Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

"At least you're not the one his wife invited over for pasta only to confront you with evidence that you were the last person to sleep with her husband."

Matt's light tan turned ashen. "Molina's going to ask us why we didn't volunteer this information before."

"We were cowards, plain and simple. You couldn't be sure that your information was relevant to the case, and I was all too sure that mine was, except that it made me look like an idiot."

"You could call it a case of Prejudice and Pride."

"That version of the title does not have a ring to it, and our excuses won't soothe Molina's wrath. In her place I'd be pretty put out with us too."

"You know, that's the first empathetic thing you've said about her."

Temple hung up the dead phone, tired of the guilt-inducing drone of the dial tone, although it perfectly suited her mood.

"There's one thing I'm not going to tell her, even now."

"What's that?"

"It's pure supposition. I'm convinced that Darren's daughter has been stalking him. I bet she's in Las Vegas, and I'm going to find her."

"Temple, that's worse than a needle in a haystack, that's one young woman among one million."

"She wouldn't be far away; she'd want to watch him sweat. I keep thinking that Domingo the flamingo artist being in town just when Darren Cooke was working up his show was perfect timing for someone. Domingo's legion of volunteer flamingo-planters, all with undocumented backgrounds, would provide a perfect cover for a twenty-something Jill the Ripper. I'd really like to nail Domingo's ex-mistress Verina with the role, but she's past forty."

"Why do you have it in for this Verina?"

"She took my hat."

"Remind me not to sit on your cat. I can't imagine what revenge you'd think up then."

Matt ambled into the living room to sit beside Midnight Louie on the ivory sofa. He was wearing khaki and almond; with his blond hair and brown eyes, that made him look both cool and warm at the same time. Temple was starting to regret she'd insisted they confess to Molina.

There were much more personal matters to discuss this evening.

Temple joined him on Louie's other side.

Matt rested an elbow on the sofa arm, his face on his fist. "You know, this demented daughter writing ugly letters to her father, calling it stalking, makes me wonder if that's what I'm doing to my stepfather. Whatever he's up to is none of my business. Why I am dogging his trail?

Am I a stalker?"

Temple perched on the sofa arm behind him.

"Sure," she said cheerfully. "I don't think you've even figured out yet what you'd do if you actually found him. You might even be a violent stalker."

"That's the scary part." Matt looked up.

"You wouldn't send him hate letters, though."

"Hadn't thought of that. But, no. I'd want to see him face-to-face . . . and then I might strangle the bastard."

Temple tsked. "Not fit language for Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, I imagine."

Matt looked amused. "You can imagine all you want. Priests use strong language in private to express anger, just like anybody else."

"Not all priests."

"No. Some are perfect practitioners of every commandment. When it came to language, I was more often among the lambs than the sheep."

"I don't doubt it," Temple answered, patting his head.

Matt looked up at her again, visibly trying to decide if the gesture was motherly, comradely or something else.

She stood with a grimace. "No time to wallow in comfort and examine our consciences.

We've got an appointment at the police department. Hey, I'm wearing leggings. Why don't we take your motorcycle."

"It's Kinsella's motorcycle."

"That's no reason not to take it; besides, Max gave it to Electra."

"Some things you can't give away."

Temple stopped by her front door. "Somethings, or some people?"

"It's a rather intimidating machine."

"That's why I want to ride it, silly. Conquer my fears."

"That knit jacket won't cut it; I finally had to find something to replace my windbreaker. The street gets cold these November evenings."

"I've got a great little leather jacket that should be just the thing."

"You don't have a helmet."

Temple paused, then lit up. "Electra's not using her 'Speed Queen' number."

"I've never had a passenger before. The new weight might throw things off. I might dump you in the street."

"I'm little, as I often lament. I won't add much weight. Mister, please, I ain't heavy."

"You aren't my brother," he answered sardonically, "but you're sure acting like a whiny kid sister."

"You never had one of those, although I admit I was everybody's kid sister in my family.

Consider this a making-up-for-lost-time experience on your part."

"Bratty, demanding kid sister is more like it. I'll run up and get my jacket while you get yours.

And sturdier footwear is advised."

Temple pranced into her bedroom. What, did he think these dainty heels were all she owned? She had some kicky ankle-high boots for horseback-riding-if-it-ever-came-up hidden somewhere. She hadn't ridden a horse in years, so it was only in the farthest, lowest, darkest part of her closet that she found the tumbled boots and the cream-colored leather jacket.

What had replaced Matt's unexciting navy nylon windbreaker, Temple wondered as she kicked off shoes and struggled into boots. Was she going to be visited with Electra's vision of Matt-black leather? Temple shrugged into the elderly jacket, which was a teensy bit snug. Eek!

Just touch thirty and your weight was creeping up already.

She hurried back to her door as Matt arrived from upstairs. Her prediction had been right, no macho black leather for golden boy. He wore a sheepskin jacket, and looked a little sheepish.

"It's synthetic," he explained. "The real stuff is pricey, and I don't like to know a sheep died for my sins."

"Radical, and politically correct!" Temple took his arm as they walked to the elevator. "Looks good on you too. Molina will swoon and Electra will be rabid that I got to see it before she did."

He shrugged her arm off, embarrassed as usual by the thought that what he wore might attract attention. Or women. "I needed something warmer and inexpensive."

"So practical," Temple cooed, unable to resist teasing.

Yet Matt's sternly practical instincts had steered him right to the most flattering item. As far as Temple was concerned, black-leather, Marlon Brando motorcycle chic had just been dethroned.

"Molina's working late," Temple noted as they stepped out into a Maxfield Parrish twilight, the sky a warm indigo-blue bowl in the distance.

"Do you think she ever stops?"

"Only to sing for her supper."

Mutual memories of encountering Molina as the house thrush for the Blue Dahlia made them smile.

Matt unlocked Electra's shed and tossed Temple the racy silver helmet labeled speed queen .

"I love it! I feel so kicky, right out of Blackboard Jungle."

"You weren't even born when that movie came out. I'll start the cycle and ease it out of the shed. You relock the shed and hop aboard," Matt suggested.

Temple skittered outside, just happy to be there. The motorcycle was so huge close up. It dominated the small shed like a rodeo bull temporarily trapped in a chute before breaking free to kick loose in the arena.

And the noise! She quickly pulled on the bulbous helmet and fastened the chin strap. She knew when she lowered the sinister, tinted visor that she'd see night all around her and that nobody could see her face. Cool.

"These helmets don't have transceivers built in," Matt shouted, visor up, from amid the sound and fury of the revving Hesketh Vampire.

Temple nodded broadly. They'd be unable to communicate. Verbally.

The Vampire came rhur-rhuring out, then paused to gargle disgruntledly. Temple ran to padlock the double shed doors, then turned to face her moment of truth.