Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (16 page)

Temple was one up on the other contestants.

As a media person, she'd heard of the bizarre tragedy that had made this place the house that no one wanted to own. The builder had been Arthur Dickson, a reclusive
techno-geek who'd wired it for every media known to
man at the time and filled it with high-tech toys and Elvis
trivia. He'd gotten married here to a former showgirl and mother of a young daughter, who reportedly topped him
by six inches. . . . Of course, the marriage disintegrated
in a haze of vindictive heat over sex and money. During
the trial separation, the wife and stepdaughter got the
house.

It ended with a big shoot-out one night. When it was over, the stepdaughter was seriously maimed, caught in the crossfire; the showgirl-wife had been shot in the
shoulder, her male friend had been killed, and the hus
band had vanished.

Since then, no one had seen Arthur Dickson, the man who'd bought and rebuilt this mansion in tribute to Elvis.
He was presumed dead. A second cousin had later
brought suit charging that his body had been spirited
away, because after seven years his estate had reverted to the wife and he had been declared dead.

So Temple approached this house with the notion that
it had best served its history when it had been a funeral parlor, not the set for a frivolous TV program.

The doorbell pealed out "You Ain't Nothin' But a
Hound Dog.”

It reminded Temple that Dickson had been an Elvis
nut. The place boasted a grotto outside the pool fit for a mass burial. But Graceland it was not. This house had apurely Las Vegas mystique, from the copper-domed four-story towers along the sprawling façade to the rumored wine cellar vault in the bowels of an unusual Las Vegas real estate feature, a basement.

Temple edged into the entry hall, not knowing what to expect but ready for anything.

At least Xoe Chloe was.

Chapter 17

Mr. Chaperon

Imagine the Taj Mahal with a copper roof and a six-car
garage and you have a pretty good idea of what the
Arthur Dickson house looks like.

As my Miss Temple in her new outré garb vanishes
inside, its white stucco walls shimmer in the midday
Las Vegas sunlight like a whited sepulcher. Wait! I have
a more topical simile. It shimmers like those Da Vinci
dental veneers you see on the queen of TV makeover
shows,
The Swan.
I bet old Leonardo himself is rolling
over in his sarcophagus in Italy to hear how his name is being bandied about in everybody's upscale mouth
these days. Fame is one thing; foolishness is another.

Speaking of foolishness a wee bit closer to home, it
is more than somewhat clear to me that if my Miss
Temple is not acting her age, I need to be on the scene
from the get-go to keep her little masquerade from
turning dangerous.

So I enter the place with the film crew, who are oblig
ingly loaded with so many long aluminum equipment
boxes that a crocodile could slink in at their ankles and they'd never notice.

Make that one svelte black puddytat, and not even Tweety Bird would notice little moi.

I cannot imagine how my expedition has escaped the notice of my nosy partner in crime solving, Miss
Midnight Louise, my wannabe daughter, but so far I am
solo on this case and relishing the peace and quiet.
This joint is so grandiose that it is easy for me to slip
around wherever I feel like it. The floors are all marble
or wood but my tootsies come stocking shod when I
want them to. I skate over the shiny surfaces like a
shadow glimpsed out of the corner of someone's eye.

I overhear one of the tech guys joking that the place
is supposed to be haunted by an Elvis imitator's ghost.

Better and better. Elvis and I have a noncompetition
agreement when it comes to haunting. And any unto
ward noise I might make is likely to be taken for an unearthly phenomenon.

I check out the kitchen first, because . . . oh, just because. Without Miss Louise on my tail demanding ex
planations for my every move, I am free to do as I
please.

Wow. This place is huge. You could hold basketball
games in the kitchen, which has three huge stainless-
steel Sub-Zero fridges big enough to stash a limou
sine's worth of bodies. Basketball-player-size bodies.

With the black granite countertops and black marble
floors, this is not the kind of kitchen that tolerates the
errant crumb. I see that I will have to do some creative cadging to provide my own meals during my stay here.

I eyeball the back yard, which has all the comforts of
your average five-star health club . . . pools, spas, air-conditioned exercise pavilions, distant athletic courts, none of them the sort of facility I would care to spend a
minute in. Amazing how humans have to force them
selves to physical action when my kind knows that
sleeping twenty hours a day is the key to a healthy
lifestyle.

In fact, I stretch out in the sun for a few minutes and
someone coos and the next thing I know a camera is
framing my lissome figure in its single eye.

“
He must come with the property," a camerawoman
says. "This place is so big and bland, it'll be nice to
have a little animal interest to focus on."

“When we are not close up and personal on all these teen sluts," a guy answers.

'They are not sluts. This is a very life-affirming pro
gram," she says indignantly.

Like most indignation, it is lost on her hearer, a cameraman with a world-weary attitude.

