| "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 Chapter Five
Usually one doesn’t get a high quality of service at the Meeting Island Jail, or any other place of durance vile, for that matter. The walls and floors are far from pristine, the ambience leaves a great deal to be desired and the food is not exactly four-star. But Leslie had secured permission to do things up properly, and had apparently spared little or no expense. One of the rooms off the cell block had been scrupulously cleaned, freshly painted and a table or two had been set up, with a variety of cold collations (sandwiches, fruit, and assorted other goodies) courtesy of Chef Joseph at l’Etoile d’Argent. One of the tables was covered with green baize, and sported a rack of poker chips and several decks of cards. The most glaringly new thing sat off in one corner – a brand new refrigerator, fully stocked with any beverage you’d care to name, from lemonade to Nootnops Red. Not a sniff of the fruits of Bacchus in sight. Jolly good! Leave it Les to have things set up. If this was the sort of organization he could whistle up on short notice, the rivals to duCleds Chemicals should be shaking in their wingtips. He and I settled in, and after the shift ended Inspector Stagg and Sergeant Brush came in as well. “So, here’s th’ happy groom, hanh?” the junior partner said. To Les he said, “Th’ old place looks pretty good. That fridge a keeper, or duzzit turn inta a pumpkin?” My brother Quaker had been getting a bottle of lemonade from the refrigerator, and he smiled. “It’s a gift, Sergeant. No booze, I’m afraid – as agreed,” he added with an eye at Inspector Stagg. “If you want some ice water, Inspector, there’s ice in the freezer.” “A very generous gift, Mister du Cleds,” Inspector Stagg said. At that moment a stout bulldog hove into view. “I finished up that blasted paperwork as fast as I could. Has the party started yet?” “Not yet, Chief,” Les replied with a grin. We all helped ourselves to drinks and sandwiches and settled down in chairs to talk. The conversation died as soon as our tails hit the chairs. You have to really hate those awkward pauses. Finally Stagg broke the silence with a soft cough. “Mister Buckhorn, I take it that you’ve never been married before?” Reggie looked a bit uncomfortable. “Er, no, Inspector.” A fond but slightly melancholy look crossed the old buck’s face. “Well, Mister Buckhorn, allow me to impart some advice . . . “ And the conversation picked up. I perked up my ears. What’s good for Reggie Buckhorn is good for Leslie duCleds, too. ***
“Never pass up a chance to hug your wife, or your children.” “Allus let th’ mate run t’ings in th’ house, udderwise yez get no peace.” “Give her her own space in the house to look after her own affairs – and stay out of it.” I started to wish that Les had supplied an amanuensis with the sandwiches. (That’s a good word, another of Lodge’s wheezes.) I was beginning to get confused at all the advice (some of it jolly useful, and I hoped that some of it would stick to the inside of my head, rather than just wandering about aimlessly) I was getting from the trio of rozzers, all of whom looked like Old Married Types. Les just smiled and nodded, apparently thinking himself not quite qualified to dispense wisdom since he’d only been married two months. While I was thinking about their advice, a thought abruptly surfaced in the Buckhorn bean; rather an interesting, even a surprisingly awe-inspiring thought. I guess close proximity to Willow and months of orange juice and exercise have actually stimulated the old brain-pan. “Er, Inspector?” I began. The conversation paused and Inspector Stagg turned his attention to me. “Yes, Mister Buckhorn?” There was a look in his eye that spoke of wariness, as if he expected me to break into a Horn and Hardskull routine. “Yes, er, well, um, something’s just occurred to me, and I wanted to bring it up.” “Yes?” The look of wariness increased. At least he was handling this better than the Sire would. The Sire would be puffing like a steam engine going up the Matterhorn, right about now. “Well, you see, La Fawnsworthy and I are getting married in two days – “ A wry smile from the rozzer. “You surprise