Douglas, Nelson - Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

Given that Miss Van von Rhine has gone to the trouble to install a magnificent carpet of golden phoenixes on a navy background-- which reminds me of carp afloat on a true-blue sea--it is most inconsiderate of these overblown dudes to keep their noses in the air and ignore it, particularly when I am on it.

Although I overheard news of bloody murder on my arrival, crime is not foremost on my mind for once. Dead bodies, particularly the human kind, are a ducat a dozen here in Las Vegas, but the living presence of the Divine Yvette is a true rarity.

From the first, one fact has not escaped me: Miss Savannah Ashleigh, such as she is, will be involved in the conference. Thus I have a priceless opportunity to pay my respects to my lost love. However, this opportunity is looking more like an obstacle. Through relentless eavesdropping, I discover that Miss Savannah Ashleigh will not be required to honor the premises until the date of the actual pageant, four long days and nights away.

Yet the redoubtable (and poutable) Miss Savannah had checked in two days ago. (In plenty of time, I note, to kill the Hiawatha on horseback. Talk about a late entrance!) I would like nothing so much as for Miss Savannah Ashleigh to be found suspect of a small murder or two, as she stands in the path of my true love and I. The Divine Yvette would not dream of forsaking her spoiled and selfish mistress so long as breath still stirs the movie star's formidable frontage. Although I do not wish to see the Divine Yvette disappointed in her human, who is all that she knows of the species, I would like to see Miss Savannah Ashleigh all alone on a slow boat to China with a bad case of ptomaine poisoning.

Of this ignoble desire I must not breathe the tiniest meow to the Divine Yvette. She is most solicitous of her mistress, which I find commendable but wrong-headed.

When on the trail of a human, I must use all my wit and wisdom. When I hunt one of my own ilk, I need only the sensitive services of my olfactory apparatus. This is not as fancy a device as it sounds. I merely apply nose to the toes and sniff along the floor until I catch whiff of an appealing scent. In a hotel full of human beings, this is a rarer phenomenon than one would think.

I decide to search the hotel's public areas first. Knowing Miss Savannah Ashleigh, she may not be required to perform her duties until later, but she is sure to loll about in case an idle spotlight should turn her way. I have never seen such a camera-ready woman in my nine lives.

This is what finally leads me to the back of the hotel, where I find an army of photographers and video tapers shooting a chorus line of unarmed (and even unclad) dudes by the swimming pool.

I wrinkle my nose against the overbearing scent of body oil and tanning lotions. Beneath the obnoxious fumes I do detect the signature odor of Miss Savannah Ashleigh, which is heavy on the spice and light on the nice. Then, as I trail unnoticed among the greenery caressing the hotel walls, a vagrant breeze (is there any other kind?) wafts my nostrils with the near presence of my dear departed.

A few eager wiggles through the canna lilies, a brief belly-crawl along the sandy dirt in which they are planted, and I find myself nose-to-Naugahyde trim with the Divine Yvette's pink canvas carrier. This portable habitation sits beside a director's chair with matching pink canvas seat and back. The name emblazoned on the chair is Miss Savannah Ashleigh.

No Miss Savannah Ashleigh is about, however, and the chair is empty. I hope that is not the case with the carrier, but there is only one way to find out: basic detective work, i.e., I must see for myself.

I cautiously lift my head to the mesh screen and inhale the soft, powdery scent of my lady fair. As in a mirror, on the other side of the screen I see a dainty head rise. Then I am the beneficiary of a sharp swat across the kisser.

"Hey! What is the meaning of that?"

Silvery whisker tips pierce the mesh. "Do I know you?" a female voice demands in a low, throaty growl.

Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do... not! I trouble to make myself into a feline welcome mat and I get stepped on. Could I have the wrong carrier?

"How soon they forget," I lament under my breath.

"They?" The occupant sounds as miffed as a celibate mink in mating season. "You dare to include me with others of your acquaintance?"

"I did not lump you in with the hoi polloi when I rescued you from the Stripper Killer," I remind her.

A genteel sniff tells me the Divine Yvette is beginning to take herself too seriously. "I believe that you were most interested in saving your roommate in that instance. I was perfectly safe in my carrier in the other dressing room."

"We can debate the past later. Are you not glad to see me?"

"I have not 'seen' you yet. Come closer."

"No more swats."

"Certainly not! A person in my position must be careful, especially when my mistress is thoughtless enough to leave my carrier on the ground, where just anybody might stroll up. I was not sure of your identity ... it is Midnight Louie?"

"In purrson," I reply in my best Bogart rumble.

This time she looks before she leaps to conclusions and puts her delicate pink nose to the mesh. I gaze into her long-lashed, half-closed eyes as we go nose-to-nose for a few stolen sniffs.

"You have still been filching carp, I notice," the Divine Yvette comments, wrinkling her nose.

Dames! A dude cannot do guy things without being called to task for unpleasant smells. The female of the species will eat the fish when it is presented to her already filleted, just don't let her see too much of the capture and processing.

"Not recently," I say.

"Hmmm," she answers skeptically. (Dames are also loath to believe a dude when he speaks the truth about his whereabouts and activities.) "Perhaps I notice because I eat only one type--and brand--of food exclusively."

"And what is that?" I ask pleasantly. I would not be surprised to hear that it is truffles, an expensive delicacy rooted out by French pigs. Most French culinary delicacies would be best given to French pigs, in my experience. I do not care for tripe, brains, eel or ox tongue. Yet I know that the easily impressed will swallow any such nonsense if it is introduced as French in origin. I am afraid that the Divine One is a victim of her mistress's snobbery. "What is the tidbit of your choice?"

"Free-to-be-Feline," she announces.

I blanche. The Divine Yvette should be nibbling curled baby shrimp on jellied flounder, oysters Rockefeller, scallops on the half-shell--not those Army-green pellets full of organically grown, vitamin-enhanced pre-processed health food!

"You like that stuff?" I demand. I may have to revise my opinion of my darling's divinity.

She shrugs, a gesture that charmingly ruffles the luxurious collar of silver fur covering her neck and shoulders. "I have to like it, mon ami . I am the Free-to-be-Feline spokescat."

I hardly hear her answer. That "mon ami" has sped straight to my heart. I can hardly hear over its wild beating. Or did she say "bon ami"? "Good friend" is not as intimate as "my friend.

Also, "bon ami" is the name of a common household cleanser. Does she mean that I am only fit to wipe up the dirt that she has walked in? These pedigreed dames are a pain in the neck to interpret.

"You said something, ma cherie Let her wonder what I really mean by that!

"I said that I have an exclusive contract with Free-to-be-Feline. My mistress came to the Crystal Phoenix early so that I could shoot my first commercial. They say that I will be a household name."

Now the wax is out of my ears and the ice is forming on my heart. "You are going to be a television star?"

"So they say. Frankly, I abhor the spotlight. It is hot, noisy work, Louie. But my mistress can obtain no film work lately, and someone must earn the upkeep on her Malibu beach house. You do not think that Miss Savannah Ashleigh would stoop to hostessing an Incredible Hunk pageant unless matters were serious, do you?"