Although I refused to admit involvement in the case, I did finally confess that the recent meeting of Glynn Radley and Vincent Leduc had greatly piqued my curiosity. Not to mention Jeffers’ fascination with Elsbeth Penner. His hunches were rarely wrong. Whatever intrigue I sensed in the case, however, had to be put on hold as intrigue of a political nature took focus the following afternoon.
George Bernard Shaw’s play On the Rocks centres on an uninspiring British prime minister who finds himself increasingly more depressed and exhausted as his country’s unemployed take to the streets in protest. In this season’s production of the play, I was cast as The Lady, a mysterious woman who convinces the PM to take a spiritual retreat of sorts that brings about his rejuvenation and leads him to pursue wholesale nationalization. The character has only one scene, albeit a long one, near the end of the first act.
It’s a two-person scene and one that I was, initially, quite excited about when I was offered the role. However, it turned out that the actor playing the prime minister was a bit of an Eeyore, a real glass half-empty kind of guy, which left me wanting to go straight from rehearsal into a therapy session.
“Oh my god,” I said, as I entered Dr. Gorgeous’ living room and collapsed onto his sofa. Moustache darted into the kitchen before I even had the chance to detach his leash.
“I thought you had a short day today?” Gorgeous called from the kitchen.
“I did. It’s not that. It’s Robert Cole. He sucks the life out of me.” Moustache appeared, leash free and licking his chops. “Smells good in here.”
We had started taking turns cooking dinner. Whoever’s day ended first did the cooking and the other got the pleasure of cleaning up. Although my day had been relatively short, the animal hospital closed at noon on Saturdays, which made the good doctor the regular Saturday night chef.
“I’m trying something new,” he called from the kitchen.
“Moustache seems to like it.” The dog’s tongue was still in motion.
“And he didn’t even get the good stuff.”
“I’m guessing there’s pasta involved.” I said, as a closer examination of Moustache’s snout revealed a noodle stuck in his fur.
I freed the noodle and nearly lost a finger when Moustache went for it. Then I reluctantly peeled myself off the sofa and went to the kitchen to kiss the cook.
An hour and a half later, we had all but devoured a delicious rabbit ragout. Moustache, having eaten a veterinarian-approved portion, was asleep on the sofa with his full belly aimed at the sky.
“This is going to sound random, but do you know anything about the Mennonite faith?” I asked, clearing the plates.
“A little. My best friend growing up was Mennonite. Daniel Muir.” He started to laugh. “I used to call him Dan Manure. He hated that. He’d get so mad.”
“That’s awful. I thought you said you were friends.”
“We were. One day, instead of Paul Barrett, he called me Paul Bearshit. We were inseparable after that. I think that was the only time he ever swore.”
“Boys and their toilet humour,” I said, filling the sink with soapy water.
“Always funny. Anyway, from what I learned from Dan Manure, Mennonites are Christians following the teachings in the New Testament. I know there are some Mennonites, even around here, who are pretty conservative: living on farms, growing and raising most of their own food, using limited technology, that kind of thing. Dan’s family was more modern, I guess you could say. I know there is a big focus on family and community. And they don’t believe in violence as a means to an end. Dan wouldn’t even play with my G.I. Joes. What’s with the sudden interest?”
I told him about Elsbeth and Jeffers’ asking me to talk to her alone.
“It sounds to me the issue here is an overprotective father. A person can have one of those regardless of their religion.”
“True. I just didn’t know if specific gender roles or anything like that might be in play in the more traditional homes.”
“That I don’t know. Dan was one of seven boys.”
At that moment the cat flap lifted and Paul’s golden-haired Maine Coon emerged. We froze and followed the cat’s every move with silent eyes. I snuck a peek at where Moustache was sleeping and was relieved to find him still in the throes of his post-meal fatigue. The first time Moustache and the cat met had resulted in a swat so violent that Moustache would have required stitches had the fur on his face not been as bushy as it was. Although relatively unhurt, the hit was enough to yield a yelp from the dog before he ran to cower behind me.
Brimstone was the meanest cat I’d ever known. All action stopped whenever he chose to present himself for fear of upsetting him and, thereby, losing a layer of skin or worse. Fortunately he spent most of his time outdoors, returning home only for meals or if it rained. He sat now at his dish eating hungrily. I looked at Paul and made a face. He smiled and threw up his hands. For whatever reason he loved that cat and happily put up with its evil ways. When the dish was empty, Brimstone cleaned himself, stretched, and disappeared through the same door that had admitted him.
“How old did you say he was?” I asked, resuming the dishwashing.
“Not sure exactly. Close to eleven.”
“And cats live for how long?”
He laughed and kissed me lightly on the back of my neck. “You up for a movie?”
“Sure. Nothing with death.” I had a feeling I’d get my fill of that in the coming days.