Canapés for the Kitties (27 page)

Freddie tapped impatient fingernails on the bottle and waited.

“There's another one under the sink,” he sighed, admitting defeat. He rubbed his forehead against Roscoe's head and closed his eyes.

Lorinda opened the cupboard under the sink and retrieved a tequila bottle. It was half full. She placed it on the table beside the other one.

“I also found one at the back of the broom cupboard.” Macho spoke in a listless voice, as one not expecting to be believed. “It isn't the way you think.”

There were two bottles in the broom cupboard, one in each far comer. Both had been opened and partly depleted. She placed them on the table beside the others.

“You might as well know the worst.” Macho sighed again and pushed back his chair. Still clutching Roscoe, he led them into his study and stopped by the desk. “The bottom drawer,” he croaked.

Expressionless, Freddie pulled out the drawer. There were two bottles of tequila, one nearly finished, one unopened, and a glass with a tiny puddle of liquor at the bottom of it.

“That's new.” Macho stared down moodily into the drawer. “He hasn't used a glass before.” He raised his head and bellowed suddenly into the air, “Nice touch, you bastard!”

“Macho –” Lorinda started towards him. Roscoe twitched uneasily and looked thoughtfully toward the carpet.

“I never bought them,” Macho said desperately. “I never drank any of it. I'd swear to it! And yet ... if I didn't ...” He glared at them, a cornered animal at bay. “Who did? Only one person drinks tequila around here!” He slumped down into his desk chair and slammed the drawer shut.

Lorinda realized abruptly that Freddie hadn't tried to catch her eye in quite some time.

“Don't you see?” he pleaded. “It
has
to be Macho Magee. He – he's come to life. He's stalking me. He – he's moving in!”

“That can't ... really ... be possible,” Freddie said slowly. She did not sound entirely convinced.

“I haven't seen him yet,” Macho said. “But the bottles are everywhere. Those aren't the only ones. I've thrown a lot away. But I keep finding more. If I leave them in place, the level keeps going down, as though someone has been drinking from them. And I've never touched the stuff! At least ... I don't think I have.”

Freddie opened the drawer again and took out the glass. She raised it to her nose and sniffed. Then she opened the bottle and carefully poured a few drops into the palm of her hand. She touched them with her tongue and grimaced.

“No, it isn't water,” Macho said. “I checked. I'm not a complete fool, you know. It's the real – imported from Mexico – stuff – and that brand sells for about twenty quid a bottle.”

“And we've found six bottles already,” Lorinda said.

“Which makes it a pretty expensive joke.” Freddie whistled soundlessly.

“There'll be more bottles around. They keep turning up everywhere. Places you can't imagine. I found one in the cistern. No one in their right mind would hide a bottle in a cistern –” Macho paused and seemed to listen to himself.

“No one in their right mind,” he echoed. Roscoe gave a sudden indignant yowl and fought for freedom. Macho released him and watched him drop to the floor and walk some distance away before sitting down and beginning to wash his face.

“Remember –” Macho met Lorinda's eyes with desperate entreaty. “You said you'd take care of Roscoe if ... if anything hap –  ... if they put me away. You promised you'd take him.”

“And I will,” Lorinda promised again. “Unless they put me in the padded cell next door to you. It looks as though it might fall to Freddie to take care of all three cats.”

“Much as I'd like to oblige,” Freddie said, “I wouldn't advise you to count on me. The way things are going, you'll find me in the padded cell on the other side.”

“What are you talking about?” Macho looked from one to the other with a faint puzzled hope beginning to dawn on his face.

“You find bottles.” Since she had started it, Lorinda accepted that she should go first. “I found Miss Petunia's pince-nez, but they disappeared again and I keep finding chapters I haven't written.” There was no need at the moment to confess to the chapters she
had
written. “And the latest wrinkle was a message from Marigold on my answering machine that disappeared when I tried to replay it.”

“Then it's not just me.” Macho quivered with relief. They both turned to look at Freddie.

