We walked through the lobby and past the hotel restaurant when a curious sight met our eyes. As one man—or one woman—or one cat—our small company halted in its tracks.
Chase frowned. “Isn’t that—”
“Grandma!” Odelia cried. “She’s at it again.”
I don’t know what she was referring to. Grandma Muffin was having lunch with a bespectacled young man who reminded me of John-Boy of The Waltons fame. He was pale and self-conscious and kept laughing at Grandma’s dubious jokes. The old lady, meanwhile—Dooley’s human, coincidentally—was dressed up like—there’s no other word for it—a tart. She was sporting the kind of cleavage usually reserved for women with more assets than the bony old woman possessed, and the whole thing fell kind of flat. Her face was painted with various types of makeup, and she had on the sort of hat that other, more extravagant and loud women could get away with. Not her. Nor could she get away with the lime-colored fluorescent dress she was wearing. Queen of England Grandma Muffin is not.
Before I had hitched up my lower mandible, Odelia was already stalking in the direction of her grandmother. Chase reluctantly followed in her wake.
“Gran, what are you doing here?” Odelia demanded with not a little heat.
Grandma looked up with a supercilious glint in her eye. She might not be the Queen of England but she could do a fine impression of condescending snootiness. “And who might you be, young lady?” she asked.
“Gran! What on earth has gotten into you?”
Grandma turned to her lunch date. “I’m sorry about this. She must be mistaking me for someone else.” Then she leaned into Odelia and hissed, “Beat it, missy. Can’t you see I’m buttering up my grandson?”
The grandson in question didn’t hide his discomfort. He went so far as to dart apologetic glances at Chase, who stood watching the scene with the kind of inscrutability and thousand-yard stare cops learn during their first week at police academy.
“You’re coming home with me right now,” Odelia snapped. “Get up. Now!”
“Get lost! Now!” Grandma retorted smartly. “You’re cramping my style!”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Odelia said.
I could have pointed out that it wasn’t God who’d put Grandma up to this, but I had a feeling keeping mum was the safer option at this juncture. Safe behind the bulwark of Chase Kingsley’s brawny arms, Dooley and I had front-row seats to the show that was about to begin, and I for one was ready to enjoy it to its full potential. I’d never seen Odelia and her grandmother square off before, and it promised to be a corker.
Just then, a third party joined the fray. I recognized her as Scarlett Canyon, and she had the dizzyingly deep neckline to live up to her last name.
“Ooh, Philippe, darling. I thought I’d find you here,” she purred as she swooped down on the pale youth, and smothered him with both kisses and some prime real estate.
“Get off him, you tramp!” Gran snapped, indignant. “That’s my grandson you’re slobbering over!”
Scarlett straightened, allowing Philippe to come up for air and adjust his glasses. “Did you say something, you bony old witch?”
“I said that’s my grandson! Get away from him!”
Scarlett wrapped her arms possessively around the young man, draping herself all over him in the process. Once again his glasses—steamed up by now—went askew. “He’s mine, Vesta. All mine. I mothered his father and I won’t let you take him away from me again.”
“I mothered his father!”
“Says you.”
“I think I would remember giving birth to a fine specimen like… Burt Goldsmith’s son.”
Scarlett threw her head back in a raucous laugh. “You don’t even know his name, do you?”
“I do,” said Gran, a dark frown marring her features. “His name is…” She darted a hopeful look at Philippe, trying to cast him in the role of her personal prompter. But Philippe Goldsmith was struggling with the weight of Scarlett’s full-bodied presence on his shoulders and was momentarily lost to the world.
“His name was Hunter Goldsmith. I say ‘was’ because he died—from a broken heart because he missed his dear precious mother so. And why do I know these things? Because I christened him Hunter before Burt and I were so brutally separated by his unfeeling and cold-hearted parents.” Scarlett sniffed theatrically. “Which is why his death comes as such a shocking blow. Our final chance at the happy reunion. Ripped away by cruel, cruel fate!”
“Oh, you’re full of crap,” Grandma said, and made a menacing step in her rival’s direction. “I’ll show you what cruel, cruel fate can do to a painted hussy like you!”
Scarlett reared back, but before Gran could act out her threat, Chase stepped between the two women. I don’t know how he did it, for he had his arms full of feline, but he still managed to act the perfect traffic cop, holding up his hands at the two old ladies.
“You’re coming with us now,” he growled at Grandma, who nodded reluctantly. And to Scarlett, he grunted, “And you better behave, Mrs. Canyon, or I’ll have to write you up for disorderly conduct, you understand?”
The woman knew better than to protest, and nodded furiously. But when Gran’s back was turned, she still managed to stick out her tongue at her longtime nemesis.
“I’m starting to like this Chase guy, Max,” said Dooley. “First he breaks up a vicious cat fight and now a nasty old lady fight. I don’t know how he does it but he does it very well.”
“The man is a god amongst men,” I agreed.
And then we were finally on our way home. Not a moment too soon. I enjoy helping out my human, but the awful truth of the matter is: sometimes it’s hard to be a cat.
Chapter 16
The Pooles were all gathered in Tex and Marge’s kitchen: Odelia, Marge and Alec standing in a small circle around Gran, who was seated at the kitchen table, like a suspect at the police station, or an accused standing trial. Chase had left, wisely deciding this was a matter best handled by the family and not wanting to interfere. Tex, meanwhile, was busying himself washing the dishes, though judging from the clatter of cups and plates smashing against each other he was more engaged in blowing off some much-needed steam.
“I’m telling you nicely, Ma,” said Uncle Alec. “Drop this nonsense right this minute.”
“I’m not dropping this nonsense,” said Gran stubbornly. “Philippe Goldsmith is a nice young man and he is my grandson. Can I help it if he’s taken such a shine to me? He says he’ll put me up in the Goldsmith mansion someplace in Colorado and pamper me for the rest of my natural life.” She held up her wrinkly hands. “It’s an offer I can’t possibly refuse!”
“It’s an offer you will refuse,” said Marge. “Because you’re not Philippe’s grandmother. There’s no way you had a child and then promptly forgot about it.”
“Yes, you may be daft but you’re not that daft,” grumbled Alec.
“Watch your tongue,” Gran warned. “I am still your mother.”
“Yes, you are. My mother—not this Hunter Goldsmith, whoever he was.”
“Nice name, Hunter,” mused Grandma. “I can’t remember giving it to him but I must have. Just the kind of name I would have given a healthy baby boy.” She darted a quick look at Alec. “Your dad named you, of course. I wanted to call you Filip and Marge Sandra.”
Alec and Marge glanced at one another. “F. Lip and S. Lip. Flip and Slip. Nice one, Ma,” Alec said. “Good thing you left the naming to Dad.”
Grandma shrugged. “They’re nice-sounding names. Not like Alec and Marge. I’ve always hated those names.”
“And you’re telling us now,” said Marge.