No Cooperation from the Cat

Chapter One

Life is full of little embarrassments. Especially when Evangeline is around.

Dame Cecile Savoy had made a perfectly reasonable request: a gin and tonic. The last time I had seen the gin bottle, it had been nearly a quarter full. Now it was empty.

Evangeline— I called. Have you been cleaning your diamonds again?

I’m cleaning yours, too. She appeared in the doorway, holding a glass jug with a tangle of jewellery immersed in a once-clear liquid. We can’t appear at the BAFTA Awards wearing grubby gems—and yours are absolutely filthy. It’s all that Play-Doh from your games with the children.

It’s not Play-Doh, I said. It’s the real thing. Martha let us have the leftover pastry scraps for pastries and tarts. They were delicious. But Dame Cecile wants a gin and tonic.

She would. Evangeline sniffed, swished the gin around, and offered, I could pour some off for you. There’ll still be enough left to finish cleaning.

Don’t bother! Dame Cecile looked at the sludge on offer and shuddered. I’ll just have some of your brandy instead.

Fresh out. Evangeline smirked. We need more. I was going to remind you, Trixie.

You can’t remind me of something you never told me in the first place, I said coldly. I hate being caught with my hospitality down.

"Well, what do you have?" Dame Cecile was losing patience.

There’s rum—

No, there isn’t, Evangeline said. Martha is soaking the sultanas in the last of it for her spice cakes.

Whisky—

Martha made that Scottish dessert that’s all whisky and oatmeal yesterday. We need more oatmeal, too.

There’s vodka— I belatedly recalled that the last time I had seen the glass jug Evangeline was holding, it had been filled to the brim with Bloody Marys for Sunday brunch—and replenished at least twice. No, perhaps not.

Definitely not, Evangeline said.

Perhaps a liqueur …? I waited. It came.

The cherry brandy went into the cherry cobbler, the Grand Marnier into the whipped cream for the profiteroles, and the last of the crème de menthe into the peppermint creams. I tell you, Martha is cooking us out of house and home!

Dame Cecile began tapping her foot.

The cookbook will be finished soon, I promised. Then Martha and Jocasta will vacate our kitchen and life will get back to normal.

Normal? Dame Cecile gave a sardonic laugh. You two don’t know the meaning of the word!

Look who’s talking! Evangeline glared at her. I can remember when—

The doorbell cut across this promising opening. No one else moved, so I went to answer it.

Trixie. My son-in-law brushed my cheek with his lips and straightened up, inhaling deeply.

Martha’s spice cakes. He identified the aroma. Splendid! Just what I could use with a cup of tea right now.

We have lemon squares, too, and raspberry tartlets. Martha and Jocasta have been cooking up a storm.

Better and better. He started down the hallway, impeded slightly by Cho-Cho-San and Frou-Frou, who came frolicking to greet him.

How are you, girls? He stopped to pat the little powder puff a Japanese Bobtail has for a tail and to rough-house lightly with Dame Cecile’s French toy poodle puppy. He didn’t linger, he was too anxious to get to Martha. I followed him.

Darling, I said, when they had unwound themselves. It’s time for another trip to the supermarket. Is there anything we can get for you while we’re there?

Oh, yes, please, Mother. We’re running out of a lot of things. I’ll make a list.

Butter, Jocasta said. Butter and margarine. I found a quaint little book with over thirty recipes for savoury butter—and we want to try them with margarine, too. So many people use that these days.

Margarine needs all the help it can get. Evangeline had joined us. "I tried some once—and I haven’t had a taste like that in my mouth since the time I fell in the swamp when we were filming Mad Beast of the Bayou. And then, she brooded, the director wouldn’t let anyone pull me out for half an hour—and he kept the cameras turning all the while. I was deathly ill for a week afterwards."

Directors don’t care if they kill you, Dame Cecile agreed, especially if they’ve got most of the film in the can first. But wasn’t that the role that won you the Karloff-Lorre Award for Best Beleaguered Heroine of the Year? How we all laughed over here when we heard that.

When do you want to go shopping? Martha intervened hastily, before the nasty glint that appeared in Evangeline’s eye could resolve itself into action.

As soon as possible, I said. We’ll just ring Eddie and have him collect us.

No need for that, Hugh said. My car is downstairs. Benson will drive you anywhere you care to go.

Marvellous, Hugh! I’ll just change my shoes— There was no hurry. Martha and Jocasta had their heads together, earnestly debating the present and future ingredients they might need. Their list was growing longer by the minute.

