Catch As Cat Can

50

The floodlights illuminating the old wrecker's ball shone cool blue. The lights on the sign for O'Bannon Salvage remained white but all around the edges of the yard that faced the road into the yard, lights cheerfully beamed in red, yellow, green, more blue, some pink, some white.

As celebrants drove in they cruised through an allée of light.

The new main building, the site of the dance, drew gasps of admiration from guests. Sean had built all his shelving on rollers so the shelves were rolled to the sides of the large building. In front of these, painters' spattered drop cloths were suspended from the ceiling to the floor. Beautiful salvaged objects, old fireplace mantels, marvelous huge coaching lights were arranged around the room or hung from the rafters. The centerpiece of the room, an Art Nouveau fountain complete with living nymph and satyrs, overflowed with flowers instead of water. Sean had filled the fountain with wisteria, hiring the gymnastics team from the university to display themselves in costume. The sculpted form of a stag stood atop the fountain, an unusual but dramatic symbol.

Each table's centerpiece boasted wisteria wrapped around salvage—a hand-carved finial, a porcelain wash pitcher, a mound of crystal doorknobs. People, drinks in hand, walked from table to table admiring the centerpieces, all of which were for sale for the benefit of the charity.

Other beautiful items, like old gold picture frames, had been bought by committee members and then donated for the charity ball. No one expected Sean to foot the bill for everything. As it was he'd gone to quite a bit of expense buying and painting the drop cloths à la Jackson Pollock. He and his staff cleaned the building, moved back the shelves, hung the cloths, and brought in the heavy statuary on a forklift. Fortunately, the floor was concrete. Plus he donated the fountain to be sold. He built the dance floor with a raised platform for the band. He told everyone he needed the work to keep his mind off Roger.

Miranda posed for a photo in front of the fountain with a satyr. The photographer was also paid by Sean. People bought the pictures, the proceeds going to Building for Life.

Aunt Tally was a sensation wearing a white tuxedo, a red rosebud in her lapel. Big Mim brought down a gentleman in his eighties to escort her aunt but Tally proved too much for him, ditching him for a forty-year-old lawyer dazzled by her wit.

Mim, herself swathed in St. Laurent from head to foot in colors as bright as a macaw, darted here, there, everywhere.

Harry and Fair looked as handsome together as they did when married. She wore her mother's beautiful classic Christian Dior dress and he wore a tuxedo that he'd bought from Bergdorf Goodman's over Christmas.

Susan chose lavender and Brooks chose white, for her first grown-up ball.

Lottie, sticking close to Sean, wore a simple but elegant off-the-shoulder black gown.

Diego escorted Little Mim, which set tongues wagging. Declaring independence from her mother, Little Mim was sponsoring a struggling designer in New York known as Mikel. He probably wouldn't struggle after the Wrecker's Ball because he made Little Mim look ravishing, not always the easiest task. Her emerald-green dress, exquisitely beaded, made a soft, unusual sound when she walked. It wasn't that Little Mim was bad-looking—far from it—but she was usually overshadowed by her mother. This dress ensured she wouldn't be tonight.

Coop, blond head towering above the other ladies, chose red for the simple reason that blondes usually don't. She felt like breaking rules tonight.

By seven, everyone was there, even a few uninvited guests. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker knew how to soften up Fair.

Fair had bought a new black Volvo station wagon. He grew tired of showing up everywhere in his vet truck so he finally sprang for the Volvo. Harry told him to leave the pets home before she remembered the knocked-over lamps, shredded lamp shades, books on the floor. The depredations escalated with feline anger. A put-out puss might stop at knocking over a glass but to be left out of a big occasion called forth torrents of destructive abuse. She agreed to allow them to attend the ball. After all, they knew their way around the salvage yard and it was far enough off the paved state road to pose no danger to them. Fair opened the back hatch so they could come and go as they pleased. Harry put down a beach towel so they wouldn't get the beige car mat dirty.

“Let's find Pope Rat,” Tucker panted, eager to chase the rascal.

“No.” Murphy reposed in the back of the Volvo. “Let's sit here for a while and eavesdrop on conversations as people park or come back to their cars. I want to know if anyone comes back for a toot of cocaine.”

