Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

39

Gloves Off

Temple’s faithful analog watch showed she had spent forty minutes typing down ideas for the new PR campaigns. The first project was for her and Louie’s commercial future, and then—goofing off—plans for Electra’s mythical, magical new marketing potential now that she had officially inherited the Lust ‘n’ Lace land and no one with a signed deed had shown up.

Urban planning was a kick. One hot new idea that might help Maeveleen Pearl’s Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore…food and drink next door, as Barnes and Noble offered inside their stores. That was how the chain bookstores had “eaten up” the independents back in the day.

The Magic Muffin wasn’t close enough and had a one-note menu, though deliciously varied. Maeveleen needed a full café right next door, and Temple had just the idea that might fly. She grabbed her cell phone to run the idea past Electra. No answer.

Darn. Hot ideas demand instant broadcast and feedback. And copious praise.

Temple tapped her toes. Her feet (in their shoes) often broadcast the clickety-clack of an old-time telegrapher’s Morse code instrument. They kept her brain on simmer. If she were writing poetry, they’d be the meter that kept the words flowing. Thrill and Quill. The Mystery Menu. Café Poe. Amontillado Grill. Café Poetry. Café Coffee and Crooks. Crookery Nook. Nookery Doc. Getting out of hand . Um, Coffee Noir. Café Noir. Café Noir Bar and Amontillado Grill.

Nothing was compelling. She tried Electra’s phone again. Being invited to leave a message was not inspiring.

Temple checked her watch. Like many small businesses, Maeveleen’s shop opened at eleven a.m. and closed at nine, hours that uniquely suited the location. Las Vegas’s 24/7 operating schedule heated up in the afternoon and exploded in the evening hours. Her busy tapping feet kept the words spinning. Tempo. Tempo Bar . Temple Bar. Uh-oh, there already was one of those in Dublin. Hmph. No reason there couldn’t be another. Las Vegas had once advertised it was “like no place else”, but it had become like every place else—Venice, Egypt, Monte Carlo, Paris—why not have an Irish pub? Yeah, sure, and Max could run it.

Or, wait. A Chicago Bar, based on the hit musical, and Matt could run it.

Or… you are getting really punchy, Temple .

She shook her head free of outrageous ideas, and printed her note pages. She looked around one last time for Louie, then decided to head for the Thrill ‘n’ Quill. Louie had plenty of Free-to-Be-Feline in his bowl, Electra was out, and Maeveleen had to be on duty until nine. It was just eight thirty. Maeveleen was the perfect sounding board for Electra’s new urban village concept, since hers would be a founding shop.

Temple was truly happy and hyped. Everything was rosy. Matt’s career was back on track; so was Louie’s. She had an exciting new career opportunity herself. Electra had dodged an economic bullet, and Temple could help her build a whole new retail world from the bottom up. High time to share her ideas.

“This is wonderful!” Maeveleen said after scanning Temple’s two pages.

The shop was empty at the moment, except for two browsing women and Ingram snuggled in the window. He slept like Louie did, Temple noticed, always on duty. One ear down flat and the other perked.

“I particularly like the food places,” Maeveleen said. “Local regulations have become so strict on banning animals where food is available, I can barely sneak in fast food for my lunch. What a difference a separating wall makes.”

“This is all just blue-sky speculation,” Temple said. “I haven’t run it past Electra.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not answering her cell. Must not be around the Circle Ritz.”

“No, of course not. A while back I saw her rushing past so fast she didn’t even wave. I figured she was checking out her new building.”

“When was this?

Maeveleen eyed the big clock on her wall.

“What a great cuckoo clock,” Temple exclaimed. “I never noticed it.”

“It’s not a cuckoo-bird clock,” Maeveleen said. “It’s ravens baked in a pie. They pop out in appropriate numbers.”

“Ravens? Weren’t four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? Oh. Twenty-four hours. I get it. