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Authors: Marian Babson

BOOK: Whiskers & Smoke
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“Well …” Both children were looking at me hopefully.
I was outnumbered, not that it mattered. I didn't care what I did. It would be as good a way of spending an evening as any other. “Thank you, we'll look forward to that.”
“Great!” Greg was obviously aching to say something else to Dexter but realized that any further comment might dent the image he wished to project. He turned to Celia. “I hope you and Patrick will come along, too. Luke is staying on for it and we'd love to have you.”
“Yes … thank you,” Celia said vaguely. “I'll have to see whether Patrick has anything else planned.” She looked anxiously towards her husband and became more decisive. “We must be going now. We have a one o'clock reservation at Gino's Place.”
“Right!” Greg's teeth flashed again. “These folks can see the rest of the camp tomorrow. And Dexter—” The teeth just missed grinding together as the mask slipped. “Cottage cheese salad for you—right, fella?”
“Sure, Greg,” Dexter said unconvincingly. “What else?”
 
Gino's Place had been someone else's place first; an Old Homestead converted into a restaurant, keeping as many homelike touches as possible. Gino himself greeted us at the door and led us to a table on the glassed-in side porch.
“My cousin will take care of your table,” he told Patrick. “Let me know if everything is all right. I think he is nearly trained now. If he continues to be satisfactory, I will promote him to waiting on the inside tables next week. He sulks because he isn't there already, but he's not as good as he thinks he is—not yet.”
“You knew you were going to have a few problems when you imported him from the Old Country,” Patrick said. “Even though he's shaping up slowly, at least he's shaping up—and you needed him. This is a big place to run.”
“Hah!” Gino laughed shortly, without mirth. “It is not big enough for Rudolfo—that's the problem. He thought he was coming to be
maître d'
of a great fashionable restaurant. An outpost of The Four Seasons, perhaps. He expected celebrities every night, four star cuisine, hundred dollar bills to light cigars with—”
“The streets paved with gold, eh?” Patrick sighed. “Do they still believe that?”
“He expected New York,” Gino said flatly. “He got New Hampshire. He must learn to live with it. Still, this is only his first summer here. Probably he will settle down.”
“Early days yet,” Celia agreed. She glanced at her watch.
“Rudi—” Gino called to a waiter who had just entered. “The menus for this table, please.” He bowed and left us.
Celia evidently did not feel it incumbent on her to maintain camp discipline. She allowed Dexter to order pork chops and French fries. A lavish salad, sans cottage cheese, came as a side dish but he ignored it.
The air-conditioning was frigid, presumably to encourage an appetite for hot meals. The prices seemed quite reasonable to me, but Patrick surveyed them with a twisted grin.
“I'm not that old,” he said ruefully, “but I can remember
when a dollar bought the Blue Plate Special. These days it doesn't even pay the tip.”
For dessert, the rest of us ordered ice cream, but Dexter continued on his collision course with the maximum of calories.
“I'll have the Crepes Suzette,” he said casually.
“Will they let you?” Patrick was dubious. “You're underage and it contains alcohol.”
“The booze will burn off—” Dexter licked his lips—“when they flambé it. Sure, they'll let me have it. Rudi's made them for me before—he likes making them.”
“Well …” Patrick said.
Rudi had no qualms at all. In fact, he was delighted. He wheeled the serving trolley to our table with a flourish, conscious that everyone was watching. Gino hovered in the doorway, checking on the proceedings.
Tessa and Timothy had never seen the dish prepared before and were enthralled. As the flickering blue flames danced over the crêpes, they laughed with glee. Smiling at their reaction, I sought Celia's eyes to share the amusement—and felt a chill that owed nothing to the overemphatic air-conditioning.
Celia was watching Patrick with a look of unmistakable concern. Patrick was watching the flames with a curious intensity, as though they held him hypnotized.
I looked away quickly, uneasily, and focused on Dexter. He, too, was staring deep into the miniature blue inferno with more than healthy interest.
Suddenly I wished that we were back in England.
B
y the time we got back to Cranberry Lane and Patrick and the boys had carried in the groceries, we were exhausted. I felt as though I had spent the day fighting alternating spells of chills and fever—which I had.
After lunch, we had gone shopping. The constant transition from the overpowering heat outdoors to the icy blasts of air-conditioned stores would have been enervating even when uncomplicated by jet-lag. Outside, one longed for the cool interiors of the shops; once inside, it instantly became too much of a good thing. By the time we strolled down the frozen food aisles of the supermarket, with the double chill coming from the freezers on both sides, I began to see why so many shoppers carried light cardigans, despite the heat. I would have been glad of a cardigan myself—and a pair of gloves.
“You've turned off the air-conditioning,” Celia said accusingly as we entered the house. “That's an English habit you're going to have to lose, or you'll collapse with
heat prostration. If you don't care about yourself, think of the children!” She switched on the window unit in the living-room.
