Carole douglas - Cat in an Indigo Mood

"I knew l smelled a rat."

"Molina found the first body at the Blue Dahlia."

"In person? No kidding!"

"The woman pictured here is the second victim. The first one is a total conundrum. Molina called me in because . . . oh, who knows why Molina does what she does? But . . . I saw the crime scene photos, the evidence, the poor woman's clothing. And I recognized a smell on the clothes." Matt laced his hands and looked at the parquet floor, which was exactly the same as the forty-year-old parquet floor in Temple's unit. "I had to admit to Molina that I recognized it, and that I thought I had run into it somewhere with . . . you."

"Oh, great. Temple Barr: guide to the smell of a dead woman's clothes."

"Not like that. We were somewhere. Together. I can't pin it down, but I seem to be more sensitive to smells lately. Odd ones, anyway. I suggested to Molina that she have you in to examine the dead woman's clothing."

"Give it the sniff test, huh? That is ridiculous, Matt! What do you mean you associate this dead smell with me?"

"It's not a dead smell. Quite the contrary. It's one of those noxious deodorizing stenches."

"And it made you think of me immediately. Oh, thanks."

"Not of you. Of some place we went."

"Where? New York -New York? Maybe the cigar hat. That had a 'stench.' "

"Temple, I'm not trying to insult you. I was trying to help Molina. I told her if she wanted any more information, she'd have to have you in to . . . give an expert opinion."

"Is she going to?"

"I think she'll have to."

"She's going to have to rely on my nasal expertise?"

"Possibly."

"Oh, Well. If I can actually identify something--I assume she'll be suitably grateful."

"I doubt it. Molina is never suitably grateful."

"But she does seem to be relying on you."

"Using would be the better choice of words. She has a job to do; she'll rely on whoever she has to."

"I would love to have her have to rely on me."

"I thought you might. Here's your opportunity."

"But l wanted it to be for something more . . . grandiose than my nose."

"I realize that. I would like something more grandiose than The Jerry Springer Show battering down my door."

"I'll call my aunt right away. You need professional help."

"Temple, as it stands now. I am professional help. Scary, isn't it?"

"No," Temple said. "Not at all. I'll let you know what Kit recommends. Meanwhile, take notes on all offers, be polite until we can hire a pro to be impolite, and commit yourself to nothing.

I hate to tell you this. You need an answering machine."

"Not another 'essential' l can't afford or even operate?"

" 'Fraid so. Time to join the rest of us millennium-Yuppie lemmings leaping into automated lifestyles."

He shook his head. "Maybe. I also might have to take some time off from ConTact. I've already got a call in to Chet. My boss'"

Temple stood. rubbing her neck, which was stiff, small wonder.

"I have a feeling you're going to be your own boss for the meantime."

His eyes summed her up with sudden compassion. "I'm sorry about Max."

"Thank you for meaning that. I'll call Molina when I'm up to it."

"Thanks."

"Mutual favors are what friends are for."

"I'm glad we're friends."

She nodded. "I think we'll both need them. Did you have time to wonder if any of this stuff that's going on all at once is an accident?"

His expression said he hadn't.

***************

Temple came home to find Midnight Louie in the bedroom reclining smack-dab in the middle of her acre of zebra-pattern comforter. If he was counting on natural camouflage, he was out of luck.

She put her hands on her hips.

"Okay. Max leaves town for a couple of days and is welcomed back by a shot in the head.

Matt debuts as a radio counselor for one night and prevents an infanticide. So what have you been up to lately? Besides Technicolor hairballs."

Louie seemed to award her question serious thought.

He laid back to give some renegade hairs on his right front paw a silent tongue-lashing.

He again offered her the benefit of his wisest, most uncanny look. Then he leaped to the floor, crossed quickly to her row of shuttered closet doors, and pawed open the tight one of the middle set.

Temple gazed at her revealed clothes, which were in relatively decent order for once.

Louie stretched up to paw among the dangling skirts and pant legs.

"No claws," she yelled. "That's my personal resale and vintage section; some of that stuff is older than I am and even more fragile."

Temple went over to straighten her abused Clothes. She paused, then lowered her face to them and sniffed. A hint of strawberry cologne, perhaps, madame? Yes.

She sat suddenly on the corner of the bed.

Oddly enough, she did feel fragile.

A little fragile, and a whole lot suspicious.

Someone would have to do something about this.

Lille Bob Dylan, Matt Devine's fave composer for the wedding-chapel organ, had sung once: Guess it was up to . . . me. Little me.

Chapter 33

Undercover Cat

It is a pain in the footpads to wend my way back to the deceased's neighborhood, but it cannot be helped.

The "help" needs looking in on.

I find Miss Midnight Louise lounging in the shade by the string of oleanders behind the house, not far from the, uh. place where we deposited the late lamented Wilfrid.

"How is the work detail going, kit?" I ask nonchalantly.

"It stinks," she snarls.

"Yes, well, that is to be expected. Has the widow been coming around?"

"The widow! They were never formally hitched. It was what you could call a common-paw marriage, and Wilfrid's paw was the more common one."

"Shh. Speak not against the dead departed."

Miss Midnight Louise snorts. "What a charade! I must languish here chit-chatting with mourning females while you are out turning the mean streets topsy-turvy with your so-called master plan. I bet you are taking it easy at the Crystal Phoenix while I broil out here with nothing to eat but lizards."

"The weather is not that hot yet."

"Neither is the lunch line."

I shrug. For once Midnight Louise has a just complaint. I imagine the honor guards for the Unknown Soldier sometimes feel so put upon. Despite the importance of their duty, it is mostly symbolic.

"You know that I am counting on you to do the appropriate thing when the time comes."

"But when will the time come?"

"When I say so. Now, is the . . . project coming along?"

"Somewhat," she grouses, "it is like a watched pot. It takes much supervision and produces scant results. And then I must make Girl Talk with Miss Fanny. Who, by the way, has been asking about the details of your colorful career."

"Oh, really?" I do not mean to preen, but my bib needs a washing, so I do it.

"Do not get your chest-hairs in a wad, Daddio Lothario. I have been filling her shell-like little pink ears with examples of your mate chauvinist exploits."

"Louise!"

"Do not worry. The little twit actually is impressed by your feeble attempts at self-glorification. Females!"

"I take it that 'females' are a step down from the empowered 'girls?' "

"You will take it whatever way you like, I know that." Midnight Louise sighs and examines her shapely gams, which are stretched in front of her so she resembles that fierce Egyptian figure called a sphinx. "I suppose they also serve who sit and wait, but I am not taking this assignment well. I am used to running my own show."

"But you are! Your presence here is vital, as time will tell."

"I hope so, because if this all comes to naught, I will feel obliged to vent my spleen. You, naturally, will be the most convenient venting post."