Canapés for the Kitties Read Online Free PDF Page B

that he might not be exactly what his fans expected, had taken a leaf from the late Craig Rice’s book when she was faced with a similar problem and wished to conceal the fact that she was a woman. Thus, coat collar turned up, bundled up in a scarf, hat pulled low and pipe jutting out to mark the approximate location of mouth in a deeply shadowed atmospheric photograph, Macho had presented himself to the world. People could imagine any features or height they liked. And, judging from the behaviour of the louts, apparently they had.
    After that dire appearance, Macho had refused all further speaking engagements and confined his bookshop cooperation to signing bookplates. The reclusive reputation he was gaining had done nothing to limit the popularity of his books, and certain of the newer and more studiedly intellectual of the critics were beginning to refer to him as the J. D. Salinger of the mystery world.
    â€œNot now, Roscoe.” Macho deftly caught Roscoe in midleap to his lap. “We have to go out.” He glanced at his colleagues for confirmation. “We do have to go?”
    â€œMuch as I hate to admit it, we do,” Freddie said. “Come on, bite the bullet. At least the wine ought to be good. And maybe even the food.”
    â€œBetter a meal of bitter herbs with my friends,” Macho said darkly, “than a feast with my enemies. Or however it goes.”
    â€œOh, come now,” Lorinda protested. “It isn’t that bad. Most of the guests are our friends.”
    Macho deposited Roscoe on the carpet, brushed a few red hairs from his trousers, carefully removed the cocktail sticks from the last two chicken livers and carried the sticks into the kitchen. They heard the clatter of the swing-lid rubbish bin.
    â€œWe’ll be back soon.” Returning, Macho bent to stroke Roscoe and set the saucer of leftovers in front of him. “Perhaps very soon.”
    Plantagenet Sutton was greeting his guests expansively at the front door of Coffers Court itself, giving the impression that he was master of all he surveyed and not just one of the flats. He was holding his party in the marble-clad entrance hall, which was bedecked with flowers.
    The arrivals from London were suitably impressed, while the inhabitants of Brimful Coffers exchanged wry glances.
    â€œWelcome, welcome, so glad you could come!” He greeted them enthusiastically, shaking hands with Macho, planting kisses on Lorinda and Freddie’s cheeks. “Oh, for me? You shouldn’t have! It wasn’t necessary.”
    Lorinda noticed that there was a pile of gift-wrapped parcels on the little table beside him. It might not have been necessary, but it was advisable.
    â€œHow well you look,” Freddie cooed insincerely, handing over her Danegeld.
    â€œAh, Freddie.” He took the gift, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. “You have a new one out any moment, haven’t you?”
    â€œNext month,” she said.
    â€œAh, yes. I thought I’d seen it. Well, have a good time.” He turned to the next in line. “And Lorinda, ah, thank you. And how is the criminous little world of St. Waldemar Boniface?”
    â€œOh...” She tried for a becoming show of modesty. “Still chugging along.”
    â€œNow, now, don’t sell them short. Why, some of your scenes are almost believable.” He released her hand just as it clenched and greeted Macho.
    â€œAh, Magee. Same as ever, I see.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I be?”
    They faced each other warily, like two mongrel curs, fur bristling, but neither ready to make the first move to attack.
    They were too much alike, Lorinda thought, that was part of the problem. Both the same physical type: weedy, undersized, bald and overcompensating by too much facial hair and those ridiculous ponytails. On a dark night, it might be hard for the casual observer to tell them apart unless one of them spoke.
    On closer observation, it