“I've put it on low,” she said grudgingly. “No, stay there—” she waved me back as I started for the stairs. “I'll turn it on in the bedroom. I can't trust you, otherwise—not until you get acclimatized.”
She darted up the stairs and, after a moment, I heard her footsteps in the master bedroom overhead. I decided not to tell her that I had switched rooms—it would cut out one more argument and make life easier. I'd turn off the air-conditioning up there after she left.
“Where do you want things to go?” Patrick returned from the kitchen looking helpful but inadequate to the situation. “I've left the bags on the kitchen table.”
“I'll see to them.” I reached the kitchen just as Errol climaxed a magnificent leap by landing lightly on the tabletop with his nose unerringly in the bag containing the fresh fish.
“Down, Errol!” I removed his head from the bag and pushed him towards the edge of the table. He fought me all the way, protesting wildly that I couldn't expect him to leave when the party had just begun.
“Down!” Errol was strong and determined; so was I. We had a brief undignified struggle and then Errol hit the floor. Once down there, he changed tactics and twined sinuously around my ankles, purring of devotion and undying affection.
Nothing is undying, Errol. Nothing … and no one …
But he had succeeded in making me feel guilty. We had been gone all day and poor Errol had had nothing to
eat since the purloined scrambled eggs this morning. Further, I realized that he had been very good. Despite our difference of opinion and the fact that we were practically strangers, he had not even threatened to use his claws. Perhaps Errol was a love, as his absent owners claimed.
“All right, I'll get you something,” I said. “Just let me put this stuff in the freezer.”
We tripped across the floor. I wouldn't have tripped if it weren't for Errol. Recognition of our destination brought him out in fresh paroxysms of affection. I stumbled against the refrigerator and fended him off with one foot while I opened the door.
“Hi, Rosemary
—” The note was lurking in the freezer compartment at the top. I looked at it unenthusiastically. This constant unearthing of messages was beginning to make me feel as though I were living with an elbow perpetually sinking into my ribs.
If you need more space, I've cleared a corner of the deep freeze in the garage for you. If you'd like to use any of the food I've left in it, please do. I keep the old blanket beside it in case of electrical failure. Sometimes a thunderstorm knocks down a power line. In which case, I toss the blanket over the deep freeze for a bit of extra insulation until the lines are fixed. It usually doesn't take long, but if it does—
I pushed the note to the back of the freezer compartment and piled the frozen food on top of it. If the power failed, I'd dig it out later and read the rest of the instructions.
I splashed some milk into Errol's saucer to hold him until I'd finished stowing away the rest of the shopping.
Patrick came back into the kitchen carrying the last two shopping-bags. We seemed to have bought an inordinate amount, but Celia had assured me that it was better to buy in bulk and get enough to last for as long as possible. Apart from which, everything took up so much space—basic supplies seemed to come in “Large,” “Larger,” and “Large Economy Size” exclusively. Only “Sample” size looked reasonable to my eyes, but there were few items so modestly packaged.
“That's better.” Celia followed Patrick with the air of a job well done. “You must remember to keep windows and doors closed or you'll just be trying to cool all outdoors—and it can't be done. Although,” she added grudgingly, “if it gets cooler in the evenings, you can open the inside front and back doors and let a breeze through. But keep the screen doors closed or the house will be filled with mosquitoes and insects.”
“All right,” I said mendaciously. I intended to turn off all the air-conditioning as soon as she left, although I did take her point about screens and insects. There seemed to be an awful lot of the latter, doubtless they bred excessively in this climate.
“It looks like we're in for a real scorcher this weekend.” Patrick took a glass and sauntered over to the refrigerator. I watched with fascination as he thrust the empty glass into the niche in the outside of the refrigerator door. We had examined it curiously last night but I had refused to allow the children to experiment with the two bracket levers until we knew how they should be used
and what would happen. Our funds did not run to replacing broken major appliances.
Patrick pushed the glass briefly against one lever at the back of the niche and a cascade of miniature ice cubes swooshed into the glass. He then filled the glass with iced water from the nozzle poised above the second lever. The action was so automatic that he did not even notice that I was following his movements avidly.
All mod. cons.
I thought guiltily of the refrigerator we had thought so up-to-date and hoped the Harpers hadn't lost the knack of wrestling with old-fashioned ice trays.
“I wish it would rain,” Celia said.
“Spoil the weekend.” Patrick sipped his iced water.
“Not for
us
.” Something in Celia's tone implied the weekend was already spoiled. I wondered whether she was obliquely referring to our arrival—but she was the one who had insisted that we come.
“No.” Patrick set down his glass so heavily I expected it to crack. His lips tightened, his eyes looked more haunted than ever. “I'll round up Luke. We ought to be going.” He went out of the back door, closing it with dangerous consideration.
“He isn't well,” Celia said softly. It was almost an apology. “I suppose—” she sighed deeply—“you and the kids might as well drop over later. You haven't seen our place yet.”
