No Cooperation from the Cat (20 page)

“Good morning. What have we here?” Ignoring Jocasta, Evangeline went over to examine the breakfast tray. Cho-Cho joined her. Neither of them seemed very pleased with what they found.

“Muesli.” Evangeline sniffed. “And—” She picked up a small tin and squinted at the label. “Yummykins Gourmet Gala Fish Feast.” She set it down in front of Cho-Cho. “I hope that’s for you.”

Cho-Cho circled it, checking it from all angles, then sniffed almost as disparagingly as Evangeline and turned away, sweeping us with an accusing look. She had learned to expect better than tinned cat food in this establishment.

“I’ve got to go.” Jocasta struggled to her feet.

“Be sure to eat something,” I called as the door closed behind her. “I worry about that girl,” I told Evangeline. “She isn’t going to let up until she collapses.”

“Sometimes that’s the only way they learn.” Evangeline absently popped the ring and pulled back the lid of Cho-Cho’s Fish Feast before setting it back on the floor.

Cho-Cho sniffed at it again, her indifference fading. Fish was fish, after all—and her people were faring a lot worse with the food offered them. But … She looked up at me imploringly.

“Not like that, Evangeline.” I caught up a saucer and scooped the contents of the tin into it and returned it to Cho-Cho.

“Mother! How could you?” The door burst open and Martha was with us. “
Now
look what you’ve done! How
could
you?”

I looked. Cho-Cho had begun eating placidly. What was wrong with that?

“Not there, Mother—here!” She slammed down a pile of tabloids in front of me. “This terrible story! Those awful pictures!”

Bracing myself for the worst, I picked up the top paper and gasped with delight. “What do you mean, awful? That’s the best picture that’s been taken of me in years. And you, too, Evangeline.” I held out the paper to her.

There we were: leaning our heads together as we sang, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other arm draped across Jem’s shoulders. His head below ours with the line of glasses in front of him, formed the base of a festive triangle. We were all beaming and obviously having a wonderful time.

“We must order a dozen copies of the print at once,” Evangeline agreed.

“And wouldn’t it make a great Christmas card? We could have a line from a carol over our heads and—”

“And we could run it as a Christmas greeting to all our friends in
Variety
and
The Stage
—”

“‘Hilarity at the Harpo,’” I read out the headline on page three of the next tabloid, which was featuring the same picture. “‘Those golden stars of Broadway and Hollywood—and now London’s own—gave an impromptu performance to the lucky diners at the Harpo last night. Someone should give these glorious gals their own show immediately, so that we can all enjoy—’”

“It’s disgraceful!” Martha wailed. “Making an exhibition of yourselves like that!”

It never ceases to amaze me, the way my darling daughter manages to blank out the realisation that I have earned my living—and hers—by doing what she calls “making an exhibition” of myself across a lifetime. What does she imagine paid the mortgage, put the food on the table, and paid for her education?

“That’s the best, but they’re all good pictures.” Single-mindedly, Evangeline was oblivious to all minor distractions as she rooted through the rest of the papers. “We were really cooking with gas last night.”

“Cooking—ooh!” Martha was reminded of another source of anguish, just as a muffled cry was heard on the other side of the wall. Either Jocasta had dropped something or Isolde had rapped her across the knuckles with a wooden spoon. Possibly both.

A strident voice was raised in angry words that were indistinct, but clearly furious.

“Poor Jocasta,” I murmured.

“That awful woman! That ghastly, terrible creature!” Martha raged. “I could
kill
her!”

“Martha!” A cold chill swept over me. “I wouldn’t say things like that around here, if I were you, dear.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The voice brayed out again, this time clearly calling for Martha.

Cho-Cho flicked her delicate ears and uttered a bitter complaint to the management.

“Sorry about that,” I told her. “We don’t like it any better than you do.” There were just a few flakes of the Fish Feast left, so she abandoned it and came over to sit at my feet and continue her list of grievances. I’d already figured that she’d had a rotten day yesterday because it had taken me twenty minutes to coax her out from under the bed when we got home last night. It now appeared that I didn’t know the half of it.