I’ll come along, too, Dame Cecile said. There are always bits and pieces one wishes to pick up. And I can leave Frou-Frou here and not have to worry about her being tied to railings outside a shop. She’s so tiny someone could pop her into a shopping bag—and so friendly it wouldn’t occur to her to object.

Fine, fine, Hugh said absently, far more interested in the lemon square he was shoving into his mouth. We’ll take good care of her.

I’m sure we need more than this. Martha frowned at her list. I’ll just check the larder. She disappeared into the storage space at the back of the kitchen. Evangeline met my eyes accusingly. From the sound of it, we weren’t going to get our kitchen back as soon as I had rashly foretold.

Jocasta was still frowning over the incomplete shopping list and no one else seemed inclined to move when the doorbell rang again.

I’ll get it, Hugh said. It’s probably for me, anyway. I left my cell phone in the car and Benson will know enough to bring it to me if there’s an urgent call. He carefully selected a raspberry tartlet from the array of delights on the cooling trays and ambled towards the door.

Before he could reach it, the doorbell rang again—and kept ringing insistently, demandingly, and arrogantly. It was reinforced by what was obviously a fist thumping on the door for good measure.

We looked at each other, except for Jocasta, who went on studying her list.

Either World War Three has just broken out, Evangeline said, or that isn’t Benson.

We heard the door open. All right, all right, Hugh said irritably. Take it easy. There was another thump, as though the door had been pushed so hard and so fast that it had bounced against the wall.

Where is she? a voice bellowed. Where is she? Where is my beautiful bride?

I beg your pardon? we heard Hugh reply.

Oh, God—it’s Banquo! The colour drained from Jocasta’s face. I thought she was going to faint.

Oh, no! No! Dame Cecile and Evangeline didn’t look so well themselves.

She said it! Evangeline gasped. She actually said it!

How dare you! Dame Cecile rounded on Jocasta. You wretched, wretched child! Now you’ve done it!

Quick! Evangeline snatched at Jocasta’s arm. You must go outside, shut the door behind you, then turn around three times and—

No, no, no! Dame Cecile said. That’s for whistling in the dressing room. She has to use profanity to drive the evil spirits away. Just start saying all the obscene words you know? She looked at Jocasta doubtfully. "You do know—"

I thought that was for a hat on the bed, Evangeline said. How about—?

I knew the superstition they were on about, only Oh, God—it’s Banquo! didn’t sound very Shakespearean to me. But what do I know? A few seasons on the Straw Hat Circuit playing Bianca in Kiss Me, Kate was as close to Shakespeare as I ever got.

I’ve remembered! Dame Cecile declared triumphantly. "She has to say, ‘Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you’ from The Merchant of Venice. And then there’s reciting Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us.’ That’s supposed to ward off the bad luck, too. She’d better do both of them, to be on the safe side. And never, never, never—she glared at poor Jocasta—quote from That Play again!"

I wasn’t quoting anything, Jocasta protested. Banquo is his name. And he’s here! And he wants—He’s looking for—

Someone actually named a poor defenceless child Banquo? Dame Cecile marvelled.

Some people will do anything, Evangeline said.

Where’s my wife? Banquo was beginning to sound truculent. I know she’s here. I can smell her—her cooking, that is. She’s creating a magnificent cookbook for the Lady Lemmings.

I beg your pardon, Hugh said icily. "But it’s my wife who is creating that cookbook and—Oooof! There was the sound of a scuffle. Come back here!"

You never saw me! Jocasta clutched my arm desperately. You don’t know where I am! You never heard of me! She dashed into the bathroom and bolted the door behind her.

That girl—Evangeline looked at the closed door—has been acting very oddly ever since we got back from Brighton.

Woman, Dame Cecile corrected. They all want to be called women these days. But have you noticed? The more they insist on being called women, the less like real women they behave.

Where is she? A tall wiry man with an unkempt beard shouldered his way into the room and took up a belligerent stance.

Melisande— he called. Melisande—your Banquo has returned! I have dreamed of you through all those Arctic nights—and now I am back triumphant to claim my bride! Where are you? Where is the best little cook in the world?

Oh, Hugh! Martha came out of the larder laughing. That is the worst imitation of a male chauvinist pig I have ever—

Banquo moved forward to block her path. They looked at each other with growing incredulity.

Who—they demanded simultaneously—are you?

