Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

“Louie?” Temple interrupted.

“Midnight Louie,” the blond woman elaborated. “The cat.”

“And who are you?” Temple said.

A tanned hand extended. “Nicky Fontana, and my wife, Van von Rhine. She manages the Crystal Phoenix. I own it.”

“And Louie is the house cat,” the woman said firmly. “When we saw his photo, we thought we’d better bring him home.”

“Home.” Temple didn’t know why thinking was so hard; maybe it was trying to find believable excuses for the cat’s supposed absence, like she’d sent him to the pound, or a Hollywood animal trainer had already claimed him or— “He’s in the storeroom. I’ll get him.”

They followed her to the storeroom door. Maybe they didn’t trust her; maybe they were just eager to see... Louie. Stupid name for a cat, Temple fumed; why not Whiskers or Schwarzenegger if they wanted a really dumb name?

The cat unloosed a long rouwwwl of welcome. Temple watched it stalk past her, pause, then thread itself around Van von Rhine’s legs before giving Nicky Fontana a greeting nip on the knee.

“Hey, those are my best Italian silk-blends!”

Van von Rhine squatted before the huge cat. “Louie! You’re famous now, but how on earth did you get into the convention center? Where have you been all week? We missed you!” She looked up at Temple through limpid blue eyes. “I really did panic when he hadn’t been seen for a while—imagined he’d been run over or worse. I guess it’s from having an infant around. Mother’s nerves.”

“Father’s nerves,” muttered her husband, “aren’t too calm at the moment, either; must be those nighttime serenades. We’re sure glad we found Louie. We’ll take him from here. He eats a ton, not to mention weighs one. Thanks for looking after him.”

“Sure.” Temple’s weight shifted from foot to foot. Her precarious high heels felt like true needles, as if they would puncture the floor and drop her another six inches.

The cat obviously knew the couple, was glad to see them, glad to be out of the storage closet, her apartment, her life, the limelight even, who knows what a cat thinks? Temple knew what she thought. That it was ridiculous for an almost-thirty-for-heaven’s-sake career woman to be standing in front of strangers with a sock-size lump in her throat.

“Wait!” she said past the sock. “The cat’s been really important to the center. The publicity he got took the spotlight off a rather unfortunate event here. I’d like to keep him a while, until I’m sure we won’t need him anymore.”

“You don’t understand,” the woman said gently. “Louie’s not a pet. He adopted us, to tell the truth, and the whole hotel to boot. Everyone from bellboys to visiting celebrities expects to see Midnight Louie around.”

“He’s an alley cat, Miss Barr,” the man added with a glance at the nameplate on the desk. “He needs to come and go as he pleases. Sure he’ll cadge what he can from the staff or raid the carp pond in the hotel gardens if he can get away with it, but he’s not really domesticated. He’s not used to being”—Nicky Fontana eyed the empty cat carrier with distaste—“kept. It’s not fair to him.”

“Did I say that? No, of course not.” Temple’s voice sounded forced. “I understand.” A sinuous form wove against her legs. She bent down to stroke the glossy black fur. “Well, Louie, thanks for helping save the day. Take care of yourself, you big lug.”

Temple straightened and turned quickly to get the carrier.

“Naw—we won’t need that,” Nicky Fontana said. “It won’t fit in my ’vette. Louie’ll ride in the rumble seat, right, fellah?”

Temple turned back to see the cat occupying most of Nicky’s arms, being borne away like a big, black, furry baby.

Van von Rhine’s blue-sky eyes had clouded with knowing sympathy. “Don’t worry. I’ll call and let you know how he’s doing. You can always come to visit him.”

“I will.” Temple saw them to the door, the cat’s green peepers regarding her soulfully as its huge head lolled over Nicky’s elbow. Louie looked supremely comfortable.

Temple closed the door as soon as polite goodbyes had been said. She couldn’t stand to watch the couple shrink down the hall, even the big black form of Midnight Louie shriveling at last.

“Dumb name!” She kicked the wastepaper basket, paused, then bent to stuff papers, paper clips and candy-bar wrappers back in one by one.

Finally all that was left to do was to collect her tote bag and go home. On the way out she hesitated. A stack of newspaper second fronts sat on the secretary’s desk, ready for clipping and saving. Trust Valerie to remember.

“Well.” Temple slipped a copy off the pile and stared at the too-cute pose of the recently reclaimed Midnight Louie. “I guess our sleuthing days are over, Sherlock.”

She wasn’t burdened by a cat carrier and its eighteen-pound resident when she arrived at the Circle Ritz, but Temple felt as if she were. The June heat welded her linen blouse and skirt to her body and turned her pantyhose into steaming spandex long johns. The sky was the deep, dark blue of Lake Mead, and the distant ruffle of burnt-sienna mountain ranges shimmered blue-purple in the heat.

Temple parked her aqua Geo Storm next to the Ford Escort that had taken the last shaded spot, unfurled her cardboard sun-shield over the dashboard and trudged to the building’s rear and through the wooden gate.

She scraped a lounge chair into the palm tree’s shade and collapsed with a vehemence that made the lounge frame squeak for mercy. At her size, she didn’t often make such a big impression on inanimate objects.

“Another bad day?”

A familiar head had popped over the pool’s old-fashioned tiled edge. Temple mused darkly on the likely untrustworthiness of men who could look attractive even with their hair wet.

“Where’s the cat?” Matt Devine asked next.

“In the afternoon edition of the paper.”

Matt cocked an eyebrow and hefted his chest out of the water by bracing his elbows on the edge. “That’s bad?”

“That’s good.” She sighed.

Matt pulled himself all the way out while Temple tried not to watch. She’d once attempted to exit a pool the hard way and had ended up clawing at the concrete like a drowning lemming.

“Mrs. Lark made lemonade—want some?” he offered.

“Thanks.”

The glass—a tall, thin tulip-shaped vintage number with Saturn-like silver rings around the top—was stippled with water drops, and so was Matt. A delicate blend of jasmine, chlorine and sweat perfumed the air. Bees hummed in the oleander bush. Matt pulled his lounge chair into the shade beside Temple.

“How’d the cat make the daily news?” he wondered.

Temple unenthusiastically produced the second section she’d grabbed at the office. Matt carefully dried his hands on the towel draping his lounge chair and took it.

“Cute story—takes the heat off the news of the murder at the convention center. Your idea?”

She nodded disconsolately.

“Why so glum? Looks like your strategy worked.”

“Too well.” Temple sipped the lemonade—tart the way she liked it—and smiled just a little. “This couple turns up from the Crystal Phoenix down the Strip and claims the cat is some ‘house’ stray they’ve had around for years. So... bye, bye, Midnight Louie.”

“Midnight Louie, huh? Yeah, he’s the rambling, rogue feline type, all right. And you’d gotten attached to the cat.”

“Maybe I have a tendency to get inappropriately attached.”

Matt smiled at Midnight Louie’s likeness. “So do most people. Animals seldom make that mistake, and certainly not cats.”

“I was getting used to the clump of his big paws around the place. When you live alone....” She let it trail off, aware she was dumping her bad mood on a mere acquaintance.