“The family, and the Judge Martins, and Doc Willoughby, and Nora’s even going to ask Frank Lloyd!”
“Hmm. Get her to invite Carter Bradford, too.”
Pat blanched. ”Cart?”
“Now, now. Bury the hatchet. It’s a new year¯”
“But why Cart? The pig didn’t even send me a Christmas card!”
“I want Bradford here New Year’s Eve. And you’ve got to get him here if it takes crawling to do it.”
Pat looked him in the eye. ”If you insist¯”
“I insist.”
“He’ll be here.”
* * *
Cart told Pat over the phone that he would “try” to come¯nice of her to ask him¯quite a surprise, in fact¯but, of course, he had numerous other “invitations”¯he wouldn’t want to disappoint Carmel Pettigrew¯but¯well¯he’d “manage” to drop in. Yes¯yes, count on it. I’ll drop in . . .
“Oh, Cart,” said Pat, despite herself, “why can’t people be friends?”
But Cart had already hung up.
Editor-Publisher Frank Lloyd came early. He showed up in a vast and sulky unconviviality, greeting people in monosyllables or not at all, and at the first opportunity made for the “bar,” which was a makeshift affair off the kitchen, in Nora’s pantry.
One would have said Mr. Queen’s interest in matters culinary that evening was unnatural. He haunted the kitchen, watching Alberta, watching Nora, watching the stove and the icebox and who came in and went out and what they did in the vicinity of anything edible or potable. And he did it all with such a self-effacement and eagerness that when Alberta left for her own New Year’s Eve party at the home of some Lithuanian friends in Low Village, Nora exclaimed: “My goodness, Ellery, you are a homebody, aren’t you? Here, stuff some olives.”
And so Mr. Queen stuffed some olives, while Jim was busy in the adjacent pantry fixing drinks. From where Mr. Queen stuffed the olives, he had a perfect view of his host.
Nora served a sumptuous buffet supper, preceded by canapes and pigs-in-blankets and stuffed celery stalks and relishes and cocktails; and before long Judge Eli Martin was saying to Aunt Tabitha, who glared about her disapprovingly: “Come, come, Tabby, take a drink and oil that soul of yours. It creaks to high heaven. Here¯a Manhattan¯good for you!”
But John F.’s sister snarled: “Reprobate!” and read Clarice Martin a lecture on the dangers of old fools drinking. Clarice, who was drifting about like the Lady of the Lake, misty-eyed, said of course Tabitha was perfectly right, and went on sipping her cocktail.
Lola was not there. Nora had invited her, but Lola had said over the phone: “Sorry, sis. I have my own celebration planned. Happy New Year!”
Rosemary Haight held court in a corner, getting the men to fetch and carry for her¯not out of interest in them, surely, for she seemed bored, but more as if she felt it necessary to keep in practice . . . until Pat, watching good old Doc Willoughby trotting off to replenish Rosemary’s glass, said: “Why can’t men see through a woman like that?”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Queen dryly, “because they’re stopped by the too, too solid flesh.” And he strolled off to the kitchen again¯in Jim’s wake, Patty’s troubled eyes noticed. For the dozenth time.
Gala evenings in the “nice” homes of Wrightsville were not noted for their hilarity; but Rosemary Haight, the outlander, exercised an irresistible influence for the worst. She became quite merry on numerous Manhattans, to the pointed disgust of Aunt Tabitha. Her spirits infected the men especially, so that talk became loud and laughter a little unsteady, and twice Jim had to visit the pantry to concoct new delights with rye and vermouth, and Pat had to open another bottle of maraschino cherries.
And both times Mr. Queen appeared smiling at Jim’s elbow, offering to help.
There was no sign of Carter Bradford. Pat kept listening for the doorbell.
Someone turned on the radio, and Nora said to Jim: “We haven’t danced since our honeymoon, darling. Come on!” Jim looked unbelieving; then a grin spread over his face, and seizing her, he danced her madly off.
Ellery went into the kitchen abruptly to mix himself a drink¯his first of the evening.
It was fifteen minutes to midnight when Rosemary waved a dramatic arm and commanded: “Jim! ‘Nother drink!”
Jim said pleasantly: “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Rosemary?” Surprisingly, Jim had drunk very little himself.
Rosemary scowled. ”Get me one, killjoy!”
Jim shrugged and made for the kitchen, followed by the Judge’s admonition to “mix up a mess of ‘em, boy!” and Clarice Martin’s giggle.
There was a door from the hall to the kitchen, and an archway from the kitchen to the butler’s pantry; there was a dining-room door to the butler’s pantry, too. Mr. Ellery Queen stopped at the hall door to light a cigarette. It was half open; he could see into the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry.
Jim moved about the pantry, whistling softly as he got busy with the rye and vermouth.
He had just finished filling a fresh batch of glasses with Manhattans and was reaching for the bottle of maraschino cherries when someone knocked on the back door of the kitchen.
Ellery became tense, but he resisted the temptation to take his eyes off Jim’s hands.
Jim left the cocktails and went to the door.
“Lola! I thought Nora said¯”
“Jim.” Lola sounded in a hurry. ”I had to see you¯”
“Me?” Jim seemed puzzled. ”But Lo¯”
Lola pitched her voice low; Ellery was unable to make out the words. Jim’s body blocked Lola out; whatever was happening, it took only a few moments, for suddenly Lola was gone and Jim had closed the back door, crossing the kitchen a little abstractedly to return to the pantry. He plopped a cherry into each glass.
Ellery said: “More fixin’s, Jim?” as Jim came through to the hall carrying the tray of full glasses carefully. Jim grinned, and they went into the living room together to be greeted by jubilant shouts.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Jim cheerfully. ”Here’s a drink for everybody to toast the New Year in.”
And he went about the room with the tray, everyone taking a glass.
“Come on, Nora,” said Jim. ”One won’t hurt you, and New Year’s Eve doesn’t come every night!”
“But Jim, do you really think¯”
“Take this one.” He handed her one of the glasses.
“I don’t know, Jim¯” began Nora doubtfully. Then she took it from him, laughing.
“Now you be careful, Nora,” warned Hermy. ”You know you haven’t been well. Ooh! I’m dizzy.”
“Souse,” said John F. gallantly, kissing Hermy’s hand. She slapped him playfully.
“Oh, one sip won’t hurt me, Mother,” protested Nora.
“Hold it!” yelled Judge Martin. ”Here’s the ol’ New Year rolling in right now. Yip-ee!” And the old jurist’s shout was drowned in a flood of horns and bells and noisemakers coming out of the radio.
“To the New Year!” roared John F., and they all drank, even Aunt Tabitha, Nora dutifully taking a sip and making a face, at which Jim howled with laughter and kissed her.
That was the signal for everybody to kiss everybody else, and Mr. Queen, struggling to keep everything in view, found himself seized from behind by a pair of warm arms.
“Happy New Year,” whispered Pat, and she turned him around and kissed him on the lips.
For an instant the room, dim with candlelight, swam; then Mr. Queen grinned and stooped for another; but Pat was snatched from his arms by Doc Willoughby, who growled: “How about me?” and Ellery found himself foolishly pecking the air.