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

Contents

Prologue: Mine Eyes Dazzle . . .

Chapter 1: Return of the Native

Chapter 2: Still the Same Old Stow . . .

Chapter 3: A Fight for Love and Glory . . .

Chapter 4: Yvette to Be Alone

Chapter 5: A Really Big Shoe-down

Chaplet 6: Little Cat. Feet

Chapter 7: Boys Town

Chapter 8: Deep Water

Chapter 9: Spray for Rain

Chapter 10; Pirates Ahoy!

Chapter 11: Blue Dahlia Bogey Boogie

Chapter 11: Hearse and Rehearsal

Chapter U: Murder on the Hoof

Chapter 1-1: Every Little Breeze. . .

Chapter 15: Hocus Focus

Interlude: Ah, Sweet Mystery of Hystery

Chapter 16: Bugged Out

Chapter 17: ... Seems to Whisper Louise

Chapter 18: Every Large Breezy . . .

Chapter 19: Ship of Jewels

Chapter 20: Long John Louie

Chapter 21: Opening Knights

Chapter 22: Morning, Moon and Molina

Chapter 23: Catfood vs. Dogmeat

Chapter 24: Jake of All Trades

Chapter 25: True Confessions

Chapter 26: Another Opening, Another Shoe

Chapter 27: Witch Switch

Chapter 28: Romantic Rendezvous

Chapter 29: Four Queens Get the Boot

Interlude: It's Hystery!

Chapter 30: Undressed Rehearsal

Chapter 31: Murderous Suspicions

Chapter 32: Interview with the Executioner

Chapter 33: A Clue to Chew On

Chapter 34: Last Act

Chapter 35: Love in Vein

Chapter 36: Swept Away

Chapter 37: Confess

Chapter 38: Checkmate

Tailpiece: Midnight Louie Celebrates

"No mask like open truth to cover lies, As to go naked is the best disguise."

--Congreve, The Double Dealer (1694)

Prologue

Mine Eyes Dazzle

Well, knock me over with a wolverine and suck me up with a second-hand Hoover.

I could not be more surprised had Mr. Elvis Presley himself materialized in Miss Temple Barr's living room, although I doubt that even the King would have the gall to wear a Hawaiian shirt of such particularly lurid design.

This last item of apparel is so electrifyingly florid that I am forced to squint my eyes semi-shut. A pity. That delays my analysis of the individual who has committed the taste-defying act of wearing such a garment.

Miss Temple Barr, however, is not one to be distracted by an aura of rotting flora when there is an intruder in the house.

And there is no doubt that the gentleman who has been kind enough to fetch her sunglasses from the patio is an intruder, although he is apparently known to her. He is vaguely familiar to me as well, though it pains me to admit acquaintance with one so deficient in wardrobe coordination skills.

In fact, as mine eyes adjust to the pineapple/passion fruit dazzle, I manage to study this trespasser from head to toe. This is a time-consuming job, given the dude's impressive height, but luckily I am lying down, so it is not a physical strain.

Here are the facts: the intruder is a thirty-something Caucasian male, six-feet-something in height, whip-snake-narrow in width, with a head of thick black hair that is almost as shiny and well-tended as mine.

I must say I approve of the hair, if little else.

But I am not an ace detective for naught, and am as able to draw an inference as an inside straight. Despite the lurid gasoline-spill tinted sunglasses that shade this dude's eyes, I would bet that they are as green as string beans. Maybe greener, since most of the string beans of my acquaintance have been overcooked to an unappetizing avocado color.

This is not a dagger I see before me but something almost as dangerous to the status quo: the missing Mr. Mystifying Max. As you may well imagine, the two main characters in this sudden encounter are too busy eyeing each other to spare a glance for little me.

As you may also imagine, I do not intend to take the unauthorized re-entry of a former resident of the premises lying down, even if he is considerably bigger than I.

But you do not have to imagine: Midnight Louie is on the scene to describe the encounter in living color, with Vistavision, sound effects and even Smellorama.

Right now my keen sniffer is absorbing the scents of ozone-crackling tension along with a delicate undercurrent of pheromone. If anyone could bottle this stuff, we all would have something to write home about. Meanwhile, the world at large can only rely upon the sage instincts and keen observational skills of its humble on-the-scene reporter, yours truly.

Stay tuned.

Chapter 1

Return of the Native

Max Kinsella looked like a surreal figure lost in a garishly vacant Dali landscape. Temple couldn't believe her eyes.

Nor could her mind assemble several clear but alien impressions into a recognizable image . . .

neon-storm, carnival-midway Hawaiian shirt. Oil-slick rainbow sunshades . . . dark, virtual-reality lenses locking the wearer into an intimated vast but hidden world. Height like the Eiffel Tower: familiar but looming larger than memory.

She was viewing not Max Kinsella, but Max Headroom, some berserk computer-image accident and traveling freak show. Kaleidoscopic Technicolor Hologram Man. Unreal, man. Unreal.

The seashore roared in Temple's ears. She sensed her own space, time and particular place in such sharp but distant clarity that it too had become a dislocated Dali landscape, seen but not felt. Not truly comprehended.

Well-corseted Victorian ladies, she guessed, would have swooned by now. The only buttressing piece of clothing holding Temple together at the moment was the soft sash of her martial arts gi, and it was no excuse for suffering an attack of the vapors.

She became aware of her bare feet planted on the fuzzy com-fort of her fake goat-hair rug. At the same instant, she became even more alert to her hatred of ever being seen at such a childish disadvantage.

And then, despite the ludicrous shock of Max's reappearance, and his appearance, reality shattered her Technicolor daze like a fist smashing a stained-glass window.

She heard the eternal, prosaic hum of the air conditioner, and began to recognize again the bland familiarity of her domestic terrain. She even began to recall Max being as normal a part of this interior decor as she was. She began to believe he was there, as she still was. That this time it was really, really Max. That he was . . . alive.

A thrum of relief overrode numb disbelief.

Then another emotion came roaring out from the icebox of time-frozen emotions in which she had stored Max with the wistful care of someone preserving a prom-night corsage.

A muscular emotion, part fire and part tempered steel, it had a hot, coal-fire heart and a one-track mind. Its long-dampered engine began racing, chug-chugging with impatience, building up a head of steam in countertime to the shock-slowed beat of her heart.

The memory engine was gathering speed and sweeping her into its impetuous train. She saw the past--their past--glide by in stately panorama.

Meeting at the Guthrie Theatre. That night's magic show-- prestidigitation in the heart of darkness--the stage a velvet-black hole lit by the spotlights' cyclic fireworks. Walking beside the lamplight-dappled water in Loring Park in a lukewarm summer night. Leaving Minneapolis. Landing in Las Vegas so lost in each other they were like shell-shocked aliens on terra infirma. Electra, the Circle Ritz, the Goliath and more magic shows in the dark, more days in the light, more nights in black satin and falling stars afloat on water.. .. Azure days, quicksilver nights.