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

So I am standing in rapt regard of my sleeping innocent, watching the tips of her vibrissae tremble with each breath, when somebody behind me whispers, "Hsst."

Usually I am not one to be surprised by the stealthy approach. I turn in alarm, expecting that odious Maurice. I am no less alarmed when I see who confronts me from under the long row of garments hanging on Miss Savannah Ashleigh's costume rack: the vulpine Louise.

"What are you doing down here, Pops?" she asks. I can tell that her form of address, rather than being a respectful bow to my paternal status, is an expression she uses to address gents of a certain age.

The implication is that I am a geezer.

I never pick up an implication if I can let it lie there and ferment. So I lift a casual mitt to my face and rub my whiskers contemplatively.

"Just looking over the scene of the last crime," I say, incidentally reminding her who really cracked the Stripper Killer case and nailed the perp. "Now that Miss Temple Barr is busy with another show here, I do not want any unfortunate reruns of the breaking, entering and murder both attempted and accomplished that we had before."

"Oh, your old war stories," she huffs, rolling over to admonish an ear, apparently for the crime of even hearing about my exploits. "I have the account now. Everything is under control."

"Indeed? I suppose you consider the murder of an Incredible Hunk too trivial an event for your notice."

"I noticed, daddio. These human hunk types are too large to overlook. In fact, I made the murder scene before the police, if not before your nosy roommate. That woman is a regular Typhoon Mary."

"I believe you refer to a historical personage known as Typhoid Malaria, who brought a dread disease with her everywhere she went. Miss Temple Barr is nothing like that. She is merely quick to notice that things are amiss. Now, you," I go on, yawning a little, "probably were so disinterested that you could not even remember the color of the dead dude's hair."

"Burmese brown," she snaps back, barely missing the tips of my whiskers. I smell the odious reek of Free-to-be-Feline on her breath. "Eyes of watered-down green. Hawk feather on the arrow that brought him down. His own weapon, ironically."

I now know, of course, exactly what I wanted to learn.

"What was this dead dude doing with a live arrow?"

"Wearing it... and not much else." Midnight Louise wrinkles her little black nose, which is rather cute, if I do say so myself. "Whew! What a lot of skin to smell, along with the equally unpleasant scent of death. I do not know why these hunks insist on sharing so much of their body odor with the rest of us."

"It is their way of being provocative."

"Consider me provoked." She frowns until the short, satiny fur on her brow wrinkles like a throw rug.

"I had to slink away pronto, though, before anyone spotted me. I tried to interrogate the horse, but it was too spooked to speak."

"The horse? You mean tall as a two-story building, with hooves?"

"Yeah, a big bruiser with knobby knees and a forelock. And it wore iron shoes. Mere size does not intimidate me." Louise's round gold eyes give me a once-over that is not a compliment. "Anyway, the equine was in shock. Could only whinny about a slap on the rump. Later, I jumped up in the flies and got a bird's-eye view of its rump, and it deserved slapping. Had all these white spots on it, like it had been caught in a bleach rainfall. Silly-looking creature."

"I believe you refer to a valued birthmark that indicates a breed known as the Appaloosa."

"Appaloosa, applesalsa, it ain't talking."

I cringe at my reputed offspring's grammar. Not only ain't, but a contraction. She misreads my body language, which is not unusual.

"So what would you have done different, Pops? All I know is that this fallen hunk was masquerading as an Indian warrior when someone stuck him in the back with an unbroken arrow. Goodbye, Cheyenne."

"Cheyenne?" I sit up and take notice of my chest hairs, which I proceed to groom with some agitation. Not only are they a trifle mussed, but my mind is also a little ragged around the edges as I realize I have heard that name before, in this hotel.

"Cheyenne," she repeats, narrowing her eyes to horizontal slits you could not see out of a tank through. "What of it?"

I cannot decide whether to take her into my confidence or not, for I know the name from Miss Temple's association with the stripper contest. Could this murder have its roots in the last slaughter at the Crystal Phoenix? While I am making up my mind, the Divine Yvette is waking up in her carrier, emitting a series of soft, sleepy mews that are sweet and charming and loud enough for the vulpine Louise to hear even with her ears flattened.

She--the vulpine Louise, not the Divine Yvette--perks her ears, elongates her neck, then rises and trots over to inspect the carrier.

I can only hope that she does not notice it is occupied, but that is extremely unlikely.

"Mew," the Divine Yvette murmurs in greeting the black feline face peering through her mesh.

"Louie?"

"I might have known!" The vulpine Louise whirls to face me, inadvertently smacking my chops with her tail. At least I prefer to think that it is inadvertent. "This pose of slinking about the premises to protect poor Miss Temple, when you are visiting some sleazy showcat! And my mother was not good enough to occupy your attention for more than a one-night stand. Males! You are all alike, no matter the species."

I spit out some stray black hairs and maintain my dignity. "You are sadly mistaken, my dear girl. The Divine Yvette and I have a purely platonic relationship."

"The Divine Yvette? What a pushover for some over breeding and a pedigree, along with a phony French name!" Midnight Louise turns on the drowsy Divine Yvette to snarl, "Parlay voo French, cheree?

Translate this."

With that, Midnight Louise smacks the mesh so it collapses like an expired balloon.

I am paralyzed by horror. And I am even more horrified when I see the mesh bounce back as the Divine Yvette lets loose with a flurry of ungloved jabs, claws out.

"Civet!" she hisses. "Rank roadside runaway! Nameless hussy! Fatherless floozy! Ungroomed hairball!

Alley scum. Your mother is a glove liner and your father's tail is a rearview-mirror trophy."

Midnight Louise sits back to let the abuse unfold, casting a brief glance in my direction.

"Not exactly," she interjects when the Divine Yvette takes a deep, heaving breath before expanding on her charges further. "Daddy dearest is a friend of yours, I believe."

"Impossible," the Divine Yvette hisses in righteous indignation.

I am, of course, caught between two irresistible forces of feline nature. I can only sit still, cringe and wait for the storm to pass.

'That is what I call him, too," Midnight Louise spits. "And they call me Midnight Louise."

"Oh!" The Divine Yvette's fury has subsided suddenly.

"I will let you chew upon that fact," Louise says, de-arching her back and shaking out her tail, "as I bid you adieu. Just remember that this is my turf nowadays, and I demand a certain respect, even from visiting aristocrats. Do not count on my old man having any influence whatsoever with me."

She stalks off, stiff-legged, her tail kinked and still twitching.

The Divine Yvette's carrier is worrisomely quiet. I inch nearer and peek in.

The Divine One is busy licking her silver coat into fresh-minted condition, rolling out her long rosy tongue with skillful regularity. She glances up with her deep blue-green eyes.

"You did not tell me that you were married, Louie," she rebukes me in sad, calm tones.

I swallow. "It was an informal affair. And we are divorced now. Hey, Las Vegas is the capital of the quickie marriage and divorce. That was a long time ago."