me, Mr. Buckhorn. Then the invitations to this party were not in jest?” “Didn’t t’ink no fur’d ferget hitchin’ up wit’ a dame like Fawnsworthy,” Sergeant Brush smirked knowingly. “Yes, er, no, er . . . well, you know what I mean, Sergeant,” I said. If he did, he was doing better than I was. This wasn’t coming out quite right, so I rallied what meager forces I had and soldiered on. “What I’m trying to say is that, what with it being a traditional ceremony and all, I was wondering if you would, um, accept an invitation to give the bride away.” Well! That seemed to come out all right. But when I looked at the expression on the Inspector’s face I thought I had said something dashed wrong. There was a very strange look in his eyes . . . ***
‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’ Grace was not my son, but the sentiment is identical. As if I needed another reminder. Lord, You choose strange implements to remind me of my many sins. Will I ever be rid of . . . Control yourself, Franklin. Better. Heaven help us, what’s the motivation behind this? Hmm. Well, it’s not a joke, judging from that silly expression on his face, ironically enough. Whatever this buck’s failings are, I don’t think cruelty is one of them. It would seem this is an honest request. Still, one should ask . . . “Why,” I asked after clearing my throat slightly, “are you making the invitation, Mister Buckhorn? Aren’t Miss Fawnsworthy’s parents coming to the wedding?” ***
“No, I’m afraid not,” I replied. “Willow has explained to me that she’s very much alone in the world,” and I could see Les nodding agreement. Of course, he’s known her longer than I. Well, not ‘known’ in the Biblical sense, but you understand me. “And, naturally, you and she being whitetail deer and all, and you the buck of authority in these parts . . . “ I was glad I was sitting down, or I’d be flagging right now. It looked like the Inspector was about to bolt, though. ***
It took quite a lot to keep my stomachs steady. Reject out-of-paw? Well, no one would blame me; they could refer to the Cenotaph if they were puzzled. Hmmm, well, I know one femmefur who would blame me, to be sure, but Rosie is ever the sentimental one. Probably views weddings as a spectator sport. And yes, Mr. Buckhorn seems a little abashed. God, what an expression. For heaven’s sake boy, don’t gawp like that. Thank heavens it’s not one of my daughters he’s . . . Ah. Yes. Well. Gracie would have been, roughly, Miss Fawnsworthy’s age, I suppose. If I am a proxy for Miss Fawnsworthy’s dead sire, perhaps she could serve in the same role, as well. Ironic. What would Gracie make of all this? Ah, fairly obvious answer. She would have schemed with Miss Baumgartner. She was always one for flower-covered conspiracies. And the Daisy would have been excited about a new dress . . . “Mister Buckhorn, I’d be honored. I trust you will inform your fiancée.” I wasn’t quite certain, but I was speaking aloud. Perhaps someone speaking through me? Mister Buckhorn smiled gratefully even as a still small voice in my mind scolded me that I’d have to do something quite uncomfortable in order to fulfill this obligation. Namely, get a formal uniform for the ceremony. Oh, DAMN. Or, as Rosie says, “Oy!” ***
I was very relieved, to say the least, when the Inspector brightened slightly and told me that he’d accept the invitation. But that’s a cervine for you – you can’t keep a good buck down. Nor should you even try. Antlers, you know. At one point we were interrupted by a seedy, slightly chubby feline wearing a threadbare suit who wandered in like he owned the place. Without even a by-your-leave he grabbed a sandwich, took a bottle of Nootnops Red from the refrigerator, and wandered back to the cell block. After a few moments a cell door creaked, followed by one of the beds. I looked inquiringly at Inspector Stagg. “Permanent tenant?” “No. Well, semi-permanent. That’s the slightly less than famous Jack Morgan. He comes here and puts himself away to save us the trouble of arresting him.” “Sounds quite efficient,” Les said. “Saves on overtime.” “Paperwork, too,” Chief Sapper said with a booming laugh. At that moment there was a commotion in the outer office. next |
