Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (25 page)

I, of course, had remained cleverly concealed, listen
ing in with my awesome radial antennae (i.e., pointed
little ears) when my Miss Temple and little Miss Mariah discussed the defacement of their bathroom mirror.

Now, I am not much for mirrors, though I long ago
figured out that the suave gentleman in black I
glimpsed in them was merely my own self. Many of my kind are convinced they are viewing twin littermates. These benighted sorts are not candidates for more sophisticated roles in human society, such as shamus.

As an ace gumshoe, I immediately decided I needed
more inside operatives and must call on the Ashleigh
girls.

I did say "girls," did I not? I have already discovered
that they are well acquainted with mirrors but are
among the deluded type who mistake their own image for a rival (although a bewitchingly attractive rival) for their mistress's affections. It is bad enough that there
are the two of them. Luckily, both are inverse images of
each other, so they will never mistake a sister for a
twin. If that makes any sense.

I paw their bedroom door, shivs politely retracted.
That subtle sound, rather like a steel brush hissing
across a snare drum skin, instantly perks up the ears
of my kind. It has the advantage of sounding like some
leaf blowing along a sidewalk, a phenomenon univer
sally ignored by
Homo sapiens.

And speaking of
Homo sapiens,
surely Miss Savan
nah Ashleigh must be the sappiest around.

So, in a moment, a curled soot foot is pushed under
the door frame and then come tempting little jiggles of
the door, abetted by my leaping to apply my weight
near the doorknob until the catch springs ... and out
through a narrow opening push the pretty-in-pink
noses of the Persian sisters.

When I compliment them on their pink proboscises,
they feign ignorance of the word "proboscis" and state
that the breed standard for their kind's noses is the
color rose.

So a rose nose is a rose nose is a rose nose, but
plain old pink in my book.

Once in the hall and over our terminology debates, I
explain that what I need is not noses, of whatever
shade you want to call them, but eyes and ears.

“Quite right, Louie," Yvette says with a shaded silver brush along my side. "Noses are a canine sense: loud, snuffly, and vulgar. We can see and hear without being seen and heard, in perfect silence."

“
I agree," say I, "especially about the perfect part.”

behind us, Solange makes discreet retching noises.
It may be the common malady of a hair ball, or it may
be an editorial comment.

I know better than to be caught between them. That
would be like being the Jack of Spades sandwiched
between the Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Dia
monds. Lunch meat.

I tell my new staff about the latest Zorro attack: evil words on a bathroom mirror.

“
Our mistress writes in the steam on the bathroom
mirror all the time," Solange offers.

“Indeed. You would say she is a skilled graffiti artist then?"

“
I would say," Yvette puts in, with a corrosive glance
at her sister, "that family secrets are family secrets.
She writes down the phone numbers of her various gentleman friends so she does not forget them."

“Why would she not use a little black book, or a computer?" I wonder.

“Blackmail," Solange purrs thrillingly. 'Too easy to access. The tabloids are always stalking her.”

I do not point out that they do so because Miss Savannah Ashleigh always provides them with useful opportunities, such as sunbathing in the nude with Yvette and her litter of unwanted kittens. The tabloids got a lascivious closeup of Yvette nursing with Miss Savannah Ashleigh's bare anklebone in the background that time.

“We could use some tabloid photographers on these crime scenes," I point out. "The only cameras here are indentured to the producers. They will either be suppressed so the show can go on, or . . . even more devi
ous, the show planned these disruptions and this is a
Fear Factor
pattern rather than a makeover pattern."

“What is a makeover?" Yvette asks with touching curiosity.

“
Humans," I explain, "do not all come with luxurious
coats of fur, airy whiskers, dainty limbs, kaleidoscope
eyes, and expressive tails. Many of them are handi
capped from birth. Hence their need to remake them
selves in a better image."

“
Poor things!" Solange cries.

“
But our own," I point out. "I am sure you wish to
serve Miss Savannah Ashleigh as much as I do my
Miss Temple."

“But, Louie." The Divine Yvette's voice rises to an imperious tone. "Your Miss Temple is not here.”

Ooops.

“
That is correct, Yvette. As usual, your perceptions
are formidable. However"—I am thinking, thinking,
thinking—"however, little Miss Mariah is here, and she is not only an acquaintance of my Miss Temple, but in
my own view, she and her mother, a noted law en
forcement personality in this town, are to be com
mended for adopting a pair of"—here I gaze soulfully
at Yvette—"striped homeless kittens last fall. In my own view.”

A silence holds. Yvette unwillingly bore a litter of yel
low striped cats once erroneously purported to be
mine. They were given up for adoption, naturally, once
the tabloid interest had died down. I cannot believe
that Yvette is indifferent to those who adopt striped nobodies.

