No Cooperation from the Cat (21 page)

“What’s all this?” She advanced on a pile of jumbled papers, photos, maps, charts, and notebooks teetering precariously at one end of the kitchen table.

“Part of the problem,” Tom said wearily. “Edytha came in a while ago and dumped it all here. Said they were surplus to requirements and, worse, distracting Banquo. So now they’re distracting me. Shift them somewhere else, would you? I need that space to set up for the next shot.”

“Where can I put them?” Martha caught up the jumbled heap and looked around for a vacant spot. The unevenly balanced stack quivered and shifted. Martha gave a small shriek as most of it slithered out of her grasp and tumbled to the floor. She never should have tried to move it all in one go.

I kept that observation to myself as I stooped to help her gather up the mess. Unfortunately, there was nowhere else to put them except back on the table. They needed to be sorted out by bulk, weight, and size before we could find a better spot for them.

Evangeline strolled over to assist, confining her efforts to the material we had replaced on the table. Automatically, she began making separate piles for photos, maps and charts, papers and notebooks.

The heap began to look almost manageable. Martha and I retrieved the last of them from the floor and added them to their proper categories.

Tom continued fiddling with his cameras and lighting equipment while Mick looked on sardonically, not offering to help.

Most of the photos were marked with a small X in one corner signifying that they had not been chosen for inclusion in the book illustrations. As with the others I had seen earlier, in most cases the reason was clear, but …

“But these are charming, delightful—” I picked up the three rejected photos. “Why aren’t you using them?”

“Not suitable,” Tom said shortly.

Mick snickered, then tried to cover it. “I think they’re great, too. They belong in the book. Adds human interest—” He intercepted and registered Tom’s furious glare. “Very interesting to animal lovers,” he amended.

They would be. They added a whole fresh dimension to the story of the expedition. The first showed the sled dogs just strapped into their harnesses at the beginning of the trip, revealing that one of them was noticeably pregnant. The second shot showed her proudly suckling a newly born litter of pups. The last was taken a few weeks later, the puppies were older, plump and frolicsome, already showing signs of burgeoning personalities.

“The readers would love them,” I said. At my elbow, Evangeline studied the shots and nodded agreement. “Everyone would want to know about them.”

“That’s the trouble,” Tom said. “They’d take all the attention away from Banquo.”

“We couldn’t have that.” Mick snickered again.

Yes, Banquo wanted the limelight all to himself. He wouldn’t take kindly to being upstaged by a group of lovable little rogues. Actors notoriously hate working with children and animals—why should Banquo be any different? It was the same principle.

But … reluctantly, I added the photos to the others, tilting them slightly askew on the pile so that I could retrieve them later.

Surely, Jocasta should have the final say as to what illustrations were used. And, if her choice were vetoed, perhaps she would begin to notice that Banquo’s ego was really more than any reasonable woman would want to waste her life coping with.

Chapter Twenty-two

After such a beginning, what else could the day do but disintegrate completely?

Smouldering and ready to erupt, Martha grudgingly followed Tom’s instructions as he, oblivious, continued setting up his cameras and lighting. We could hear increasingly acrimonious voices being raised in the front room. Cho-Cho was under the bed and made it clear that she was staying there.

Evangeline and I consulted silently and, with the flick of an eyebrow, agreed. This was no place to hang around. We sidled towards the exit.

“Shouldn’t we get our coats?” Evangeline glanced at the windows. “It’s going to rain again.”

“Not necessary,” I said. “I think we should go downstairs and drop in on Nigel.”

“Nigel? Now? Why?”

“Because.”

“Just because?”

“Just because,” I said firmly, heading for the lift.

“What have you got up your sleeve?” Intrigued, as I knew she would be, Evangeline followed.

“Nothing,” I admitted. “But I think Nigel’s sleeves are getting more interesting every day.”

“Can’t we have lunch first?” Evangeline grumbled, getting into the lift. “I’m hungry and we can use our emergency supplies.”

“I suspect Nigel has lunch all organised,” I told her. “If we’re lucky, maybe we can get in on it.”

*   *   *

It took an inordinately long time before the door swung open slowly—and not very far.

“I’m not coming back!” Jocasta peered around the opening. “You can’t make me!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured her. “We’ve come for sanctuary. We’re refugees ourselves.”

