Please Do Feed the Cat Page 2

  ‘I’ve told you not to feed him!’ She straightened, glaring at Freddie, then transferred her fury to Lorinda. ‘And that goes for you, too – whoever you are!’

  ‘This is Lorinda. Lorinda Lucas. She lives here.’ Macho had followed the woman into the kitchen. He gave Lorinda an apologetic glance. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘And this is Cressie,’ Freddie said pointedly.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.’ Macho stood rebuked. ‘This is … Cressie.’

  ‘How do you do, Cressida?’ Lorinda felt that a little formality was called for.

  ‘Cressida? Cressida?’ The young woman snatched back the hand she had started to proffer and looked around wildly. ‘Who’s Cressida?’

  ‘Isn’t that your name?’ Lorinda looked to Macho, who shrugged.

  ‘Cressida? As in Troilus and Cressida? That loser? My parents wouldn’t do that to me.’ She flung back her head proudly. ‘My name is Crescendo!’

  ‘It would be,’ Freddie muttered.

  Roscoe took advantage of the fact that Cressie’s attention was fully occupied elsewhere to steal forward and dip into the bowl that she had forgotton she was still holding.

  ‘Stop that!’ She was too late. He backed away swiftly with a long strip of chicken drooping below both jowls, giving him a Fu Manchu look.

  ‘That cat needs better training!’ Cressie snapped at Macho.

  ‘The cat needs better feeding,’ Freddie said. ‘You’re starving the poor thing.’ She glared at Macho accusingly. ‘And you’re letting it happen!’

  ‘He should have done something about the situation long ago!’ Cressie, too, accused Macho. ‘That damned cat was nearly too fat to walk!’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Macho gave them both a craven smile and turned to Lorinda. ‘Have a nice trip?’

  ‘Very nice.’ She took pity on him and went with the change of subject. ‘Tiring, though. Even with the holiday tacked on at the end, there were still lots of bits of work to do.’

  ‘Holidays can be more exhausting than staying home and working.’ Macho sounded as though he’d like to be given that choice. ‘Successful, would you say?’

  ‘Who can tell?’ Lorinda sighed. ‘But New York was fun – what I can remember of it – and I met some awfully nice people along the way. I only hope I’ll know them if I ever see them again …’ She thought guiltily of the small stack of business cards in her handbag. ‘It’s all turning into one great blur.’

  ‘Book tours are like that,’ Macho sympathized. ‘At least you had a good time some of the time.’

  ‘Book tour?’ Cressie whirled on her. ‘You’ve been on a book tour? In the States?’

  ‘I told you —’ Macho began.

  ‘You’re always telling me something!’ Cressie brushed him aside, moving a step closer to Lorinda. ‘How did you get an American book tour?’

  ‘She started by having an American publisher,’ Macho said, nastily for him.

  ‘I didn’t ask you!’ The gold lightning bolt piercing one of Cressie’s eyebrows flashed as she turned her head to glare at him. It was apparently a sore point.

  ‘Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?’ Freddie invited. ‘She can tell you all about it then. And,’ honesty seemed to compel her to admit, ‘I can use you as guinea pigs for some new recipes I’ve found.’

  ‘What kind of recipes?’ Cressie asked, with a suspicion that spoke of previous unpleasant experience.

  ‘Oh, I haven’t decided on the menu yet,’ Freddie said. ‘There are so many possibilities …’

  ‘I have to go up to London tomorrow,’ Cressie said. ‘I won’t be back until late. You can go,’ she told Macho ungraciously. Since when had he needed her permission?

  Nevertheless, his eyes lit up, as did Freddie’s. It was obviously going to be a more enjoyable evening without Cressie around.

  ‘Would you like a —’ Lorinda began.

  ‘We can’t stay,’ Cressie said abruptly. ‘We’re expecting an important telephone call. We just came to collect the cat. Get him!’ she ordered.

  Macho obediently scooped Roscoe into his arms, holding him tightly. Roscoe extended his claws to hook them lightly into Macho’s jacket with a sad little Meewrrrl.

  Clinging to each other like survivors of a shipwreck, man and cat drifted out of the house in Cressie’s wake.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Whew …’ Lorinda sank into a chair.

  ‘You see?’ So did Freddie.

