me which room is mine. I need to lie down. I’m quite
fatigued.”
Judith was forced into a quick decision. “Morris
will stay in Room Three. You take Room Six. I’ll make
it up as soon as I have something to eat.”
Eugenia leaned over the banister, her bust looming
like two large water balloons. “Now would be preferable.”
Judith was about to snap back when Joe appeared in
the entry hall bearing a tray with a Scotch rocks, a
steaming chicken pot pie, a generous salad, and a hot
roll.
“Take a seat, Jude-girl,” he said as the doorbell rang
again. “Dinner is served.”
Judith shot Eugenia a frigid look and returned to the
living room. Morris Mayne was reclining on the sofa,
his shirt and tie loosened and his suit jacket covering
the coffee table.
Joe stared down at the publicist. “Get the door, will
you, Morris? And move that jacket. My wife’s dinner
is going there.”
Morris looked affronted. “Pardon? I’m a guest, not
a servant.”
With a nimble move, Joe lifted one foot, caught the
jacket on the toe of his shoe, and dumped it on the
floor. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Get that door. If you
want to lie down, use the stiff’s room. It’s behind Door
Number Three. Move it. I’m not in one of my good
moods.”
Morris moved. He scrambled for his jacket, gave
Joe a wary glance, and scooted out of the room. Sweetums, who had been napping by the sofa, woke up and
chased Morris all the way up the stairs.
Judith beamed at her husband. “I always find it exciting when you play bad cop.”
“Maybe we’ll both have a chance to get excited
when this crew of loonies gets the hell out of here,” Joe
grumbled. “Now sit and stay. And eat. I’ll take care of
the trick-or-treaters.”
“How many have we had so far?” Judith asked.
“About thirty,” Joe replied, heading to answer the
doorbell on the second ring.
By the time her husband returned, she’d eaten half
of the pot pie with its flaky crust and chunks of tender
chicken. “Were they cute?” she asked.
“It was some of the Dooleys,” Joe said, referring to
their neighbors whose house was across the back fence
by the Flynn garage. “I can never tell if it’s their kids,
grandkids, nieces, nephews, or just some strays they’ve
picked up.”
