Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (19 page)

Everyone else stopped cold in the hot Las Vegas sun,
frowning into their hot pink sweat bands, but Temple/Xoe
just had to step forward and count:
Die, you damn heartless bitches!

Twenty-eight letters exactly, counting the punctuation
marks. Twenty-eight little candidates all in a row.
Someone was a perfectionist.

Chapter 20

Whipped
Scream

You have not lived until you have seen the Las Vegas
crime scene investigation folks (now famed on TV)
photographing twenty-eight hot-pink yoga mats with
whipped cream pooling on them in the sun.

By the time that they, and I, have been alerted and
are on the scene, the colorful language, laid out one
letter and/or punctuation mark to a mat, has melted
enough that the
b
in "bitches" looks more like a side
ways
w.
The authorities have to take the witnesses'
word for it as to the original intention.

I, however, have to take no one's word, and never
do. That is why I am such an ace detective. I am incor
ruptible. I must admit, though, that the whipped cream
was a temptation too yummy to leave untasted. I was
alone on the scene then. My Miss Temple, aka Xoe
Chloe for the nonce, had been shepherded indoors to
await the police, along with everybody else. Human,
that is. Or what passes for it on reality TV. The show se
curity staff, i.e., bronzed gods in loin cloths, were ar
rayed along the doors to the pool area, facing inside to
keep twenty-eight agitated candidates and assorted
staff members from messing up the scene of the culi
nary crime.

So I was free to explore on my own.

The first thing my shameless taste test discovered
was that the whipped cream was not even beaten. It
was, in fact, a particularly soapy shaving cream, one
that offered a full-bodied texture and a risqué and
amusing hint of mint.

Not my vintage, thank you. And I thank Bast that I am not required to shave. It would be a full-time job.
My unstunted white whiskers—vibrissae to the
cognoscenti at the vet's office—were double-dipped in
fluffy white after my explorations, so I paused under a
bush to wash off the evidence.

Yuck! No wonder people wash out the mouths of
their sassy kits with soap. I would not even refer to a fe
male dog by the proper term after a close encounter
with this stuff.

I am clean-shaven as far as my kind is concerned
but fighting residual nausea when I notice that a cou
ple of curious cats have whiskered in on my action. Before I can throw my weight around and order them
away, I realize that both are of Persian extraction, and
one is of the sublime shade of platinum blonde known
as "shaded silver.”

I drop my laundry mitt and stand at attention with
every muscle in my body.

Although the sight of her personalized carrier told me the Divine Yvette would be on the premises, her
personal presence is still a potent form of shock and
awe. Not to mention also encountering her kittykin, for
the fulsome blonde of blended apricot, gold, and
cream shades is her shaded golden sister, the Sweet Solange.

No one told me the Shaded Sisters were part of the
deal.

I leap out from my place of concealment but natu
rally must play the brusque (though noble) crime scene guardian.

“
You there!" I cry as they are about to dip their dark
little tootsies in the
c
of the word formerly known as
"bitches.”

“Desist.”

Aqua-green and moss-green eyes circled in black
mascara regard me with calm surprise and no hint of obedience.

Seeing the pair of them side by side is the human
parallel of viewing a Jaguar XKE next to a Lamborgh
ini. Where is a guy to look first?

I should mention one of the most unusual and
charming aspects of the shaded Persian breed. Pale
as their silver and golden coats may be, the leather on
their persons—nose, eye surrounds, pads—is black, as are the hairs on the bottoms of their feet, which is
why I call them "soot foots." Purely to myself, you can
imagine. No Persian worth her pedigree would answer
to such a lowly description.

I trot over to enforce my order, for the females of my
kind are not the docile and downtrodden type.
Au contraire.

Hmmm.
I see the Divine Yvette's presence is the
usual bad influence already. I am starting to think in
French.

“
Bon jour,
girls," I say.

“
Hssss, les flics,"the
Divine One says, which is the
French equivalent of "Cheese it, the cops!”

(I should also make clear that the Divine Yvette is not
the slightest bit French, unless rubbing shoulders with
teacup poodles on Rodeo Drive makes her so. But she
likes to think that others think so. And they both bear
French names. Why people attempt to social climb via
their animal companions' names, I cannot tell you.)
Me, I was born nameless, and the street people
gave me my moniker, Midnight Louie. Fine with me. I
think every male on the planet is secretly a Louie, only
they just do not know it. Yet.

“
Ladies, ladies." I have arrived, panting slightly,
whether from haste or another, less conscious cause I
will not say.