  ‘Everything except what she sees in Macho.’ Lorinda frowned. ‘Someone to order around, perhaps?’

  ‘You mean a victim,’ Freddie said savagely. ‘Fresh blood. She’s probably worn out everyone else she knows.’

  ‘I don’t see how Macho got so entangled with her. Even dead drunk, 1 thought he had a better sense of self-preservation than that.’

  ‘It’s a greater mystery than any we write,’ Freddie agreed. ‘And the greatest one of all is how we’re going to get him out of this mess he’s got himself into. He’ll have a breakdown if that woman hangs around for much longer. Everyone is worried about him. He’s lost nearly as much weight as Roscoe. I don’t think she can cook at all — and, worse, she’s stopped him from doing any cooking.’

  ‘Unlike you.’ Lorinda looked appreciatively at the array of dishes Freddie was now setting out on the coffee table. ‘You seem to have been going mad in the kitchen.’

  ‘Research, my dear, it’s all research.’

  ‘You’re writing a cookbook?’ Lorinda was bemused. Freddie was a darling and a perfectly adequate plain cook, but she was not the stuff gourmet chefs are made of.

  ‘No such luck. I’m just trying to keep up with the latest trend. Haven’t you noticed? American mysteries are full of recipes these days.’

  ‘Not the ones I’ve been reading.’ Lorinda glanced ruefully at the stack of waiting paperbacks. ‘In fact, I’d hate to encounter a recipe in any of those. Fava beans would be the least of it!’

  ‘Like that, is it?’ Freddie assessed the pile of books. ‘Well, toss ’em to me when you’ve done with them and I’ll have a look. Shouldn’t think it’s my style, though.’

  ‘It’s not mine, either. I don’t know what our crime world is coming to.’

  ‘Gore galore,’ Freddie sighed. ‘Murder with Thai rice and Tibetan yak’s cheese kebabs, drizzled with mango coulis and arsenic. Courtrooms and cats.’

  ‘And don’t forget all the ever-present serial killers. If those books were any reflection of reality, every third person you met would be a serial killer and neighbourhoods would be so depopulated they’d have to start killing each other.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Freddie sighed again. ‘Things aren’t going so well anywhere. I’ve heard the Chick Lit boom has bottomed out. Aga Sagas are off the boil. Urban Edgy is looking over its shoulder. Things are tough in every genre and everyone is looking for the next big craze. Right now, the veering is towards children’s books – but I have the uneasy feeling that they aren’t as easy to do as they look.’

  ‘I suspect you’re right. I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t even know any children.’

  ‘Neither do I. Unless you want to count Rhylla’s granddaughter, but I don’t think she’s exactly typical.’

  ‘I should say not!’ Lorinda shuddered.

  ‘Never mind, the idea was a non-starter, anyway.’ Freddie slid the clingfilm from a small plate of twig-like objects. ‘Try some Cheese Whispers.’

  Had-I didn’t mind if she did. She thrust her head forward and neatly snapped one off the plate. But-Known was keeping her gaze firmly on a bowl of what looked like miniature meatballs and was not to be diverted by anything less.

  ‘Very nice,’ Lorinda said, surreptitiously brushing a scattering of crumbs from her skirt.

  Impatient with the delay, But-Known crept closer to the bowl of meatballs and patted the clingfilm with a tentative paw.

  ‘Keep your fur on!’ Deftly, Freddie swung the bowl away from the questing paw, pulling off the clingfilm. ‘An
d let your Mum have first go at it. You want to welcome her home properly, you know.’

  But-Known wasn’t too sure of that, if it meant giving up any goodies. Had-I moved over to stand beside her. Both of them watched Lorinda intently as she took a meatball and bit it in half. They transferred their attention to the remaining half.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, give them one,’ Lorinda pleaded. ‘I can’t stand this.’

  ‘You’ve weakened in your time away.’ Amiably, Freddie gave each of them a meatball of their own. ‘You need to get toughened up again or they’ll make mincemeat of you.’

  ‘Speaking of which, this is delicious. What is it?’ Lorinda reached for another one.

  ‘Minced lamb and rice. It’s one of their favourites.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ They were gulping it down, one watchful eye on the bowl, determined to get more before the supply ran out.

  ‘And it’s dead easy. You don’t even have to cook the rice beforehand. Just mix everything together, shape the mixture into small patties and simmer them in the soup stock until they’re done, fish ’em out and serve hot or cold. We can warm these up, if you like.’