“You're going with Coop's theory?” Pewter happily snuggled onto the beach towel.

“It certainly makes the most sense and yet—let's keep our eyes and ears open. No one expects us to be here. If they see us they'll make kitchy-coo sounds. They'll never know what we're up to—humans are dependable that way.” The tiger laughed.

“But, Murphy, even if people do come back here or find a place outside for a snort that doesn't mean they're in on the murders,” Tucker sensibly reminded her.

“I know that. I'm hoping we'll glean something.”

“Pope Rat knows.” Pewter scratched behind her ear. “What a rat.” Realizing he was a rat, she burst out laughing.

Rick Shaw pulled up in the next lane of parked cars. He looked good in a tuxedo and his wife wore a white floor-length dress that was very becoming.

The animals could hear their discussion.

“Honey, if my beeper goes off I've got to go. The Reverend Jones said he'd take you home.”

“I know, dear.” She smiled, accustomed to his odd hours and sudden departures. “I'm just thrilled to be here.”

They headed toward the strains of the string quartet. The dance band would rock out after dinner.

The chimes sounded, signaling that dinner would be served. Guests checked their table numbers, moving to their assigned seats.

Sean, as host, sat with the director of Building for Life. Lottie sat on his right. BoomBoom, who'd been head of publicity on this one, sat with Thomas, who was a darker shade of tan than he had been at the Dogwood Festival.

As Diego guided Little Mim to their table, number two, he winked at Harry, who winked back. Fair chose not to notice.

Liberally lubricated by the open bar, the conversation flowed, the volume rising with the courses of wine attending dinner. The nymph and satyrs in the fountain, having sampled drinks offered them by admirers, became friskier than intended, the satyrs most particularly. It wouldn't be long before they took their mythology literally.

After dinner, liqueurs were served along with a staggering array of desserts, fruits, cheeses, and sherbets.

Sated, the guests sat, eyes glazed with happiness.

As the tables were cleared, Sean stood up. “Excuse me, folks, I'm going outside for a smoke.”

“I didn't know you smoked.” Lottie stood up, too.

“I didn't until now. They can say what they want about nicotine, it really does soothe the nerves.” He smiled wanly.

“I guess a little puff can't hurt you too much.” Lottie smiled indulgently.

Other people filtered out. Thomas, chest pocket filled with divine Cuban cigars, trailed men behind him. They resembled penguins following the Big Penguin.

Lottie ducked off into the ladies' room before joining the smokers. Harry was in there brushing her teeth.

“Harry, I can't believe anyone is that obsessed with their teeth.” Lottie turned up her nose in disgust.

Harry rinsed out her mouth. “Those nuts on the chocolate cake got stuck in my teeth. It drives me crazy.”

“H-mmph.” Lottie marched off.

As Harry emerged she bumped into Aunt Tally. “Isn't he divine?”

“Who, Aunt Tally?”

“The Marine.” She indicated with her eyes a fit man in early middle age wearing his Marine uniform for just this occasion, a carryover from the nineteenth century and one that delighted ladies. His short waist-length tunic fit him tightly, his medal ribbons, four rows deep, bedecked his left chest. His blue-black closely fitted trousers carried a thin red stripe on the outside. His patent leather dancing shoes gleamed.

“What happened to your date?”

“Harry, too old. I can't stand old men.” Tally flicked up her cane.

“Well, what about that other guy?” Harry hadn't met the lawyer.

“Uh.” She shrugged. “Dull. But now this one, he's a man all right.” She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and looked exactly as she must have looked at seventeen at her coming-out debutante ball—minus the wrinkles, of course.

Harry lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I know you can't be good but go slow.”

“At my age, sugar, there is no slow. Get it while you can! And I will, I will!” Tally giggled, then hurried into the ladies' room.

Rick, dying for a smoke, had been waylaid by Jim Sanburne. As they were talking Rick's beeper went off.

“Excuse me. I'd better take this.” A little printout read DON. Rick's face registered no emotion. “Jim, I've got to go.” He briskly walked to Coop, herself walking outside for a smoke. “Come with me.”

Hoping not to call attention to themselves they walked fast but not frantically to Rick's car.

“Something's up,” Mrs. Murphy noted.