“
These reality shows are just a new network twist on
T and A. You do remember T and A programming? And
I do not mean Transit Authority. Back in the eighties.
Jiggle shows. About the only life-affirming activity
around here will be all those Ts and As getting exer
cised to within an inch of their lives and being uplifted
into prime shape. Looks like your new pal the cat could
use a little time on the treadmill, and maybe a shave
and a haircut.”

I honor the crass slob with a hiss and a glare.

“
See. He heard you! Animals are amazingly sensi
tive to human emotions."

“
That was not a human emotion. That was a profes
sional opinion.”

A reeking boot swings at my mug. The smell almost knocks me over, though the boot never even grazed a
whisker. Humans have no idea how overwhelming
ground-level odors are.

“
Watch your sneaky step, kitty. If you try to steal a
scene and get in the way of my camera, you will be
shredded cabbage.”

I do not deign to tell him I have kung fu moves that
would make Jackie Chan look like he was standing still
and whistling Dixie.

Let them underestimate you.

The woman coos at me and stands guard, arms
folded, until the creep takes his hand-held camera and leaves.

“
Poor fellah," she says, bending down to pat my
head. "Dick really lives up to his name. He's a good cameraman but pretty pathetic in the public relations department.”

I hate to say it but during her solicitous gesture I get
a really good view of T and A. Luckily, they do not at
tract in my case unless fully furred.

I give her a short appreciative purr, rise, and go back
inside while the sliding kitchen door is still ajar, exhal
ing morgue-cold air-conditioning on a desert world. At
least there is no icky orange scent here to banish the
odor of decay. Yet.

There are four ways upstairs: the front stairs, which re
semble those at the Paris Opera House for marble-
paved elegance, and the back stairs, which are plain unvarnished wood, steep and twisty, and intended for servants, or at least mothers-in-law. Then there is the
elevator, which is way too small for me to easily blend in with the human passengers, and the silent butler in
the kitchen, a capacious box open on one side, which
operates at the push of a button and has shadowy re
cesses. Think of it as a large litter box set sideways and
in upward and downward motion. Or a mini-elevator for domestics. Or domestic cats. I do.

I press the button with my strong right mitt and hop
aboard. Soon, it wafts upward. I press toward the back
of the box, like a lizard in a mailbox (a common phe
nomenon in this climate). When the mechanism stops,
I peek out, find the upper hall empty, and thump down
to the floor.

More wood.

In an hour, I have made a quick tour of about thirty-
five bedroom-with-bath suites. This place is built like a
bed-and-breakfast for Attila the Hun and accompany
ing Mongol horde.

Only once during my tour did anything untoward
happen.

It was in bedroom number fourteen, I think. I was
nosing around the perimeter when I noticed some un
opened high-end luggage in the room, all in pink high-
denier and all bearing the cursive initials S. A.

Of course, I naturally think of South America and
wonder if Charo is in residence, speaking of T and A, or about to be. But then, as I backed away to the wall
when I realized the room could be occupied at any
time, I rear-ended my way into an impediment.

A somewhat wishy-washy impediment but an imped
iment nevertheless.

I whirl to face it and find myself confronting another
pervasive pink canvas bag, except this one has a fa
miliar look. And there is a familiar name emblazoned
on it. Yvette.

My heart stops and does a double-axel somewhere
two feet above the floor.

I inhale the rich, perfumed scent of the Divine Yvette.
She is not here at the moment but she has been, and
will be again.

What a lucky break! I can protect my Miss Temple
from fire, flood, and overexposure on national televi
sion and still pursue my courtship of Miss Savannah
Ashleigh's pampered Persian siren at one and the
same time.

I tiptoe out of the divine chamber, branding its loca
tion on my brain. Now to lay low until ail the players are
in place and I can be about my quiet and stealthy
work . . . and, as it happens, play.

Chapter 18

Pretty Putrid
in Pink

Despite the bravado of Temple's Rollerblading arrival at
the Teen Queen Castle, she had hit the moment that made
her quail: orientation.

This was like joining a sorority in public. Not only was
Xoe Chloe not sorority material in any reality, but Temple
herself was known by several of the show's officials. Was
her pre-makeover makeover good enough to fool them?

Max had always said brazen was the best disguise. She
was about to find out.

The contestants assembled in the large and impressive
library, good enough to serve as a set for the mystery
board game Clue.

There, the organizers informed them that they were twenty-eight of the most promising young ladies ever assembled and would be working with the celebrity judges and coaches to bring out their true potential.

Temple wasn't sure if this was an all-girl version of
The
People's Court
or an NFL draft. In addition, Hollywood's most hailed hair and makeup artists, personal trainers and
wardrobe consultants would oversee their transformation into fully gorgeous, empowered young women.