“I’m sure you’ll catch them, honey,” said his girlfriend, Mayor Butterwick, as she rubbed his arm affectionately. She turned to Tex. “So when is the big day? When are you moving back into your house?”
“Oh, well, we don’t have a specific date planned as such,” the good doctor said as he scratched his nose. “Um, first we need to decide about furnishings, wallpaper, decorations and such.” He darted a helpless look in the direction of his wife.
“We don’t see eye to eye on that,” Marge explained. “Tex simply wants to move our old furniture back in and be done with it.”
“At least what’s left of it,” the doctor grumbled as he took a sip from his wine.
“I want him to come with me and pick out a new salon and a new bedroom.”
“And Gran wants to hire an interior decorator and really go to town,” Odelia finished for her mom, who nodded unhappily.
“Where is your mom?” asked Charlene.
“No idea,” said Uncle Alec.
“She’s meeting with the decorator,” I piped up, causing both Marge and Odelia to turn to me in surprise.
“She’s what?!” Marge cried.
“What’s going on?” asked Tex.
“Max says Ma is meeting with the decorator!” Marge said, looking even more distraught now, after receiving this bit of news. “And I specifically told her not to talk to anyone without me!”
“Oh, honey, she’s probably interviewing people. You’ll get to have the last word,” said her husband.
But Marge didn’t look convinced, and nor did Odelia. They both knew Gran, and also knew how impetuous that old lady could be.
Just then, the lady in question came stepping through the opening in the hedge that divides Odelia’s backyard from that of her parents. She was looking happy and chipper to a degree, and as we all looked on, a man came stepping out in her wake. At least I thought it was a man. It could have been a woman, too. He or she was sporting long hair, fashionable orange-framed sunglasses perched on the tip of a sharp nose, thin lips and a sizable chin. I assumed immediately that this was the decorator, and saw that the person was wearing a nice gray suit with orange pinstripe and a pair of shiny new brogues.
“Hi, there,” said this apparition. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
“Family, meet Jason,” said Gran, gesturing to the decorator with a proud sweep of her hand. “Jason Knauff. Who will be the man to bring our home into the twenty-first century and beyond.”
“Hi, Mr. Knauff,” said Marge, though I could tell from the way her eyes were shooting chunks of molten lava in the direction of her mother that she was far from pleased.
“I just saw your beautiful home,” said Mr. Knauff as he waved his hands expressively, “and it is absolutely to die for!”
“Jason says it’s rare that he immediately experiences such a connection to a place,” Gran explained.
“As blank canvases go where I can express my art,” said Jason, “your modest little home is pure perfection.”
“You want to paint our house?” asked Tex. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Knauff, but it’s already been painted, sir.”
“He’s not the painter, Tex,” said Gran irritably. “Jason is an interior decorator and designer. In fact he isthe interior designer. He did Gwyneth’s house, didn’t you, Jason?”
“Dear Gwynnie, yes,” Jason murmured, reverently closing his eyes for a moment.
“And Kim’s new beach house, of course.”
“Kimmie…”
“And Alec and Hilaria.”
“Hilariaaaa…”
“And now he’s doing our place,” Gran finished, looking like a cat that got the cream.
“Ma,” Marge said under her breath, “I told you to talk to me first.”
“What do you think I’m doing right now? I’m talking, ain’t I?”
“I think you will be very happily surprised with what I’ve got in store for you, Mrs. Poole,” said thisartiste as he waved his hands in the air, conjuring up a vision for the Poolemaison as he pictured it.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Tex muttered as he poured another glass of wine then downed it in a single gulp.
15
That night, Dooley and I rode in the car with our local neighborhood watch, and so did Harriet and Brutus.
Gran had confided in me that these watch outings had a tendency to get a little tedious after a while, since unfortunately not a lot of crime was being committed in our neighborhood, or at least not on Gran and Scarlett’s watch, and so all they ended up doing was driving around a little aimlessly, and chatting the night away.
It made for a welcome diversion, therefore, that she had four cats in the car with her, to tackle some other subjects, and distract her from the tedium many crimefighters face when there’s no crime to fight. Even Batman has moments he’s just sitting around his cave, playing Scrabble with Alfred and wondering what’s going on with that Joker.
“So Gran, I had this great idea that I wanted to run by you,” said Harriet.
“Oh, sure, honey,” said Gran, as she kept a keen eye on the house of Neda Hoeppner, now dark and deserted. “Shoot.”
“Well, you know how St. Theresa Choir is having their big concert next week, right?”
“I doubt that’ll happen. With their choir leader bludgeoned to death this morning.”
“She wasn’t actually bludgeoned to death, Gran,” I reminded her. “She fell and hit her head.”
“Fell or was pushed? There lies the difference between murder and an accident, Max.”
Scarlett, who had a hard time following the conversation, yawned.“I really wish you’d translate what they’re talking about, Vesta. It gets annoying for me otherwise.”
“Oh, sure, hon,” said Gran, and obliged her friend by translating Harriet’s words.
“So if that concert goes through,” Harriet continued, “I was thinking that maybe cat choir could join St. Theresa Choir and we could stage a concert with the two choirs.”
Gran frowned. This was clearly a train of thought she’d never considered before. “Huh,” she said finally. “St. Theresa Choir and cat choir together on the same stage.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Brutus. “It’s going to blow the roof off that old church. It’s going to attract a lot of attention and show the world what cat choir can really do.”
“Thanks, snuggle bunny,” said Harriet.
“And especially your star performance, of course, sugar lips,” her mate continued, unabashedly plugging Harriet’s qualities as a soprano.
“Thanks, my wuggle bear.”
“I don’t know, Harriet,” said Gran. “We’d have to sell Francis on the idea, and you know what that stubborn old fool is like.”
“No, what is he like?” asked Harriet.
“Old-fashioned. Anything that’s new or hip or cool is a hard pass with that man.” She was frowning before her into the dark night, as if picturing the aged priest and thinking hard thoughts about his capacity for embracing Harriet’s idea—which I was sure Gran had now taken on board and had magically transformed into her own idea.
“Well, can’t you at least talk to him?” asked Harriet.
“Oh, sure, but I can’t promise you he’ll agree.”
“But you have to try, Gran,” said Harriet. “You have to do the best you can.”
“And I will. Of course I will.”
Harriet cheered up considerably at these words.“So you think it’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely. I think it’s just as you say. It’s going to be a big smash. Now all we need to do is convince that old nincompoop…”
Her words died away, for suddenly a car was approaching. It had its lights turned off, and was cruising very slowly in our direction!
“This is it,” said Gran, sitting up. “The killer is back!”
“You were right, Vesta!” Scarlett cried excitedly.
“Of course I was right. When have you ever known me not to be right!”
“How do we handle this?” said Scarlett, as she nervously shifted in her seat. “We can’t let him get away.”