Canapés for the Kitties by Marian Babson

be part of, but which no longer exists in reality – only in their dreams ...”
    â€œAnd the books they want to read. Fine for them, but the rest of us have a lower threshold of boredom ...”
    â€œOr a more stable home life ...”
    â€œOf course, that’s why all those wretched radio and television soap operas are so popular, too. They help provide the stability so lacking in everyday life ...”
    â€œHow much longer can it go on, one asks oneself. Sooner or later, the public is bound to become satiated and the trend will collapse, the way the Gothic boom did when so many writers jumped on the bandwagon it buckled ...”
    â€œAnd horror. Don’t forget horror ...”
    â€œAnd private eyes. There can’t be many of them left with a friend, relative or lover to call his own ...”
    Shrieks of laughter hit the marble walls and splintered into brittle shards of knifepoint-lethal cacophony.
    The waitress appeared and Lorinda prepared to pounce. It was pounce or scream. At least three of the Judases in that coven of critics had hailed the advent of each of Miss Petunia’s adventures with cries of seeming rapture. And this was what they really thought!
    No wonder Victorian bank managers had had such a reputation for omniscience. Their customers could never have suspected the acoustical betrayal of those impressive marble walls. One careless word to an accompanying spouse or friend and their doom was sealed, with foreclosure and bankruptcy proceedings in their future.
    â€œI have two cats at home.” With a charming smile to the waitress, Lorinda shamelessly plotted to denude the tray. “And they’d never forgive me if I didn’t bring home some treats for them.”
    â€œOh, I know.” The waitress smiled back and Lorinda vaguely recognized her as one of the assistants in the local hairdressing salon. “You’ve got those two lovely splashy-coloured cats.”
    â€œThat’s right. The tortoiseshell is Had-I and the calico is But-Known. They’re sisters.” Lorinda piled chicken, beef and even cocktail sausages into the thoughtfully provided napkin, prior to transfer into the plastic kitty-bag. For good measure, she took a couple of cheese-and-onion miniature quiches and bit into one recklessly. The cats were indifferent to pastry.
    â€œYou want to take some more of these goodies home to your little kitties,” Elsie – yes, that was her name, Elsie –  said understandingly. “There’s heaps of food out back – they’ll never eat it all. Look” – she thrust the tray at Lorinda – “you take this around and I’ll go back and pack up a takeaway for you to bring home to your cats.”
    â€œOh, well ... thank you.” Lorinda caught the tray as Elsie rushed away. What a nice child. She hoped she had tipped her enough last time she’d had her hair done.
    â€œLorinda! They’ve pressed you into service, have they?”
    â€œAren’t you kind? How good everything looks.”
    The group she had so lately been eavesdropping on greeted her with enthusiasm and took their pick of her wares.
    â€œI hope this doesn’t presage a career change for you,” the scrawny female from the Sunday Special miaowed. “I’m so looking forward to the next delightful instalment from St. Waldemar Boniface.”
    Lorinda bared her teeth at her, just managing to bite back a sharp retort that would betray that she knew what they had just been saying.
    â€œHold it! Don’t move!” It was as well she had been warned or she might have dropped the tray. She clung to it grimly as the wild explosion of black dots blinded her again. Damn! If Karla really wanted to murder Jack, there would be no shortage of witnesses to swear that she had been sitting innocently at the bridge table with them at the crucial moment.
    â€œGreat! The murder writer as hostess! Would you take a canapé