“It’s chaos up there,” Evangeline said piteously. “Utter chaos!” Her eyes widened pleadingly, her shoulders slumped, the picture of despair. She was the orphan waif on the ice floe, drifting down the freezing river. “We had to get away.”

“I know the feeling.” The door swung wide and we were allowed to enter.

“Come in, come in.” This welcome was warmer, but it did not come from Nigel, who was beaming at us from behind the speaker.

“Jem!” Evangeline exclaimed. “What are you doing here? And so early.”

“Simple explanation,” he said. “I never left. It was so late when we got here last night—this morning—the trains would have stopped running. I would have been stranded for hours, except that Nigel kindly offered me his sofa. I’m deeply indebted to him.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Nigel beamed. “My pleasure. Besides, we had a most productive conversation.”

Oh, dear. Nigel was looking entirely too pleased with himself. What harebrained financial scheme was he hatching now? Surely, Jem was too smart to be taken in by it.

“Ah, yes, the sofa.” There was nothing like the sofa for losing Evangeline’s interest. She was far more intent on the delicious aromas wafting through the flat. She raised her head and sniffed pointedly.

“You must stay for lunch.” Nigel was getting to be a dab hand at picking up a cue. “There’s always plenty when Jocasta cooks.” His smile at her was definitely growing proprietorial, but she didn’t even notice. My heart sank. If it weren’t for that blasted Banquo …

Why is it always the wrong person who gets murdered?

“It’s just chilli con carne, I’m afraid,” Jocasta apologised, “but it seemed like a good idea on a day like this.”

“Quite right!” Evangeline glanced at the first icy raindrops starting to hit the windows and shivered.

“That will be perfect,” I agreed, closing my mind against the question of where she had found all the ingredients in Nigel’s kitchen. He was not the sort to keep a well-stocked pantry—or any pantry at all. Oh, well, if she had borrowed anything of ours, she was entitled. After all, we were going to be eating the lunch now, too.

“Actually,” Jocasta said, “I think it’s just about ready. I’ll just put two more plates on the table.”

It tasted as good as it smelled and we were doing it full justice when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll go—” Nigel raised a hand to forestall Jocasta’s automatic leap to her feet. It was his flat, after all.

Unfortunately, it was my daughter.

“Mother—” Martha surged into the room. “I thought I might find you here. You didn’t take your coat, so I knew you couldn’t have gone outside. Oh!” She had spotted Jocasta. “You’re here. So this is where you’ve disappeared to.”

“It’s no use, tell them it’s no use.” Jocasta had begun wringing her hands. “I’m not going back! You can’t—” She broke off, noticing Martha’s suddenly wistful expression and the way she was inhaling the fragrance of the cooking, just as Evangeline had done.

“Have you had lunch?” She changed tack abruptly.

“Not a bite. I couldn’t eat with those terrible women around.” Martha shuddered. “It would have choked me.”

“Oh, my poor darling.” I started for the stove, but Jocasta beat me to it. She ladled out a bowl of chilli and I settled for pulling out another chair. Martha sank into it gratefully.

“You’ve got to get rid of them, Mother! I can’t stand much more. I—I’ll do something desperate!”

“Eat first, then talk,” I advised, suppressing a pang of anxiety. Of course she wouldn’t do anything really desperate—at least, not to herself. She had too much to live for. The worry was that she might do something not quite law-abiding and punishable by imprisonment to someone else.

“Think of Hugh and the children,” I reminded her, just in case. “You can go home to them at the end of the day. But we live here—we’re stuck.”

“That’s just it—you shouldn’t be.” The words were somewhat indistinct, due to the large mouthful of chilli. She swallowed too quickly and coughed.

“Your mother is right,” Jocasta said. “Eat first, then we can discuss it comfortably.” It was the wrong thing to say. With Martha in this mood, anything would be the wrong thing.

“You!” Martha exploded. “It’s all your fault! They’re here because you’re here! They barged their way in because they wanted to get to you. And you let them!”

“Darling—” I warned. She had a point, but getting upset about it wouldn’t do any good.

“It’s true—” Martha insisted. “She only came here because she was hiding from them. Now that they’ve found her, she has no reason to stay. She can go—and take them with her!”

