Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

In a moment or two, it is as if I am back in my checkered past, fence-sitting at midnight and yowling some selected riffs guaranteed to attract any nubile females in the vicinity. Only I do not attract nubile females of any species, just the usual hurled footwear reeking of abysmal pedal swamps . . .

These are a pair of petite mary jane-style shoes ripped off the feet of the suffering little doll. I dodge the Cuban heels, which could make a nasty dent in my cranium, and put my nose to work. You may notice I understand the fine points of female footwear, thanks to my roomie’s formidable shoe collection.

The whines of the victim and coos of the comforters vanish from my consciousness as my nose for trouble inhales a big gulp of the hot and bothered linings of the shoes in question.

Yeow!!! I leap back, forced to swallow my natural vocalizations. My pea-green peepers beloved of females of all species tear over and cry crocodile tears onto my jet-black bib. My sensitive, exposed nose skin burns like the very devil was exhaling the breath of Hell itself on it.

I know what has happened, if not why yet.

What a despicable plan, a dirty trick of the first water, and I do mean watering eyes! I backpedal out of the room as fast as I can, my mitts eager to box the obnoxious, polluting fumes from brutalized nostrils.

No wonder the poor girl was screeching.

Who would commit such a nefarious act?

It is clever and underhanded and mean, and thus totally and utterly human in its conception and execution from first to last. I cannot wait for my humans to find out what has gone wrong.

Mama’s Girls

Molina came charging down the hall outside the junior girls’ hotel suite so fast the two hotel security guards at the door put their palms on their gun butts.

“Chill,” she said, “LVMPD shield.”

She produced it after transferring the tote bag containing Midnight Louie to Temple’s custody.

“He was in the dressing-room area already. Pesky cat,” she growled at Temple. “And he weighs the advertised ton.”

The guards glanced from the tote bag cat to Molina’s retro-sixties headband and love beads to her jeans and moccasins.

“We’ve been told there were undercover city cops on the premises,” the old guy said.

“The little girl will be all right,” Molina said. “It was a nasty prank. I want to interrogate the other girls and their mothers without it looking like it, so Ms. Ozone here and I will be doing that. And I’ll probably take a couple of the girls back to our high-roller suite, where your assistant security chief is . . . on duty 24/7. Of course no one is to know who I am or any of this, right?”

“Got it, Lieutenant,” the young guy, Hank, said. “Rafi Nadir made me floor boss on this detail. You can count on me.”

The older one just gawked. Lieutenants weren’t usually out in the field. Then he eyed Zoe Chloe and Midnight Louie and swallowed.

“I’ll be ordering a couple of room service pizzas,” Molina added. “Check ’em and the waiter out, even though I said they’re coming. You know the room service waitstaff, right?”

“There are an awful lot of ’em in a place this size,” Roy said.

“I know the equipment and the drill, Lieutenant,” Hank assured her. “I’ll call human resources on them if there’s anything suspicious.”

“I got a granddaughter these girls’ age,” Roy added as further reassurance.

“Okay.” Molina knocked at the door and nodded at Temple to go in first. “Tell ’em the Goth fairy is bringing cat hair and pizza.”

Molina might be a security fanatic, but did she know kids.

Everybody in the room squealed when Zoe Chloe fronted in. She was the next best thing to a Los Hermanos brother.

An announcement of pizza for all was the third best thing.

And Louie to coo over was a solid fourth.

Molina dutifully called room service like the Zoe Chloe Ozone middle-aged flunky she was portraying while the girls shouted out their druthers for toppings. Like most hotel order-in pizzas these days, an outside franchise handled the calls, so the menu was pretty standard.

Except when Zoe Chloe Ozone ordered a custom shrimp, artichoke heart, and jalapeño one for her star-self alone.

“Any news on Sou-Sou?” the question came from kids and mothers alike.

Neither Temple nor Molina had gotten a good group look at the mothers. The overblown Smith woman was with her absent daughter, leaving only the two others present, since Mariah was serving as EK’s “manager.”

Patrisha Peters, the only African-American contestant, was a lean, leggy skateboarder, but her mother was a pleasantly plump, attractive woman with a calm manner. She introduced herself as Frances Peters. Meg-Ann’s mother wasn’t anything like her hard-driving soccer-athlete daughter. Angie Peyton was unpleasantly plump, her clothing straining at all the most unfortunate places, her hair showing dark roots, and her manner both harried and disinterested. In a sense she was the sloppy side of Yvonne Smith. Temple guessed she was underemployed and financially stressed, probably through no fault of her own but divorce and bad luck.

Snap judgments were often all wrong. Now was the time to ask the women to reveal themselves.

Zoe Chloe plopped down cross-legged (all the better to show off her skull-head white-on-black tights) on a sofa.

“This is my personal assistant, Vicki,” she said, waving at Molina. “I had her check with the staff backstage. What’d they say, Vick?”

As she’d hoped, Zoe Chloe had invented a name for Molina that the policewoman hated, from the expression on her face.

“Sou-Sou got a literal hotfoot from a substance put into her shoes,” Molina said, sounding way too copish with that “substance” talk.

“Then it was deliberate?” Frances Peters asked. “Sabotage? None of us here would do that.”

“That’s the thing,” Zoe Chloe said. “It doesn’t look good for any of the other contestants. So we gotta find out who and What everybody is, so we’re ready when the police get involved, if they do.”

“The police?” Angie Peyton asked, alarmed. “God, that’s just what our girls don’t need right now. They have enough stress.”

“Hotel security was talking about calling them in,” Molina, aka “Vicki,” put in virtuously, as if she wasn’t one. “Ms. Ozone is right. The more we know about the junior group, the more everybody will be off the hook.”

“What about that soap star whose heel broke?” Angie asked. “That was just an accident. Why isn’t this?” She seemed a woman born to be in denial.

“It could be,” Molina answered. “We’ve got to be ready if it isn’t. You know tabloid TV will be all over this.”

The girls remained listening, bright-eyed with curiosity and excitement at the mention of national TV exposure. The mothers’ brows were wrinkling with a realization of what bad press could do. Mariah was watching them all, not obviously. Even Ekaterina was serious and alert, trying to figure out what this meant.

Would a girl like EK, with so much riding on winning this contest, be the one to stoop to sabotage? Temple wondered.

“I suppose,” Frances Peters said slowly, “it’d be hard to say whether the girls or us mothers are the bigger suspects?”

Molina jumped in. “Everybody is suspect. I’ve spent years trying to spin good publicity from bad, and it can’t be done. Even Ms. Ozone is suspect. You moms are here to protect your daughters, but I’m here to make sure Ms. Ozone’s career isn’t damaged.”

Temple had to admire Molina’s gift for throwing a scare into people.

Meg-Ann and Patrisha exchanged the uneasy looks of kids who might know more than their mothers did, and Ekaterina’s waif-wide eyes expanded to pizza pan size.