully, and turned his attention to the bottles ranged behind the bar. “Make mine a Gatorade,” he said, propping one scaly elbow on the bar rail and attempting to exude urban sophistication.

“I suppose you don't do Dragonade,” sighed Ffup, helping himself to a shriveled peanut and turning round to stare at the door as several more guests arrived. A small Latin man in a deafeningly loud check suit limped up to the bar and kissed Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell's outstretched hand.

“Darling boy,” she trilled, air-kissing him near both cheeks. “Vincent, how
lovely
to see you . . . both.” The last word was delivered with a disappointed sneer, for Vincent Bella-Vista was accompanied by his girlfriend, Vadette, who was advancing on the bar with all the subtlety of an armored tank.

“Sweetie,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell hissed at Vadette, “don't you look just
stunning
? Haven't you lost some weight? Doesn't she look super, Vincent?”

“Spare me, Fifi,” muttered Vadette, plonking her considerable girth onto a bar stool. “Just pour the drinks.”

“
Not
Fifi, darling—I'm not a poodle.”

“Fee-Yawn, then. Pour the gut rot, there's a good dog.”

Just in time to avert an all-out catfight, a brash of visiting American lawyers on vacation arrived at the bar. Their search for signs of the Loch Ness Monster in Lochnagargoyle's chilly depths had drawn a blank, but they were cheered at the prospect of suing the Scottish Tourist Board for misinformation regarding the possible existence of the fabled Nessie. Their combined girths made Vadette look positively svelte, and their voices, trained in the law courts of Carolina, drowned out any further discussion.

“Some of your wine for my learned colleagues at the bar,” their spokesman demanded, “and make mine a double Scotch on the rocks.” The speaker drummed tanned fingers on the countertop, jiggled loose change in his pockets, and gazed around. “Say, ma'am,” he drawled in some puzzlement after encountering the combined stares of the beasts and Tock, “did we get our wires crossed? Is this Fancy Dress Night?” He stepped forward and peered at Tock with interest. “Say, feller,” he said admiringly, “that's a pretty darn realistic costume you've got there. How much did that ole 'gator skin set you back?”

Tock opened his mouth to reply. The combination of his squid-tainted breath and his serried rows of teeth made the American recoil sharply. “Well, Bud”—Tock attempted a mid-Atlantic accent—“it's not what ya know, it's
who
ya know. My mom was in the skin trade, if you follow my drift.”

The door of the cocktail lounge opened to admit Hugh Pylum-Haight, wreathed in cigar smoke and dressed in an impeccably tailored dark cashmere suit. He elbowed his way to the bar and tapped Vincent Bella-Vista on the shoulder. Looking like an aristocrat and his gamekeeper, the two men moved away to a secluded corner and were soon deep in conversation. Beelzebub, the resident cat of the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms, was curled up in the fireplace, attempting to ignore the unwelcome attentions of Knot, who persisted in sniffing the cat's fur and drooling in a most repulsive fashion. The smell of cigars mingled with wood smoke and, outside the windows, snow fell. The lounge was full to overflowing by the time the Strega-Borgia party finally appeared.

The room fell silent as all eyes beheld Signora Strega-Borgia. Dressed in a simple green velvet sheath with her black hair falling glossily over one shoulder, she looked like a mermaid. Her lack of makeup or jewelry only served to accentuate her natural beauty. The crush of bodies parted to allow this vision access to the bar. Signor Strega-Borgia, Latch, and Mrs. McLachlan followed in her wake. Around them, interrupted conversations were resumed and a measure of normality returned to the lounge.

Mortimer, on bar duty, goggled, choked, and managed a smile halfway between a leer and a grimace.

“Luciano? A glass of wine? Latch? A hot toddy for your cold? Flora?” Signora Strega-Borgia smiled at Morty. It was the kind of smile mermaids use to lure sailors onto rocks. Morty floundered. His hands shook as he uncorked a wine of his re-labeled gut rot. Signora Strega-Borgia reached out and took the wine from his trembling hands. Reading the label, she began to laugh. “I don't believe it,” she said, passing the bottle to her husband. “Mr. Fforbes-Campbell—is this some kind of joke?”

Signora Strega-Borgia failed to notice the manageress bearing down on her, lips drawn back in a snarl, eyes flashing danger. Pretending to catch her stiletto heel in a crack in the floorboards, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell staggered into Signora Strega-Borgia with a girlish shriek of dismay. “Oh, my
dear
!” she gushed, recovering her balance, “your
poor
dress. Oh, heavens above, and red wine, too. Awful. So sorry. Only one thing for it. . . .” And, grabbing a soda siphon from the bar, she drenched Signora Strega-Borgia in its contents.

Once again, the cocktail lounge fell silent.

“Dear me,” said Signora Strega-Borgia in arctic tones. “I think you can stop
squirting,
Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell. The dress is ruined. Antique velvet doesn't put up with such clumsy treatment—but you couldn't be expected to know that, could you? It belonged to my grandmother, designed especially for her by Schiaparelli herself. Still . . . ,” she said, brightening considerably and drawing her husband close, “. . . the replacement cost should more than cover our hotel bill for the next few weeks.”

She turned back to Morty, who stood gasping behind the bar, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded cod. “I think we'll pass on your
interesting
little wine, Mr. Fforbes-Campbell. Instead, let's have a glass of your finest champagne for everyone in the lounge and a bucket with four straws for my dear beasts and Tock.”

Morty was stunned. Finest champagne? Twenty or so bottles at one hundred and seventy-two pounds each? He rubbed his hands in glee.

“
And,
Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell,” added Signora Strega-Borgia, “
that
will be on the house. Against the damage to my dress, you understand.”

At a table by the window, the group of American lawyers on vacation stood up and cheered. The prospect of
Mermaid v. Morty
more than made up for their lack of Nessie sightings.