Martha is my wife! Hugh pushed past Banquo to stand at Martha’s side and put a protective—and proprietary—arm across her shoulders. "As I keep telling you. She is the compiler and creator of the Lady Lemmings’ cookbook."

She can’t be, Banquo said. Melisande is. Where is Melisande? What have you done with her?

Who is Melisande? Martha moved closer to Hugh. I’ve never heard of her."

"Melisande is my wife, the perfect cook, the perfect woman. I want to see her. I want her now."

Are you sure— Evangeline asked delicately. Are you quite sure you don’t mean Jocasta?

Jocasta? He was astonished—and affronted. "Why would I want to see her?"

There was a muffled sob from the bathroom. I frowned Evangeline to silence. Occasionally, she can take a cue.

See here! Hugh had had enough. You barge your way in here, shout and bully your way around—and you haven’t even had the decency to introduce yourself. Who the hell are you?

I— He all but took a bow. I am Banquo Fitzfothergill! He seemed annoyed when none of us reacted to the announcement.

The media, he prompted, call me the last of the gentlemen adventurers.

Evangeline and I looked at him and then at each other. Errol Flynn he was not.

Ah, yes, I remember, Dame Cecile said. It was a few years back, she explained to us. He pushed a peanut with his nose—unshelled, of course, for better purchase— She made it sound vaguely unsporting. Actually, several peanuts, as they wore out, from Tasmania to the steps of his club in Pall Mall. And when he had to take a ship to cross the seas, he pushed it around the deck all day, on all fours, of course, all the way and—

No, no, no! Banquo spluttered indignantly. "That wasn’t me! That was Hubert von Wagnerhoff—you can’t call him an adventurer." The implication was clear that you couldn’t call him a gentleman, either.

Oh, sorry, Dame Cecile said distantly. "Er, what do you do?"

I, he announced grandly, am a circumnavigator.

A what? Evangeline looked to Dame Cecile for a translation. Cecile shrugged her shoulders.

I circle the world, he said. I have done it by sailing craft—backwards, against all known tides. I have challenged the Bermuda Triangle—and won! I have just returned from a solo mission to the North Pole to personally monitor the retreat of the glaciers, the melting of the ice floes and—

Yes, yes, that’s all very well, Hugh said impatiently. But, whatever you’re trying to prove here, you can forget about it. We know nothing about this—er—

Melisande, Martha supplied, an increasingly thoughtful look growing in her eyes.

Yes, well, whatever her name is, Hugh said. She isn’t here—and we know nothing about her. I suggest you go and look for her elsewhere. He began moving forward, looking menacing. Now!

Banquo looked uncertain for a moment. Then Evangeline moved forward to stand beside Hugh. That did it. Hugh was menacing enough, but reinforced by Evangeline, he was too formidable to argue with.

I’ll go— Banquo blustered. But I’ll be back! I’ll find her if I have to take this town apart!

You do that, Evangeline said. She and Hugh herded him down the hallway and we all waited silently until we heard the door slam behind him and their footsteps returning.

Right! I went over and banged on the bathroom door. You can come out now, Jocasta, I called. He’s gone.

Chapter Two

After a long moment, the door edged open cautiously and Jocasta peeked out. You’re sure? He’s really gone? He won’t come back?

Not immediately, Hugh said grimly.

Who—? Evangeline went straight to the heart of the matter. Who is this Melisande? And what have you done with her?

Melisande— Jocasta’s face crumpled. I can’t be the one to tell him. He’d hate me forever! She began to sob. I can’t!

There, there, you don’t have to, I soothed. He’s gone.

For the moment, Evangeline said.

I can’t! Jocasta’s sobs increased. She was almost incoherent, but an occasional phrase blubbered through. Someone else … tell him … I can’t! … I can’t!

Pull yourself together, girl! Dame Cecile snapped. They don’t shoot the messenger anymore. If the man was fool enough to abandon his bride and hare off on some imbecile expedition, it serves him right if she eloped with someone else while he was gone.

Not shoot but … He’ll hate me! … Never want to speak to me … to see me … again! … I can’t! I can’t! … I can’t—

We’ve established that, Evangeline said. But why should he hate you? Were you the one who introduced her to—?

Just a minute— Martha interrupted. "He kept saying this woman was writing my cookbook! Is that true? Am I second choice? And what kind of contract does she have? Is she going to come back when all the work is done and insist that her name is credited for all my work?"

