Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

She glared at Janice, then turned and flounced away, which she could do because she was dressed in fashionably

fluttering floral chiffon, as tattered as Cinderella rags.

“That woman acts like she’s queen bitch at the ball,” Janice said under her breath. “See what I mean about this place? It’s schizy. We’re supposed to be the best and brightest new staff Maylords has ever had, according to Kenny Maylord himself, but the minute he vanishes-and he does because the main store is in Indianapolis, with another in Palm Beach-the Wicked Witch and her Hying Monkeys come out to shake the stuffing out of us.”

“I don’t get all this fuss about the word ‘sell.”

“

“They never use the word ‘sale’ in their ads. It’s all part of the upscale impression Maylords wants to make. They’d planned to donate twenty thousand dollars to the local arts fund, but nobody is objecting to this ignorant woman running around and undoing all my art placements. I did do sketches and caricatures in the mall, but I know what people like and how to present it to sell well. She hasn’t got a clue, but she tells me I’m not doing my job right, like she was somebody big’s bimbo mistress.”

“Maybe she is.”

Janice sighed. “Sony, Matt. I didn’t mean to dump my workplace woes on you. This was supposed to be a party.”

“It is. Let’s hit the buffet table again. Temple got Chef Song from the Crystal Phoenix to do the food.”

“That’s spectacular,” Janice agreed. “And I didn’t see bitchy Beth Blanchard hanging around the tables rearranging his parsley sprigs.”

“Chef Song would have taken his meat cleaver to her for that. On several occasions I understand that he’s almost de—

whiskered the former hotel cat, Midnight Louie, for taking liberties with the koi in his special pond.”

Janice was staring into the crowd that had swallowed Beth Blanchard, invisible pointed black hat and all.

“I hope somebody does take at least a mat cutter to her,” Janice said. “I suppose I’ve ‘goofed off’ enough. We’re actually on salary here. The witch has already berated me for notpunching my time card tonight. I thought, like with museum openings, staff attended the ceremonials as part of their jobs, without pay, but, no, it’s all on the time clock. Mind if I desert you to troll for clients who may want to … uh, can I say `buy’ … something?”

Sure.” Matt hoisted his glass of pale wine to show he was set for a while, and Janice left.

He strolled along the beige travertine tiles circling the store’s perimeter, eyeing a smorgasbord of empty rooms with furniture too grand to imagine oneself using.

He tried to spot something he could legitimately “acquire,” to give Janice a commission. Every interesting table he came near enough to read the undersized tags was way too costly for his druthers, if not his income. No wonder Temple exulted in secondhand chic: it saved dough.

He paused before what passed for beds nowadays, a behemoth on tiered platforms, canopied and covered with enough brocade and pillows to resemble a setting from which a Louis the Someteenth might have given royal decrees.

Matt supposed his spare box spring and mattress could use some upgrading, but Versailles or Buckingham Palace wasn’t what he had in mind.

“Fabulous, isn’t it?” The voice rang a bell. Perhaps the one at Notre Dame?

Matt turned. A slight man holding a large painting of rather overblown peonies also stood gazing at the Renaissance master bedroom vignette.

“Too much,” Matt said, surprised to recognize his viewing partner.

“I guess we were trained to the simple life.” Jerome Johnson smiled, balancing the frame edge on an upholstered chaise longe.

“Monastic this is not,” Matt agreed.

“So … what are you doing here-?” they each began in disconcerting sync.

“I work here.” Jerome.

“Oh, right.” Matt. “When you buttonholed me outside the radio station the other night to say hello, you mentioned that you were a ‘framer.’ ” Matt nodded at the painting. “It didn’t connect with me, what you framed.”

Jerome had also mentioned their years in the same Catholic seminary and how vividly he remembered Matt. Far too vividly for Matt’s comfort zone.

“So you work for Maylords,” Matt said, still feeling awkward.

“Yeah. Tote that assembly-line original.” Jerome made a face into his sandy beard. “Did you come because-?”

Matt had to stop that notion in the bud, the peony bud. “Janice. Janice Flanders. She works here now. A friend of mine,” he said. Firmly. “She asked me to come tonight.”

“Oh. Janice. She’s okay.”

Matt was about to say that Janice was more than “okay,” when he noticed someone walking briskly toward them. This was a social event. People stood and talked, or ambled and gazed.

“Jerry!” Beth Blanchard was bearing down on another hapless victim. From Jerome’s expression, he hated being called Jerry. “I want that painting in the French vignette. Now. No point dawdling in front of the displays. You can’t collect a commission anyway. You’re just a drone.”

Matt had the impression that she had not failed to see him, but enjoyed displaying her vicious streak in front of a witness.

Matt’s idealistic instincts urged him to defend a former fellow seminarian from this harpy in heels. His knowledge of human nature told him that interfering would only deepen the humiliation.

She finally allowed herself to notice him. Her features showed surprise before the expression “you again” made them scowl … again. She was a young woman, quite presentable. There was no visible reason for her to act like Elvira Gulch on the trail of Toto, but reason seldom ruled some personalities.

By now, he-the hapless stranger-had irritated her controlling personality as much as anybody she worked with and, God

forbid, lived with.

Matt became a placid shore on which her fury broke in vain. Jerome cast him a farewell wince, then moved along like a whipped cur. Matt had never seen such a graphic illustration of that clich� before. He knew Jerome felt it all the more because of his feelings for Matt himself.

Unreturned feelings. He understood that unpleasant situation. Poor Jerome. Matt’s hands were fists, he discovered. He consciously relaxed his fingers, eased out his breath. Under the normal surface of everyday life stirred the monsters of the deep: everybody’s history and hurts, roiling like crosscurrents. Matt stopped himself from watching the unlikely couple leave, and turned back to stare at the vignette, seeing only the baroque curlicues on the brocades writhing like embroidered serpents.

“Hey, you,” said a voice soft and insinuating behind him. “You’d better get those world-class buns back on the floor and

start mixing with the clients.”

Matt turned.

A tall, grinning, bucktoothed man stood leering at him like a Renaissance devil.

Matt didn’t have to say or do a thing.

The man’s expression collapsed. “Sorry. I thought you were … sorry?’ He whirled and left so fast that Matt wondered if he’d even recognize him again.

Chapter 7

Imagine Meeting

Y o Hu e r e …

Temple had been dying to remain glued to the orange leather sofa, interrogating Janice Flanders while pretending to make

small talk.

Why was Matt here, of all places? Because he was with Janice, obviously. Hadn’t Molina mentioned that he was seeing Janice? Temple couldn’t remember, but then so much had happened lately.

“It’s been ages. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

Speaking of small talk, Danny Dove expertly tossed it over his shoulder to Temple while weaving an elegant path through the crowds. He kept her hand in custody and therefore, Temple in tow.