engagement.
I laid my throbbing head on the kitchen table as Monty gabbled on about brick textures and glass thicknesses. My forehead found a particularly soothing groove in the pine plank surface, and I closed my eyes trying to shut out the whining drone emanating from the other side of the table.
The floor around us was still sopping wet from my first unfortunate episode with Oscar’s dyspeptic dishwasher. Trapped in the kitchen with a monologueing Monty, I’d begun tidying up the area. I had scraped several layers of chicken grease off of the stove and—with Isabella’s diligent supervision—had removed all sorts of unidentifiable organic matter, in various states of decay, from the refrigerator. But my cleaning frenzy had terminated when I’d gathered up a load of dishes and unwisely flipped the start switch to the dishwasher.
At least the subsequent flood had earned me a temporary break from Monty’s endless renovation lecture. He’d stopped long enough to help me mop up most of the water. Unfortunately, he was now back at it, tilted back in his chair, wingtips propped up on the edge of a nearby stool.
Monty’s current topic revolved around what shade of green to paint the crenulated iron columns that framed the bricks and windows along the front of the Green Vase. He picked through a reel of paint chips, searching for suitable options.
Holding up one of the small pieces of paper between his fingers, Monty commented, “Dollar bill green—the color of money. Appropriate for an accountant, I should think.”
“I thought we agreed not to make any more public statements about the accounting idea,” I said warily.
“Right,” he responded in a voice I suspected meant the opposite. “Of course.”
From my semi-prone position on the table, I had begun to wonder what means Oscar had used to so successfully eradicate Monty from the Green Vase. A hefty frying pan hung from the ceiling near the stove—it looked like just the right size for swinging at his curly, pin-shaped head. I was about to walk over to take a closer look at it when Monty finally started winding down for the night.
“That’s probably more than we’ll need for the board meeting,” he said, carefully filing his sketches in his leather portfolio. He dropped his pencils into their plastic case and straightened up his bow tie. “They probably won’t want more than a two-minute summary anyway.”
I eased myself up off the table and looked around for the cats; I’d brought them back with me after lunch. I found them curled up together in a dry corner of the kitchen and nodded to Isabella. She responded with a sharp “Mrao” and headed down to the first floor where I’d left the cat carriers. I plucked a sleepy Rupert up off the floor and followed Monty out of the kitchen.
He tiptoed around the last pools of water and started down the steps, the soles of his wingtips clapping on the wooden boards of the staircase.
“These old buildings always make me nervous,” Monty said, ducking his curly head under the low-hanging beam in the stairwell. “You never know what might be hiding in all the cracks and recesses. I had a close call not too long ago—over at Frank’s. Some sort of exotic spider had crawled up into his rafters. It dropped down and bit me on the ear. The whole lobe swelled up—it looked like I had a grapefruit stuck on the side of my head!”
Monty reached up to his head and tugged on his ears, as if trying to ensure that they were free of any lobe-enlarging arachnids.
“You’d think the spider would have gone after Frank, what with that mustache he’s got,” Monty said as we reached the bottom of the stairs. “You know, for nesting materials.” He gently slapped the sides of his face. “I like to keep a clean shave—for just that reason.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled behind him, relieved to be exiting the building at last.
“Frank’s mustache reaches way out over the top of his lip,” Monty nattered on in
I laid my throbbing head on the kitchen table as Monty gabbled on about brick textures and glass thicknesses. My forehead found a particularly soothing groove in the pine plank surface, and I closed my eyes trying to shut out the whining drone emanating from the other side of the table.
The floor around us was still sopping wet from my first unfortunate episode with Oscar’s dyspeptic dishwasher. Trapped in the kitchen with a monologueing Monty, I’d begun tidying up the area. I had scraped several layers of chicken grease off of the stove and—with Isabella’s diligent supervision—had removed all sorts of unidentifiable organic matter, in various states of decay, from the refrigerator. But my cleaning frenzy had terminated when I’d gathered up a load of dishes and unwisely flipped the start switch to the dishwasher.
At least the subsequent flood had earned me a temporary break from Monty’s endless renovation lecture. He’d stopped long enough to help me mop up most of the water. Unfortunately, he was now back at it, tilted back in his chair, wingtips propped up on the edge of a nearby stool.
Monty’s current topic revolved around what shade of green to paint the crenulated iron columns that framed the bricks and windows along the front of the Green Vase. He picked through a reel of paint chips, searching for suitable options.
Holding up one of the small pieces of paper between his fingers, Monty commented, “Dollar bill green—the color of money. Appropriate for an accountant, I should think.”
“I thought we agreed not to make any more public statements about the accounting idea,” I said warily.
“Right,” he responded in a voice I suspected meant the opposite. “Of course.”
From my semi-prone position on the table, I had begun to wonder what means Oscar had used to so successfully eradicate Monty from the Green Vase. A hefty frying pan hung from the ceiling near the stove—it looked like just the right size for swinging at his curly, pin-shaped head. I was about to walk over to take a closer look at it when Monty finally started winding down for the night.
“That’s probably more than we’ll need for the board meeting,” he said, carefully filing his sketches in his leather portfolio. He dropped his pencils into their plastic case and straightened up his bow tie. “They probably won’t want more than a two-minute summary anyway.”
I eased myself up off the table and looked around for the cats; I’d brought them back with me after lunch. I found them curled up together in a dry corner of the kitchen and nodded to Isabella. She responded with a sharp “Mrao” and headed down to the first floor where I’d left the cat carriers. I plucked a sleepy Rupert up off the floor and followed Monty out of the kitchen.
He tiptoed around the last pools of water and started down the steps, the soles of his wingtips clapping on the wooden boards of the staircase.
“These old buildings always make me nervous,” Monty said, ducking his curly head under the low-hanging beam in the stairwell. “You never know what might be hiding in all the cracks and recesses. I had a close call not too long ago—over at Frank’s. Some sort of exotic spider had crawled up into his rafters. It dropped down and bit me on the ear. The whole lobe swelled up—it looked like I had a grapefruit stuck on the side of my head!”
Monty reached up to his head and tugged on his ears, as if trying to ensure that they were free of any lobe-enlarging arachnids.
“You’d think the spider would have gone after Frank, what with that mustache he’s got,” Monty said as we reached the bottom of the stairs. “You know, for nesting materials.” He gently slapped the sides of his face. “I like to keep a clean shave—for just that reason.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled behind him, relieved to be exiting the building at last.
“Frank’s mustache reaches way out over the top of his lip,” Monty nattered on in
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