Canapés for the Kitties Read Free Page A

for the first time. She looked down on the polished pink dome of the creator of the eponymous Macho Magee, arguably the hardest-boiled private eye in print; certainly the most politically incorrect. What Macho Magee hadn’t blackmailed, stabbed, strangled, set alight or blown away wasn’t worth thinking about. He considered any book that didn’t attract a minimum of fifty letters of complaint one that hadn’t come up to scratch. The man’s very name was a challenge. Deliberately so.
    It had to be. His real name was Lancelot Dalrymple, a good enough name in ordinary life, but not one to stir the blood or set the cash registers jingling in the private-eye world, although it might do well in the realm of gardening books. A Dalrymple sounded as though he would be more at home mulching roses and bedding begonias rather than every tough blonde who strayed across his path.
    â€œThere, we’ve got it now.” He freed the paw, easing it through to the other side of the porthole. Roscoe immediately lunged forward, trying to get into the room with them.
    â€œNo, no, Roscoe.” Macho restrained him. “Just cup his head in your hands, will you?” he instructed Lorinda. “I’ll go around and pull and you guide his head through. Mind that he doesn’t catch his ears.”
    Lorinda crouched and encircled Roscoe’s head, murmuring softly to soothe him as he began moving backwards, his eyes rolling wildly.
    â€œNearly there ...” She protected his ears as his head vanished through the opening and the flap fell back into place.
    â€œThat’s better. You’re all right now.” Roscoe reappeared, cradled in Macho’s arms and Lorinda swung the door shut behind them.
    â€œCome and have a drink,” she invited. “You’re through for the day now, aren’t you?”
    â€œI might do a bit more later but, basically, yes.” He carried Roscoe into the living room and settled in an armchair. Had-I and But-Known trailed along in his wake, eyeing Roscoe thoughtfully.
    The fictional Macho Magee drank nothing but the genuine Mexican tequila with the worm curled at the bottom of the bottle (often the closest he got to ingesting any protein in the course of an entire book). Fortunately, Lancelot Dalrymple was quite content with a dry sherry. Lorinda poured sherries for both of them and set a bowl of mixed nuts within easy reaching distance.
    Had-I and But-Known moved forward to investigate the bowl and retreated, flinging Lorinda looks of utter disgust. No cheese! No pâté! What was hospitality in this house coming to? They sat down together and concentrated their attention on Roscoe again.
    Roscoe stirred restively in his owner’s arms.
    â€œNo, no, stay here.” Macho tightened his grip. “Ignore them. You know they only lead you into trouble. Treacherous jades!”
    His language might also surprise his fans, as would the Byronesque ponytail tied with a black velvet ribbon trailing down to his shoulders. Both were probably a legacy of his years as a history teacher and his abiding interest in the subject.
    â€œBook going well?” Ignoring his opinion of her cats (her own opinion of his wasn’t all that high), Lorinda sank into the facing armchair and leaned back.
    â€œOh, well enough.” Now it was Macho who appeared restive. “I need to get the body count higher, but I should be able to take care of that in the next chapter.”
    â€œI’m sure you’ll manage it,” Lorinda agreed absently. She was mentally composing and discarding opening sentences, trying to find a subtle lead-in to the subject she wished to introduce.
    â€œI suppose you’ve heard the latest?” Macho had no such inhibitions. He leaned forward intently, loosening his hold on Roscoe, who promptly slid to the floor and ambled over to join Had-I and But-Known.
    â€œWhich latest?” The way gossip was proliferating in this village,