“OK,” Freddie said. “I can admit it now. Wraith O'Reilly has staked out the old graveyard. I keep seeing her there. Just glimpses, almost out of the corner of my eye, a flash of red hair, a flutter of the grey skirt. She's gone when I try to approach for a closer look. So far, she's confined herself to the graveyard, but I sometimes wonder for how much longer. It scares the hell out of me to think that I might turn around some day and find her in the house with me.”

“That's it exactly!” Macho said. “Where is he? What is he doing? What does he want? There's no overt threat, but the feeling of menace is there underneath.”

“Actually,” Lorinda said, “mine
are
threatening. Miss Petunia and Lily are definitely out to get me. Marigold is softer and kinder, but she always is. Of course,” she added apologetically, “I'm afraid I've given them good reason to be annoyed with me.”

“Wait a minute,” Freddie said. “Wait a minute. We're talking about fictional characters. These people are all figments of our imaginations. Let's all pull ourselves together and try to be sensible about this.”

“That's right.” Macho was looking better. “We can't all be going mad. And in the same way. Can we?”

“Highly unlikely,” Freddie said. “Someone has to be behind this.”

“A common enemy,” Lorinda said, feeling both relieved and frightened by the thought.

“Who do we know who hates us all?” Macho asked. “One of us, perhaps. Possibly even two. But all three? And who would go to such lengths?”

“It's rotten joke,” Lorinda said.

“It's too nasty to be a joke. There's genuine malice there,” Macho said.

“That's right,” Freddie agreed. “Trying to make us think we're losing our sanity is hitting below the belt.” She grimaced. “That didn't come out right, but you know what I mean.”

“What enemy do we have in common?” Macho was single-minded in his determination to track down the culprit. “Think!”

“I wonder if there are any more,” Lorinda said. “We each thought we were the only one it was happening to. Now that we've found we're not ... how many more of us do you think there are?”

“Not Karla,” Freddie said, after a reflective moment. “She spends all her spare time locked in mortal combat with Jack. An army of backpackers could march through that house and neither of them would even notice.”

“And Rhylla has Clarice living with her right now,” Lorinda contributed. “She's completely caught up with trying to work and keep the child busy. Clarice also has sharp little eyes and an inquiring mind. No one could try any of these tricks with her around.”

“Whereas we live alone,” Macho said slowly. “When we're working, two or three days can pass without our seeing anyone. We don't have any human contact until we run out of supplies and have to go shopping. That makes us ... vulnerable ... to someone who is trying to turn our own imaginations against us.”

“What about Dorian?” Lorinda had a sudden thought. “He lives alone, too. Perhaps that's why he went off on that cruise so suddenly. Things have been happening to him, too, and he decided to get away – as far as he could go ...” She trailed off; Freddie was shaking her head with a slightly condescending smile.

“Haven't you sussed that one out? Our Dorian went on that cruise because the cruise line were paying him to go. He was a guest lecturer on the English mystery and doubled as detective on one of those Murder Mystery Cruises they run every so often. He got a free trip, expenses and a small honorarium for a very pleasant job.”

“Trust Dorian!” Macho said bitterly.

“I'm sure,” Freddie added, “he also sold a good many of his own books to the happy holidaymakers and got in plenty of publicity for the tours he's planning to run through here.”

“What a busy little beaver.” Lorinda was bitter, too. “Right, but that also means he's too wrapped up in his own machinations to take time out to play games with us – or to notice anyone trying to play games with him.”

“Then who hates us that much?” Lorinda felt chilled. “It keeps coming back to that.”

“There
is
one person ...” Macho said slowly. “Ask yourselves: who has always had it in for us? Who has jeered at and humiliated us at every opportunity? Who has a cruel and vicious streak in him? And” – Macho was warming to his theme – “who could very easily get his hands on a case of tequila – and probably at a discount?”

“Plantagenet Sutton!” Lorinda identified correctly. “Good thinking, chums.” Freddie applauded silently. “There's just one little flaw in it. Plantagenet Sutton is dead.”

“Yes ...” Macho deflated slowly.

“And our problems are still going on,” Freddie pointed out. “I take it that bottle of tequila wasn't in your refrigerator the last time you looked?”

