Douglas Nelson - Cat On A Blue Monday

"Just what I don't need. Poor Caviar! I don't know what to do. Maybe I can find another home for her. Louie will come back, won't he?"

Temple's voice took a sudden, husky dive as she contemplated driving Midnight Louie off for good by bringing a rival home.

Matt watched her for a long moment, looking shocked again. Then Temple realized how much her fears of Louie's desertion echoed her earlier desertion by a black-haired, much bigger, two-footed male roommate--Max Kinsella.

Only this time, she may have brought it on herself.

"I'll get the other cat out of the place as soon as possible," she swore, already distracted from her moral dilemma.

Matt proved what a superbly insighted counselor he was by forbearing to point out that it might be too late.

Chapter 32

Cross~examine Not the Cat

I take a long, long walk while I count the follies of my youth.

Then I take an even longer stroll while I enumerate the follies manufactured during my middle age. This brings me up to the present day, and by chance to my old stomping grounds, the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino.

Though it is the usual hot day--say a hundred and ten in the shade--a cold chill has me in its icy grip. When the precocious Caviar, aka Midnight Louise, inquired where I was going, I told her I had business of a spiritual nature to conduct. She looked the usual dubious, so I informed her importantly that I am working on a case involving the welfare of hundreds of cats, and that I cannot be expected to sit around and chat with some wet behind- the-ears upstart.

Perhaps I was hard on the little doll, but I had to get out of there and think. Never have my past sins come back to haunt me so unexpectedly. In fact, I have never thought of my past activities as sinful until I have seen what my devil-may-care ways have wrought: an utterly unnatural female feline. Obviously, this misguided young doll is in desperate need of a protective male influence. In the past, I have regarded a protective male influence (mine) in a completely different light. Now I am saddled with the sudden responsibility of a . . . sire.

No doubt scads of my unacknowledged--even unconsidered--offspring run to and fro in Las Vegas. However, I have never confronted one in the flesh and fur before. This new, mature responsibility gives me the willies. It is as if I have seen my own ghost; in a sense, I have.

I slip around the side of the Crystal Phoenix and to the lush landscape between the hotel's two embracing white-stucco wings out back. Broiling tourists turn French-toast brown around the light-dappled pool, but I ignore the roar of the crowd and the of the grease--cocoa butter--with which they are well basted.

Under the tall calla lilies I shift like a shadow until I reach my Waldon Pond, my still, mysterious center, my place of contemplation and retreat.

Carp glide just beneath the pond's shining surface--a golden argosy of glittering scales and tender, hidden flesh. Also orange, black, blue-and-white, et cetera. These carp are very showy fish, especially when they are called koi.

Yet even their flashing fins do not distract me from my black mood. I think over my options and decide that the only noble course is to proceed to the scene of the crime and redouble my efforts to save the orphaned cats. When a dude is down and out due to some domestic upset, there is nothing like hard work to clear his brain and conscience. Well, there is nothing like work.

Who knows? According to recent events, some of these abandoned felines may be my kin. In fact, if I tote the mathematical odds of my lifelong activities of the procreative sort, most of them may be kissing cousins to a carp-lover of my all-too-close acquaintance.

Day has turned to dark by the time I arrive at the residence in question. Not only does the lack of light match my mood, but it suits my investigative m.o. This "m.o." stands for a fancy Latin phrase, "modus operandi," which I believe has something to do with computer communications and cool operators like myself.

I am determined that these household types will not elude my incisive questioning this time, even if I have to resort to my incisors, which are sometimes called "canines," a lousy word to hang on a fellow of another species entirely.

I have overheard a good deal about this case, one way or another. In addition, I am the recipient of the mystic Karma's confusing hodgepodge of clues. Most of these latter are closer to chopped liver than useful hints, but one incoherent bit has got me thinking. This is not always easy to do, especially when I am under a severe personal strain. I have not even had a chance to publicly spurn my Free-to-be-Feline in more than twenty-four hours.

If my hunch is right, I am on the trail of a twisted and complex plot combining revenge and larceny that has been hatched by a thoroughly despicable, twisted and complex person. If my hunch is not right, at least I can pick up a little Midnight snack later during my investigations.

I belly-crawl down the sandy space between the Tyler domicile and the neighboring house of holy repute in the approved U .S. Marine boot-camp manner. I am as silent as anyone whose delicate underbelly (and lots of it) is doing the equivalent of fire-walking over an emery board. Then I slip through the secret entry and work my way into the heart of the house.

Along the way, I find the usual buffet rest stops--Tin Pan Alley with hors d'oeuvres. Once I have dined, I reconnoiter the premises. I am happy to discover that the residents are in a restless state of mind. The uneasy witness is always more forthcoming.

Now the residents do not pooh-pooh my interest in the case, preferring to leave it to "the authorities," but bend my ears back with tales of things that go bump in the night. So many of them swirl around me, each with his own tale to tell--not to mention tails whipping past my kisser--that I do not know where to begin.

Settle down, I tell them. I did not bring a notebook. After I swear that their testimony is for my ears only, the conjunctive caterwauling begins:

Oh, whines a red tabby with a cream shirtfront, we have been unable to get a wink of sleep, with all the comings and goings, day and night.

That is what you have to expect in a house that has been visited by violent death, I reply.

But, purrs an attractive Russian Blue who has unfortunately been rendered sexless, that is the point. We have been visited repeatedly by someone who is obviously Up to No Good.

How, I ask, does she know?

She does not know, only has "a suspicion."

I harbor a strong suspicion that even when Miss Tyler's dependents are willing to talk, little of any worth will be forthcoming.

Who, I demand, has been in the house since last I visited?

That nice old lady from next door, volunteers a petite tiger stripe.

I ask for a description and get it: navy coat, silver head-markings, and a strange, translucent appliance sitting on the bridge of the nose.

Apparently these benighted feline fools are unaware that they are living cheek by cowl with a nunnery. This description could cover any one of the old dolls next door, none of whom are suspects in my book, pardon the nun pun. (Anyone who is familiar with the intricacies of my first case, the Wreck of the Remaindered Editor, is aware that such homophones as "none" and "nun" can be critical clues, but in this case, they are mere wordplay.)

A Great White cruises past me--all white, all muscle and, luckily, fully neutered--and informs me that Delicate Heels has also been back. This does not surprise me, though Miss Temple Barr's flagrant infidelity of late is getting harder and harder to take. First there is the black banshee camped in the middle of my pied-a-terre, who unknowingly claims an intimate connection to yours truly. Second, there are Miss Temple Barr's long absences while she cavorts by the pool and elsewhere with Mr. Matt Devine. I am not against some moderate, healthy exercise, but not at the neglect of family and friends. Then there is my little doll's skipping off to venues where dozens of my kind convene, such as the cat show, and last but not least, this entire house full of unclaimed cats panting for a new full-meal deal.