Carole douglas: Cat in an Indigo Mood

Something bounded atop her car hood.

Temple jerked to full alertness, feeling caught in the act of something illegal.

A black cat nosed the windshield. Big black cat.

"Louie?"

Another guilt pang. Once you take that puppy out for a walk it doesn't let you stop. She'd hadn't thought much about Midnight Louie lately.

Temple stirred herself out of her reverie and looked around.

No more cars in sight, no activity, just the cat.

She unlocked her door and got out.

The morning felt cooler than the car had under the glaring glass dome of early sunlight.

The cat walked to the fender to sniff the hand she extended.

She still clutched the necklace. Uncramping fingers revealed her palm, hot and moist. The cat figure's sharp edges had scribed red indentations across her heart and head and life lines.

A black cat's paw patted at the dangling chain.

Temple's other hand stroked the smooth sun-warmed head.

"You are Louie." She nodded at the restaurant name, Three O'Clock Louie's. Spuds Lonnigan's cat. A group of old prospectors known as the Glory Hole Gang in their wild west-of-Vegas Youth now ran the restaurant. "I better get home to my cat Louie and see what he's up to."

Three O'clock twitched his grizzled muzzle and turned so that her stroke followed his spine to the base of his tail and up to the very tip.

It must be nice to be a cat in the sun, Temple thought, with nothing to do and no place to go and no memories worth immortalizing and not a smidgeon of guilt for the roads (both taken and not taken) in your whole supple body.

Chapter 5

Wild Woman

It really began with a dame.

But then, it always does.

I had decided I needed good raw meat, so I was back at my old stand, the stand of canna lilies behind the carp pond at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, that is.

I was not setting up shop again, honest. I was just resting and thinking about a mid-afternoon snack.

I am well aware that my purported daughter, Midnight Louise, is the house dick, can a little doll be a house dick, around here nowadays.

So there I am, lounging among the lilies trying to catch a few Zs when the leaves of the lily-next-door part, trembling.

She is trembling too, all the way to the tips of her full-length fur coat.

That coat is as white as a magician's rabbit and her face is also a pastel tribute to the Easter season: pale pink nose. blush-pink inner ears, sky-blue eye, sun-yellow eye.

Yup. The lady is either wearing one color-changing contact lens, or Mother Nature gave her two-tone vision.

I am not sure which exquisite orb to look into, but she does not notice my schizophrenic attempts to focus.

"Are you Mr. Midnight?" she asks in a soft, quavering voice.

"On formal occasions, yes."

"I suppose this is a formal occasion," she decides, mincing past the carp pond without a glance at the afternoon's seafood selection.

I realize that her pure-white coat, while not as fluffy as a Persian's, declares her a purebred.

I have seen a lot of good-looking dames in my time, but this little doll has made a career of it. She is a lean, fine-coated lady and from the look of her, she is in big trouble.

"Have a seat," I say, brushing off a flagstone with my second most useful appendage.

She settles uneasily on the indicated spot, swishing her luxurious train nervously. Her long nails work in and out, lightly scratching the stone.

"And what can I do for you. Miss--?"

"FurbeIow."

I had noticed.

"That a last name or a first?"

"My, ah, friends call me Fanny."

"I bet they do. What is the nature of your problem?"

"A gentleman friend is missing."

I fix my gaze on her. "You are sure this is not an intentional absence?"

"Wilfrid would never leave without saying goodbye." She stretches a long silken rear gam and with her tongue straightens the seam where you can see pink peeking through.

Wilfrid. What a wimpy name! "I can believe that. What is your... uh, occupation, may I ask?"

"I was a showgirl, but I am retired from the ring, and now serve as a lady's companion." I nod. This dame has pedigree written all over her, but she seems to get around a bit too much for one of the pampered darlings of the blue-ribbon set.

"That is how I got here," she adds accommodatingly. "A former ring-mate begged her mistress to take me along for a beauty pageant they are holding in the hotel today. I had heard there was a house detective here."

"Indeed there is, and he is at your service." I feel no qualms at usurping Midnight Louise's role, since she usurped mine. Even in the feline world it is usurp or be ursurped.

"Did Wilfrid have any visible means of employment?" I ask.

She nods, the spidery edges of her coiffure brushing a canna lily leaf.

"He worked as a domestic. Our pets were neighbors. He was not . . . purebred, but he was a real gentleman, and I can assure you that the only reason he is missing is that something has happened to him. I am so worried!" she adds in a breathy rush, her composure shaken for the first time.

Lucky Wilfrid the Wimp. "When did Slick Willie go missing?"

"Two nights ago. The next morning, when I repaired to my facing window to greet him, I saw the blinds were still drawn shut.

I am afraid that his pet is missing also, but that is merely a symptom of the real problem. As soon as Wilfrid was let out each morning, he came to call on me. We were going steady, you might say."

"So his . . . employer is absent as well?"

"There is no sign of life at his residence. None."

"Have you considered the usual vacation? Human beings . . .er, pets, are often not considerate enough to advise others of these alterations in habit." Her head shook on its long elegant neck. "Wilfrid is usually accommodated at the medical compound when his pet is running off by herself."

While I am contemplating this missing purrson report, I notice an agitation among the nearby lily leaves. I have a pretty good idea what it is, and rise to meet the enemy.

"Ah, Miss Louise. I am interviewing a client in the inner office.

Perhaps you would be so good as to fetch some refreshment for Miss Furbelow."

Midnight Louise reacts in a predictable manner: She lofts her back like the St. Louis arch, and hisses like an irate Cardinals fan.

"I know you were not expecting company, Miss Louise, but I am sure that Miss Furbelow will appreciate whatever you can rustle up." I turn to my client. "My girl Friday, she is new at the job."

Miss Midnight Louise's private response to me is unprintable, but her golden eyes narrow as she takes in Miss Fanny Furbelow and I can see that she is curious. She may be a knot off the old snarl, after all. I grin and watch her slink off in no good grace, but without boiling over like a pot of unwatched water.

"Your office has a lovely view." Miss Fanny comments morosely.

I cast my eyes on the fancy fish cavorting in the pond. "Is Wilfrid much of a sportsman?"

"No." She sighs. "He is content with the domestic life. But he is no pushover, Mr. Midnight."

Her odd-colored eyes narrow. "Nor am l, I must find out what has happened to him."

"And so you shall, if I have anything Io say about it. Ah, would you care for a cup of broth?

Shrimp today, I think."

Miss Midnight Louise is back and grudgingly nosing the rice bowl filled with Chef Song's daily offering toward my guest.

"Oh! I have not been able to eat a bite since Wilfrid disappeared. But perhaps a little chicken noodle soup. . .

Miss Furbelow laps delicately while Midnight Louise squints fiercely at me over her head, "It is won ton." she mouths. "What a bubblehead."

"Miss Furbelow is distressed," I tell Louise, leading her a safe distance away.