Canapés for the Kitties by Marian Babson

as soon as the bonfire was lit.
    The others were sensibly dressed in dark clothing and wore amused expressions every time they glanced at the Jackleys.
    â€œI got some great shots of that Guy Fawkes dummy,” Jack said complacently. “It sure looks lifelike.”
    â€œCome and get your drink now,” Plantagenet invited, becoming more proprietorial by the moment. Perhaps he had refilled his own glass often enough to forget where he was and actually did think he was the host.
    â€œOK,” Jack said. “I guess I’ve got both hands free for a little while now.”
    â€œNo more pictures until they light the bonfire,” Karla said. “Remember, you promised.”
    â€œNot unless something happens that’s too good to miss,” Jack said. “I’ve got to keep alert, you don’t get second chances on a really good shot.”
    â€œWhat do you think might happen?” Karla exhaled a long breath of exasperation. “Freddie’s going to dance naked on a tabletop?”
    â€œNot tonight,” Freddie said, “it’s too cold.”
    â€œHere we are!” Dorian appeared in the far doorway and marched through the drawing room, holding aloft a flaming torch.
    â€œOh, gawd!” Freddie said. “He thinks he’s lighting the Olympic flame.”
    Nevertheless, it was quite an entrance. He had taken all the attention away from Plantagenet Sutton and reclaimed his rightful position as host and Master of the Revels.
    Dorian was followed by Betty Alvin and Gordie Crane, who were almost staggering under the weight of enormous trays laden with dishes piled with sausages, each pile thoughtfully labelled with a brief description of the sausages on offer. It was clear that Dorian had spent part of his time in London at a gourmet sausage establishment. Trust Dorian – no common-or-garden-variety bangers at his Bonfire Night.
    â€œOn the table,” Dorian directed, indicating the long trestle table set up beside the barbecue. “Everyone can choose their own and have them cooked to order.” He stepped back and leaned against the stone railing, obviously gratified as his guests crowded around with cries of appreciation.
    â€œBurgundy pistachio sausage …” Freddie began reading the tags. “Pork, prune and cognac ... steak and Guinness stout ... duck with apricot and orange ... smoked salmon ... venison and wild mushroom ... wild boar with Calvados and apple ... There’s something for everyone here.”
    â€œThere’s even a green sausage!” Jack Jackley peered at it mistrustfully. “I’m not eating that. How long have you had these things? Is your refrigeration working?”
    â€œThat’s John Nott’s sausage.” Dorian was amused and superior; it was obviously a reaction he had hoped for. “From his Cook’s Diary of 1720. The green is fresh spinach and it also contains eggs, marjoram and savoury. You’ll be missing a treat if you don’t try one.”
    â€œJackley walked right into that one,” Macho said with satisfaction. “Dorian was hoping someone would fall for it. Did you notice how he had the recipe right on the tip of his tongue?”
    â€œYeah?” Jackley had noticed, too. “Well, whatever it is, you can find another sucker. I’m not eating anything that gives me cold chills to look at it.”
    â€œ I'll try one.” Karla gave her spouse a dismissive glance.
    â€œIt’s hard to know what to choose,” Professor Borley said. “They all look fantastically exotic. But, tell me, what do vegetarians do on Bonfire Night?”
    â€œHere comes the vegetarian selection now,” Dorian said, as Betty Alvin reappeared with another tray. “You’ll find mushroom and tarragon sausage, chestnut and orange... a Welsh sausage of Caerphilly cheese and leek ... then there’s one made with courgette, coconut and spices ...”
    â€œSorry