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

A strange man stopped Temple as she was nearing the elevator.

"Excuse me. Are you Temple Barr, by any chance?"

"Yes." But she raised her eyebrows.

He pointed. "They said you had red hair. I'm Hal Richards, the A La Cat commercial director."

He stuck out a hand, so Temple shook it, puzzled. Had Savannah Ashleigh sicced this guy on her to complain about Louie's little escapade?

"Ah, I guess there's more than one black cat around the hotel," he went on. "Miss von Rhine says the little one is a house cat, but that the big black guy is yours."

Temple nodded. What had Louie done now?

Hal Richards, a lean, Hollywood-tan man with close-clipped brown-gray hair, looked a bit tentative.

"It's awkward to talk like this, like islands in the stream." He gestured to the crowds walking by. "But I wanted to suggest something to you."

Oh, no! Louie had done something new and unthinkable . . . instead of old and unthinkable.

"We ran the film from our interrupted shoot the other day--"

"I'm so sorry about Midnight Louie busting in on your filming. He has quite a thing for Yvette and--"

"That's just it. The footage is fabulous! Our lights weren't set up for a black cat, and the contrast with Yvette's silver-white coat is unfortunately extreme, but we all concluded the same thing. They're dynamite together. We'd like to hire Midnight Louie-- that is, you and your cat--to do the commercial.

In fact, the ad agency exec is talking an entire series of commercials. Do you think you and the animal could travel to L.A. in the future?"

"Sure, but... how much does this pay?"

Richards shrugged. "If Midnight Louie were an elephant, I'd say peanuts. A hundred and fifty a shooting day."

Temple blinked. "And I thought human actors were underpaid."

"There are residuals, of course, and other promotional tie-ins. We usually use animals provided by trainers, but the ad agency suggested a famous cat, which is how we got Yvette. And Miss Ashleigh," he added unhappily.

"Louie's famous," Temple said. "He's a crime-solving cat."

Hal Richards smiled weakly. Temple had a feeling he didn't put much faith in the reality quotient of cat people. "That's nice. Well, if you're agreeable, we could get contracts to you by tomorrow morning and shoot that afternoon. We're on a tight schedule. All right?"

Temple nodded, giving him her hotel room number as well as her home address and telephone, which he jotted down on a small notebook he carried in his shirt pocket. Hal Richards offered his hand again and it was a done deal. Midnight Louie was a media star in the making.

"I can't believe you," Electra said in their room that evening. "All you've been through, and you're still going to the Incredible Hunk pageant."

"At least I'll be there in an offstage capacity. What do you think?" She turned to show off her dress, the same short, silver-beaded number she had worn to the Gridiron with Matt.

"Great." Electra fluffed the long angel sleeves on her blue taffeta muumuu. "Too bad you aren't going to be onstage in that, though."

"I've had enough limelight," Temple said. "I want to sit quietly--unmolested--in the audience, like everyone else, and pick and choose winning hunks." She hesitated, and then tied a black velvet ribbon around her neck. "It'll hide the bruises. I hate to say that Molina was right, but they'll be doosies by morning."

"Molina was right about the crime, too," Electra noted.

"But Louie discovered the diamonds in the boot, and I got the Italian connection."

"So you did. Where is that scamp? I've hardly seen him around here."

"He'll be closeted with Yvette while her mistress is onstage tonight, no doubt. She's so overprotective. I hope Louie gets enough beauty sleep tonight," she added fretfully. "He doesn't know it, but he has a big day tomorrow. And I'll be in late myself," she added super-casually, "so don't worry about me."

"How late?"

"Midnight, or maybe one. Or so. I'll try to be quiet when I get in."

"Anybody I know?"

"Nobody you don't know."

Electra narrowed her pale eyes. "So it's none of my business, but I should know who you're out with.

Look at what happened the last time someone asked you out."

"I didn't go then. Maybe Cheyenne would still be alive if I had."

"Don't eat your heart out about his death. He was a jewel smuggler, dear."

"I still think he wanted help."

"Yeah, he probably wanted to talk you into some illegal scam. Forget it. This pageant should be a hoot tonight!"

Electra completed her outfit by spraying her hair an orchid color and donning emerald-green rhinestone earrings that hung to her shoulders.

The emerald rhinestones winked like the single Austrian crystals that represented the cat's eye on the Stuart Weitzman shoes. Temple still had time after the convention was over to search for the shoes, but she doubted she would find them. She'd already tried everywhere logical.

Temple picked up a tiny silver bag and waited by the door for Electra to finish gathering her evening things. By the time they got downstairs, the Peacock Theater lobby was crammed with women in sequined and beaded gowns, in rhinestones and pearls, in high heels and high hair.

Only a few men mingled with the crowd, refreshingly middle-aged men with looks that would never grace a book cover, but were somehow more inviting.

"Get you ladies a drink?"

Harvey Herbert (or Herbert Harvey), Sharon Rose's husband, stood before them. Temple squinted desperately at his nametag (tonight was not a spectacles night), but couldn't distinguish between the two similar names.

"Ah . . . thanks. This is my friend Electra, who's entered the Love's Leading Amateur writing contest.

His wife is the bestselling author, Sharon Rose."

"Herbert Harvey," he said, shaking hands with Electra. "Sharon is an author-escort for a contestant, so I'm at loose ends. I'd love to buy you glamorous ladies a drink."

"Gibson," Electra said without hesitation, apparently infected by Kit.

"A Bloody Mary."

Herbert Harvey nodded and melted back into the crowd.

"What a nice man." Electra beamed.

"Don't get too impressed," Temple told her softly. "His wife is hell on mid-height heels and very possessive. Always calls him 'my Herb.' I wonder what glamorous outfit she'll wear to escort her hunk.

Her fashion sense was purchased at the five-and-dime in nine teen-fifty-eight."

"That doesn't sound like you, Temple."

"She nearly ran me over for merely speaking to her husband. Poor man. I can see how he'd like to socialize for a few minutes without her."

Harvey soon made the traditional male return trip from the bar, three glasses crowded against his evening jacket.

Temple and Electra took their glasses and chimed their thanks.

"Happy to do it." He looked around with interest. "My, doesn't everybody look grand."

Temple sighed to herself. Why be jealous of a man who said innocuous things like that about a roomful of women in their most dazzling evening wear?

"What's Sharon wearing?" Temple asked.

"Ah . . . something pink, I think."

Temple nodded. What else would the Romance Queen of Mean wear? The woman's personality and public persona were at war, but for wardrobe, sweet conquered sour.

Herbert Harvey drifted away after a decent interval.

"Ahhh," Temple confided in Electra. "This drink is great."

"Your nerves were shattered. I'd be at the bar tossing back boilermakers if I'd been through what you had."

"Electra!"

"Hi, gang." Kit slipped beside them. She was resplendent in a black silk dinner suit with a floor-length skirt slit up to high heaven.

When Temple complimented her apparel, she stuck out a shapely leg in lace pantyhose. "The older author's compensation for a sagging middle. You look cute as a cricket, Temple. And Electra, you are truly electric."