“Martha!” She was being unpardonably rude. I thought I had brought her up better than that.

“I don’t think you could get rid of them that easily,” Evangeline said. “They like it here and they’re well dug in. It would take dynamite to dislodge them now. Jocasta’s leaving wouldn’t make any difference.”

Except that we would no longer be comfortably supplied with a housekeeper and cook, but she didn’t mention that.

“Also,” Jocasta pointed out, “the cooker still hasn’t been fixed at home. We wouldn’t be able to test any more recipes for your book.”

“
My
book—” Martha said bitterly. “
Mine?
They’ve started sneaking in their own stupid useless recipes—pemmican and all sorts of impossible things no touring actor would have on hand. They’re hijacking my book—and you’re letting them! You and that ghastly Banquo of yours!”

“Banquo is
not
ghastly!” Jocasta flared. “And”—her voice broke—“he is
not
mine.”

But, ooh, how she wished that he was! Evangeline and I exchanged glances, then looked at Nigel. He hadn’t missed the implication, either. His shoulders drooped dejectedly. Jem moved closer and put an encouraging arm around those shoulders and gave him a brace-up-old-boy shake.

Jem. Come to think of it, Jem was being unusually quiet. Apart from welcoming us to a flat that wasn’t his, he had faded into the background. Was it just a hangover, or was there another reason?

I raised an eyebrow at Evangeline. She gave a small shrug in reply.

“I never dreamed this project could get so out of hand,” Jocasta admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about the problem. Perhaps we could divide it into two separate books.”

“Back the way they should be.” Martha was only slightly mollified.

“I’ll speak to my—”

The doorbell cut across Jocasta.

“No!” She quivered, shrinking back into her earlier terrors. “I’m not going back there! I’m not!”

“It’s all right,” Nigel soothed, starting for the door. “You don’t have to. I’ll see to that!” Grimly, he squared his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and threw open the door, prepared for battle.

A large man stood there, carrying a case of bottles.

“Delivery,” he said, setting the case down at Nigel’s feet. “Sign here, please.” He thrust a small electronic device at Nigel and indicated a space on it.

“What—?” Nigel stared incredulously at the bottles. “I haven’t ordered—”

“Gift card right there,” the man said. “Dozen bottles of the best Scotch. I’ve just delivered a case of chilled champagne to the ladies in the penthouse. They were proper grateful—” His tone suggested Nigel was not. “Opened the first bottle before I’d even left.”

“Ladies? Penthouse? Champagne? Let me see that!” Evangeline tweaked the gift card from Nigel’s hand and scanned it while Nigel absently signed the device the delivery man was holding out.

“Bertie! I knew it!” Evangeline glared at the delivery man. “Did those harpies actually have the nerve to sign for
our
gift of champagne?”

“Yeah…” The man began backing away nervously, obviously unwilling to turn his back on her. “I couldn’t have left it, otherwise.”

“Forgery!” Evangeline trumpeted. “And they began opening
our
bottles?”

“Look—how do I know the right people are—I mean, they were at the address. They came to the door.” He was moving rapidly towards the lift. He didn’t want to get involved. “I didn’t see them open anything. I just heard a cork pop—”

“Fraud! Theft!” Evangeline was triumphant. “We’ve got them dead to rights! Trixie! Martha! Forward! We’ll catch them red-handed.”

I was relieved to see Jem and Nigel also responding to her call for action. Even Jocasta joined us reluctantly, whether because she wanted to help or didn’t want to be left alone, I neither knew nor cared. The more reinforcements the better, as far as I was concerned.

The retreating deliveryman had beaten us to the lift, no doubt already rehearsing his excuses if we complained to his employer, so we had to wait until it returned to us and we crowded into it.

It was a tight squeeze and we were in direct contravention of the permitted number of passengers. I held my breath until the lift slowly, but eventually surely, reached our floor and decanted us.

“Now!” Evangeline led the charge and swung her pointing finger at the door, clearly expecting them to throw themselves against it and break it open.

“Steady on—” Jem held out a restraining hand. “We’re not at the barricades, you know. One of you must have a key.”

Of course we had, but—we exchanged guilty glances—not one of us had the key with us.