Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (42 page)

I soon also follow the hard narrow curl of electrical
cable along the seam of floor and wall. A high pinpoint
of red light freezes me for a moment. I think of the re
flective eyes of a cougar on a rock, ready to leap down
on me.

But further reflection convinces me the light only in
dicates the electric eye of a recording camera.

And then one wonders, why set up a camera to
record the action in a secret passageway? Someone
on the crew must have made a unilateral decision to
film the crew itself, who are the only persons who would have a reason to lurk back here.

Hmmm.

Like all nocturnal sorts, from vampires to skunks, I
find the dark only enhances my other senses. I sniff
the mixed scents of the grounds . . . bark chips,
leaves, sandy soil. Not unexpected. The technicians
who wired this place for 24/7 snooping would be the
same crew ranging from grounds to house, back and
forth.

There is one odd scent: a sweet, fruity one. Could it
be a trace of the Razor's Edge shaving spray that
clung unnoticed to a shoe sole? They put some awful
fragrances in human toiletries, possibly because most
people do not take daily sponge baths as we hipper
cats do.

I seem to be alone in these passages now but I sniff the presence of plenty of people coming and going. In
fact, as I turn a corner I spot a faint light.

I am not pleased to see it because that means that
someone might see me in this oversize air-
conditioning vent.

When a faint sound comes from around the next
bend I freeze like an ostrich. There is no hiding place in this purely functional conduit, not even the huge veiling
spider webs beloved of horror films. I unlatch my shivs
and practice snapping them in and out, in case I need
to resort to a kamikaze attack.

As I hunch there, ready for epic battle, the sound
that I hear begins to take on an air of familiarity. In fact,
it is a song half-sung under the breath. "Suspicious
Minds.”

Well, that fits this place to a T.

The mutterer in motion rounds the half-lit bend and I
view a human figure all in white, glowing like a ghost.

I am not a superstitious fellow, despite my breed and
color. It takes but three seconds for me to recognize
the Elvis impersonator judge who has been drilling the
singing candidates for their big debut. (Miss Kit Carl
son is handling the acting coaching and I am all atwit
ter over what my Miss Temple will come up with in the persona of Xoe Chloe.)
Anyway, the faux Elvis spots me and stops cold.
"Well, hello there, little fellow. Anything I can do for
you? Need a new Cadillac?”

Only for sharpening my shivs on genuine leather.

This is not the first time I have encountered the like
ness of Elvis Presley in this town. On some occasions,
I was even convinced I was seeing the real thing.

So I amble over and rub my nose on the brass studs
decorating the bell-bottoms on his jumpsuit. This is bet
ter than a sisal rope scratching post, let me tell you.

The costume, and the leg beneath it, are completely
solid, by the way.

“
You better git while the gittin' is good," the ersatz
Elvis advises. "This joint will be jumpin' with bad mojo
pretty soon.”

I manage to meow plaintively. I hate to meow plain
tively! It is the resort of cowards and kept cats! How
ever, at times I must play dumb.

Elvis bends down and scratches me behind the
ears, as if I were a hound dog. Red-neck dudes are al
ways more dog people than cat people. Their loss.

“
I am tellin' you, cat. You better whiplash your ass
outa here. Things are gonna get ugly.”

Now what does Elvis know about it?

I pause to stretch low and long, doing a floor-dusting
belly touch. Then yawn wide enough to swallow a Chihuahua.

Then I amble along past the dude and around the
corner he rode in on.

It is suddenly darker there. I have to wonder why the
light was following Elvis. Was that the real unreal thing? The ghost of rock 'n' roll? Or was it a pale imitation?

Either way, I do not like my recent dance in the dark
with an ambulatory Elvis one little bit. The moment my
vibrissae sense a stir of fresh air, I take a sharp run
ning right in that direction . . . and fall three feet down
onto a hard surface.

That does not give even a ninja a lot of time to do a double axel and land on his feet, spraying wood shav
ings like Tara Lipinski sprays ice splinters. Float like a butterfly, land like a lummox.

I barely manage to turn myself upright before I must
dig my shivs into a wooden roof.

Which then plummets below at a speed fast enough
to give my ears a Bing Crosby pin-back.

Landing is the bone-crunching shock I had antici
pated.

I cripple my way over the edge and flip upside down again, hanging by a half-torn nail sheath.

Even upside down I can see Miss Midnight Louise in
the night-lit glow of the kitchen where she is one with
the black marble floor except for the cynical gleam of
her old-gold eyes.

