Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

“‘Miss’ Kathleen is it now? She does not deserve the courtesy, but she did deserve the four-shiv right-cross to the face you marked her with when she tried to shoot Mr. Matt. That was a righteous move.”

“Why, thank you, Louise. You are mellowing in your full young adulthood, like our Miss Mariah.”

“At least I remember where I am going. Where are you going? The church is that way.”

I look over my shoulder. “I am heading to the convent garden. I am a nature lover. I am also here to see a cat about a surveillance job. He owes me one.”

“One what?”

“One of his nine lives.”

Louise looks shocked at last.

So I am first to bound over the concrete fence. By the time she has followed me to a blazing sunny spot on a bench beside the convent’s back door, two well-fed middle-aged cats, plain yellow tabbies, spotless white paws, but other than formal gloves no marks of distinction, like my white whiskers on formal black. Nevertheless, these guys are swarming me like their long-lost littermate.

“Come on, boys.” I shrug them off. “It is too hot for the one-paw Hollywood littermate hug routine.

“Peter,” I nod to one, “and Paul. This is a young apprentice of mine, Miss Midnight Louise.”

“Wow. Is this trim little number any relation to you?” Paul asks. Unfortunately. The boys direct their greeting sniffs and sideswipes to her.

“No,” I say.

“Not acknowledged,” Louise hisses back.

“Oh, you poor dear girl.” Peter casts rebuking yellow eyes at me. “I am named for one Simon Peter, who denied a storied relationship in the Garden of Gethsemane. I cannot in all good conscience recommend doing that.”

“Now you get a conscience, Peter,” I point out with my first shiv waggling. “Miss Midnight Louise was named after me by humans who thought it would be ‘cute’. There is no genetic proof.”

“Ah,” Paul says. “She is the fruit of one of those impulsive back-alley alliances and now she has renounced such irresponsibility. When we entered the order of nuns here from the Humane Society, we too took vows of chastity.”

“Abetted by a good vet,” Louise says sourly.

I must say that she does not take moonshine from anybody. I enjoy being not the sole object of her scorn.

“What can we do for you, Louie?” Paul exchanges a glance with Peter. “We have seen you stalking about the property.”

“Evil-doers may lurk.”

“We too have observed strangers on the grounds. We are cats of peace, and since the brutal attack on Peter, we keep close to the convent.”

“Attack?” Louise perks her ears straight up.

Both boys shift their eyes to the side at the memory.

“Yes, it was when we first joined the convent, some time ago. Someone tried to crucify Peter to that back door.”

“A crazy man who hated godliness.” Peter hunkered down on his haunches. “I fought, but he had bagged me first and I was knifed.”

Louise gives a short, angry growl.

Paul nods. “The act was discovered soon after and Louie’s human, er, cohabiter happened to be visiting the convent. Not from any intention to join, I must add. Peter was rushed to the Lord High Veterinarian.”

“Who was a female,” I point out, to win favor with Louise.

“Louie saved me,” Peter mutters into his whiskers. “I had lost too much blood. Louie donated his. He is a hero.”

“Him confined in what carrier under what tranquilizer shot?” Louise demands skeptically.

“Louise,” Paul says with a stern brush of what I would consider my second-most-valuable member, although his first is now pretty useless to him. “You are a cynical young female. We will never forget the bravery Midnight Louie showed here at the convent and church when we were besieged by a killer. He did nothing under duress, but was a heroic and kind volunteer.”

What can I add to that? I give a Mr. Spock eyebrow-hair lift—there was something very catlike about that beloved character—and fastidiously preen my shiny black hair. I must look farther into the Vulcan nerve pinch. I believe it is a variation of the firm way a mother cat will gather her kitten’s nape into her mouth for discipline and transportation.

Transportation! Another parallel universe conjunction.

Indeed, I believe all felines have a bit of the Vulcan in them. And do not forget the slinky, ebony feline fatale in the Gary Seven episode of Classic Star Trek.” Wowsa! I would put the remote control on permanent pause for her!

“Well,” Louise says with one of those damned Vulcan eyebrow-hair lifts. “Not to fear. We are here. Midnight Investigations, Inc. will inspect the grounds and the major buildings for traces of intruders. Totally gratis to you, dear boys. Is that not right, Louie?”

I was hoping for payment in custom-minced delicacies from the convent cook, Sister Mary Deli, named for Saint Delicius, virgin and martyr, but so heavenly manna slips away.

Lucky it did.

Miss Midnight Louise and I are heading to the parking lot, hoping to hop a ride, when I signal an urgent halt by curling my shiv-tips into her shoulder.

“Cut the unwelcome paternalistic guidance, Pops. I know where I am going.”

“Sssst !” I nod to the sleek familiar silver car. Of course, a renowned automotive model would be named after a cat.

“Mr. Matt’s Jaguar,” she whispers.

I look around the lot. “And over there, in the Juniper shadows. That low-brow guy’s junker. Now he is following Mr. Matt, and my Miss Temple. They must be seeing Father Hernandez, so the wedding is not only on, but imminent.”

“Why would the wedding be of interest to shady characters like that guy?”

“I do not know, but steps must be taken, Louise.”

“But what? How?”

Recalling the dozens of felines from The Case of the Cat Hoarder, an early investigation I assisted Miss Temple on before Louise’s day, I realize they still inhabit the neighborhood and have a churchly turn of mind and meow. That gives me an idea, but I cannot share it with anyone.

One thing I do know. No shady criminals will make mincemeat out of the happiest day of my Miss Temple’s life if I am around to make mincemeat out of them.

18

Bloody Mary Morning

What does the average bridegroom need besides a rented tux and a ring? Matt had that nailed. What he desperately needed was a reliable source.

This time he couldn’t consult Temple, Internet researcher extraordinaire. He owned a small laptop, but digital wasn’t his instrument. The church organ was, and he was smiling as he contemplated the music for their wedding. It would be impromptu, but Temple was insistent on one piece and one only for the walk down the aisle, their perfect song, however offbeat.

But first he had to survive for the ceremony.

He wanted to, but couldn’t consult Lieutenant Molina. She owed him help, but she’d blow the game because she had to, as a representative of the law.