Canapés for the Kitties by Marian Babson Page B

handyman.
    â€œThe dummy will stay in place,” Gordie insisted firmly. “I made sure none of the children got near it.”
    â€œChildren!” Rhylla sighed.
    â€œYour granddaughter must be due any moment now, isn’t she?” Lorinda obligingly picked up the cue.
    â€œThree suitcases arrived this morning. Can Clarice be far behind?”
    They watched as Dorian circled the bonfire, his torch dipping rhythmically to ignite the firelighters strategically concealed at intervals around the perimeter. Camera flashes recorded each flare of tinder and kindling. Crackling noises began to drown out the laughter and comments below.
    â€œGordie! The sausages are burning!” Betty Alvin’s sharp cry made Gordie whirl about and dash for the barbecue grill where the first sausages were blackening and splitting.
    â€œOh, don’t let Dorian see them!” Betty wailed in dismay. “They cost a fortune – he’ll be furious. Here, hide them in the warming cabinet. We’ll eat them ourselves later.”
    â€œI’ll take one,” Macho said. “I like them well done and crispy, anyway.”
    â€œI’ll help dispose of the evidence,” Freddie agreed.
    â€œWe all will.” Lorinda could say no less.
    â€œOh, bless you!” Betty Alvin looked at them hopefully. “You needn’t actually eat them. Perhaps you could take them home for your cats.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think so.” Lorinda looked at the blackened lumps and shuddered. She was in enough trouble with the cats for leaving them tonight. Their probable reaction if she brought home such burnt offerings made her cringe. They wouldn’t speak to her for a week.
    â€œNo, no, won’t be necessary,” Macho agreed quickly. His Roscoe was also accustomed to much better fare. “We’ll eat them ourselves.”
    â€œAnd that won’t be necessary, either.” Gordie forked the ruined sausages into a pile and concealed them in a paper napkin. “I’ll slip down and throw them on the bonfire later.”
    â€œOh, that’s a good idea!” Betty Alvin’s relief betrayed that she hadn’t been looking forward to choking down the burnt food herself. “Don’t get caught. Wait till Dorian is out of the way. He’s sure to take some of the guests into his study to show off his tropical fish. That will be the best time to make a move. Then he won’t get furious over the waste –”
    â€œHe can afford it.” Grimly, Gordie whisked the greasy bundle out of sight and set out a fresh row of assorted sausages on the grill just as the others returned to the terrace.
    â€œIt’s well alight.” Dorian surveyed the scene below with the satisfaction of one who had done an excellent job. As a finishing touch, he had rammed the point of his torch into the ground beside the bonfire to burn itself out. “Now, how are things proceeding here?” He cast an expert eye over the grill. “Ah, splendid!”
    Gordie nodded acknowledgment, his mouth a tight line. Much too soon; he turned the sausages over, frowning with a concentration that proclaimed he was too busy to talk.
    â€œMore drinks!” Dorian ordered. “ Bartender! ” It was not quite a joke. “You’re falling down on the job. Fresh drinks for everyone!”
    â€œComing right up!” Plantagenet bared his teeth at the guests crowding around the bar. “Step up and name your poison!” There was no doubt who he would like to poison.
    Dorian smiled blandly and stepped back, not relinquishing his own glass to be refilled.
    â€œKeep the home fires burning, dear boy,” he murmured to Gordie. “I think I’ll slip into my study for a few quiet moments and feed the fish.” He moved away.
    â€œFeed himself, he means,” Betty Alvin translated when he was safely out of earshot. “His ulcer has been acting up again. He has a plate of