Read Online Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori - Free Book Online

Beauty
.

Beastly Behavior
    M ortimer Fforbes-Campbell (Brigadier ret’d) sprayed gray fluff out of an aerosol can onto a crate of bottles of inferior Bulgarian red. Earlier that day, he’d removed all the wine labels and replaced them with some that he’d had printed specially for the evening’s festivities. The labels he’d removed had proclaimed the contents of the bottles to be TANNIN UT TRANSYLVANIA and sported a rather jolly illustration of a Bulgarian housepainter steeping his brushes in a vat of T ut T. Whether this was a warning or a recommendation was hard to tell, but the new labels re-identified the wine as RIOJA DE TOROMERDE . The tasting notes printed on the little label on the reverse of the bottle read, “Aged in oak stalls, this wine has been described as Old Spain’s most famous export.”
    Since
Toromerde
translates literally as “bull excrement,” the label was being disarmingly truthful. Mortimer, in a state of total ignorance of the meaning of any language other than English, was blissfully unaware of what the new wine labels signified. All he knew was that he could get away with charging more for Spanish Rioja than Transylvanian Brush Restorer. He finished spraying gray fluff over the bottles and stood back to admire his efforts.
    â€œTop-hole, what?” he addressed his wife, who was busy decanting a vat of jaded calamari into a series of microwave dishes. “Pile ’em high, sell ’em dear, don’tcha know, old girl?”
    â€œ
Did
you invite Hugh?” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell picked out a decomposing specimen of shellfish, sniffed it, and dropped it into the waste disposal.
    â€œWho?” barked Mortimer, disappointed at his wife’s lack of interest in his endeavors.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Morty, turn your hearing aid on.
HUGH:
DID. YOU. INVITE. HUGH. PYLUM-HAIGHT?” she bawled.
    â€œNever heard of the fellow. Sounds foreign. Ghastly chaps, foreigners. That bally Italian bunch we’ve booked over Christmas. Keep on whingeing about the size of their bill. Chap’s a bit too chummy with you, what?”
    â€œNot chummy enough,” muttered Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, sliding a batch of calamari into the irradiation unit and switching it on. A ghostly blue light played over the rancid shellfish, rendering them bacteria-free but regrettably still well past their sell-by date.
    â€œWhatcha say, old thing?” Morty struggled upstairs with two crates of seemingly venerable, dusty bottles of vintage Rioja.
    â€œI SAID, ‘HAVE. WE. GOT. ENOUGH,’ ” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell yelled, adding under her breath, “Moron.”
    Mortimer’s reply was lost as the buzzer went off on the irradiator. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell removed the first batch of steaming squid and slid the next trayful in. Checking that her husband was well out of earshot, she picked up the phone and dialed Hugh Pylum-Haight’s private number. “Darling,” she said in her most seductive whisper, “it’s me. . . .”
    Â 
    That night, the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms was hosting a Christmas Eve Wine-Tasting Event that rashly promised to BANISH THOSE WINTER BLUES WITH A MEDITERRANEAN NIGHT TO REMEMBER . GO ON — YOU DESERVE IT . And all for a mere twenty- five pounds per head. In a rare fit of financial madness induced by a total lack of ideas for what to give as Christmas presents, Signor Strega-Borgia had decided that not only did he deserve such a treat, but so, too, did his wife, nanny, and butler. This largesse was extended to the beasts and Tock, all of whom were vastly cheered at the prospect of a night in the hotel instead of the dank and depressing stable block. Permission for their re-entry into the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms had been sought from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and grudgingly granted with the proviso that this was a one-time-only indulgence and that after Christmas, the beasts would go back to being