happen to the truffles?”
The answer came not from Judith but from Winifred Best, who had reentered the kitchen. “They were stolen by a bushy-haired stranger.”
Judith froze with her hand on the oven door. “I think I’ll let Ms. Best explain it.” Putting the rolls on to heat, she scooted out of the kitchen and into the pantry, where Sweetums was sitting by the shelf that contained his cans of food.
But try as she might, Judith couldn’t hear the conversation between her husband and Winifred Best. Winifred had lowered her usually sharp voice a notch or two; Joe always spoke softly when he was in his professional mode.
Instead, Judith heard other voices, loud and angry, coming from the backyard. The pantry had no windows, so she tiptoed into the hall to look out through the door. Sweetums followed, meowing pitifully.
The wind, which was coming from the north, splattered rain against the glass and blurred Judith’s vision. Ignoring Sweetums’s claws, which were affixed to her slacks, she carefully opened the back door.
In the darkness, she could make out two male figures near the driveway. They were arguing loudly, and it looked as if they were about to come to blows.
The wind caught just a few words, sending them in Judith’s direction: “…trashed what was a solid piece of…”
“…bitching when you got paid as if you’d come up with the whole…”
“…Why not? I had to virtually rework the damned thing…”
The door blew shut, clipping Judith on the arm. Sweetums continued to claw her slacks. With an air of resignation, she opened a can of Seafarers’ Delight and spooned it into the cat’s dish.
“Enjoy it,” she muttered. “It looks better than the way Mother described those blasted truffles.”
There was a sudden silence in the kitchen. Winifred must have returned to the living room. Judith took a deep breath before rejoining Joe.
“Why?” The single word was plaintive.
Judith flinched. “I had to tell them something.”
Joe took a long sip of Scotch. “What really happened?”
Judith explained about the disgusting appearance of the truffles and how Gertrude had—not without reason—flushed them down the toilet.
“Great.” Joe leaned against the counter. “How about telling the truth for once?”
Judith sighed. “I know,” she said, taking the green salad out of the refrigerator. “Maybe I should have. But I didn’t want to be liable for the loss of the truffles and I didn’t want to get Mother in trouble.”
“You could have explained that your mother is gaga,” Joe said. “That would have been the truth.”
“Well…” Judith swallowed hard. “It’s hard for me to admit that sometimes she is gaga. And in this case, what she did made sense.” Taking silverware out of the drawer, she gave Joe a bleak look. “What did you tell Winifred?”
“That I’d check around,” Joe replied. “Without charge. Tomorrow, I’ll them what really happened.”
“Oh.” Judith arranged the place settings, then started out of the kitchen. “I want to check on something, too.”
Peeking around the corner of the archway into the living room, she counted noses. Everyone was there.
But Chips Madigan and Dade Costello looked as if their clothes were half soaked by rain.
Judith kept out of the visitors’ way as they lingered over the social hour. Hillside Manor’s rule, though never hard-and-fast, was that the hour was just that—from six to seven. Most guests were anxious to leave by then for dinner reservations or the theater or whatever other activity they planned to enjoy during their stay.
The visitors from Hollywood were different. Apparently they dined later. Or maybe they never dined at all. Perhaps they really were lotus-eaters, as depicted by the scribes.
But they did leave eventually. Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, the company trooped out to their limos and disappeared into the October night. Joe helped Judith tidy up the living room, which
The answer came not from Judith but from Winifred Best, who had reentered the kitchen. “They were stolen by a bushy-haired stranger.”
Judith froze with her hand on the oven door. “I think I’ll let Ms. Best explain it.” Putting the rolls on to heat, she scooted out of the kitchen and into the pantry, where Sweetums was sitting by the shelf that contained his cans of food.
But try as she might, Judith couldn’t hear the conversation between her husband and Winifred Best. Winifred had lowered her usually sharp voice a notch or two; Joe always spoke softly when he was in his professional mode.
Instead, Judith heard other voices, loud and angry, coming from the backyard. The pantry had no windows, so she tiptoed into the hall to look out through the door. Sweetums followed, meowing pitifully.
The wind, which was coming from the north, splattered rain against the glass and blurred Judith’s vision. Ignoring Sweetums’s claws, which were affixed to her slacks, she carefully opened the back door.
In the darkness, she could make out two male figures near the driveway. They were arguing loudly, and it looked as if they were about to come to blows.
The wind caught just a few words, sending them in Judith’s direction: “…trashed what was a solid piece of…”
“…bitching when you got paid as if you’d come up with the whole…”
“…Why not? I had to virtually rework the damned thing…”
The door blew shut, clipping Judith on the arm. Sweetums continued to claw her slacks. With an air of resignation, she opened a can of Seafarers’ Delight and spooned it into the cat’s dish.
“Enjoy it,” she muttered. “It looks better than the way Mother described those blasted truffles.”
There was a sudden silence in the kitchen. Winifred must have returned to the living room. Judith took a deep breath before rejoining Joe.
“Why?” The single word was plaintive.
Judith flinched. “I had to tell them something.”
Joe took a long sip of Scotch. “What really happened?”
Judith explained about the disgusting appearance of the truffles and how Gertrude had—not without reason—flushed them down the toilet.
“Great.” Joe leaned against the counter. “How about telling the truth for once?”
Judith sighed. “I know,” she said, taking the green salad out of the refrigerator. “Maybe I should have. But I didn’t want to be liable for the loss of the truffles and I didn’t want to get Mother in trouble.”
“You could have explained that your mother is gaga,” Joe said. “That would have been the truth.”
“Well…” Judith swallowed hard. “It’s hard for me to admit that sometimes she is gaga. And in this case, what she did made sense.” Taking silverware out of the drawer, she gave Joe a bleak look. “What did you tell Winifred?”
“That I’d check around,” Joe replied. “Without charge. Tomorrow, I’ll them what really happened.”
“Oh.” Judith arranged the place settings, then started out of the kitchen. “I want to check on something, too.”
Peeking around the corner of the archway into the living room, she counted noses. Everyone was there.
But Chips Madigan and Dade Costello looked as if their clothes were half soaked by rain.
Judith kept out of the visitors’ way as they lingered over the social hour. Hillside Manor’s rule, though never hard-and-fast, was that the hour was just that—from six to seven. Most guests were anxious to leave by then for dinner reservations or the theater or whatever other activity they planned to enjoy during their stay.
The visitors from Hollywood were different. Apparently they dined later. Or maybe they never dined at all. Perhaps they really were lotus-eaters, as depicted by the scribes.
But they did leave eventually. Sometime between eight-thirty and nine, the company trooped out to their limos and disappeared into the October night. Joe helped Judith tidy up the living room, which
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