Marian Babson No Cooperation from the Cat

ISBN 13: 9781471313042

No Cooperation from the Cat

9781471313042: No Cooperation from the Cat
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Marian Babson's delightful whodunit features actresses Trixie and Evangeline, proud owners of Cho-Cho-San, a Japanese bobtail. Trixie's daughter, Martha, is wreaking havoc in their kitchen testing recipes for a new cookbook aided by her beleaguered editor, Jocasta. Only when a strange man bursts into the apartment seeking his wife does Martha learn she wasn't the first choice for the project. Worse, it seems the first woman died after eating one of the recipes!

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About the Author:

Marian Babson was born in Salem, Massachusetts, but has lived in London for the greater part of her life. She has worked as a librarian, a receptionist, a secretary, and a den mother to a firm of commercial artists, and was co-editor of a knitting machine magazine despite the fact that she can't knit, even with two needles. A long sojourn as a temp sent her into the heart of business life all over London, working for architects, law firms, the British Museum, a Soho club, and even a visiting superstar. She also served as secretary to the Crime Writers' Association.

Marian Babson is now a full-time writer, and her many interests include theater, cinema, art, cooking, travel, and, of course, cats.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

Life is full of little embarrassments. Especially when Evangeline is around.
Dame Cecile Savoy had made a perfectly reasonable request: a gin and tonic. The last time I had seen the gin bottle, it had been nearly a quarter full. Now it was empty.
“Evangeline—” I called. “Have you been cleaning your diamonds again?”
“I’m cleaning yours, too.” She appeared in the doorway, holding a glass jug with a tangle of jewellery immersed in a once-clear liquid. “We can’t appear at the BAFTA Awards wearing grubby gems—and yours are absolutely filthy. It’s all that Play-Doh from your games with the children.”
“It’s not Play-Doh,” I said. “It’s the real thing. Martha let us have the leftover pastry scraps for pastries and tarts. They were delicious. But Dame Cecile wants a gin and tonic.”
“She would.” Evangeline sniffed, swished the gin around, and offered, “I could pour some off for you. There’ll still be enough left to finish cleaning.”
“Don’t bother!” Dame Cecile looked at the sludge on offer and shuddered. “I’ll just have some of your brandy instead.”
“Fresh out.” Evangeline smirked. “We need more. I was going to remind you, Trixie.”
“You can’t remind me of something you never told me in the first place,” I said coldly. I hate being caught with my hospitality down.
“Well, what do you have?” Dame Cecile was losing patience.
“There’s rum—”
“No, there isn’t,” Evangeline said. “Martha is soaking the sultanas in the last of it for her spice cakes.”
“Martha made that Scottish dessert that’s all whisky and oatmeal yesterday. We need more oatmeal, too.”
“There’s vodka—” I belatedly recalled that the last time I had seen the glass jug Evangeline was holding, it had been filled to the brim with Bloody Marys for Sunday brunch—and replenished at least twice. “No, perhaps not.”
“Definitely not,” Evangeline said.
“Perhaps a liqueur...?” I waited. It came.
“The cherry brandy went into the cherry cobbler, the Grand Marnier into the whipped cream for the profiteroles, and the last of the crème de menthe into the peppermint creams. I tell you, Martha is cooking us out of house and home!”
Dame Cecile began tapping her foot.
“The cookbook will be finished soon,” I promised. “Then Martha and Jocasta will vacate our kitchen and life will get back to normal.”
“Normal?” Dame Cecile gave a sardonic laugh. “You two don’t know the meaning of the word!”
“Look who’s talking!” Evangeline glared at her. “I can remember when—”
The doorbell cut across this promising opening. No one else moved, so I went to answer it.
“Trixie.” My son-in-law brushed my cheek with his lips and straightened up, inhaling deeply.
“Martha’s spice cakes.” He identified the aroma. “Splendid! Just what I could use with a cup of tea right now.”
“We have lemon squares, too, and raspberry tartlets. Martha and Jocasta have been cooking up a storm.”
“Better and better.” He started down the hallway, impeded slightly by Cho-Cho-San and Frou-Frou, who came frolicking to greet him.
“How are you, girls?” He stopped to pat the little powder puff a Japanese Bobtail has for a tail and to roughhouse lightly with Dame Cecile’s French toy poodle puppy. He didn’t linger, he was too anxious to get to Martha. I followed him.
“Darling,” I said, when they had unwound themselves. “It’s time for another trip to the supermarket. Is there anything we can get for you while we’re there?”
“Oh, yes, please, Mother. We’re running out of a lot of things. I’ll make a list.”
“Butter,” Jocasta said. “Butter and margarine. I found a quaint little book with over thirty recipes for savoury butter—and we want to try them with margarine, too. So many people use that these days.”
