A Month in the Colonies

By Pringle McCloy

‘British Heiress Sophie is a Shrew’ the London tabloids scream when her husband runs back to his mistress. “Who could blame him’? Humiliated, yet again, Sophie escapes to Canada on a house exchange adventure only to share a haunted mansion with a Mafioso princess, a belligerent house boy, a horrid buffalo of a cat, and myriad ghosts. Yes, she has been conned but is not above becoming a con-artist herself. In this sequel to WOMAN COMING SOON, Sophie must deal with deceit, betrayal, and fear of the paranormal. Can her sharp mind and quick wit see her through? Pinto is back, this time as Sophie’s accomplice while she struggles to punish those who have wronged her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pringle McCloy
• Release date: Jun 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370924028

Pringle McCloy

English major. Teacher. Tutor. My interest in mysteries began early in life after discovering a pile of Mickey Spillane novels in my dad’s library. I was taken with tough-guy detective, Mike Hammer, who then led me to Raymond Chandler’s PI, Philip Marlow, and so on. Chandler’s Marlowe and my Charlie Hampton have a lot in common but you’ll have to read THE JACK IN A BOX to see the similarity. Both are tough guys who take their whiskey straight and women tall. THE JACK IN A BOX was written while I was living and working in coastal Vancouver and is the setting for the novel. In the sequel, RETURN OF THE JACK, Jack is the same old shady, underworld figure, off to Beijing for more trouble with the Triad. Third in the series, POSSIBLY JACK AGAIN, is set in Santa Ana, California, where Jack follows Charlie to hopefully help find his own grandson who may have met with foul play. Fourth in the series, JACK THE KEEPER is posted now. Enjoy! J. Pringle contributes too with WOMAN COMING SOON and A MONTH IN THE COLONIES, the sequel. THE TAMING OF SAMANTHA ROE is now posted. All three chick lit novels are a lot of fun.

Book preview

Prologue

In retrospect, it hardly matters whether it was providence, karma or pure bad luck that led me on a fateful journey. As I recall, it was only after my husband decided to run off with my money that I dared to contemplate a house exchange abroad. Escapism is my forte, although it was a blog that caught my attention. The blog read: unlike the bone-chilling winters in London, winters in Toronto are dry. People here wholeheartedly support the seal hunt and own three furs each to prove it. Really? What had I to lose?

Everything, actually. While Google Earth had taken me to a posh place in Forest Hill, a mansion surrounded by trees, what it neglected to say was that the nice Nigerian man who’d promised it up didn’t actually live there. No, he was now living in my house in Kensington, cleaning out the silver. And the nasty little bloke who met me at the door of his Toronto residence was not Jack Black.

If you’re not the new cook go away, he barked. And take your twenty-seven hundred ratty suitcases with you.

The little troll stood squarely planted before me, two hostile hands poised in my direction. A shock of yellow hair sprouted from the top of his head and beneath a furrowed forehead two piercing blue eyes sliced through me like a chainsaw. He looked hilarious, really, squeezed into a purple spandex jumpsuit and with fuzzy pink slippers anchoring him to the floor.

They’re not ratty, I said defensively. A bit dusty, perhaps. It was a dusty trip.

His narrow upper lip curled into a snarl. Are you the new cook or are you not the new cook?

I drew myself to my full 1.63 metres. Not the cook. I am the house sitter. From the blog.

He shot me a quizzical look. The Blog? Where exactly is The Blog? Poland?

After a rousing discussion on the likelihood of my gaining access to his Forest Hill home I was forced to face a horrible truth. I’d been duped. And so much for dry winters in Toronto. Rain poured from the marble canopy and went gushing down the driveway to the gutters in the street. Being a fast thinker I weighed my options. I could either stand there shaking like an electric chair victim or order a taxi to The Four Seasons Hotel. As a third option, I could cry and beg – if not for Yellow Head’s tightly-clenched teeth. Plan B. I’d come for adventure, had I not? Although I could return to my creaky old mansion at any time and try to oust the poacher, I chose otherwise.

In the UK I’m known as a marvelous cook. A Nigella Lawson of sorts.

He shrugged.

A Julia Child?

He nodded. Julia he’d heard of.

I just might be the person you’ve been looking for.

I doubt it. He was openly analyzing me. You have a lot of hair for a cook. You look like a white Diana Ross. With freckles. Do you happen to sing?

I wanted to clunk him on the head. I don’t actually wear my hair like this. It’s the rain that’s done it to me.

How old are you? Twelve?

I’m thirty. Although it’s none of your business.

He opened the door wide. Well, you have nice brown eyes so bring in your bags while I put you through the test.

Oh, oh. A test. Now he’d know that I only burned water and that I had a cook of my own who was likely serving up the Nigerian on the silver tray I inherited from my mum, perhaps even propositioning him. In the days to come I would learn many lessons in Canada. I’d learn from a yellow-haired man named Rocco (Joseph at birth), a Mafia princess named Victoria, a conniving orange cat called Suki, and from a grocery chain called Loblaw’s, with its magical President’s Choice. Surviving in outer space as a cook may well be worth starting a blog over, I was thinking. A Month in the Colonies, I’d call it . If I lasted that long.

