Larceny and Old Lace by Tamar Myers Page B

showed terror. “Does he shred?” Rob asked.
    I shrugged in my nonchalant way. “All cats shed, dear. Even we shed, you know.”
    â€œHe said shred ,” Bob boomed. “We just bought a silk Chinese Aubusson carpet over the weekend. We’d like it to last until next weekend if possible.”
    I smiled sweetly, since beguiling wouldn’t work with those two. “Dmitri is declawed. Both front and back. He’s strictly an indoor cat.”
    â€œI guess then it would be all right,” Rob said. He looked at his partner for confirmation, and got it. Reluctantly.
    â€œAnd if he even starts to throw up a hair ball, I’ll whisk him off into the kitchen,” I said sensibly. “You do have linoleum in there, don’t you?”
    They shook their heads no. They didn’t have to do it so vigorously, however. If I was going to make it to dinner at the highly coveted and much touted table of Rob Goldburg, Iwas going to have to find some other kind soul to take my precious lambkins for the evening.
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    Tony D’Angelo took forever to open his door.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt’s me, Abby. Remember?”
    â€œ Cara mia !” he cried in that boyish voice.
    He would have hugged me, had I let him. But for all his warmth, he didn’t invite me inside. Perhaps he too had a sex partner stashed in the boudoir. The way my luck had been running, it was probably Mama. I shouldn’t have given her call forwarding for her birthday.
    â€œTony, I have a big favor to ask you.”
    â€œAsk!” He sounded eager to lay down his life for me, anything but ask me inside where it was twenty degrees cooler.
    I pointed to the car, which I had carefully parked in the shade. “I need a temporary home for my cat, Dmitri. He’s really sweet, honest. He’s been declawed, neutered—”
    â€œNo problem! I love cats. Leave him here as long as you want.”
    It had been too easy. Suspiciously easy. Maybe Mama really was inside flagrantly flaunting her delicto. I said good-bye and drove off before I was given a chance to discover what was wrong with that picture.
    I should have at least asked him why he hadn’t returned with my aunt’s key the night before.
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    I wasn’t disappointed. Bob lives in South Park and owns a fairly modest house by neighborhood standards. Inside is what makes the difference. From the hand-painted Chinese wall-paper in the foyer to the Regency carved and gilded beech armchairs, everything was exquisite. It was perhaps a little overdone for my taste, but a refreshing change from Aunt Marilyn’s fifties modern and Mama’s Victorian hand-me-downs.
    The food was something else. Something else that I could not identify. Frankly I couldn’t tell if it was chicken or beef, but I didn’t want to be boorish and ask.
    â€œI’ve never had anything to compare with this,” I said,after I had safely eaten most of it. Generally that is a safe statement when one needs to say something but still be kind.
    Bob beamed, his narrow face widening. “Ostrich en cassoulet.”
    â€œHe’s kidding again, right?”
    Rob looked at Bob fondly. “Not this time. Bob was so happy to find that a few people down here actually raise the damned things. Thought he was moving to the sticks.”
    I swallowed hard, willing my throat muscles to keep it all down.
    â€œSo, you’re from New York?”
    â€œNope. Outer Mongolia. My father was a yurt merchant.”
    â€œBob!”
    â€œOkay, Toledo originally. But I’ve lived in Manhattan the last twenty years.”
    I nodded. A voice like that might move to Manhattan, but it sure wasn’t born there.
    â€œWelcome to the South,” I drawled. “I hope you like it here.”
    The Rob-Bobs exchanged meaningful glances. It was getting to be too much on a queasy stomach. The ostrich was having a hard time staying down. Much to my relief the doorbell