Martha was still fuming quietly, but she wasn’t verbalising it, which was a step in the right direction. Martha was too impulsive, too fond of dramatic statements—and had been a suspect in a murder case a couple of years ago. The police were only too aware of that and weren’t going to forget it for one minute. If anything happened to Isolde …

But that was just wishful thinking.

“Martha—” The door burst open and Isolde charged into the room. “There you are! You’ve got to come at once! Bring the stupid cat with you. I think it’s unsanitary myself, but Tom insists it will make a good picture.”

“Cat…?” Martha looked around vaguely, but Cho-Cho had darted into hiding the instant Isolde had appeared.

“Hurry up!” Isolde ordered. “Tom’s waiting. We … we need your help.” It obviously pained her to admit it.

“Can’t Jocasta…?” Martha wasn’t in a cooperative mood, either.

“Useless, that girl! Young people have no backbone nowadays. A few words of constructive criticism and the silly chit runs off snivelling!”

Personally, I thought Jocasta had done well to put up with Isolde as long as she had. And to simply run away, rather than trying to break the iron frying pan over Isolde’s head.

“Where’s Jocasta?” The door bounced open again and, all scarves flying like the flags on a battleship, Edytha was in the room. “Banquo requires her urgently. There are two whole pages he can’t decipher.”

“We need her here, too.” Isolde was ready to do battle, then remembered. “But it’s no use. She’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” Edytha was incredulous. “We have far too much work to do. When will she be back?”

“Who knows?” Isolde shrugged. “Most unreliable, that girl. Most unsatisfactory.”

“Gone?” The echo came from behind Edytha. “Where did she go?” Mick, in full troubleshooter mode. He looked ready to pick up poor Jocasta and carry her off bodily from wherever she was.

“She didn’t say.” Isolde sniffed disparagingly. “She just … ran off … suddenly…”

“Oh, Isolde!” Edytha sighed. “You should try to be more tactful, dear. I’ve explained to you just how sensitive these creative types can be.”

“Like that, was it?” Mick understood immediately, too. He looked at Isolde with open disgust. Edytha sighed again. It was obvious that neither of them had any faith in Isolde’s ability to make friends and influence people.

“And Banquo was
so
depending on her,” Edytha said.

“You’ll just have to tell him she isn’t available.”

“He won’t like it,” Edytha said. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid that will count as a black mark against her.”

“I’m afraid so.” Isolde exchanged a swift glance with Edytha. They weren’t afraid at all—they were delighted. They nodded emphatically to each other and left the room, forgetting about their original errand—and forgetting about Martha in their haste to get to Banquo and vilify Jocasta.

Martha slumped into a chair, folded her arms forbiddingly across her chest, and closed her eyes. The message was clear:
do not disturb.

“All right.” Mick had stayed behind. “Where did she go?” He exuded menace, but it was wasted on anyone who had worked with certain Hollywood directors. They could have eaten him for breakfast.

“How should I know?” And, if I could make a pretty good guess, I certainly wasn’t going to share it with him. “The first I knew about anything was when Isolde barged in here baying for Martha.” I widened my eyes, giving him my most innocent look.

“You’re sure about that?” He was still narrow-eyed and suspicious. Evidently my innocent look wasn’t what it used to be. Ah, well, the passage of the years will do that to one.

“We shall have to get a bolt for that door,” Evangeline said. “I won’t have those frightful creatures charging in whenever they feel like it.”

“They must be nearly finished here.” I tried to soothe her. “They can’t be around much longer.”

“Another ten minutes is too long! And I wouldn’t put it past that Edytha to be able to slither in through the keyhole.”

“She’s a slippery one, all right,” Mick unexpectedly agreed. Was this the beginning of a rift in the lute? I thought they were all supposed to be such a great team.

“Nothing any of them would do would surprise me,” I said. “As things turned out, it was certainly convenient that Edytha was in Glastonbury about that burglary that night Melisande died.”

“Convenient in more ways than one.” Mick was being unusually indiscreet. “She did well out of the whole thing. The insurance company paid out on the most … imaginative … inventory I’ve ever seen.”

“You mean…?” Evangeline’s eyes were as wide as if she had never confused a zircon and a diamond when she was making out her own list of losses after a Hollywood burglary. “You mean she falsified her claim?”

