Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

She figured out his mathematics while he kept quiet. Her remarkable blue eyes glittered like man-made sapphires, hard and somehow counterfeit.

"You're getting better," she told him, "but don't let it go to your head."

Molina showed him out through the garage, turned on an exterior light and even waited in the open garage door until he had the Vampire started and drifting the driveway.

Matt couldn't decide on the way home if Molina were a mother superior in disguise, or Typhoid Mary.

Chapter 27

Temple Starts Cookin'

Temple had Louie home and toweled off from his heroic rescue--all caught on telephoto lens and videotape--by 9 p.m.

His coat was the feline equivalent of a buzz-cut: short, nappy and quick to dry.

"Two days off, Louie," she told him, ferociously toweling his tail. "I could use a break.

Spending all my time with Domingo and his minions, Savannah Ashleigh and assorted female consorts of the late Darren Cooke is taxing. At least I won't have to see the Wrath of Rodeo Drive for a while. Did you watch Savannah light into that director for unsafe conditions?

Threatening to sue everybody from the Mirage to the cat-food company to the cameramen for recording your feat rather than going to Yvette's rescue?"

Louie, sitting on the area rug washing his already- soaking feet, sneezed.

"You better not catch something from this! I hope Yvette's okay too. Savannah Ashleigh would sue us all, every one, if anything happened to that cat."

Louie, head bent to lick, seemed to be nodding strong agreement.

"You would think her precious cat came into this world spun-dry and was meant to stay that way. Yvette is not above sprinkling in her carrier, you know Hey! Don't growl. Am I hurting you?

Well, stalk off, then."

Temple absently dabbed the damp towel against her own sopping suit-front. Her shoes, J.

Renee snakeskin pumps, lay soaked at her bare feet. She had rescued the rescuer, after all.

Not that Savannah Ashleigh had been at all grateful as she stood shrieking in the key of F-sharp on the lagoon bank. She had snatched the dripping Yvette from Temple's overburdened arms, then carried her Precious at arm's length to the carrier. Once incarcerated, the sopping cat had begun to caterwaul. That was when Savannah had announced that Yvette required at least two days' paid medical leave to recover.

To Temple, this was a welcome break. She was still curious about Darren Cooke's daughter, wishing she had copies of her letters. Even the police didn't have that. Molina had called to confirm their continued absence, only a trace of smugness in her voice.

"Did you look in the hotel safe?" Temple had asked.

"Before you even brought the letters up."

"What about Michelle? Did she say where she found my card?"

"She says it was in the usual place for such fond mementos, under the mattress."

"And your guys missed it. Did you look--?"

"The mattress was lifted off the springs. Nothing there other than some blanket fuzz. You realize that we have only the widow's word on where she found it."

"But why would she lie--?"

"You're the detective," Molina had said smartly, hanging up.

Temple sometimes wondered if the worthy lieutenant didn't use her as a stalking dog to sniff out new directions in such cases. Certainly Molina only fed her enough information to tickle her curiosity bone, which in Temple's case happened to be every bone in her body, plus the calcium supplements she consumed to strengthen her petite frame.

"I don't know what you're going to do on your days off, Louie, but I'm going to find out who has hung around Darren Cooke only recently. Too bad I can't take you along, but this is woman's work."

Louie lay there, licking the coat she had dried, ignoring her every word.

Today, Friday morning, Domingo and his minions would be busy stringing flamingos with fairy lights for a lavish installation around the Luxor Sphinx and grounds.

Although Christmas wasn't that far off, Temple really wasn't in a light-stringing mood. So, leaving Louie to enjoy the quiet comforts of home, she headed for Gangster's. But first she made a telephone call.

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

By day, the Gangster's layout--like most Las Vegas attractions-- looked faded and forlorn.

Call it the carnival-funhouse effect. The parking lot was only half full, but Gangster's unique customer pickup-and-delivery system wouldn't produce a lot full of parked cars. She was pleased to note that a raven Viper lay in wait among the idle black limos parked in an imposing row.

When the Fontana Brother popped up like a chic jack-in-the-box as Temple entered the lobby, she didn't have to guess which one it was. She had spoken to Aldo on the phone.

"Hey, Miss Temple! Hear your pussycat went swimming at the Mirage."

"How'd you hear that so fast?"

"No problem. We are Fontana Communications, Inc." Aldo grinned and produced something from behind his back. The latest issue of the Sun , featuring a photo of the crew pulling Louie and Yvette from the lagoon. Nobody, human or feline, resembled themselves in the least . . . except photogenic Savannah Ashleigh, who appeared to be directing the rescue operation, and was so identified.

"Plastic surgery can really get you through those difficult moments," Temple murmured cattily.

"I thought you would like a copy," Aldo announced happily.

Considering that Temple's photo-image looked like a freeze-dried and shrunken mummy, she was not duly appreciative. But she folded the paper into her miscellaneous file cabinet --her tote bag.

"Thanks. What about Darren Cooke's co-workers? Did you round some up?"

"Sure thing. They're all sweating like hell to brush up the show with Cooke's replacement."

"They've replaced him so fast?"

"Listen, my Uncle Mario was on the phone to Hollywood, calling in a few markers, first thing Monday a.m. The Fontana family does not mess around in a crisis."

"I have seen that." Temple nodded sagely. "So who did Uncle Mario dig up?" Oops, she had phrased that badly.

Aldo folded impeccably manicured hands in front of his rigidly pinstriped navy suit and donned a Cheshire-cat smile.

"I'd ask you to guess, but I figure you've had a pretty trying night."

"You figure right."

"Steve Martin fell through, so I'll just say: Sid Caesar."

"Really?" Temple couldn't help being impressed. "He'll be perfect in the part. Is he here yet?"

"Naw. He has some things to tidy up. We got a stand-in for now, but Sid's been sent a script so he'll be ready to go."

"Well, Sid Caesar certainly wasn't in Darren Cooke's vicinity lately, so I can't think up any excuse for talking to him ..."

Aldo took Temple's tote bag from her shoulder and then took her free elbow in hand too.

"I've arranged for the director to have a talk with you during the break."

He escorted her past the discreet chime of slot machines and into Hush Money.

"Thanks, Aldo." Temple resisted his polite but firm custody. "I prefer to snoop around on my own on the stage. Ask the stage crew things. You know."

"Miss Temple." Aldo's voice was gently chiding. "Of course I realize that you wish to do your sleuthing yourself. I thought it might help to start with an overview. Additionally, once the director has spoken to you, he will not question your presence on the set, and will let you go about your business."

"I see. Very diplomatic of you, Aldo."

"We Fontanas are nothing if we are not diplomatic. Now, have a seat and I will get the director-dude."

Seating her with the courtliness of a papal legate, Aldo proceeded to ruin the effect by absently patting his jacket as he left. He was not searching for something like a Cuban cigar, but more like an Italian automatic.