| "Batchelor(ette)
Party(ing)"
by E.O. Costello & M. Mitchell Marmel © 2010 by E.O. Costello and M. Mitchell Marmel. Willow Fawnsworthy, Reggie Buckhorn, Franklin Stagg, Orrin Brush, and Leslie duCleds, © Eric Costello Rosie Baumgartner, Inocenta duCleds (nee de Ciervos) Marryin’ Sam and Lulubelle Mae Brunswick © M. Mitchell Marmel Ranua Milikonu, Lisa Fallingwater, and Brenda and Covina Johnson © Walter D. Reimer Katie MacArran and Heloise the Huntress © J. T. Urie Illustration by Seth C. Triggs Chapter One
May 1, 1937: The bells of Saint Paul’s rang out over Casino Island and I paused over my breakfast. Grace wanted to hear it, you see. So I went to the balcony and strained my ears just in time to hear Father Timothy’s voice call out, “I publish the banns of marriage between Reginald Buckhorn of the Parish of St. Peter Churchford in Buckinghamshire and Willow Fawnsworthy of this Parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, you are to declare it. This is for the third time of asking.” “Third time,” Grace said breathlessly. “One more week.” “That’s right,” I said. “Third time’s the charm.” I couldn’t help sounding as eager about it as she did. “I still won’t believe it,” she said, “until – “ “Right,” I agreed, “so throttle it back a bit, girl.” She was flagging and our nostrils twitched. “We’ll have to have another bath before we show ourselves in public.” “Spoilsport.” I returned to my omelet, determined to be elsewhere. It was May Day, and the Spontoonies liked doing the holiday up in style. That meant a lot of red in evidence, which still sets my teeth on edge even after all these years. As I sipped my orange juice I also thought about Grace. My other self was sounding more chipper every day. Almost a bit hysterically enthusiastic. I fervently hoped that there was nothing that could throw a wrench into the works this time. A quick bath later and I was getting ready to leave when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and grinned as Rosie bounded in, looking very attractive in a sun dress. “Well! Are you going to the Queen’s garden party?” My cheetah girlfriend sniggered. “No, Andre didn’t send me an invite.” After we stopped laughing she said, “I’m having a nice brunch with your Dad over at Doc Meffit’s.” “Oh really?” I gave her an arch look. “Still have your cap set at him, huh?” “My cap, my nightie, everything,” she said proudly. “I’ll wear him down eventually. Everyone should get married, wouldn’t you agree?” She laughed at my sudden wistful look. “Look here, kiddo, are you doing anything, say, next Thursday night?” I thought for a moment. “No.” Rosie grinned, showing all her teeth. “Great. Well, I’m off to Meeting Island. I just dropped by to say hello.” And with that she walked off. I closed the door, wondering what she was up to. Suddenly I grinned. A party! OF COURSE! ***
“Ah, come now, Senor Buckhorn - “ “No,” I said. The diminutive cervine looked up at me with sad eyes as I frowned down at him. “I want orange juice, not one of your devilish concoctions.” Fausti blinked slowly as he drummed his little paws on the edge of the bar. “You are being very certain, Senor? This creation, is something Fausti create especial for Senor Buckhorn for the occasion of his making the marriage to the pretty doe, yes?” The buck-self raised a skeptical brow at that. “Oh? What’s in it? Some sort of mixture of airplane fuel, Nootnops Blue and rotgut whisky?” The pudu gave a little smile and his paw shielded his soft laugh. “Ah, Senor Buckhorn, you always make the wit. It make Fausti grin. No, no, never would I, Fausti, seek to poison you.” “That’s a matter of some vigorous debate.” Indeed it was. Toby Trotter once tried one of his “especials” and woke up three days later in a grass skirt and grasping a ukelele. He feared the worst, but happily, they told him he hadn’t been doing his George Formless imitations. “Well, out with it. Name your poison.” “Coconut milk – “ That wasn’t so bad. “ – several native herbal medicines, guaranteed to promote the machismo of the groom on the occasion of the wedding night – “ I frowned. While having had little experience in the past with the Spontoonie brand of medicine, I nevertheless knew that some of their remedies might have Unintended Consequences, and were most certainly not Harley Street. More like Queer Street. “ – and a tiny dram of a few other ingredients.” Fausti smiled at me again, looking at me from the corner of his eye. As he gazed at me, I felt myself starting to give in. When one has feasted upon the fruits of Bacchus as often as I have, one feels tempted to try something new. And, truth to tell, Willow still had me on a one-drink maximum, and the afternoon promised to be a bit warm. “All right,” I huffed. “Just one.” “But of course, Senor Buckhorn.” ***