“No,” he admitted. “Of course it wasn't.”

“My latest episode happened after his death,” Lorinda agreed. “Well after. But they started before.”

“That's right. So did mi –” Macho broke off abruptly, staring at Roscoe.

Roscoe had halted his ablutions, one hind leg still pointing skywards, and raised his head, ears cocked, listening intently to something they could not hear.

“What is it, boy?” Macho looked around the room, looked over his shoulder, looked back to Roscoe. “What do you hear?”

After a moment, they heard it themselves. The all-too-familiar whoop of an approaching ambulance.

Roscoe scrambled for safety as they leaped out of their chairs and charged across the room.

“Whoa! Slow down!” Freddie recovered herself first. “We're in the wrong business to be ambulance chasers.”

“It's stopped in front of Coffers Court.” Macho reached the High Street first and reported back to them as they came panting up to join him.

“Maybe Rhylla has finally snapped and murdered that kid,” Freddie suggested. Macho threw her an impatient look before turning and leading the way along the High Street. They hurried towards Coffers Court, where a small cluster

of onlookers had already materialized on the pavement outside. There was a buzz of excited speculation, fragments of which met their ears.

“Throat cut ear to ear ...”

“No, burglary and they bludgeoned ...”

“Gas fire exploded. Lucky the whole place didn't go up ...”

The rumour factory was working well, Lorinda realized, but hard facts did not appear to be available.

“Isn't it awful?” Jennifer Lane greeted them.

“What happened?” Freddie asked.

“We're not quite sure yet.” Jennifer watched avidly as one of the medics carried a stretcher in. “But something serious.”

“Used to be a nice quiet village,” someone muttered behind them. “Before
that
lot moved in.”

“There's gratitude for you,” Freddie observed, adding unfairly, “This place was a dead-and-alive hole before we moved in.”

“Now dead is winning,” the voice hit back.

“Who's ... hurt?” Lorinda intervened, trying to recall Freddie to decorum. This was not the time to antagonize the villagers.

“Has Gemma been taken ill again?” Gemma had never really looked quite well since her mysterious gastric upset. Lorinda stepped back and scanned the windows, but the curtains defeated her. In the absence of a light in Gemma's living room, nothing of the inside could be seen.

To her embarrassment, the curtain was pulled back abruptly and Gemma was staring out at her over the window box. She said something Lorinda could not hear and Karla appeared in the window beside her. Gemma battled briefly to open the window. Karla gesticulated frantically and puzzlingly over Gemma's shoulder.

“What's going on?” Gemma won and leaned out of the window. “Can you see? They won't let us out into the foyer.” From somewhere behind her, there came the sound of sobbing.

“Listen, don't let them shove you around like that!” Karla said, shoving Gemma aside to take her place at the open window. “Come in here with us. Tell them you're visiting Gemma. And take a good look at what's going on as you come through the hall.”

It sounded worth a try. Macho was already shouldering his way through the crowd. Lorinda and Freddie fell in behind him. After a momentary hesitation, Jennifer Lane followed them. You couldn't blame her for trying, either.

The paramedic just inside the door was not happy about allowing them through, but realized his authority did not extend to barring visitors to residents, especially as Gemma was standing in her open doorway beckoning them on.

Macho stood back and gallantly waved the women ahead of him, thus ensuring that he had more time to take in the situation. In her brief glimpse, Lorinda saw that two of the medical team were standing at the opened doors of the lift, leaning into it and looking down. The stretcher-bearers, led by an anxious Gordie wringing his hands, were being ushered to the stairs leading down to his quarters, the box-rooms – and the bottom of the lift shaft.

Gemma let them into her flat, even Jennifer, then tried to bar the way to Macho. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but this is a private – Oh!”

“That's right,” Freddie turned back. “You
do
know him. Macho's just changing his image.”

“Oh, of course, I'm sorry. Forgive me.” Thoroughly flustered, Gemma closed the door behind them and leaned against it, still staring incredulously at Macho. “Uuuh, it's very effective.”