Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

"No ... although that would not have been a bad idea--"

"And Miss Earhart, now there is a coup. Did she say anything?"

"I did not ask anything."

"For shame! Opportunities to gather information from Beyond are rare. You must not be intimidated by the famous phantom."

"I am intimidated by nobody! I am just mad."

"Mad is not useful in these matters. You must have a plan. Frankly, from what I see, my advice for you to go forth and confront the psychic world proved very profitable. Were you not on the scene of a mysterious human death?"

"Yes, but nobody listened to me, not even when I tried to catch their attention about Elvis."

"Have you hot been warned from Beyond about a sinister associate who may wish you harm?"

"Yes ... but warning does not do much good, as I am not about to commit feline felony merely to forestall a possible attack on my person."

"Still, it is better to know where the stone may fall than not to see the stone at all."

"Stones have nothing to do with this, lady. A fat TV spokescat contract is what is at the bottom of murder past and possibly future. As for the dead dude/dame at the Halloween seance, I will let Miss Temple tend to her kind; I have troubles enough with my own. I will tell you what I am tired of seeing, and it is not stones. It is your glowing little astral-projected self pushing me from pillar to post and most likely from moderate to major risk of my life and sanity.

"Midnight Louie is not your errand boy anymore, get it? You can flash your emergency lights all you like, but I am not Pavlov's Puss. This cat is tuned to Here and Now. I have had it. Keep your pure-white Sacred Cat of Burma mitts out of my life, and out of my mind. Get it? Good."

With that I shake myself all over so I look a third bigger than usual and stalk out of the room.

From the bedroom I hear Miss Electra Lark stir and then call, "Karma, are you having a bad vision, sweetie?"

I am the Bad Vision in question, sweetie. I must admit that it is nice to be the nightmare in somebody else's life for a change. Maurice II had better watch his Free-to-be-Feline.

Chapter 35

Piece-a-Pie

The pizza had cooled enough to require oven-warming.

Max went around opening cupboards until he found some heavy pottery plates, and a couple forks.

"No dried red peppers," he announced, spinning a spice rack.

"This is an awesome kitchen. It's as big as most people's living rooms. Whatever possessed you to buy a house with a kitchen like this?"

He stopped playing host long enough to stand still and consider it. "I never really asked myself that. Welles, of course, was a gourmand.

Not a mere gourmet, a true gourmand. He ate well."

"And often."

Max nodded. "And it showed. Like a lot of creative people he was at odds with himself. He adored the filmed image, but loved his food too well to keep his image svelte on film. As for me, I suppose ... I suppose, with the vagabond life I had to lead, a kitchen says stability. A big kitchen says you're there to stay."

"And a small dollhouse kitchen in the Circle Ritz says?"

"You've found a girl just like the girl who married dear old dad; she hates to cook."

"Really? Your mother hated to cook too?" Temple was pleased-- not only to hear that he was used to noncooking females, but because she'd never heard Max talk about his family and hadn't known she'd missed that until now.

"You don't hate to cook; you just haven't done it with someone who likes to." He came over to her, which, in that kitchen, was a fairly big commitment. "This house was leased when we arrived in Las Vegas. If I'd been alone, I'd have stayed with Gary."

"So you bought another place you didn't need?"

"Such Midwestern indignation," he said, teasing. "You wanted to have the fun of looking, and the Ritz is a jewel. You still like living there, don't you?"

"Love it."

He seemed about to add something, then stopped himself, glancing at the countertop instead. "You've hardly touched your wine and it's almost as expensive as some of your shoes."

"You know I get most of those on sale."

"Extravagance in specialized areas is permitted. Though. .." He looked down at her legs like Crawford Buchanan, but with interest sans leer. "That's a very attractive outfit."

"My tea-leaf reader said I might have a dangerous romantic encounter, so I dressed for it."

"Really?"

"Actually, she said I'd have a dangerous encounter and a romantic encounter, but I thought it would be more economical to combine them."

"The ever-practical Temple. I don't know how you stand on those heels on hard floors like this, though."

"You get used to it. Like one gets used to rocketing around on an overpowered eggbeater."

"Extravagance in specialized areas is permitted. So is sitting."

He lifted her atop the central island, a forbidding travertine-topped stainless-steel-sheathed block that screamed "human sacrifice" in very high style.

All the countertops were above normal height to relieve back strain. That meant that Temple perching and Max standing put them on a very similar level. She remembered sitting on the Storm fender with Matt on their desert "Prom Night." This was not Matt and this was not Prom Night. Temple swung a foot against the block.

"I feel like an Island virgin."

"You haven't touched your wine," he said again, reaching over for the glass and bringing it to her lips.

His hand was at the back of her head as she tilted her chin to take a sip, and when the glass was gone his mouth was there instead.

This was not Prom Night.

It could have been one kiss and it could have been sixteen; whatever, it was just an introduction. A reintroduction. Max ended it and spun her around so she sat facing the island's long way, then lifted her legs up and laid her down and that could have been the start of something that had to finish ...

Only he stepped back and leaned down near her head and rested his chin on his crooked elbow.

"I've been thinking," he said, smiling into her face, "while I was away. I've never worked with a lady assistant, but if I made a comeback, and if I was to do so, you are perfect for the job."

She raised an eyebrow, that being about all she could manage when under the erotic spell of a master magician.

He straightened and spun her around on the smooth marble as if they were on a stage and he was explicating an illusion for an audience. Temple was also part of that audience.

He stepped back from the kitchen island to address that invisible audience who was Temple.

"I could, for instance, work a variation on the lady-sawed-in-half illusion. Always a tacky thing to do to a perfectly lovely lady, don't you think? I could put that tradition in less lethal terms, and you are the ideal size for all sorts of illusions."

Temple rolled onto her side and braced her head on her elbow. "I've experienced an illusion or two in my time."

"Ah, but those were hasty, improvised affairs. I'm talking an entire act here, from conception to climax." He leaned down again, laying his elbows along the travertine, so they were face-to-face. He still wore his suave magician's mask, but his eyes were dancing. "Houdini worked for many years with his wife, did you know?"

Temple didn't know, and didn't know what to say. What was Max saying? He didn't have to propose marriage to make love to her. And her deep-down female-nesting hope for stability never had any strings on it.

Before any more could come of this intriguing idea, the stage manager stepped in to jerk them both offstage. The oven buzzer shrilled, making them jump. Temple sat upright, heart pounding, Max flew to the scene of the crime to turn the bloody thing off, and the moment was not about to be warmed up by any amount of extra oven-time.