“
Could not resist a midnight raid on the icebox, eh,
Dad? Do not bother apologizing. There is some very
nice kipper a passing guest was kind enough to dig out
of the Sub-Zero for me. And did I manage to dig up
some dirt on the murder vic. Lose the death grip on the
silent butler, come on down, and we will chew the fat.
Yours, I hope.”

What can I say? Nothing. So I do not.

And thus I learn what my Miss Temple and her room
mate Mariah were up to in the Teen Queen Castle while I was communing with Elvis in the attic.

Chapter 47

Filing Their Nails

Temple and Mariah had played possum until the blondes'
lightning raid on their bathroom was well over. Temple quickly found the added can of purported hairspray and
tried it on a hand towel, which immediately turned as
shiny and shellacked as a decoupage project.

“
Liquid plastic spray," Temple diagnosed. "Those
witches wanted my new blonde hair turned into an impossible mess. Too bad we have serious work to do tonight, or X. C. would sneak in and adhere a few sleepy
blonde heads to their pillowcases. They're all feather-
heads anyway. But I have something else in mind to
night.”

They darted like dragonflies down the stairs to the first-floor hall, knowing where the cameras were positioned and trying to dodge them like bullets.

Mariah had insisted on coming along on this clue-
fishing expedition and Temple, frankly, needed a lookout.

Now they stood outside the door to Marjory Klein's
former office and Mariah was facing the first challenge of
her crime-solving life: crossing yellow crime scene tape.

You'd have thought she was Matt Devine being asked to commit a little mortal sin.

“I don't know, Xoe. We're not supposed to."

“'We're not supposed to.' Where would that have gotten Lewis and Clark?
Lois and Clark
for that matter. TV characters you're probably too young to remember."

“Am not. Reruns. They were almost hot."

“
Okay. 'We're not supposed to.' Where would that
have gotten—?"

“
Ah ... um . . . Reese Witherspoon in
Legally Blonde?”

“
Right. Well, I'm legally blonde now, and I say we
crash this party."

“
Huh?”

Temple ducked under the tape and donned the thin latex gloves that came with her hair-dye product. The pros had ignored them to use their own professional-quality pairs, so Temple had appropriated them against a future need. She pushed against and opened an unlocked door.

Surprise! The cops were really lax. Or someone else had been here.

Mariah followed her inside, acting like Dorothy in the haunted wood: scared. As if she thought Mama Molina
had some crystal-gazing globe that could follow her
every move. Probably did.

Temple flicked on the mascara wand–size flashlight
she always traveled with. A bright needle of light played over surfaces familiar to both her and Mariah.

“Too much to revisit?" Temple asked.

Mariah had insisted on accompanying her. Now the
dark empty room made the reality of sudden death a more
obvious deterrent than a thirteen-year-old might realize.

“
No. And yeah. I guess. That poor lady! She just
wanted me to do well."

“
We will do well. By her. She was the only consultant
who imported her own file cabinets. I wondered why
when I had my sessions with her. Let's take a look.”

First Temple scanned the room for hidden cameras and
mikes. She was getting good at spotting them. They'd
stockpiled cloth napkins at meals and now distributed
them around the room like demented waitresses. Over the
lamps, the power outlets, lighting fixtures.

Besides, they kept the room's lights off. Even if any cameras picked up intruders, they would be shadow puppets on a highly manipulated stage.

The file cabinets had always struck Temple because
they were the Steel Case sort: heavy metal, with locks. This office's decor was more wicker basket style. They were the two-drawer variety on wheels that's easily over
looked as mobile work surfaces. There were three of
them, all lockable.

That was the problem. Temple tried each one. Surprise.
These drawers were locked.

“We need the keys," she whispered to Mariah. "And they'll probably be hidden.”

Twenty minutes later, Temple had explored every
drawer and Mariah had finished her more imaginative search, usually up above or under something.

No keys.

“
Why didn't the police try the files?" Mariah wondered.

“
Probably thought they came with the office and had nothing to do with Marjory. But we've seen all the other
offices and no one else has these industrial-strength
things."

“Still, missing them is shabby police work."

“
Maybe the police checked them out and relocked
them, then."

“
If my mom had been on the scene, they'd have been shaken upside down. Why hasn't she shown up?”

“Probably to keep from ruining your big chance, re-
member? You made it pretty plain she wasn't to inter
fere."

“Yeah.”

This kept Mariah silent for a whole minute. "Mrs.
Klein was a food freak," she said suddenly. "Maybe it
was for good and all but she was still freaked about it. She
used to play with that fake fruit on her desk until I was ready to scream, or grab one and eat it. I bet—”

Mariah ambled to the basket of fruit on the desk and pulled out a plum (wax). From beneath it she pulled out a snake. "Hey, look!" A slim leather cord that ended with a trio of thin tiny keys.