She sniffs. I cannot tell if it is the usual French sniff,
as is used to dismiss an inferior wine, or a snuffle, as is used to record a deep but unacknowledged emotion.

“I understand, Louie," she says finally. "Your devotion to the underdog does you credit.”

Hmmm. This is an edged compliment at best but I let
it pass.

“
Yvette and I," Solange agrees in the flash of an
eyelash, "will happily aid you in protecting the Mariah kitten.”

Hallelujah! It is not easy to turn purebred Persians
into legmen. Er, leg ladies. And I certainly expect a lot
less back sass than I get from Midnight Louise. Having
claimed
to
be my relative, she is therefore free
to
call
me anything she likes.

Devoted is not on that list, along with a lot of other
sterling qualities.

Chapter 28

Contingency
Plan

"I'm glad Old Cold Marble isn't calling in the police," Mariah said. "My mom would be all over this place, and I'd be outed.”

She was sitting on the bedroom carpet with Temple, leaning glumly against the end of the bed and facing the door.

They'd decided to do their own guard duty. Light from one of the bedside lamps cast a soft campfire glow on the lavish furnishings.

“Why does someone hate the contestants so much?" Mariah asked after awhile.

“Let's see. It could be one of us."

“No way! Why would anyone ruin her one chance at fame and fortune?"

“
Fame and fortune, my latest Lash 'n' Flash eyeliner!
Did you read the contest rules? All the contestants get is a
non-invasive makeover and a few new clothes. That
doesn't begin to offset the fortune your mom paid for
your Teen Queen clothes. So the two division winners get
a highly chaperoned date with some boy band has-been and a few more new clothes and a rhinestone crown you can get at a dozen outlets in Vegas. So what?"

“And a car!"

“
And a car. A really sexy Dodge Neon, sure. Don't you
have three years to go before you could drive it anyway? That's forever in Teen Time."

“Two and a half years. Then I get a learner's permit." Mariah's dark glance slid toward Temple. "You're one to sniff at a car. I've seen that red Miata you drive. You got
yours. And you can diss boy band guys. I hear you have a
real Bad Boy on the string."

“Really? Exactly how did you hear that?"

“It's a small house. I can't help overhearing things. I
heard my mom and her friend Matt talking about him
once. Max." Mariah slid her another glance. "He sounds cool.”

And lately Max was being way too cool, Temple
thought. "Your mom's mistaken about Max."

“She's not usually wrong about her job."

“
She's wrong this time. Max is not a criminal. He's
just a magician. Sometimes they act similar."

“All I know is my mom doesn't much think about men but he's sure got her paddle holster in a snarl."

“So. You see a lot of Matt at your place?"

“Some." Mariah picked at a fleck of nail polish on her thumb cuticle. "He's a little old to be in a boy band but he sure is cute. My mom says I can ask him to my father-daughter dance at school. The other girls would be so fried!”

This bit of news offered Temple two opportunities for choking on her next words: surprise that Matt was becoming a domestic fixture at Casa Carmen Molina, orhorror that poor Mariah didn't know that the man actually
entitled to escort her to the father-daughter dance was
right here at the Teen Queen Castle right now, doing surveillance.

“Are you falling asleep yet?" Mariah asked.

Not after this discussion. No way. "No. But we do need
to get some rest. Why don't you try to sleep and I'll
watch? Then we can switch."

“By then it'll be morning," she said.

“Yeah. That's okay. Dark circles around my eyes just save me applying my Smudge Pot kohl eyeliner in the
morning. Nothing like lost sleep and hollow eyes to make
a modern girl look hip and interesting."

“Add enforced starvation." Mariah tilted her head to listen to her tummy growl.

“Now you got the program!”

Kids were amazing. Mariah was off to sleep sitting up before Temple could count to thirteen.

That left Temple on guard duty, and therefore free to brood.

Matt was taking Mariah to the school father-daughter dance? Max was a topic of Molina household discussion, and not in flattering terms?

Temple was feeling decidedly like the odd woman out with everyone she knew. Xoe Chloe, the rebellious loner, began to seem less like a role and more like a dose of reality.

Temple sighed deeply, wondering what was going on
in her life, and if she would be the last to know.

Screeches two decibels lower than a klaxon in pitch
and strength ripped down the hallway outside their bedroom door.

Mariah awoke, as punchy as a toddler having a nightmare.

Temple was on her feet. "Stay here! I mean it. Sit.
Down. Freeze.”

She sprinted out the door, paused to identify the direction of the god-awful noise, and raced left.

Their room was near the end of the wing housing a
third of the contestants, so she wasn't surprised to hear vague buzzes and shuffles behind her.

The guttural cries and high-pitched shrieks ahead
never faded.

Temple charged through the ajar door between her and the unceasing hullabaloo.

Lights were glaring but everybody in the room was still
blinking, so Temple had to assume the lights had just
been turned on an instant before her arrival.