No … no … Jocasta wailed. You don’t understand … She’ll never come back … She’s dead!

Dead? Dame Cecile was incredulous. But she must have been a young woman. Don’t tell me—her voice hardened—she was terminally ill and that revolting idiot went off and left her!

"He’s not revolting, Jocasta choked. And there was nothing wrong with her. Not that anyone knew about. He couldn’t have had any idea that—" The great gulping sobs reclaimed her.

What happened to her then? Dame Cecile demanded. She and Evangeline exchanged an exasperated look. Was it an automobile accident?

A terrorist attack? Trust Evangeline to go for the melodramatic option.

Sudden Adult Death Syndrome? Dame Cecile was right behind her.

Hugh—a glass of water! Martha ordered. He rushed to get it.

Thank you. Martha appropriated it before he could offer it to Jocasta. I stepped forward hastily, but was too late to prevent Martha from hurling it into Jocasta’s face.

Martha!

She’s hysterical, Mother. Martha returned the glass to Hugh, who absently refilled it.

Easy, Jocasta, easy. I put an arm around her shoulders and sacrificed one of my favourite scarves towards mopping her up. Just tell us.

It wasn’t my fault, she sobbed. I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t even in the room at the time.

Of course you weren’t, I soothed. What room? Where? And when? What happened?

She collapsed, Jocasta said. It was so fast. There wasn’t anything anyone could do to help her. She died—right at the end of her cooking demonstration at an evening class.

Why? Evangeline leaped in with the question we all wanted to ask.

It— Jocasta’s hysteria hadn’t abated, it had just changed form. She began to giggle wildly. It was something she ate!

Splash!

Martha! This time I had been included in the sudden deluge.

Oops! Sorry, Mother. But you can see—she’s off again.

That’s no reason to drown her. Or me.

I said I was sorry, Mother. But she wasn’t really, I could tell.

Martha … dearest … She was making Hugh nervous, too. This time he ignored the empty glass she thrust at him.

So this other woman—this Melisande— Martha glared at Jocasta. "Is it true that she was the original choice for my cookbook?"

Y-e-e-s … Jocasta shrank back. Yes, that’s how we started out … it was all tied together. But she … she died … and … and …

And the show must go on! Martha was working herself into a fury. "And I was second choice!"

Oh, dear! Oh, my poor darling Martha. I hadn’t realised that it had rankled so. At the back of my mind, Fanny Brice’s rendition of Second-Hand Rose began to play:

Even … the boy I adore

had the noive to tell me

He’d been married before …

Martha was Hugh’s second wife and, no matter that he and the first one had been divorced before he met Martha and the unfortunate woman subsequently murdered, it seemed that it had secretly bothered Martha. And now she found out she was second choice for the cookbook, too.

Martha— Hugh hadn’t realised it, either. Darling— He stepped forward and tried to embrace her, but she moved away.

You might have told me! she accused him.

How was I to know? The injustice clearly stung. You can’t imagine I’d be able to keep up with every piece of fringe activity in the business.

Uh oh—wrong again, Hugh. But when Martha gets into this mood, there’s no way any of us can say the right thing.

Naturally, we kept it as quiet as we could. Indignation was doing a better job of drying Jocasta’s tears than sympathy.

The book was still in the early stages, so it was only known about in-house. Publicity hadn’t started yet, so the media couldn’t latch onto any story about the editor of a cookbook being killed by one of her own recipes. Naturally, her name will never appear on the book now.

Recipes! Martha wasn’t letting Jocasta off the hook. Yes, I noticed that we had some recipes already tested, but I was fool enough to assume that you had been doing some preliminary work on the easiest ones.

I was … I am … Jocasta’s nerve was beginning to fail again. And we all really wanted you. Everyone was so enthusiastic when your name was mentioned.

And you kept it so quiet … That was all we needed, Evangeline sticking her oar in. So quiet that you didn’t even notify her husband—her bridegroom—that his wife had died.

We couldn’t! Jocasta wailed. He was out of reach. Incommunicado! There was no way we could get through to him.

Out there on the frozen tundra! Evangeline jeered. Hasn’t anyone told you that we have satellite communication these days?

Only if the other party is carrying the right equipment. Banquo was trying to re-create the conditions the original Arctic explorers faced. He didn’t have a cell phone or anything like that.

Not even in case of an emergency? Evangeline was disbelieving. Having seen Banquo, it struck me as hard to swallow, too.