Mental Note for Blog.

Spaceship Millennium Sparrow safely docked at colony. Met by rude officious alien. Brochure misleading. Canadians not friendly. Are wiry little creatures with yellow hair and sharp teeth. Pale complexion thus the nickname ‘Pinky.’ Will not stay a light year as originally planned. Already powering up. Spacewarp? Fark.

Chapter One

Red Flag. The man who called himself Rocco backed into the house, toppling over himself with audacity, while I collected my twenty-seven hundred ratty suitcases and traipsed along behind. Such chivalry! I followed the bootie-shaking Rocco through a grand foyer, up a flight of winding stairs, across a hallway as long as Yonge Street, then down the same dramatic staircase on the opposite side of the house. Loaded down like a donkey I didn’t see the fun.

Road trip! he announced with a degree of sarcasm. Your room is on the main floor at the back of the house.

How very kind of you!

No problem. You’re a little chunky so any form of exercise will likely do you good.

He was testing me all right. If only I’d hired that personal trainer I’d vaguely thought about. I huffed and puffed. Chunky? Chunky? Why, because water to me is for quenching a thirst and not a complete diet? Because I am a real woman? I ranted on.

Sorry, hon. Women are of no interest to me at all. Chunky or otherwise. So hitting on me will get you absolutely nowhere.

Right. I had every intention of hitting on the arrogant little twerp. Big deep breath. I can’t imagine why I’d hit on you, sir. You’re about as charming as a rattlesnake and you look like a canary. Eek. Where did that come from? Where was the polite British girl my mother had begrudgingly raised? Was I going to get myself sacked before even getting started in my very first job?

Rocco laughed his head off. You’re funny, hon! But you’ll have to try harder if you want to offend me. Again he turned and prissily pranced away. Come on, sunshine, it’s time for you to meet the princess. Oh, and by the way, there’s no smoking in this house. Or on the grounds. Suki is allergic.

Great then. So much for the Pullman case of Silk Cuts. I followed Rocco into the kitchen where he proceeded to launch a crackling speech on renovations and of how top-flight Toronto designer, Brian Einstein, had transformed a dungeon. It was impressive, I had to admit: glossy mahogany cabinets with glass doors for exposing someone’s penchant for neat and tidy; glittery chandeliers dangling over a massive, granite-topped island upon which a great fat, orange cat loomed with authority.

This is Suki, Rocco said proudly, like he’d given birth to the monstrous thing. You can call her Suk or Suki but never Cat. She hates that. She doesn’t know she is one.

She wasn’t one actually. She was more like a hissing buffalo. How do you know that? Did she tell you verbatim that she’s not a cat?

Aren’t you the mouthy one! Just know this. Suki rules. She’s a rescued barn cat who can be quite fierce when challenged.

I see. So, I’m not to challenge the C-a-t.

You got it.

Suki took to hissing a warm welcome at me.

This is her domain, Rocco continued to drone. She lives on this island and she’s territorial. You’ll have to ease your way in gently.

You mean with a cleaver?

Rocco was essentially disinterested in further discussing conflict and resolution – that of woman and cat. Instead he twirled around tornado style and strutted to the open hallway. I’ll leave the two of you to bond then, Sophie, since you seem to enjoy trouble.

I’m allergic to cats, I yelled behind him. Every time I eat one I get sick! And to the cat, which was now on her feet hissing and arching her back in a horseshoe of defiance, I said, "CAT. C-a-t. And you are one by the way. I’ll even show you in the mirror."

She violently hissed.

And in the simplest of terms it’s either you or me, Cat. C-a-t! With that I frantically rummaged through the drawers for a weapon.

Log Book, Night, November 30

Space-cat-et? Walking carpet of a beast. Chewbacca, minus the loyalty factor. Suspect dandruff, even mynock’s nest, in coat. Attitude. High numbers for Star Wars between Madclaw and me. Will try to bring her back from the darkside but not holding breath. Need serious help from the force. Snark!

Chapter Two

In a panic I called the cook I’d inherited from my mom.

You realize it’s three a.m. here, Sophie? Potsy barked. Quarter past, actually. What could be so important as to wake me in the middle of the night?

It’s not the middle of the night for you, Pots. You’re up at 5 a.m. It’s almost morning for you in London.

Haven’t you done enough?

Eek! I was in trouble.

Your Nigerian is a bully. He orders me around like a servant.

What? Potsy Higgins a servant? She’d be all over him like London fog. How’s that? I asked in a small voice.

Well, barely had he moved his things in before he started ordering me around. Do this. Do that.

I smiled. And what did you say to that?

