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26 August 2007
| "Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer Chapter 3 Back at the Grand, enjoying an appetite-slaying meal of roast beef and potatoes, I thought about the afternoon's events. I was very pleased with Superior: the Birchcraft was a sleek beast, built for speed and comfort, and I was itching to put it through its paces. I was somewhat less pleased with the state of affairs between myself, on the one paw, and Senor de Ciervos, on the other paw. It was clear that the old deer had his eye on me, and it wasn't a friendly eye, either. I don't think all of his black mood had to do with the allegedly unsporting nature of machine guns. Frankly, I think if my tailfur had been in the sights of my Bruinings, he would have squeezed the triggers with even more glee than Baron von Kojote. And I had to admit, I didn't want to give up Inocenta. Not after what had happened. Somehow or other, I was going to have to grab the buck by the horns and have a face to face. Figuratively, I mean, not literally. I was dawdling over the last bites of the pineapple pie when the idea hit me. An outing! Yes, that was the ticket. A good, brisk run to Honolulu, an overnight stay, and a good, brisk run back. Enough to give the machine a good break-in, and (let's face it) show it off to folks. On my way back up to the suite, I paused at one of the landings. I could see that in the hotel’s garden, Reggie was giving Willow a single rose. Well, this was an improvement over the last time he tried to give her flowers, which resulted in my suite looking like a Chicago funeral. Given the way Willow was flagging when she got the flower, I think she liked the gesture. Given the way Willow was flagging when he gave her a long smooch, I think I didn’t like the gesture. I could tell this was going to be an unproductive morning. Up through about last Christmas, just a few weeks ago, Willow was the model of efficiency. (Okeh, that’s discounting her little interlude in November, but anyfur can have a stressful time.) I could toss her a few requests, and bang would come back a neatly tied-up package of documents and orders, no muss, no fuss. As I sat at my desk, waiting for Willow to come back, I was wondering if I was being a little unfair. I mean, getting engaged to be married is distracting, and you can forgive a doe a little, right? Willow came in, hung her jacket on a potted plant, moved the hatstand to a sunny spot next to the window, put the typewriter in the drinks cabinet, and spent some time attempting to find the return lever on a soda siphon. I moved it away from her. I was worried she’d succeed. “Willow.” My secretary blinked slowly about three times. Over the course of a minute. “Willow.” Next on the agenda: learning that carbon paper cannot, in fact, be inserted into a fishbowl. “WILLOW!” “Hmmmmmmm?” A pair of very pleasant and nearly completely vacant eyes turned to me. Sigh. Lovely. “Willow, get a pen and your steno book…” “Okeh.” She got up, and walked with a firmness of purpose into the coat closet. Eventually reversing herself, she went to her desk, and returned with a hot-water bottle and a tube of Life Savers. I got to watch while she frowned at the roll, shook it a bit, and then dunked it in a bottle of Quink. It took a great deal of self-control for me to merely hand her the implements of her alleged trade. I was just about to start in on the instructions to the Royal Hawai’ian hotel when I saw that she had lifted her rose to her nose, and was giving it a long-drawn out sniff. A test was in order to see how on the ball she was. “To the Royal Hawai’ian Hotel. Gentlefurs: please reserve for me a large room with hot and cold running kibble, and a view of the bottom of the ocean. I would also like the law of gravity suspended during my stay, and please ensure that my secretary is painted all over in woad and crowned with the flowers of the field. Sincerely yours, Hamdinger, Hamdinger, Hamdinger, Schwartz and McCormick. Read that back, Willow.” Willow read it back, letter-perfect, and blinked at me slowly for more instructions. So much for that. *****
In her current state Willow was worse than useless, and talking to Reggie about it was out as well. Leaving Willow cheerfully sharpening a couple of toothbrushes, I called Rosie to see if she had any suggestions. "...about Willow . . . have you talked to her lately?” A chubby cheetah chuckle. “Yeah. Completely twitterpated.” “My point exactly, which was why I called. Right now she’s so up there I have to keep her from walking into walls.” “Spoken like a true mensch, Les. You – say, here’s a thought: talk to Lodge about it.” “Lodge?” “Lodge. Lodge is the Brains of the Outfit.” The doorbell to the suite rang, cutting short any further explorations of the vast wilderness that had developed between Willow’s ears this morning. Willow got up, smoothed out her shirt, patted her headfur, and walked demurely to the entrance. She opened the door. Lodge’s greeting, bow and courteous lifting of bowler hat was cut off by Willow closing the door. Behind her. By and by, the door opened. Lodge led his employer’s fiancée gently by the elbow into the room, sitting her down at her work table. Lodge raised an eloquent eyebrow, and turned to speak to me. Just as well. Willow was helping herself to a Life Saver. Lodge lowered his eyebrows in confusion. “Sir, would I be intruding if I were to ask why Miss Fawnsworthy has just poured cream and sugar into the radio?” “It’s Maxwell House Coffee Time, Lodge.” I got a dubious look in response, showing that at least somefur in the room was paying attention to what I said. “You know, I have a good mind to fire her, but I’ve already done that four or five times. Any more, and I would end up working for her. