Free Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Page B

you possessed, you’d be able to remember where I left it. . . .”
    Mortimer groaned. Seeking to deflect attention from himself, he picked on the most likely suspect. “Probably been nicked, old girl. Wouldn’t put it past that ghastly Borgia chappie, what?”
    The ghastly Borgia chappie buttered a round of toast and passed it to the equally ghastly Borgia crocodile. “Tock,” he said, attempting a stern manner, “would you happen to know anything about a missing crocodile-skin handbag?”
    Tock’s dripping spoonful of prunes halted in midair. The crocodile opened his eyes wide and approximated an expression of puzzled innocence. Beside him, Ffup blushed and Sab busied himself with the contents of the marmalade dish.
    â€œIt might improve the atmosphere in the hotel if you were to return it,” suggested Signor Strega-Borgia, adding, “Anonymously. That is, if you know where it is.”
    Tock was about to deny all knowledge of the missing handbag when Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell stalked into the dining room. She looked every bit as ill as she felt.
    Pandora’s eyes rolled backward in her head as she beheld the proprietrix’s ostrich-feather-trimmed cardigan, her leopard-skin leggings, and her calfskin boots. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” she remarked, standing up.
    â€œHow
interesting,
” said Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell. “I’ve suddenly lost my handbag.”
    Tock slid sideways off his chair and, followed by his fellow beasts, vanished in the direction of the gardens. Pandora and Titus headed upstairs to their bedrooms and Mrs. McLachlan and Latch made themselves scarce. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell looked round the suddenly deserted dining room. “Was it something I said?” she asked, slipping into the empty chair beside Signora Strega-Borgia. “Are you going to join us for lunch today? Very traditional fare, I’m afraid. Roast goose and all the trimmings. Plum pudding—all those ghastly calories. . . . Luciano, you simply must have some of my special stuffing—it’s absolutely
heavenly
. Not for us, dear,” she said, patting Signora Strega-Borgia conspiratorially on the arm. “Not if we need to watch our figures . . .”
    Signora Strega-Borgia poured herself another cup of coffee, ostentatiously ladled four spoonfuls of sugar and a generous dollop of cream into it, and swallowed the lot in one elegant gulp. “I’d love to try your stuffing,
dear,
” she said sweetly, “since I don’t have to watch my figure—I let Luciano do that for me.”
    Â 
    Comparisons are odious, but if asked to name her favorite present of that strange Christmas, Pandora would have nominated the tiny pot of cream given to her by Mrs. McLachlan. Compared to that tiny bejeweled tub of vanishing cream, all CDs, clothes, toys, and books paled into insignificance. Even Titus conceded that vanishing cream was seriously cool after Pandora had demonstrated its miraculous powers during a Brussels sprout episode at lunchtime.
    â€œJust eat them, darling,” advised Signora Strega-Borgia, “and then we’ll have pudding.”
    â€œFrankly, I’d rather die,” muttered Titus, glaring at the little mushy green cannonballs clustered round the rim of his plate.
    â€œTITUS!”
    Titus looked up from his plate. His father was glaring at him, but given that Signor Strega-Borgia had held his face muscles in the Grimace Position throughout the starter (prawns Marie-Rose), the soup (broccoli and Stilton), and the sorbet (avocado and lime), the effect of his glare was somewhat diluted.
    â€œTitus,” Pandora hissed, “cause a distraction and I’ll make your sprouts disappear.”
    Titus didn’t need to be asked twice. He reached out for the gravy boat and skillfully toppled a teetering arrangement of fir cones and fruit that the management had provided to grace each table in the dining