| "Batchelor(ette)
Party(ing)"
by M. Mitchell Marmel & E.O. Costello © 2010 by M. Mitchell Marmel and E.O. Costello 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  Art by Seth C. Triggs - http://www.bibp.com/ Chapter Three
“Come on out of there,” I said later, pulling the lid off the garbage can. There was a breathy cough and two tiny paws grasped the edge of the can, followed by two very sad and reproachful eyes belonging to the Bite-size Buck. “Miss Baumgartner, that was most ungracious and unfair to Fausti," the pudu said, giving me a look that was equal parts sour mash and bitters. "The banana peel, they almost stop his breath.” "That'll teach you not to add so much banana liqueur to the drinks," I sneered. "Now toddle on home and bathe. You're smelling up the place." ***
The following Monday I had managed to get the last of Fausti’s infernal concoction out of my cervine plumbing, and we – Les, Inocenta, Willow, and I – were having breakfast on the balcony at Shepherd’s. The sun was shining and the day promised to be quite spiffing. Willow, of course, looked ravishing, and I took great pains to say so. I was, again, indebted to my beloved for again (with Rosie’s help) pulling my chestnuts from the roaster. She accepted my thanks with easy grace (ahem), punctuated by a kiss on my cheek. While we were starting on a final round of delicious warm muffins with coffee and fruit juice, there was a knock at the door. Lodge answered it, and returned a few moments later with a message on a small tray. “What is it, Lodge?” Willow asked, pausing in the act of buttering a muffin. “A message for Mister Buckhorn, ma’am.” Lodge held out the tray to me and I took the message. Very heavy stationery, embossed seal, coat of arms and what-not. Quite impressive. "Heard about your upcoming wedding, and you have my best wishes for a long and happy life together. As a venue for a bachelor party, I place the motor yacht 'Happy Trails' at your disposal, along with its liquor cabinet. Signed, Katie MacArran." It took me a moment to recognize the name, then I twigged to it. Catherine MacArran’s a fine figure of a mare who just happens to be the Duchess of Strathdern, and one of F.R. Buckhorn and Sons’ biggest customers. They buy something like half the barley crop we contract-grow, and that’s just for starters. I had met her exactly once (a story for another time), but had more than a passing familiarity with the products of Imperial Distillers, Ltd., one of her companies and my supplier of Delhi Gin back when I was more chummy with Bacchus. More to the point, I had it on the authority of no less than Mummy that Katie MacArran was one of the few furs that the Sire actually respected and was a bit afraid of. Quite a recommendation, that. Still, it was a spiffing offer, and I shared the note with Willow and the rest. As the news sank in, I couldn’t help notice Les looking somewhat anxious about something. ***
Yeah, it made me anxious. Nervous, actually. I was scheduled to be the best man at Reggie and Willow’s wedding in less than a week, and as such it fell to me to organize the bachelor party, the old tradition. I also decided that I’d take it upon myself to keep Reggie out of trouble until Willow had him firmly in paw (well, more firmly than she had him now, that is). And I knew, with the same sick certainty that Gull Island foxes will try to swindle you given half a chance, that if Reggie Buckhorn had unfettered access to a booze cabinet for a party there’d be no stopping him. “Reggie,” I said, “it’s a very generous offer.” “Oh, right-ho Les,” but Reggie looked pensive. “No doubt she threw in that bit about the liquor cabinet because of my reputation.” ***
I thought about it. This woman was a major customer for the Buckhorn family, and it would be a major snub to refuse her generous offer. This required tact and fast-thinking. “I have a suggestion,” I offered. “I know Rosie’s planning a party for me this coming Thursday. Why don’t I suggest to Rosie that we have our party on the yacht? That way, Reggie, you and Les can have your own party.” My fiancé brightened at that, and we shared a kiss. “That’s a jolly idea, Willow,” Reggie said. “Well, Les?” ***
My brother Quaker looked thoughtful. “I’ll have to think about it.” His mate chimed in, taking Les’ paw and squeezing it. “I know my Leslie-puppy will have the great idea for the party! Yes?” ***
Who could argue with a vote of confidence like that? Me, for starters. I had no idea what would be a safe place for both Reggie and I to have a bachelor party. Not even the Temperance Union hall would be safe if Reggie got a skinful in him. Of course, one might say that about me, too. I’m no hypocrite. There was that night at Vassar . . . well, that’s a story for another time. I saw Inocenta off at our hotel and went walking. Walking helps a fur think, of course, and I needed an idea and needed it fairly quickly. ***