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very fond of Willow, but that is o-u-t, out.” Lodge paws behind his back, watched impassively. “I am sure, Sir, that the effects of Miss Fawnsworthy’s breakfast with Mr. Buckhorn will wear off as the morning goes on. However, if you have urgent matters to attend to, I am sure Mr. Buckhorn will not object if I render you assistance.” Watching Willow butter the morning edition of the Mirror, I felt that I might need all the help I could get. Especially since Willow looked like she was having fun. *****
I told Lodge what I was looking for, and he got it
in one, giving me no small amount of relief. We went over the
guest list."Well, there's myself, of course. I'll be piloting the plane, so that'll leave room in the cabin free. Willow will have to come, which means that Reggie will need to be invited..." "Indeed, sir. Miss Fawnsworthy would be most put out if Mr. Buckhorn were separated from her." I let that one pass. "Separate rooms in Honolulu, though. No scandals, Lodge." "Indeed not, Sir. It is safe to say that Mr. Buckhorn would approve of that arrangement, and indeed, would insist on it." "Good. That's that, then. I think I'd also like to invite Baron and Baronin von Kojote, too." Eyebrow-raise from Lodge, a smooth operation no doubt owing to years of practice. This was followed by a discreet cough. "Sir is not considering having the Baron pilot the aircraft?" I thought about this. "Errrr. Not unless it's necessary, Lodge. I, umm...well. You, um, know about the Baron and...?" "Are you referring, Sir, to the state of excitement that grips Baron von Kojote while in the operation of high-powered machinery and/or powerful firearms?" "Good Lord, Lodge, you *know* about this?!" "In certain circles, Sir, the Baron's history is, shall we say, notorious. The Baron had a rather successful career in the German Emperor's air forces during the Great War, but it is my understanding that it was very difficult for the Baron to retain any promotions he was granted. There were...incidents." "Incidents?!" My resolve to invite the Baron was wavering. "The Baron has a few paragraphs devoted to him in the latest edition of Krafft-Ebing. What is now referred to as the von Kojote Syndrome relates to the effects of powerful machinery on certain vulnerable psyches. The plane, or the machine gun, becomes an extension of self..." I stopped Lodge before he got any further. This was entirely too much information. "If I keep the Baron and Baronin in the passenger cabin, will innocent bystanders be safe?" "I should think that would be the case, Sir, especially given the fact that it is well-known among the servants that the Baronin rules the Baron with an iron paw in a silk glove, to use the old phrase. I think you need not fear any repercussions from that quarter." "Right. Then pencil them in for two seats in the cabin. Lastly ... um ...." This accompanied by a slightly nervous glance in the general direction of Shepherd's. Lodge nodded, understandingly. "A suite for three, Sir? At a discreet distance from your own suite?" A sigh. "Reggie was right. You Know All, Lodge." A cough. "Indeed. I was buttonholed by Senorita de Ciervos a few days ago, and I was treated to a catalogue raisonne of your merits, Sir. It was an extensive list, even discounting repetitions." A blush. "Extensive?" A nod. "Few details were omitted, Sir." "Good God, Lodge. If word of this gets back to Senor de Ciervos...!" Lodge looked shocked. "Certainly not, Sir. That would violate any number of the tenets of my profession. I don't believe that Senorita de Ciervos has confided in her father. She has, I believe, confided in her mother." I gripped my head. "Oh, my life!" "I do not believe, Sir, you have anything to fear from that particular quarter. Senora de Ciervos has, if I may say so, a modern attitude toward young ladies and gentlefurs. She is also, according again to voluminous testimony from Senorita de Ciervos, the possessor of a keen eye. Apparently, there has been a great deal of discussion between mother and daughter as to your relative merits." This sounded worse and worse. But Lodge poured me another cup of coffee, and thoughtfully added a dash of brandy to it. "My understanding is that Senora de Ciervos considers you entirely suitable." "Is that good or bad, Lodge?" "May I give you some advice, Sir?" "Fire away." "I would deem it inadvisable to turn your back on Senora de Ciervos if she has her paws free." Lodge beetled off to make the reservations and meal arrangements, leaving me with my thoughts. And the brandy bottle. next |