“They could have disallowed three-quarters of it and she’d still have made a killing.” He stopped abruptly as it seemed to occur to him that his choice of words was rather unfortunate. “I mean—”

“We know what you mean,” Evangeline said. “You mean she swindled the insurance company.”

“Why should she be any different?” With a shrug, he abandoned any attempt at tact. “It’s a way of life with those … ladies.”

“Really?” Evangeline was all agog.

“You mean, they haven’t tried anything with you yet?”

“No. What do they try?” I was agog now. “I thought Edytha had a shop in Glastonbury, Isolde played around with food, and Valeria … I’m not really sure what Valeria does,” I realised.

“Valeria runs the show,” he said. “Edytha’s shop is just a useful sideline. It pulls in the vaguely interested and then she works on them. The real loot comes from the courses they run. Edytha fronts the operation, but they’re all in it. I’m surprised they haven’t tried it on with you before now. You’d be a real feather in their caps.”

“What courses?” It didn’t take Mick’s sardonic tone and twisted smile to make Evangeline suspicious. We’d always had our doubts about those creatures.

“
You, too, Are a Secret Goddess,
” Mick intoned portentously. “Just start with the opening course,
Discover the Goddess within You
—I believe the search costs a thousand pounds. Then you move on to
Cultivate the Goddess within You
—that’s about fifteen hundred pounds. Follow up with
Utilise the Goddess within You
—that’s a bit pricier—”

“Enough!” Evangeline held up her hand. “I’ve just discovered the Cheapskate within Me!”

“Lucky you,” Mick said. “Most of them go on until they discover the Bankrupt within Them.”

“But how do they get away with it?” I protested. “Doesn’t anyone complain to the authorities?”

“Complain about what? That they still don’t feel like a goddess? That nobody has started worshipping them? How would you like to go to the cops with a complaint like that?”

Evangeline shuddered and so did I. The police could be difficult enough when you simply reported a murder. The reception they might give to anyone rash enough to go to them with a complaint like that didn’t bear thinking about.

What I did find myself thinking was that Mick was being unusually forthcoming. I hadn’t heard him talk this much since we first met. The immortal line that occurred in practically every B movie I’d ever been in and definitely in every episode of Evangeline’s
Happy Couple
series drifted into my mind and wouldn’t go away:

“
But why are you telling me all this?
”

“They were furious when they realised they weren’t going to get their hands on Melisande’s money that way. They had to regroup and work towards getting it through Banquo after the marriage. I think they really needed some money at that point. That’s why the burglary was so … providential.”

Did he realise he had just given us a motive for the Graces to dispose of Melisande? Did he care? Definitely, Mick was on the turn. I wondered if he was growing as fed up with Banquo as he was with Banquo’s retinue.

“Were they aware that Melisande was allergic to nuts?” Evangeline was in full
Happy Couple
mode now, nose down on the trail Mick was so obligingly laying out for her.

“After the hysterics she threw when Isolde waved that plate of Brazil nut crisps at her”—Mick gave a short bitter laugh—“everyone in a five mile radius knew about it.”

I was startled by a sudden knock at the door and I noticed that Evangeline jumped, too. We had grown unaccustomed to such minor courtesies around this place lately.

The door opened and Tom poked his head around it. “Excuse me, but has anyone seen Martha? I could use a bit of help. Is she here?”

She was, but only just. Perhaps learning from Cho-Cho, she had faded so far into the background she was nearly invisible.

“Oh, there you are.” He’d spotted her. “Could you come and give me a hand, please? Banquo has commandeered Isolde and I’m on my own here. I’d appreciate some help.”

Now it was Martha’s turn to be startled and I didn’t blame her. Words like “please” and “appreciate” had been in short supply around here ever since the Graces had taken over.

“Oh, Tom … I … I suppose so,” Martha said reluctantly.

“Perhaps I can do something, too,” I volunteered. If only he could keep Isolde out of the way permanently, he’d have as much help as he needed.

Evangeline wasn’t going to be left behind and Mick trailed after us, obviously in no mood to rejoin Banquo and his harpies in the living room.

The kitchen was more cluttered than ever. Strange crockery and utensils crowded together on the draining board, unidentifiable objects were soaking in murky water in the sink, a strange smell was leaking from the oven. Evidence of Jocasta’s absence was everywhere. Martha looked around with distaste.