  ‘They’re fine this way.’ Lorinda didn’t want to face the scene that would ensue if Freddie tried to take the bowl away from the cats’ anxious gaze.

  ‘Try the chicken goujons.’ Freddie uncovered another bowl.

  ‘You’ve brought so much,’ Lorinda protested half-heartedly. ‘I don’t need to eat dinner.’

  ‘That’s the whole idea. You don’t want a big meal right now, your stomach’s still in a different time zone. Graze-that’s the answer. A nibble here, a nibble there —’ Freddie blocked Had-I’s lunge towards the chicken fillets, then relented and hand-fed her one. ‘You, too, I suppose. Oh, yes – and you.’ She repeated the process with But-Known.

  ‘Poor Roscoe … ‘Her cats’ greedy enjoyment reminded Lorinda of the less fortunate. ‘How he would have enjoyed all this.’

  ‘When the situation gets desperate enough, I expect Macho will do something.’ Freddie didn’t sound too convinced. ‘Right now, he still doesn’t know what hit him. Hit them,’ she corrected.

  ‘Poor Roscoe knows something did.’

  ‘True, but there’s nothing Roscoe can do about it.’ Freddie shrugged. ‘And Macho is a big boy now, big enough to be in the middle of his mid-life crisis.’

  ‘Cressie, the crisis.’ Lorinda savoured the thought. ‘I like it.’

  ‘I hope Macho does. I only hope he’s getting some … compensations … out of it.’

  ‘Mmmm …’ Stifling a yawn, Lorinda stood and crossed to the window. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would wake her up a little.

  ‘Gemma’s walking her dogs,’ she observed. ‘Only … she seems to be limping.’

  ‘She is.’ Freddie sounded uncomfortable. ‘She … um … had a bit of an accident. She’s a lot better now.’

  ‘Better?’ Lorinda looked after the hobbling figure and turned to face Freddie. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The pugs tripped her up. They were trying to chase a car and she couldn’t control them.’ Still, Freddie looked uncomfortable. ‘Try some of these devilled prawns. They’re very good, even if I say so myself.’

  ‘I think it’s time you said more than that.’ Lorinda regarded her friend suspiciously. ‘What else has been going on around here that I ought to know about? Come on,’ she urged, ‘you know you’re going to have to tell me sooner or later.’

  ‘I was planning to make it later,’ Freddie admitted. ‘You don’t want to be hit with all the bad news the minute you get home.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad enough. Ironic, isn’t it? Although we all earn our living writing about crime, when it comes to real life, crime writers are charter members of the NIMBY and NOTE club.’

  ‘I know NIMBY is Not In My Back Yard, but what’s NOTE?’

  ‘That’s —’ Freddie made a sweeping gesture – ‘Not Over There, Either!’

  ‘Gemma was mugged? Here in Brimful Coffers?’ Lorinda’s heart contracted as Freddie shook her head. ‘Burglary, then? The dogs were trying to chase the getaway car?’

  ‘You’re halfway there,’ Freddie said. ‘Not burglary – but a getaway car was involved. It was a hit-and-run. One of the village children – a ten-year-old girl. The hit might have been an accident, but the run turned it into a crime.’

  ‘Oh, no! Was the child …?’

  ‘Killed? ‘Fraid so.’ Freddie was distressed. ‘I didn’t want to tell you and spoil your homecoming, but you’d have found out as soon as you left the house and headed for the shops in the morning. You have to pass the lamp post with all the bouquets and pictures of the child tied to it. The whole corner has been turned into a sort of shrine. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Then it happened nearby?’ She thought of Rhylla’s granddaughter. ‘Was it anyone …?’

  ‘No one we know, thank heaven. Not that that makes it any better,’ Freddie added hastily.

  ‘That was the car the dogs chased? Then Gemma must have seen what happened. Did she get the registration number?’

  ‘Gemma missed the whole thing.’ Freddie walked over to join Lorinda at the window, looking out sadly. ‘The dogs realized what was going on before she did. She just heard a dull thud and then the dogs went mad. She was trying to control them when they knocked her over and did for her ankle.’

  ‘So she couldn’t help the police at all?’

