The Mortal Groove by Ellen Hart Page B

while longer.”

 
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    O n Wednesday morning, Jane opened her eyes to a wet brown nose. Mouse, her chocolate lab, was standing by her bed, his chin on her pillow, whining softly.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, baby?” She stroked his head. Struggling out of her blankets, she glanced over at his bed in the corner. Lucifer, one of Cordelia’s cats, was curled up in it, licking his paw. It was the third morning in a row Lucifer had decided to evict Mouse. Jane had had enough.
    She pulled on a robe and loomed over the nasty feline. “You’re evil, you know that? You belong in an Anne Rice novel. I don’t care what Cordelia says. No more fun and games with my dog.” She scooped him up, walked across the hall to Cordelia’s bedroom, and dropped him on top of her sleeping form.
    Cordelia barely moved.
    Lucifer, being a practiced suck-up, nestled right down next to her and closed his eyes.
    â€œAs if,” said Jane, hands rising to her hips. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? These little games of yours have got to stop.
    Cordelia gave a snort, pulled the quilt up over her head, and turned over.
    â€œThat’s it,” said Jane, checking the clock on the nightstand. It was just after eight. “I’m going to take a shower now, Cordelia.” She said it loudly. “When I’m done, I expect you to be downstairs cleaning up the mess you and your poker friends made last night.” Sure, Cordelia was hurting because of Hattie, but if she felt well enough to throw a party, then she was well enough to clean up after herself.
    Jane stormed out. Fifteen minutes later she was back with Mouse by her side.
    Cordelia hadn’t moved.
    â€œGet up,” said Jane.
    No response.
    â€œCome on, boy. Let’s go look up recipes for fried cat.”
    After letting Mouse out into the backyard, she fixed him a bowl of kibble. The kitchen was such a disaster that she could barely find a clean space on the counter to set the bowl. Since Mouse seemed to be taking his old sweet time in the yard, she crossed through the dining room, glancing at the beer bottle collection on the table, and headed for the stereo in the living room. It only took her a second to find what she was looking for.
    As the opening strains of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” shattered the silence, Jane smiled to herself. She waited at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.
    It took the better part of two minutes, but Cordelia finally stumbled into view. She still had on her one-piece red flannel PJs and her striped red-and-white nightcap with the seven-foot-longtail. Her auburn curls were a tangled mess under the cap and her eyes looked scrambled.
    â€œNot funny!” Cordelia yelled. She thumped down the stairs, one step at a time, dragging the round furry ball at the end of her hat after her.
    â€œMorning,” yelled Jane.
    Cordelia tossed visual thunderbolts at her as she marched past into the living room and snapped off the music. “Well, alert the friggin’ media,” she shouted. “Cordelia Thorn made a mess.”
    â€œYou’re going to clean this up all by yourself.”
    â€œCan’t we call a maid service or something?”
    â€œYou’ve been here for what? Four months? Have you ever seen a maid?”
    Cordelia shrugged.
    â€œGet busy. Start with the living room and dining room.”
    â€œGenerally, Cordelia was a great houseguest, but she got an F when it came to cleaning up after parties—and she loved giving parties.
    Jane let Mouse in the back door and fed him his kibble. As she was bagging up some garbage—in an effort to look a little less like Simon Legree—she heard the opening strains to a John Philip Sousa march roar in from the living room. A little better than Iron Butterfly, but not much.
    An hour later, Cordelia was in the kitchen putting the last dish in the dishwasher. “In case you’re interested, I fired that