Free The Gladstone Bag by Charlotte MacLeod

words. He looked, she thought, like an overgrown version of the little chef in the Campbell’s Soup ads she remembered from her childhood.
    “Certainly, Bubbles, if you wish. What are you giving us tonight?”
    “Lobthter bithque and thtuffed chicken with athparaguth. We alwayth keep thingth thimple the firtht night.”
    “Very sensible,” said Emma. “I shall look forward to it. I mustn’t keep you now, we’ll talk tomorrow morning.”
    Bubbles said that would be nithe. She left him to his stirring and spoke to Sandy’s friend.
    “You must be Bernice.” Bernice still had her puppy fat and was likely to have a good deal more of it after a summer in Bubbles’s kitchen, Emma thought. Her cheeks were scarlet, her nose a pug, her eyes bright brown, her hair an even worse mess than Sandy’s. Her Smurf sweatshirt was green. How could Bernice’s mother have borne to let this little cuddlebug out of hugging distance? Perhaps she’d gone on the dig with Mrs. Vincent.
    Neil had been sitting next to Bernice. He was going to be like his father. Emma could have sworn the boy grew another quarter inch even as he stood manfully to attention clutching the chowder spoon he’d been too flustered to put down. He and the older fellow, whom Vincent finally got around to introducing as Ted Sharpless, were both looking worried. Emma didn’t blame them. No matter what sort of shape they’d found their alleged amnesiac in, they’d been incredibly stupid to bring him into a house like this without either her or Neil’s father’s permission.
    She wasn’t going to make an issue of it now. The kitchen clock said almost six, she must get back to the drawing room. She said something pleasant about hoping they’d all enjoy their summer together and went back the way she’d come, just in time to greet the cottagers.
    Alding Fath, as the senior lady in their group, quite properly led the pack. She’d changed out of her sensible denim outfit into a sensible navy blue wash-and-wear shirtwaist sprigged all over with little red roosters and perked up with a string of red plastic beads. She had on navy blue nylon stockings and the sort of low-heeled navy blue sandals middle-aged ladies on sightseeing tours take along for dress-up; she carried a small red handbag. Her short gray hair was neatly dressed, her face discreetly touched up with a dusting of powder and a dab of lipstick. Absolutely nothing about her hinted of the arcane, much less of chicanery. Emma supposed it was all part of the stock-in-trade, still she felt mildly pleased to be with someone who looked much like some of the ladies in the Pleasaunce Garden Club.
    Each in his own way, the guests had clearly made an effort to do her proud this first night on the island. Lisbet Quainley had done something really horrible to her hair and adorned her thin body in a long, baggy, olive-green skirt and a long, baggy, yellow-green sleeveless top. She must be depending on her jewelry to keep her warm; there was a great deal of it. The sort of chunks and blobs Little Em would go wild over; Emma rather wished she’d worn some of her own.
    Joris Groot and Black John Sendick were presentable enough in slacks and sports jackets. No ties, but Emma hadn’t expected a miracle. At least their shirts looked clean.
    Count Radunov was naturally a hostess’s dream come true in a white dinner jacket, navy blue trousers, and red bow tie. She must seat him opposite Mrs. Fath and the roosters, Emma decided. They’d balance her table if anyone could.
    Everard Wont hadn’t shown up yet, and that was fine with Emma. She was about to ask Radunov to help with the drinks—he might well have done a stretch as a waiter somewhere along the line—when she realized Vincent was back and coping.
    “What can I get you, Mrs. Kelling?” he asked her.
    “A very feeble gin and tonic, please, with lime.”
    She’d almost made the faux pas of adding, “If you have it,” but caught herself in time. Of course