Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

He stood up, gimme cap low over his bowed face as the Chevy turned south on the main road and headed back to Vegas. Even a white car was shadowy in this deep a dusk, and a driver who’d changed a tire or had a bit of trouble would be expected to limp back into town after one of the few vehicles heading that way.

It played like Matt had laid it down in his mind.

Until…

The Chevy ended up, not at Wetherly’s place, but in an empty parking lot very near…the Circle Ritz.

The big dark car pulled up cozy-close to the semipermanent construction RV near the building. And didn’t exit the car.

Matt parked the Probe down the street, noticing a faint light from the building’s second-story windows. The murder scene.

Holy Christ. What was going on here? Well, he’d just have to do what Jesus had told his Disciples. Wait and watch.

He had a feeling he’d be glad the Lord was with him before this night was over.

38

Psychrisis

Most of us guys do not go in for this psychosomatic stuff—you know, supposed sixth sense abilities like precognition, clairvoyance, astral projection, telekinesis, telepathy and the like.

I must say my breed is more sensitive than most to unseen things, but that is because our vision operates on multiple focus, our spidery vibrissae sense every little stir in the atmosphere, and our spines are so agile that we are noted for always landing on our feet, which results in the belief of some that we have nine lives. I admit that we do seem to possess a mystical mojo.

However, I pooh-pooh “woo-woo” on principle. I do not wish to be taken for a ditsy dame of any species. Although I will admit to having plenty of telegenesis…that is not a real word, just a wee bit of word-play on my once and future career as an ace TV commercial personality.

Yet there comes a time and tide in the rational skeptic’s life when certain eyewitness events call for an interpretation from more than the ordinary sources, such as the paranormal.

With light step but heavy heart, I prepare myself to bound up the Circle Ritz palm tree to the fifth-floor penthouse and into the paws of Miss Electra Lark’s reclusive Birman, Karma, professional Sacred Cat of Burma who, yes, takes herself just that seriously.

You can imagine how unseriously she takes an earthy guy like me.

Still, I am haunted by a vague worry about the past and present manifestations I have experienced in the large abandoned building Miss Electra just inherited. It sniffs too much like big trouble much too close to the Circle Ritz and my protégés there, Miss Temple Barr and, by extension, Miss Electra Lark.

I land on Miss Electra’s balcony and prepare to make abeyance to the sole feline presence. Karma is usually reluctant to admit me through the glass French doors and makes condescending comments about the state of my intelligence and even soul when I do get in.

Only my reflection greets me in the lowest pane of glass. Ordinarily, Karma has to assert her psychic superiority by being there to greet me, like a crazy mirror apparition.

I am expert at operating the lever handles on these Circle Ritz balcony doors, but when I leap up to begin my athletic second-story man contortions, my weight pushes the entire door open as if…as if a spectral hand had aided my efforts.

The sudden opening has my tender pads thumping hard to the floor, and I almost take it on the chin as well before I can pretzel myself into a relatively graceful four-point landing.

Once again Karma has put me off my paces.

Speaking of paces, I hear agitated shuffling within the dim landscape. Would you believe Miss Electra keeps the lights low for her visitor-shy companion? I have visited Karma before, and know the so-called psychically “sensitive” Birman requires a dim environment supplied with large upholstered furniture she can retreat under so as to “meditate”.

Frankly, I believe Karma has a special condition, all right. She is agoraphobic. Miss Electra Lark has always catered to Karma’s self-centered needs, to the point that almost no one even knows Karma is a resident. I have to admire our landlady’s dedication to her needy roommate. Luckily, I am no strain on mine.

Besides shuffling, I also hear sighs.

Following these ghostly sounds into the main room, I come upon Miss Electra herself. She is holding a cell phone in her hand, and pacing back and forth, muttering. “I do not have what you want.”

As my eyes swiftly adjust to the even dimmer darkness, I see the neatly ordered furnishings are littered with white pieces of paper tossed hither and yon.

“I do not have it! I do not even know what it is , much less where.” Miss Electra’s hand riffles her freshly zebra-striped hair (perhaps in honor of my new carrier of that pattern) and stops to admonish the phone screen in her hand. “Yes, you have what I want, you monsters! My poor, shy, sensitive, sweet Karma.”

Uh…here I must interject—in the interest of full disclosure—that certain Asian dishes are sweet and sour, but I have only experienced the sour from Karma. However, an act against one of my kind is an act against all of my kind. And I suppose Her Tibetan Specialness is not a bad looker with her vivid blue eyes, brown mascara, and dainty white gloves and socks.

“I cannot find anything remotely like what they demand,” Miss Electra is saying, biting her lip. “What shall I do?”

I have noticed that elderly individuals talk to themselves more than young ones, which comes in handy for an investigator like me who is all ears…they being very sharp and pointed and flexible ears. You might even say they had something in common with the Big Bad Wolf, except that I do not eat grandmothers like Miss Electra.

She is now shaking her head. “I cannot tell Temple, get her involved, dear girl, with her wedding plans and all. Nor Matt, that would be as bad. Who to call? Oh, dear. Going alone to that building where Jay died…I told them, I do not know. I do not have anything like that. And now they have taken my dearest companion. Such an ancient, gentle soul, in the hands of murderers.”

Oh my Goddess! Karma has been kidnapped. Is it possible I was the object of a kidnapping when Miss Temple’s place was broken into?

“‘Tell no one,’” Miss Electra reads off the phone screen. “Oh, dear. Anyone coming to my rescue will give away the fact that I told. Maybe… If only I could make one tiny call…”

I can come to the rescue and no one will suspect me of being “told” a thing. Consider me Toto. Yes, comparison to a canine is demeaning, but that mincing little black dustmop was always one step ahead of Dorothy. Think about it. True. So it shall be with me.

I agree with Miss Electra. This time my Miss Temple must be kept well out of it. I retreat soundlessly, then catapult down the palm tree, rushing through the parking lot and bordering oleander bushes.

“No time to say hello-goodbye,” I tell the clowder watch-cats as I streak through the bushes and past them.

A dog might “bark out” orders, but I use a mostly silent shorthand of strangled mews and guttural low growls that amount to: “Summon the Gray Ghost scouts and the Black Ninja Brigade. Cat in peril. I have a date with a gang of murderers under a lethal lighting fixture.” (“Chandelier” is French and only the Divine Yvette, my lost love, and I know French.) “Tell Ma Barker to lead you under the mountain. She’ll know where.”