Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

"No!"

Temple politely raised her eyebrows. Mynah's dark brows were drawing together as if a stitch had been taken between them.

"You are... generous, as the peridot says, but also have another side of the peridot in your character, a flawed side."

Temple waited. A recitation of her supposed virtues had gotten boring; perhaps the flaws would be more insightful.

"You are envious. Unmarried, you seek after my husband." Temple would have protested this extreme conclusion, but Mynah was in full pronouncement. "But you are also envious of the powers of others, such as myself. Oh, you pretend to be seeking enlightenment, but your purpose is very different. Keep the small cyst of green poison--" She dropped the grain back into Temple's palm before she could draw back, and rolled her fingers shut on the sharp stone.

"I see everything, you know. You came here hoping to learn my powers, to find powers of your own, and you have learned only of your own limitations."

"What do you mean?" Temple felt honestly indignant. Information, yes; but a "powers" thief she was not.

Mynah stood. "Don't you know I can read every ignoble thought? You seek my secret."

"Secret? I haven't even asked to see the sand paintings."

Mynah tossed her Loving Care #88 sterling silver mane over her shoulders. "You envy my power over men. You, who are ignored by men. Who live alone, like an old maid with her cat--"

"What about my cat?" Had Midnight Louie been in the neighborhood? What had he done now?

"See how defensive, how pathetic you are? And you admit you have a cat. This meeting, an excuse! Deny it if you can."

Temple couldn't.

"You care for nothing but the adoration you see me turning away. You are consumed by the flames of jealousy. You covet paranormal powers only for base and futile reasons. Go, college girl! Dream your feeble dreams. Show your true colors. The simple purity of true ability will never be yours."

That "college girl" did it! Did this dame think she was dealing with some raw amateur?

Temple (impulsively) considered unleashing (with high temper) a few apt observations of her own, which were far more on target than this mumbo-jumbo attack.

But that would be blowing her cover, wouldn't it? Temple reflected (generously). Her buried psychic powers revealed that it was better to let a suspect stew in misconceptions than to set her straight (passionately) and ruin the interview.

No, she was better off continuing with her psychic interrogations, then reporting the results to Max, or Matt, whichever one of her psychological or magical experts was better suited to restore her battered self-esteem, especially when she repeated the charge about having nothing better to share her life with than Midnight Louie! Come to think of it, Louie would be most solicitous himself at news of this rank slander.

Envious, hah!

Temple left without waiting for the water-curtain to be drawn.

She emerged, somewhat wet, into the tranquil courtyard and a dusky, cool evening not suited to running through walls of water. Walking on water, maybe, with her hidden powers, but not running through...

Shivering, Temple scooted into the Storm, pushing the heat level to the max. Onward, she told the car as the engine stuttered in sym-pathetic cold. She dropped the peridot into her glove compartment.

But before she showed the house of Mynah Sigmund the smoke from her tailpipe, she drove around it once more for good measure. That was when she spotted the glossy black rear fender of a Viper protruding from a plumy stand of pampas grass.

Either a Fontana brother was calling on Mynah while her husband was off working who-knows-where, or somebody else who drove a flashy car was. Darn, too bad Temple was such a wimp of a vamp; otherwise she could sweet-talk Watts and Sacker into running a license check for her.

Temple sat up in her seat. She didn't want to drip on the vinyl. Maybe the detectives wouldn't check on a dog license for her, but what had Max been doing all day? Sitting safe at home, cracking into computers. He was a quick learner; maybe he could track down the right Viper, in a manner of speaking.

Temple kicked her feet out of soggy (sigh) shoes (cursed be Mynah and all her waterworks!), then gunned it hose-footed to her next appointment. Maybe Mynah had murdered Gandolph the Great for providing too much competition with the hat. A long black veil will outdraw bridal illusion every time.

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

From the sublimely ridiculous to the ridiculously substandard: all in a day's work for the unsanctioned investigator. Temple's next appointment was at the Hi-Lo-Motel.

"Sorry," she told the Storm, as she wriggled out and left it in its humble parking space. "We sleuth types must go where even Vipers dare not leave tread marks."

Las Vegas had always offered its visitors a full buffet of entertainment options, from bargain basement to penthouse pizzazz.

And that was exactly how to tell low-rent district from high-rent district: height. The cheapest motels were one-story high; less cheap ones were two or three stories; moderate places hit ten or twelve stories, and the really, really ritzy outfits lit up the sky as well as their patrons' credit-card balances.

Temple personally had always resented that low was a sign of lesser luxe in this town.

D'Arlene Hendrix occupied room 223, which meant a climb with her luggage, but less access from street-level intruders. The place was well lit and clean, but frills had been given the cold shoulder. Temple mounted the concrete exterior stairs to the second floor, then cruised the gallery until she reached the right room.

A knock brought the TV-buzz within to a sudden halt. D'Arlene Hendrix opened the door on its security chain to check Temple out, then closed the door to release the chain and admit her.

She wore blue jeans, scuffed tennis shoes and a T-shirt that advertised a Lexington, Kentucky, landscaper. Her bifocal spectacles on their pearl safety chain bounced against a lofty elm tree on the T-shirt.

"Nice of you to see me," Temple began.

"I never did understand why you were present at the seance." She gestured to the plainly upholstered desk chair opposite the bed, then sat on the paisley spread.

"As a sightseer. I'm working for the Crystal Phoenix hotel and casino. We plan a similar attraction, and I was there to see what was what."

"You certainly didn't do that." D'Arlene shot the silent television screen dead with one punch of a remote-control button.

Remote control , Temple thought. The Hi-Lo-Motel wasn't totally no-frill.

"Have you been to Las Vegas before?" she asked,

D'Arlene's grizzled permanent remained unruffled as her head shook a firm "no."

"If I'd have realized what a charade this so-called seance was, I'd have never come."

"What do you mean 'charade'?"

"I guess I was lured by the promise of Oscar Grant's participation."

"Really?" Temple didn't peg D'Arlene Hendrix as the kind of woman who would find Oscar Grant promising in any respect.

D'Arlene laughed ruefully. "I hear you, Miss Barr, even if I haven't the slightest idea who you are. You don't see me as an Oscar Grant groupie. I'm not, but I do recognize the large viewership of his program, and I always hope that something I do will raise the respect level authentic psychics need if we're to help with this horrendous crime problem, especially against children."

"So you weren't interested in Houdini at all; only in drawing attention to your work?"

"Houdini, it strikes me, was well able to take care of himself. The cases I'm asked to assist with usually involve the most helpless persons in society: innocent children snatched from the streets or even their very own houses; grieving families who feel that the hunt-and-peck of police work is not enough."