After lunch (the walk made me hungry), I headed over to Luchow’s on Meeting Island to talk to Rosie (who technically still worked for me). Since she took over the restaurant she had made a go of it, and it was becoming a success with the cookie-pusher crowd over on Meeting Island. A brief look around at the lunch crowd revealed that she wasn’t downstairs, so I went around the back and headed up the back stairs to her room. As I got about halfway up I paused as sounds reached my ears. Happy cheetah moans. And a comment addressed to a certain member of the Constabulary who I knew was probably on his lunch break. And some break it was. I did a smart about-face and walked back down the stairs. I figured I’d talk to her later. There was plenty of time. ***
I headed back and resumed my foot-tour of Casino Island, and before I knew it I had walked right the way around the island (not that great of an effort) and boarded a water taxi for Meeting Island. I was still thinking, and going around in circles (literally and figuratively). I walked right past the place twice before it hit me. ***
“Good afternoon, Mister du Cleds,” Inspector Stagg said as I was ushered into his office. The fox who served as his sergeant glanced up at me before returning to his reports. “What brings you to the Constabulary today? The desk sergeant said that you had a request.” “Well, sir,” I said, careful to be respectful, “as I’m sure you know by now Reggie Buckhorn’s getting married on Saturday.” A thin smile, like skim milk, from the whitetail buck. Actually, he seemed a bit happier than I’ve usually seen him. I knew why. “I had heard,” he said dryly. “Only people ain’t heard it yet are deaf an’ on th’ bottom o’ th’ sea,” Sergeant Brush muttered. I had to laugh at that. “It’s traditional to have a bachelor party before the wedding.” That caused two sets of ears to perk up. “So you’re giving us fair warning, so that the Riot Squad will be deployed and ready? Rather considerate of you,” Stagg said. “No, Inspector,” I said, “something simpler. As his best man, it’s up to me to keep him out of trouble for the party. I thought about this quite a bit – but I can’t think of a better place.” “Oh?” “Yes, sir. If you’ll agree, I want to hold the party at the Meeting Island Jail.” ***
It may come as a surprise to some, but this was not the first time I had heard this kind of a request. A rather notorious actress back home in New Haven, for purposes of what she alleged to be research, asked my superiors to lock her up for a weekend behind bars. One of them took it upon himself to place her in “protective custody.” In his office. She’s no longer able to tell the tale, having passed away a few years before the Revolution. She was, as one of my observant and acerbic colleagues noted, now screwed in her coffin. But, to return to the present . . . I scratched at the base of one of my antlers. They have a tendency to itch in warmer weather. “A most unusual request, Mister du Cleds. Are you certain you want to do this? People will be bound to talk.” Granted, locking the barn door after the buck has escaped. I have heard stories about Mr. Buckhorn . . . The canine heir to the du Cleds chemical fortune nodded. “Let them talk, Inspector. I’ve been in jail here before, as you recall, as has Reggie. I just think that the jail’s the best place for the party – that way, neither of us can get in any trouble.” Sergeant Brush chose this moment to speak. “Just th’ two o’ yez?” “I suppose that there’ll be one or two others,” Mister du Cleds said. “Of course, both of you are invited.” “I will have to discuss this request with the Chief, Mister du Cleds,” I said after due consideration. “You should receive a reply by tomorrow morning.” “Thank you very much, Inspector, Sergeant.” Mister du Cleds let himself out. I must admit here to some mixed emotions. But I will not allow them to influence either my decision, or my referral of the request to Chief Sapper. I will talk to Rosie about it, though. There are certain things on which she is far wiser. ***
“I say, Les! That’s an odd idea. Have you been visiting Fausti?” “No,” my brother Quaker said firmly. “I’ve thought about this, Reggie – the best way to keep us both out of trouble is to hold the party in the one place where we *can’t* get in trouble. And that place is the jail.” One saw the simplicity of it all. Little wonder Les was Phi Beta Kappa. “Well, if you think so . . . “ next |