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“Can I let you in on a little secret?” said Opal, lowering her voice. “This is not the original Prunella,” she whispered. “But don’t let her hear it or she might get confused.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gran. “She looks like Prunella. And I would know. I’ve been following your show since the very first episode.”

“And when was the first episode aired? Do you remember, Vesta?”

“Um… twenty, twenty-five years ago or thereabouts?”

“Try twenty-nine. And when that show aired I’d already had Prunella for ten years.”

“Which would make her…” Gran did a few quick calculations in her head. “Um…”

“Thirty-nine,” Odelia finally supplied.

“Thirty-nine!” Gran exclaimed. “She looks really good for her age. What’s the secret?”

“Cloning,” said Opal with an air of satisfaction. “This is Prunella 2. When the original Prunella died, about fifteen years ago, I had her cryopreserved and cloned. The first clones didn’t survive more than a couple of weeks, but this one, technically Prunella 16, not only survived but thrived. And she has the exact same personality my sweet, darling Prunella had.”

Prunella now came treading down the stairs and sashayed towards them, her tail high in the air and not even deigning Odelia’s own foursome a single glance.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet precious baby,” said Opal, picking up the tiny bundle of fur and kissing the top of her head. “Are you happy mommy is home? Are you? Of course you are!”

The cat suffered the treatment stoically, and then produced a single meow.

“I’ll bet she’s hungry,” said Opal. “Won’t you all come in? I had dinner prepared.”

The second limo, which had parked behind the first one, had already disgorged its passengers, and the small company now made its way inside, followed by four cats, who seemed less than excited to enter. The sight of Prunella had clearly put them off, and Odelia thought she could guess why. As lady of the manor, Prunella wouldn’t enjoy welcoming intruders into her house, and cats can be quite vicious when unwelcome visitors trespass on what they consider their own personal territory.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she encouraged them to enter. “You’re all welcome here.”

“Prunella didn’t look happy,” said Dooley. “In fact she looked downright hostile.”

“That’s just your imagination, Dooley,” said Odelia. “She didn’t look hostile to me. In fact I think she’s happy to know that you’re all here to help her precious human.”

“I’m not so sure,” muttered Max, but they still followed her inside. A liveried servant closed the door, and when she glanced back she thought he looked about a hundred.

They were led into a large dining room, where the furniture was all dark mahogany, the chairs overstuffed, and the carpets high-pile and expensive. The walls were bedecked with pictures illustrating Opal’s illustrious career. And as Odelia studied the glossy framed photos, she could see the road Opal had traveled from lowly local reporter, not unlike Odelia herself, to who she was now: one of the richest women in the country, and definitely one of the most famous and respected.

“Let’s eat!” Opal cried, clapping her hands. “A table!”

Odelia happily complied, the rumble in her stomach indicating her body might still be on East Coast time, but her stomach was definitely ready for a West Coast meal.

Chapter 7

As the humans sat down for dinner, we were led into the kitchen where presumably we could enjoy our own meal. At least if that fierce-looking feline would permit it.

One of the servants led us along a corridor and into a large kitchen that looked as if it had been built specifically according to Nancy Meyers’s instructions. The movie director could have filmed her next picture there, possibly starring Meryl Streep or Diane Keaton, and she wouldn’t have had to change a thing. Gleaming marble countertops, gorgeous wooden cabinets, two gigantic kitchen islands, and light streaming in through French windows leading out onto a stone terrace with wrought-iron table and chairs… Nice!

“The cats are here,” announced the servant who’d accompanied us, and then promptly disappeared again.

Behind the stove, a woman was stirring a big pot. She was large and wholesome-looking, with cherry-colored cherubic cheeks. Next to her, seated on a kitchen stool, sipping a glass of some dark-colored liquid I suspected was port, sat a liveried middle-aged server. His cheeks were red, too, but not as an indication of health, but of the quantity of port he’d already imbibed.

“I don’t like it, Helga,” said the guy, frowning into his drink. “I don’t like it one bit.”

“Hey, that’s your line, Dooley,” I quipped.

“You’re right,” said Dooley good-naturedly. “He stole my line.”

“Well, like it or not, it is the way it is,” said Helga, still stirring that steaming pot as if her life depended on it.

“Don’t tell them a damn thing, you hear?” said the guy, a note of menace in his voice. “Not a single word.”

“My lips are sealed,” said Helga.

“And you better tell that boyfriend of yours to keep his big trap shut. I’ll know if he blabbed.”