“Louie! I did not expect to see you here." The Divine Yvette blinks her aquamarine orbs as if doubting the message they are sending her.

Miss Solange regards me with her usual expression, which is calm but devastating.

“I can understand that," I say, "but you can see crime has called me like a plate of lasagna calls Garfield."

“Please," Yvette sniffs, "do not mention that common yellow striper. He is not in our league."

“
No, of course not. He is a joke. But I must ask you
ladies to keep your delicate nails out of this fluffy white stuff. It is evidence that the Las Vegas Metropolitan Po
lice crime techs will soon
be"—hmm,
"sifting" does not
quite do it—"nosing around."

“
What an unfortunate lime odor." Yvette shakes a
dainty foot in demonstration.

“The brand is Razor's Edge," Solange adds.

I gaze into those mysterious and soulful eyes. Too
bad I am previously and seriously attached to her sis
ter Yvette, because this is one great big beautiful doll in
her own right. "How did you detect the brand?”

She sighs, which our kind does by looking sideways.

“
One of our mistress's . . . mates used it. Detestable
stuff! So declassé."

“
I do not think lime scent is `the classy' either. So
your mistress, Miss Savannah Ashleigh, is present
here? In what capacity?"

“
Our mistress," Yvette explains patiently, "does not
have any capacity whatsoever. You must have noticed
that in our previous mutual encounters.”

Unfortunately, "our previous mutual encounters"
were way too mutual. I am not one for three-ways, despite my roguish reputation. So most of my close en
counters with the Divine Yvette have meant her
air-head mistress was also present.

“
What has brought out Miss Solange on this occa
sion?" I ask, for I only met her formally once during our
separate but mutual jaunt to New York City and ad
agency shenanigans, back when Yvette and I were cat food commercial performers.

Ah, the lights. The cameras. The action.

“
Our mistress has been promoted," Solange ex
plains. "She is a judge now."

“
Miss Savannah Ashleigh, the low-amp of Savan
nah, is a judge? What are federal appointments com
ing to?"

“
A judge of the 'Tween and Teen Queen competi
tions," Yvette corrects me.

If one must be corrected, the Divine Yvette is the one to do it.

“
It is like
American Idol,"
Solange adds, "with a panel
of celebrity judges."

“More like
American Idle,"
I mutter. It is no secret that Miss Savannah Ashleigh has been living off the TV
commercial residuals of her feline companions rather
than her own efforts.

“
Our mistress is doing very well now," Solange says
in her defense. "Her old movies are now considered`camp' and she is having a career revival. So she has semiretired us and we both travel with her now.”

I bring up a sensitive subject with Yvette. "And what about the, ah, you know ... the patter of little paws?”

(I had been falsely accused of felonious littering dur
ing our last commercial assignment when the Divine
Yvette ended up expecting. However, my Miss Temple fought that charge tooth and fingernail in
The People's Court
and proved me innocent. Well, innocent of that particular outcome. The Divine Yvette proved to be the victim of attack when all her kits were born wearing the
stripes of my rival spokescat, the yellow-bellied Mau
rice.)

“
Oh, them." Yvette yawns. "They were forced upon
me and after birth were quickly allocated to other
homes.”

I glance at Solange. Apparently the maternal instinct can be a fleeting thing.

“
Poor Yvette," she answers indignantly. "Attacked
and left in an unwanted condition. Good homes were found."

“
They all came out yellow-striped," Yvette adds with
a shudder that sends all her fine silver hairs rippling.

I quite understand how an unwed mother might re
sent the resemblance of offspring to a foul attacker
but. . .

“Is there not a strain of Stripe in the Shaded line?" I ask. "Were not common tabbies responsible for the
Shaded's sublime black leather and faint tracery of
markings amid the fur that lends such a rich sheen to
the divine silver and gold?”

Yvette shrugs again. "Stripe is common. Black and
brown are the weediest variety of cat colors. If we have
any Stripe in us, it goes back countless generations
and therefore does not count.”

I did not mean to impugn the Shaded pedigree but
must take exception to her characterization of black
and brown, being of the very common House of Black
myself.

Solange addresses this before I can. "I am actually
the older type of Shaded Persian. There was a time
when kits of my ilk were tossed aside as unvalued
throwbacks. Fortunately, we are coming into new favor
and our more robust coloration is prized now, in the
show ring and out of it."

“Hear, hear!" I say, eyeing Solange with new appreciation.

There is a little bit of tabby in every cat, and particu
larly in every alley cat.

Yvette has wandered away during my mutual admi
ration society musings with Solange.

She is patting at something under a bush.