Ник Сайнт - Purrfectly Hidden. Purrfect Kill. Purrfect Boy Toy

“There,” she said. “Now no one can accuse you of being interlopers. This makes it clear you’re part of the evening’s entertainment. Oh, and those badges will also grant you access to certain rooms,” she added with a wink. “Don’t lose them, you guys.”

“We sure won’t,” I said, happy we were in the clear.

And then it was time for the show to begin. The lights in the ballroom were dimmed, and with stragglers still filing in, the curtains swung open, and Tex appeared on stage.

“Look, it’s Tex!” Dooley whispered excitedly.

“I know!” I whispered back, equally excited.

Next thing we knew, the band launched into a jazzy rendition of My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean , Denby crooning, Tex slapping a drum kit, and Cary plucking at a guitar.

They didn’t even sound half bad. Dr. Denby, apart from looking like George Clooney in his ER heyday, has one of those rich, deep baritones, and a smile that lights up a room. He did so now, and at the end of the song women clapped excitedly, the husbands less so.

“That wasn’t so bad,” said Dooley as he put his paws together.

“Not bad at all,” I agreed, following suit. It’s a pity our paws are outfitted with soft pink pads. It hampers our ability to applaud, but we still gave it our best shot for Tex.

Next up were Gran and her six Dapper Dans. She’d draped herself across a piano for some reason, and huskily began to sing Like a Virgin . She sounded as if she had a frog in her throat, but maybe that was the style she was going for. The only role the men played was to sing backing vocals ( like a vi-i-i-ir-gin ) and from time to time lift her off the piano and then to put her back. There was also music playing, probably produced by a tape.

“What is she doing?” asked Dooley after a while.

“I have no idea,” I said.

“And why is she dressed in her underwear?”

“Maybe she forgot to bring her clothes?”

When we’d seen her backstage in her underwear, I’d figured she would put on her dress at the last minute, but now it turned out this was it—this was her stage costume.

The men now placed her back on top of the piano, where she began writhing about, trying to look sexy. Then the men picked her up again and deposited her on the floor, where she proceeded to teeter from the left side of the stage to the right on her high heels, all the while moaning her way through the song, the men darting around her.

“I think it’s supposed to be sexy,” I finally said.

The men had picked Gran up again and tried to heave her onto the piano. Clearly they were all starting to feel the strain, for they ended up dropping her to the floor. So Gran decided to remain where she was while throatily pushing out those final few notes.

There wasn’t even a hint of applause this time. A lot of stunned people sat staring, waiters had stopped waiting, and smartphones were out, filming the weird spectacle.

And they’d seen nothing yet, for as Gran got up and cleared the stage, Harriet and Brutus walked on. Harriet took a slight bow and, much to the consternation of those present, started yowling. I think she was going for Like a Prayer , in line with Gran’s performance, but unfortunately stress must have affected her vocal cords, for all that came out were a series of disjointed notes. Brutus, meanwhile, tried to act like a beatbox, but messed up when he ended up blowing a series of extended raspberries instead.

“I don’t recognize this song,” said Dooley.

“I think it’s Madonna’s Like a Prayer ,” I said.

“Oh, right,” said Dooley.

We both winced as Harriet launched into the chorus, and people started pressing their hands against their ears. Never a good sign for a debut artist’s first live show.

She must have realized things weren’t going well, for suddenly she broke off prematurely, and hurriedly left the stage, Brutus still blowing raspberries, as if he’d forgotten where his off-switch was located. Finally he realized he was alone on stage, grinned nervously, and skipped into the wings like a foal on its first foray into the field.

For a moment, all was silent, but then the room plunged into confused talk and chattering. The Mayor looked embarrassed, and the Weskits sat stony-faced. They’d probably anticipated something dignified. With standing. Something along the lines of the American Music Awards or the Grammy’s . They got America’s Got Talent instead.

Chapter 21

Behind us, Odelia had materialized. Whether she was shocked or enchanted by the performance of her grandmother and Harriet was impossible to deduce from her expression. She had a sparkle in her eye, though. The sparkle of a reporter who’s just picked up the scent of a great story. To us she merely whispered, “Go, go, go!”

And so go we went.

Odelia had opened a door that led to the hotel’s backstairs and we quickly made our way up until we’d reached the fourth floor. I took a moment to catch my breath, and to our elation we found the door easily yielding to pressure and the hallway empty.

“This is going well, Dooley,” I commented as I looked up and down the hallway. “I don’t think anyone saw us.”

“But what about Harriet and Brutus?” he asked. “Weren’t they supposed to join us?”

“I think they’re probably still recovering from their performance.”

“They didn’t do very well, did they, Max?”

“No, I think it’s safe to say that they didn’t.”

“Probably nerves.”

“’Yeah, it’s a different thing to sing in front of cats than a room full of humans.”

We were traipsing along the hallway, looking left and right as we went, and making sure we weren’t caught. The hallway was easily as nice as the ballroom. Gilded sconces along the walls, gorgeous velvety wallpaper, that nice thick red carpet. Everything for the hotel’s VIP guests. Dooley was announcing the room numbers out loud, both proving he could count and making sure we didn’t skip past our destination, and finally we’d reached the Weskits’ room. I glanced up at the door handle, which was way higher than I’d anticipated, and sighed.

“I don’t know about you, Dooley, but I can’t possibly jump that high.”

“Do you want me to give it a try?” And without waiting for my response, he performed a nice standing high jump. He reached about halfway to the handle, which was outfitted with one of those panels you hold your badge against for easy access.

“Close but no cigar,” I told him encouragingly.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t smoke.” He made a second attempt, but reached even less high than before. Cats are great jumpers, but we’re not rabbits or kangaroos.

I listened carefully for that telltale clicking sound that indicates the badge has done what it’s supposed to do but no luck so far. No clicking sound and no access for us.

“Can’t you hover in the air a little longer?” I asked. “I think the little gizmo needs time to figure out a badge is near. And try to hold up the badge. Hold it as high as you can.”

So Dooley kept on jumping, trying to hold up the badge with his paws. If the selection committee for the Olympic Games had seen him, they’d definitely have given him points for effort. Unfortunately even cats as fit and healthy as Dooley reach the end of their tether, and as Dooley sat on the floor, panting heavily, the door was still as closed as ever.

And as Dooley got some air into his lungs, I spotted a cart at the end of the hallway. It was one of those carts used by room service people, and I could spot a couple of empty glasses on top of it, as well as a bucket with a champagne bottle peeping out at the top. “Maybe we could roll that cart over here and jump on top of it?” I now suggested.