  ‘Useless! What can you expect? Even if she’d seen the whole thing and taken notes, any evidence she gave would still be unreliable. The woman doesn’t know the difference between fact and fiction.’

  ‘She never did,’ Lorinda agreed, thinking of the many manuscripts Gemma Duquesne had massacred during her reign as Fiction Editor of Woman’s Place magazine. ‘Faction was invented for – and by – people like her.’

  ‘It was probably a stolen car, anyway That’s what it usually is in these cases. Joyriders driving too fast, teenagers and afraid to stop when they hit someone. Children killing children. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m sorry you couldn’t have come home to happier news.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’ Lorinda was horrified to discover that she was stifling another yawn. Such serious matters deserved complete attention and sympathy.

  ‘You’re exhausted.’ Freddie had noticed the abortive yawn. ‘Have a bit more to eat and then I’ll go away and let you rest.’ They turned back into the room. ‘Try some of the sole goujons in lemon and dill batter. One of my better efforts, if I do say so my – Oh, no!’

  Uuuurp … Had-I blinked and looked more embarrassed by her delicate burp than by the empty bowl in front of her. But-Known shamelessly ran a pink tongue around her chops and lowered her head for another inspection of the bowl in case there were any overlooked crumbs.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Lorinda said guiltily. ‘We should have known better than to turn our backs on them. That coffee table is too conveniently low.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Freddie sighed. ‘They’re not entirely ungenerous, they’ve left you the cauliflower croquettes.’

  ‘And all the dipping sauces,’ Lorinda observed. ‘Never mind, I did quite well up to this point. I’m not really hungry any more. Let’s have another drink. No – not you!’ But-Known had raised her head hopefully. ‘You’ve had enough. You’re a disgrace! Both of you!’

  Unconcerned, Had-I and But-Known conferred nose-to-nose for a moment, then jumped up on to the sofa and huddled together in a corner, purring briefly before falling asleep.

  This time the yawn took Lorinda unawares and was fully fledged before she could stop it. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she gasped.

  ‘Don’t be.’ Freddie began gathering up the empty dishes. ‘Have yourself an early night, sleep late in the morning and I’ll see you around six thirty for dinner. Bring the cats along, too – as though you could get away from them. I can always use a couple more guinea pigs.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Lorinda followed Freddie
to the door and opened it for her. ‘And thank you for looking after the cats while I was away.’

  But, with the capriciousness of jetlag, once Freddie had gone Lorinda found that she was no longer sleepy. Tired, yes. Ready to go to sleep, no. She pottered about the living room for a while, tidying an already tidy room, before deciding to go upstairs to bed, even though sleep didn’t appear to be in view. At least she could lie down and read for a while.

  She chose the book with the most innocuous cover from the lurid-jacketed pile and started up the stairs. She hadn’t reached the top before discovering she was no longer alone. Even asleep, the cats were aware of her movements and were obviously determined not to let her out of their sight again. They followed her into the bedroom and leaped up on the bed to resume their interrupted nap while she went through her nightly routine and then settled herself into bed with the book.

  Chapter Three

  What was the saying? You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince?

  And now, after all the frogs — the lager louts, the con artists, the pseuds, the useless, hopeless no-way horrors — I had found him at last. My prince: Tobias.

  Darling Toby! Tall, dark, handsome, rich – and unattached.

  I couldn’t believe such fantastic luck. There had to be a catch – maybe twenty-two of them.

  ‘He’s probably married,’ Lulu said, waving to the waiter for a fresh bottle of Chardonnay. ‘With a meek little wifie hidden away in the country and three-point-six children. When number four arrives in three months’ time, you’ll never see him again. Because wifie has all the money, of course.’ Poor Lulu based all her assumptions on her own experiences — none of them good — with men.

  ‘Or else he’s a serial killer, preying on women with good jobs and gold credit cards.’ Zizzie made up for not so much experience with a vivid imagination. ‘Remember the Brides in the Bath! Remember Neville Heath! Remember —’

  ‘He really does seem too good to be true,’ quiet little Anna said apologetically.

  ‘Leave her alone, you silly bitches! You’re so jealous you can’t see straight!’ Desmond rose to my defence, his eyes misted with emotion. The hand not holding his glass fluttered up to press his heart. ‘I think it’s frightfully romantic. Good luck to her!’