You know what I said, Sophie. I told him to put it in his pipe and smoke it. Just not in the house. No smoking in the house. And no bloody orders thrown at me either. Naturally I told him that I’d cook as I usually do and if he didn’t like it, well… Edward had manure in the garden. He could eat that.

Manure, you said? Very polite.

Yes, well. I actually said shit.

I giggled. Shit? You say that so perfectly, Pots. The beginning of a sonnet, really.

She cleared her throat. "I’m on my way to the kitchen to make tea. I assume, you see, that you’re wanting something from me, Sophie. You always do. There is an annoying prodding in the back of my head that’s saying ‘Sophie wants something. She always does. She has the word favour in her voice."

I could picture her traipsing down the hallway, her face fresh above the floral flannel nightgown she’d be tripping over. Her soft grey curls would be held secure, since she put them to bed beneath a net.

Well? she demanded. She was clanking around the kitchen running water into a teakettle and shouting overtop the noise. Well?

Well… I said, stalling.

Spit it out.

Tread softly, Sophie. Well, it seems the house exchange here has gone badly.

Silence.

Yes, well. It appears that our house sitter in London is not exactly legal. He’s conned me, actually.

There wasn’t a breath.

It isn’t exactly his house, you see. He offered up somebody else’s home in Toronto, I’m afraid. I’m afraid I didn’t properly check it out.

Smack! Kilometres across the Atlantic I could feel the force of the blow. My arse stung. Aren’t you going to say something?

No. I’ve just walked to my desk in the kitchen to read the contract you’ve signed. I’ll take it to your solicitor tomorrow but your squatter just may have rights, you see. He just may have rights to stay here for the entire month as you signed for.

But he tricked me!

Shame on you. The law doesn’t actually support fools.

The good old Potsy zing. I’m in a bit of a pickle.

Lovely. Lovely. Come home then and share your lovely historic home with Napoleon. You know, the Berkshire pig. George Orwell and all. It’s what I call him behind his back.

Are you frightened to be alone with him?

I said pig, not psychopath. He’s not smart enough to be diabolical. Although he outsmarted you.

Thanks. I needed that. And I don’t want to come home just yet. I left there depressed and came on an adventure, as you well know. I’d like to finish off my month as I originally planned. But there’s just one small catch.

Yes. There always is. Dare I ask?

Yes, you dare. Heavy pause. I’ve signed on here as cook. It’s the only way they’d let me stay.

That did it. Her laughter likely caused a tidal wave. You did what? You did what?

The cat was eyeing me up like dinner now and growling.

I’m cook here.

Suki shook her huge horrid head. ‘Not going to happen,’ she implied.

Potsy couldn’t stop laughing. Bully! Bloody bully for you! You can’t even make tea.

Can too.

When?

When you went on holiday.

When I go on holiday my replacement from the agency makes the tea. Good try, though. Any more sad attempts?

Stalemate. I guess my goose is cooked, then.

That’s hilarious, Sophie! Do you not see the irony? You can’t even cook your own goose!

Exactly what I needed. A comedian. I need your help.

And there would be something new in that?

Could you just email me some of your recipes, please? Not the complicated ones, naturally. Simple ones. Good basic food.

I could. But as I recall, you never took Greek in school. And absolutely any recipe in my repertoire would be Greek to you.

Ta. I really appreciate it.

You’ll owe me. Since I’ll have to explain absolutely everything. Hmm… Let me see. Take a pot from the cupboard. Turn the tap on. Run the water into the pot. Take the potatoes from the pantry, then take them out of the bag. How many are you cooking for, Sophie?

Only two for now. The homeowner is away at present so there’s just the two of us, Chauffeur and myself. Rocco dines out when Victoria is away.

Well! Rocco! An Italian. I hope he’s handsome.

Very. And very gay. Homosexual, really. Not merrily skipping around as the word means to you. Oh, and there’s a rather large cat sitting here on the kitchen island. Fierce, too. Her name is Suki and she’s territorial. Any advice on that?

A cat, you say? In the kitchen? Cat hair! Get rid of her, Sophie.

Suki growled.

It’s not that simple. This is her domain. I’m the intruder, you see. And she doesn’t like me one bit.

She thought about it. Cat treats. Catnip. Arsenic.

Thanks a lot. And thanks for the recipes, Pots.

Even as I said the words my heart sank. I was floundering, certainly, but not without resources. Before climbing into bed in my cozy quarters at the back of the house I sent out the Facebook alarm. ‘Save poor Sophie who is buggered in the colonies and totally screwed’. As luck would have it, then, just before I was dozing off my iPhone rang.

Sophie! said a voice from the past. It’s Sarah. Sarah Richards. Surely you remember me?

Surely I did. Sarah had been the biggest bully in boarding school and not exactly a beauty, as hedgehogs go. Sarah, I said hesitantly. I do remember you, yes.

I understand through mutual friends that you’re learning to cook. A little late, don’t you think?

Somewhere in the back of my head the Cordon Bleu Culinary School and Sarah Richards clanged thunderously together. Might this be the woman to save me? If you believed in