Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

"This seems familiar," the receptionist said as she waved them into the first consulting room without a pause at the desk. "What's wrong with this little guy?"

Nobody corrected her. "We don't know," they all said at once.

Louie's feet, battling to escape the confining towels, made skid marks on Matt's arms.

Dr. Doolittle came in, her white lab coat flapping with haste, the vet tech behind her toting Louie's slim record file.

"What have we got here?"

Matt described how Louie had been found, while Temple produced the bloody satin pillowcase.

"Those blood drops came from the outside, not the inside," Dr. Doolittle said with a frown, gingerly peeling back tangled towels to unveil Louie.

He sat blinking under the fluorescent light, ears back, eyes squinting almost shut, fur wet and full of cowlicks. His hind feet splayed out, while his forelegs would hardly brace his solid weight.

"Hmmm. Quiet down, boy. You're gonna be all right." Dr. Doolittle concentrated only on Louie, gently feeling each of his legs. (He didn't like that, and said so.) Then she hefted him onto his feet and felt his torso. He lowered his head like a big black bull and snarled. She even ran her hands over his tail.

Then out came the stethoscope and finally the thermometer.

"Uh-oh." Temple was quick to grab Louie's shoulders. The tech held his head so he couldn't bite, while Matt grabbed his hind legs so he couldn't kick and scratch. Electra, watching from a corner of the room, seemed to enter a meditative trance.

The insertion of the thermometer nearly sent Louie up the wall of human flesh holding him down. Waiting for the instrument's beeped "done" signal seemed an endless ordeal to one and all.

"Everything looks normal," Dr. Doolittle said finally. "Heart's a little fast, but this struggle could do that. He's obviously been anesthetized." She ruffled the fur of a foreleg until she saw something. "An injection hole. He seems a bit touchy in the rear area, but t hat could have been the thermometer. I'd say that some do-gooder mistook him for a feral cat and picked him up for a quick neutering, but I did a quick check while he was flailing; all his equipment is present and accounted for."

"People would snatch and alter other people's cats?" Temple asked, incredulous.

"Animal-lovers would. You might consider neutering Louie now," she added sternly. "It would keep him from roaming and getting into trouble like this. And it would certainly keep more unwanted kittens from entering the world only to leave it in short order at a shelter, or after a harsh, unhappy street life."

Temple nodded soberly. So much had happened in her personal and professional life since Louie had showed up five months ago. She'd always meant to do the neutering business. ...

While she wallowed in guilt, Dr. Doolittle considered Louie from a safe distance. He was still snarling and thrashing.

"I can't find a thing wrong with him," the vet said, "except for being woozy from anesthetic and roughed up from fighting the bed linens. We'll keep him under observation overnight--"

"Louie will think I've abandoned him!" Temple fretted.

"I want him on an IV to make sure he gets plenty of liquid. You can visit him tomorrow."

"But there's no visible damage?"

"Not on first examination, under these less-than-ideal circumstances. I want to see how he'll act in the morning."

"Still mad as hell," Temple predicted.

She ventured to pat Louie's ruffled head as the tech carried him off, growling, wrapped in the terrible towels again.

"We'll call if there's any change," Dr. Doolittle promised. "Whatever happened on Louie's recent adventure, only he can say. "Now go home and get some rest," she prescribed for Temple, "with plenty of liquids and someone to watch over you."

She quirked a smile at Electra and Matt, then bustled off to wherever veterinarians go when they leave consulting rooms.

"I've got just the liquid," Electra muttered on their exit. "Bottle of cherry brandy I saved since my last husband."

"You'll have to watch over Temple," Matt told her. "I can't cancel out of work on such short notice."

Electra patted his arm as he opened the Storm's passenger door for her. "You just trundle off to your phone lines, Matt. We girls will sit at home sipping brandy and talking about you guys."

"No brandy for me," Temple said. "I want to find out if the police picked up Alison Darby.

Would she have been demented enough to take my snooping out on Louie? If she's still on the loose--" She picked up the satin pillowcase she had thrown on the shift console. "Something is crusted near the open edge. Ick!" She looked closer. "Embroidery! Initials. Who would be dumb enough to dump a kidnapped cat in a personalized pillowcase? Electra? Matt? Can either of you make out these letters?"

While Temple got the car in gear and going, Electra hunched forward in the backseat so the two could consult over the front seat back.

"Maybe it's a hotel insignia," Electra suggested. "An S. Don't you think, Matt?"

"An S could be the Sands."

"Torn down," Temple reminded them, turning onto the Strip.

"This middle initial is an I," Electra went on, deciphering as much with her finge rs as her eyes.

"And," said Matt, "the last one must be an A."

"SIA," Temple mused. "A sister organization to the CIA? Is that why the satin pillowcase? Just kidding. Usually the last name is in the middle, so it really should be SAL"

"Unless," she added, "the person who ordered this attack is so dumb that he or she --and I lean to a she--didn't know that."

She hit the brakes so hard her seat-belted passengers barely caught themselves from being hurled into something hard.

"Sorry," Temple said. "Speaking of dumb ... it just occurred to me to wonder what Savannah Ashleigh's middle name is."

Chapter 36

Temple Goes a Few Rounds

Temple spent Sunday taking care of old business.

She paid a special visit that morning to Midnight Louie at the vet's, when only the weekend staff was in.

"You are my main man, Louie," she told him. "Who needs a sex life, anyway?"

She went home to while away the night eating frozen yogurt and salted peanuts and watching public TV.

***

Temple awoke Monday morning a new woman.

She glanced at the empty coverlet just once, then got dressed. She bypassed the spikes in her closet for a sensible pair of two-inch heels.

She loaded her tote bag of the day, then called the vet's office as soon as it opened.

The receptionist said that Midnight Louie was the same: somewhat depressed. He had not touched a bite of food. Temple could visit him again in late morning, after surgery was over.

First Temple headed to the public library. In the reference section, she looked up the stock of celebrity address and biography books. For once in her life, she found herself wishing that Savannah Ashleigh were not a total has-been. That she still might be listed in one of these books.

Three gave her the brush-off, but an older edition of People Who Are Somebody did list Savannah. "Birth date: February 3, 1959." Savannah was only thirty-seven? Come on! "Born: Farleigh Heights, New Jersey, Susan Imogene Isch." Ischleigh? But... Imogene! Awful name.

Wonderful name. A culprit was born! Now Nemesis would track her down.

Temple drove to police headquarters downtown. She would not allow Molina to not be in.

Positive thinking. It worked on finding parking spaces. Sure enough, one open street spot waited outside the entry tower. The Storm just fit.

Temple crossed the street to the plaza. In the lobby, she asked the desk sergeant to call Molina, if she were in. Temple Barr was here to see her.

He did, she was and Temple did.