“Margarine needs all the help it can get.” Evangeline had joined us. “I tried some once—and I haven’t had a taste like that in my mouth since the time I fell in the swamp when we were filming Mad Beast of the Bayou. And then,” she brooded, “the director wouldn’t let anyone pull me out for half an hour—and he kept the cameras turning all the while. I was deathly ill for a week afterwards.”
“Directors don’t care if they kill you,” Dame Cecile agreed, “especially if they’ve got most of the film in the can first. But wasn’t that the role that won you the Karloff-Lorre Award for Best Beleaguered Heroine of the Year? How we all laughed over here when we heard that.”
“When do you want to go shopping?” Martha intervened hastily, before the nasty glint that appeared in Evangeline’s eye could resolve itself into action.
“As soon as possible,” I said. “We’ll just ring Eddie and have him collect us.”
“No need for that,” Hugh said. “My car is downstairs. Benson will drive you anywhere you care to go.”
“Marvellous, Hugh! I’ll just change my shoes—” There was no hurry. Martha and Jocasta had their heads together, earnestly debating the present and future ingredients they might need. Their list was growing longer by the minute.
“I’ll come along, too,” Dame Cecile said. “There are always bits and pieces one wishes to pick up. And I can leave Frou-Frou here and not have to worry about her being tied to railings outside a shop. She’s so tiny someone could pop her into a shopping bag—and so friendly it wouldn’t occur to her to object.”
“Fine, fine,” Hugh said absently, far more interested in the lemon square he was shoving into his mouth. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“I’m sure we need more than this.” Martha frowned at her list. “I’ll just check the larder.” She disappeared into the storage space at the back of the kitchen. Evangeline met my eyes accusingly. From the sound of it, we weren’t going to get our kitchen back as soon as I had rashly foretold.
Jocasta was still frowning over the incomplete shopping list and no one else seemed inclined to move when the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it,” Hugh said. “It’s probably for me, anyway. I left my cell phone in the car and Benson will know enough to bring it to me if there’s an urgent call.” He carefully selected a raspberry tartlet from the array of delights on the cooling trays and ambled towards the door.
Before he could reach it, the doorbell rang again—and kept ringing insistently, demandingly, and arrogantly. It was reinforced by what was obviously a fist thumping on the door for good measure.
We looked at each other, except for Jocasta, who went on studying her list.
“Either World War Three has just broken out,” Evangeline said, “or that isn’t Benson.”
We heard the door open. “All right, all right,” Hugh said irritably. “Take it easy.” There was another thump, as though the door had been pushed so hard and so fast that it had bounced against the wall.
“Where is she?” a voice bellowed. “Where is she? Where is my beautiful bride?”
“I beg your pardon?” we heard Hugh reply.
“Oh, God—it’s Banquo!” The colour drained from Jocasta’s face. I thought she was going to faint.
“Oh, no! No!” Dame Cecile and Evangeline didn’t look so well themselves.
“She said it!” Evangeline gasped. “She actually said it!”
“How dare you!” Dame Cecile rounded on Jocasta. “You wretched, wretched child! Now you’ve done it!”
“Quick!” Evangeline snatched at Jocasta’s arm. “You must go outside, shut the door behind you, then turn around three times and—”
“No, no, no!” Dame Cecile said. “That’s for whistling in the dressing room. She has to use profanity to drive the evil spirits away. Just start saying all the obscene words you know?” She looked at Jocasta doubtfully. “You do know—”
“I thought that was for a hat on the bed,” Evangeline said. “How about—?”
I knew the superstition they were on about, only “Oh, God—it’s Banquo!” didn’t sound very Shakespearean to me. But what do I know? A few seasons on the Straw Hat Circuit playing Bianca in Kiss Me, Kate was as close to Shakespeare as I ever got.
“I’ve remembered!” Dame Cecile declared triumphantly. “She has to say, ‘Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you’ from The Merchant of Venice. And then there’s reciting ‘Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us.’ That’s supposed to ward off the bad luck, too. She’d better do both of them, to be on the safe side. And never, never, never”—she glared at poor Jocasta—“quote from That Play again!”
“I wasn’t quoting anything,” Jocasta protested. “Banquo is his name. And he’s here! And he wants— He’s looking for—”
“Someone actually named a poor defenceless child Banquo?” Dame Cecile marvelled.
“Some people will do anything,” Evangeline said.
“Where’s my wife?” Banquo was beginn...

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Other Popular Editions of the Same Title

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ISBN 10:  0312332408 ISBN 13:  9780312332402
Publisher: Minotaur Books, 2012

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9781471313035: No Cooperation from the Cat

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