The first indication of trouble was the fact that my eyes wouldn’t open without a great deal of conscious effort that I, quite frankly, was in no mood to expend at the present time. The second was the fact that my paws felt a lumpy mattress and a stone wall, which was definitely out of place in my usual digs at Shepherd’s. The third was the skull-smashing screech of badly-oiled steel-barred doors clanging closed. As I tried to sort out what all of these portents meant, a voice cut through the cobwebs in my head. “Good afternoon, Mister Buckhorn. Fell off the wagon, I surmise?” I opened one eye and tried to get my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth (where someone had glued it with a substance that tasted remarkably like coconut milk). I succeeded on the third try. “Good afternoon, Inspector. I take it, then, that I am not in my hotel room.” My brother whitetail deer looked pensive. And a bit disappointed. “No, Mister Buckhorn, you are not at Shepherd’s,” he replied with a ‘What am I going to do with you?’ shake of his head. “You are in the Meeting Island Jail, on a charge of public intoxication.” I tried to get this budget of news through my thick skull, along with the promise to do terrible things to Fausti with a cocktail fork and a wedge of lemon. Provided Willow didn’t get him first. “Forgive me, Inspector, but I fail to see how one drink could get me intoxicated. I mean, there is such a thing as building up immunity to poisons.” “Perhaps it was the ingredients in the drink.” “That is possible.” I tried to sit up, and thought better of it as the pounding in my head increased to pile-driving levels. “How was anyone able to tell I was publicly intoxicated?” There was a pause as the Inspector took out his notebook. “According to several eyewitnesses, Mister Buckhorn, you stepped out of the bar at Shepherd’s, said, quote ‘My, it’s hot out here,’ end quote, and after taking off all your clothes you ran three times around the hotel.” “Ran?” “Ran.” “Three times?” “Three times. At least one witness admired your steeple-chasing form as you were leaping over the hedges.” “And this was after I disrobed.” The Inspector studied a page of his notebook. “Yes. The lady in question left no doubt on this particular point.” “Good Lord.”  Reggie in full Boundless, or, A Non-Alcoholic Stir-up Cup Art by Seth C. Triggs - http://www.bibp.com/ Observant Young Lady & Reggie Buckhorn “May I say, Mister Buckhorn, that this episode is rather unlike most of your previous pranks.” “Oh?” “Yes. There was no property damage, no casualties and the Riot Squad did not need to be summoned. The Shepherd’s bartender suggested that you were losing your touch.” Which one, I wondered. “I had hoped to lose it for good.” I was gently feeling my skull for dents. “Your valet, Mister Lodge, is presently getting you some clothes for your court appearance.” My eyes snapped open wide, despite the icepick-jab of pain that this occasioned. “Who’s the judge, Inspector?” “I believe that Magistrate de Pathe is on the Bench today, Mister Buckhorn.” With that bit of heartening news, the Inspector left me to my thoughts. My first reaction was to breathe a sigh of relief. Last year Magistrate Spaniel had threatened to put me in jail and leave me there if I crossed his path again. Which would be an unhappy state of affairs, indeed, with the wedding coming up in just a week. Magistrate de Pathe, on the other paw, was a rooster with a keen understanding of the anthrop spirit, and was less likely to hoik the book in my general direction, and whistle The Prisoner’s Song. My second reaction was to start worrying. What if these judge chappies actually talk shop with each other? My third reaction was a wave of fear that caused a whistle-snort to erupt from my nose. How would Willow react? ***
Miss Fawnsworthy arrived at Mister Buckhorn’s rooms as I was closing up the small grip containing his change of clothes. Inquiries had been made and there was a high degree of confidence that I would recover all of Mister Buckhorn’s clothing this time. Her reaction when I related the news to her reminded me of the relative calm before a major typhoon hits a hapless village. She merely sat, her expression carefully neutral, but her flagging tail announced to me that moral support was required. I had just finished calling Miss Baumgartner and hung up the phone as Miss Fawnsworthy asked, “How did this happen, Lodge?” Her tone of voice seemed to mingle resignation and a determination to have the truth, no matter what. “I am told by several of the staff Downstairs, Miss Fawnsworthy, that the bartender had prepared a special drink in Mister Buckhorn’s honor.” “One drink?” “Yes, Miss Fawnsworthy.” “Good Lord.” “Indeed, Miss Fawnsworthy.” “Do we know what was in it, Lodge?” “I have asked Mister Po’na to make inquiries, Miss Fawnsworthy.” Just then there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, Miss Baumgartner swept past me and gave Miss Fawnsworthy a supportive embrace. This was reciprocated as Miss Fawnsworthy looked to be on the verge of tears. Once she had Miss Fawnsworthy calmed down (no small talent), Miss Baumgartner cocked an eye at me. “Any ideas, Lodge? It’d look bad if Reggie and Willow had to have the wedding while Reggie’s in stir. I mean, the groom is supposed to wear striped trousers, but that’s taking it a bit far.” Her tail swished. “And kinda takes the steam out of the wedding night, know what I mean?” I did see her point. “I think, Miss Baumgartner, that we should wait until Mr. Po’na completes his inquiries. I must take Mister Buckhorn his clothes now.” “No prison stripes, Lodge.” “Indeed not, Miss Baumgartner.” I went to leave, only to encounter Mister Po’na in the hall. He seemed rather agitated, with his ears laid back and his brush flicking. I asked him if his investigation was fruitful. What he said quite shocked me, and I hurried to the jail to give Mister Buckhorn his clothes, while Po’na went to tell the ladies. next |