“Not tonight, thank you.” I have had more heartfelt invitations in my time. “We're still awfully tired and slightly jet-lagged. I think we'll have a quiet evening, perhaps watch television for a bit—we haven't seen any yet—and have an early night.”
“As you think best.” Celia brightened. “Perhaps you can come to dinner tomorrow night. Oh no—” She brightened even more. “It's the cookout at camp tomorrow night. Perhaps—”
“There's plenty of time,” I reminded her. “We have all summer.”
“That's right.” The thought did not appear to cheer her. “So we have.”
 
After dinner, I slumped down on the sofa and played with the television set, using the remote control gadget to switch off sound, change channels and generally discover what could be done with it. Errol, replete with more fish than he had a right to expect, stretched out beside me throbbing like an outboard motor.
“Would you like a glass of iced water, Mummy?” Tessa asked solicitously. I had demonstrated the ice-making unit and it was more popular than the television.
“All right, thank you.” Until the novelty wore off, it was clearly going to keep them out of mischief. Actually, I agreed with them; it
was
more interesting than the television.
The telephone rang, jolting me upright. I heard giggles and the rush of feet from the kitchen.
“I'll get it—” I called. This time it might be someone we knew: Greg calling to suggest proper costume for tomorrow's cookout; or Luke to speak to his cousins; but I was still uneasy enough to wish to monitor the call.
“Hello—” I said cautiously.
“Well, hi there! I'm glad I caught you at home. I
dropped round earlier, but you were out.” It was a female voice, unidentified, but apparently friendly.
“We went out with Celia and Patrick—” I relaxed a bit but remained cautious. “They drove us around, we had lunch at Gino's Place and did a lot of shopping at the supermarket.”
“Well, swell! Are you going to be home tomorrow morning? I'll come round and see you then.”
“Excuse me—” It was becoming apparent that this could go on indefinitely and I would be landed with a still unidentified stranger on the doorstep in the morning. “You obviously have the advantage. To whom am I speaking?”
“Oh, sorry. I'm Pixie Toller. A friend of Nancy's.”
“Oh yes—” Now I could place her. “The elderberry brandy. And those delicious vanilla biscuits.”
“That's right!” She was pleased. “Also the Welcome Wagon. I'll drive it round in the morning and get you off to a proper start in town. That's why I called. Not that I wouldn't have, anyway. Nancy is a very good friend of mine and I promised her I'd look after you.”
“I'll be delighted to meet you. Er, what's a Welcome Wagon?”
“Wait and see!” She laughed gaily and rang off.
I returned to the living-room in time to see that a news broadcast had started. A close-up of an urgent intelligent face mouthing words voicelessly was replaced by an action shot of firemen surrounding a burning building. I sat down and reactivated the sound.
“ … DOWNTOWN BOSTON …” The words roared at
me from the set with the urgency of the leaping flames. I adjusted the volume hastily.
“This is the fourteenth fire in Boston's business section in four months. That's a rate of nearly one a week. Other city centres throughout Massachusetts and the surrounding New England states have been similarly afflicted. In May, in Concord, New Hampshire, three people lost their lives when—”
Another picture flashed on to the screen: a gutted ruin, smoke still rising from the charred wooden crossbeams of what had been a small shop. At the edge of the pavement lay three ominous shapes shrouded in blankets.
Errol stirred uneasily. He gazed unblinkingly at the screen, seemingly mesmerized by the fire and smoke. I heard Timothy's voice in the hallway, then Tessa's. They had apparently wearied at last of their game with the ice-making equipment.
“ … Deputy Fire Commissioner Francis X. Alton today renewed his appeal to the public to come forward with any information—”
A grave, harassed man looked out from the screen obviously striving for eye-to-eye contact with the invisible audience.
“If any of you knows of anything that might possibly be helpful,” he said desperately, “please contact us immediately. If you think you have seen or heard anything suspicious, we want to know about it. Don't be afraid of wasting our time. Don't be afraid that your information isn't important enough. Let us be the judge of that. Any scrap of information added to the information we already have might be the means of bringing the perpetrators of
these outrages to justice. We will keep your name confidential. I appeal to you to come forward—”
“Mummy—” Tessa was fretful and on the verge of tears. “Mummy, the machine isn't doing the ice right any more. It's gone all sloppy.”
“Maybe you've worn it out.” I wasn't surprised. “It isn't supposed to be non-stop toy. Let's give it a rest until morning now. It's probably all worn out—and so are you. It's time for bed.”
Errol stretched, considered, then leaped to the floor and marched purposefully to the door. For him, it was time for other things. He looked back at us and gave an impatient command, waiting for someone to come and let him out.
Automatically, I switched the television off first. The message emblazoned across the screen grew momentarily larger, then dwindled away as though receding into Time:
“Ring ARSONLINE …
“24 hours a day service …”

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