Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Unfortunately, that was not a startling headline in any U.S. city, but the name in the article’s first sentence was a shock.

“Gloria Fuentes,” Temple exclaimed aloud, disturbing Midnight Louie at his tongue bath in a large square of sunlight on the parquet floor. He regarded her with the long measuring gaze of a cat minding his own business and wondering why she was not minding hers and refraining from disturbing his grooming session. Then the lazy gaze narrowed to green slits and he bounded over to sit doglike by her feet.

Surely Louie had no interest in the name, just her sudden animation.

Temple examined the below-the-fold snippet more carefully. Newspapers nowadays were like trendy tapa appetizers: a palate-teasing dozen or so small stories arranged on the front page to intrigue a range of readers … if anybody read cold type anymore besides Temple.

Her fingers were tense as she paged to the “jump” on page six. What jumped out at her first was a logo reading, CCF: VEGAS, THE COLD CASE FILES.

This was a running feature she hadn’t noticed before, and a clever play on the venerable CSI: Vegas TV series.

“Louise Deitz.” She muttered the reporter’s byline to herself, giving Louie a glance in case he was interested in more than the rattling newsprint. His ears perked up over the still-slitty eyes. Perhaps he’d been reminded of the Crystal Phoenix cat named Midnight Louise after him.

Temple hoped being married would stop her habit of talking to Midnight Louie. Folks who lived alone tended to get into monologues with their pets. It did help her cogitation system to think aloud.

She scanned the short paragraphs that ended with a request for fresh information from anyone having it.

The facts were correct. “Yes, strangled in a church parking lot. Yes, professional magician’s assistant.” Gandolph didn’t merit a mention as Gloria’s former employer. Born in Chula Vista, California. Single and never married, an “attractive” forty-eight years old, with no known relationships outside her job. No known exes.

Temple digested some new information. A head shot accompanying the article reminded Temple of performer Chita Rivera. Muy attractive. And never married? A mystery. Temple remembered an even greater one about Gloria’s death. The fact that the words “she left” had appeared on the body at the coroner’s like a nightclub’s light-sensitive tattoo.

She turned back to the front page to read the byline. “Louise Dietz. Not familiar, but she soon can be.”

Temple lowered the newspaper to the coffee table top, thinking. Then she picked up her cell phone.

It rang before she could make a call. Matt on the line.

“Matt. I may have a lead on Gandolph’s assistant.”

“That’s great. What I’ve got a lead on is that crazy situation up in Chicago. I’m going to have to fly up. So, sorry, no amateur detecting for the immediate future. I’ll fly out after tonight’s show, really early Friday morning, getting back just before Friday’s midnight show. So you’ll never miss me.”

“Not possible. I always miss you. What’s up?”

“Mom’s agreed to see Philip finally, but only if I referee.”

“Gosh, the airfare on a one-nighter will be—”

“Steep, but well worth it if I can break this impasse.”

“I hate to think of you all alone up there with that barracuda cousin, Krys.”

“I hate to leave you all alone down there with that walking sympathy-sponge, Max.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to trust each other.”

“Exactly what I’m going to tell those crazy middle-aged kids in Chicago.”

“‘Love is all you need,’” she quoted the Beatles.

“You’ve got it, love.”

“Mine, too. Good luck.”

Temple sat for a few moments after the call ended, wondering if Matt could pull off a miracle reconciliation.

Meanwhile, she had a murder to look into.

Chapter 40

Brassy and Breezy

So you think I would get an invite to accompany my Miss Temple to the local rag offices to interview the reporter known as Miss Louise Dietz? No such courtesy. And here I had acted as obnoxiously alert about the article as, say, your average hyperactive Chihuahua.

Yes, the words “Miss Louise” do provoke a visceral reaction in me. Unfortunately, I cannot stop my insensitive human associates from thinking it is “cute” to name another black stray cat they have come across after me, in the distaff version of the moniker of “Louie” revered in song and story.

How many famous Louies are there? Let me count the cherished examples.

There is the title song in my honor, “Louie Louie.” It has 1,500 recorded versions, numero uno. Take that, Beatles. You are so “Yesterday.”

Of course, every bartender in the world is named “Louie,” only he doesn’t know it. Louie rules.

As for “Louise,” there is only that one oldie song how “every little breeze seems to whisper Louise.”

Right now I could use that breeze for a short-wave communication.

Who do you think uses my proven methods of breaking and entering through Miss Temple’s patio French door, but the previously contemplated Miss Midnight Louise.

She seems seriously out of breath.

“So what have you gotten your exercise doing?” I inquire.

“Now that you are all alone and lounging around maybe you will listen to a report of import from me. I have activated the Cat Pack, and have heard from a night crew I put on duty. I borrowed a couple of Ma Barker’s best to shadow the suspicious parties at the Neon Nightmare club. There are only three in residence now that Cosimo Sparks was killed in the underground Chunnel of Crime between Gangsters and the Crystal Phoenix Hotel. Did you know, Daddy-O, that the world-class magician David Copperfield had sought to establish a franchise of underground restaurants?”

“No! So the Fontana brothers’ concept was not the first. What is with all these humans yearning to go underground before their time?”

She sits to twist and groom the tip of her long, fluffy train with long, lavish licks of her tongue, just to aggravate me. True, she could be one of those intellectual longhairs … or of rock band ilk. Maybe aristocratic blue-blood runs in her veins, but it is sure not from my side of any family tree, which scotches claims she might put forth for a personal relationship.

She desists bathing to lift her head and answer. “Perhaps it is a death wish,” she muses, “but I think it is the human quest for quiet and privacy.”

“Especially if they have something to conceal, like the mob would. Ma Barker hear of any mobs in Vegas besides hers?”

She shrugs as if having an itch right between her shoulder blades, that section so infuriating to reach.

“The mob always has a game or two going. The glamour and glory days celebrated by the Chunnel of Crime are over. Now it is hijacked meat trucks and gambling and girls.”

I make a face. “I would rather go after the Synth.”

“Well, I did, and I can tell you that led to a surprising conclusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You assigned me to keep an eye on them and I had a crew of three to follow the three surviving Neon Nightmare operators. We split like a banana’s foster dessert to track those two women and a guy when they slipped out of a side door in the Pyramid of Pretense.”