Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Leopard Spot

The room with its corny bower wreathed in plastic flowers and white pews crowded with Electra’s soft-sculpture people was dim and empty.

Maybe because it was dim and empty and neglected, it had the solemn silence of a real church. Temple hadn’t been in one in years, except for a couple services at Our Lady of Guadalupe with Matt. Masses, that’s what they were.

She noticed a familiar silhouette among the fabric people and started. Oh. Only Elvis.

Smiling, she sat down beside the King.

She had seen more than a few versions of Elvis at the Kingdome recently, but this one had snow-white hair.

“Hello, Izzy,” she said softly. “Is real? Not this time.”

If Matt was driving Electra’s car, then Electra must be driving the new silver VW a supposed Elvis had left for him at the radio station.

Why would they switch cars? Why would Matt give up a perfectly nice new car for an old one? Why would he give up Elvis’s last gift car?

Of course it hadn’t been left by Elvis, but by a delusional fan. Or something like that.

Temple sat in the quiet, brooding.

She knew Matt was busy, that he had speaking engagements and media and all that stuff to deal with. But it didn’t mean he should stop dealing with her.

And that’s what she had felt like just now. Snubbed. Brushed off. Run out on.

Just like when Max had vanished without an encouraging word. She hadn’t been so shocked in ages, and was not again until he came back like a clap of thunder echoing out of a clear blue sky.

Max on her second-story patio, back.

She supposed that incident might make her a little oversensitive to newer perceived desertions.

Still, it hurt to feel not wanted, especially by somebody she had flattered herself to think would always want her. Maybe Matt had found someone else. As well he should. But that didn’t mean their friendship had to end.

Max, of course, would disagree. And maybe he was right. He usually was.

Temple took a long shower as soon as she got to her unit, then decided to face the mazurka, and called Leonora.

“Temple Barr. I can’t tell you how impressed Mr. Maximilian was with your layout. Couldn’t stop talking about the ranch house and the facilities.”

Leonora purred her thanks.

“And as for myself, there’s something terribly personal I’d like to ask you. I might as well just jump right in. Maxi was raving about your magnificent cheekbones. I’d noticed them on my first visit.”

“Everybody does,” Leonora interrupted, sounding pleased.

“May I ask—? It’s terribly rude of me, but I wondered.”

“Everybody does. I loved your ring, by the way. Wherever did he get it?”

Okay, reciprocating girl talk . “Fred Leighton’s.”

“Of course!”

“And your cheekbones? You see, I’d like to get some myself.”

“Yes, you are a little flat-faced.”

Flat-faced! That freak!… “I know. It’s been the bane of my life. If you can recommend a good plastic surgeon, one that might be able to do something major with my…flat…cheekbones?”

“I’m sure Doctor Mendel can help you out. He has offices on Charleston.”

“You recommend him? Personally?”

“But of course.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve heard he does Savannah Ashleigh.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, good luck. I would certainly do anything I could to keep your Mr. Maximilian happy.”

You did it yourself for Mr. Van Burkleo , Temple thought, and look what it got you both .

“My face is my work of art,” Leonora added.

Cubist period, Temple added mentally. Hamlet was right, much as she despised the line: Vanity! Thy name is woman .

“I’ll look right into it,” Temple promised.

As soon as she hung up, she opened the Yellow Pages. Dr. Mendel, huh? She already knew him. She’d buffaloed him before, so she probably could flog some information about Leonora and her surgeries from him.

She dialed the office and asked for a consultation, soon. The matter, she said, was urgent.

Chapter 37

Human Error

Although I am the first to assert that my Miss Temple is a pretty sharp cookie you wouldn’t want to try snacking on without a lip guard, I must admit that she does have her unguarded moments. Usually when Mr. Max or Mr. Matt is around.

These moments also occur when she is in the act of entering or exiting a motor vehicle, which I find a most convenient failing. Especially if Mr. Max or Mr. Matt is also in the car.

In this case, it has been a real lifesaver for me and my partners in crime solving.

Thus it is that we three—me and the Terrierable Twos, Groucho and Golda—are safely sheltering under the oleander bushes bordering the Circle Ritz parking lot by the time she accosts Mr. Matt shortly after Mr. Max has driven off.

I say “accost” because Mr. Matt Devine is behaving as I have never seen him do before. Instead of suffering from an inability to take his eyes off Miss Temple, he is darting them around the parking lot as if aware that I and the Dustball Twins are under the oleanders. He is, in fact, looking like a minor character in a bad detective novel. Were I in such a production, I would be forced to describe him as looking shifty.

Fortunately, I am not and can instead say that he is moving his gaze around the parking lot perimeter as if worrying that even the bushes have eyes and ears.

Which they do at this time, thanks to my stage-managing a discreet exit from the backseat floor while Miss Temple has the passenger door open and one dainty foot brushing the pavement while she is arranging an exchange of diamonds and emerald with Mr. Max Kinsella.

Handing off fifty thou or so in vintage jewels is sufficiently novel that they keep their eyes firmly on the ring and each other, and not on any side issues escaping out the ajar door.

The G-forces have been admirably obedient during our escape from Rancho Exotica via the Animal Oasis.

Thanks to their keeping their yaps glued tighter than a showgirl’s false eyelashes, we have all been as silent and surreptitious as ninjas.

Wrrowwww-wrrowww-wow-wow-wow , goes Golda, ruining my self-congratulatory soliloquy.

Wrrowwww-wrrowww-wow-wow-wow , goes Groucho, doubling the odds of our attracting unwanted attention.

I need not have worried, Miss Temple has sped into the building, and Mr. Matt, with one last shifty glance around, has hastened to follow her. Would that the Yorkies were as consistent with me.

I sigh deeply as their Wrrowwww-wrrowww-wow-wow-wow duet falls on the slam of the Circle Ritz door.

Safe at home.

Then I see what they have been Wrrowwwww-wrrowwwing at.

Not so safe at home.

Miss Midnight Louise is sitting not two feet away, tapping the tip of her tail into the dry soil and raising, not Cain, but desert dust.

I sneeze, but get not so much as a “Bast bless you.”

“You drove off without me,” she finally says.

She is so mad that the sound comes out the side of her mouth, like spit.

“I could not help it. I could not get the interior latch open in time.”

“You? The city’s primo cat burglar, to hear you tell it? I think you could. I think you just decided to ditch me when the action got interesting.”

“Ditch you! If I had wanted to do that, I could have done it long before then. You know how heavy-duty those meat-locker latches are.”

“Yeah. They got to keep the meat from running away.” She is being sarcastic.

I nod sagely. “Sometimes, depending on the quality of the establishment for which the shipment is destined.”

She shakes out her ruff in disbelief and begins sweeping her rear member from side to side, raising a small dust devil.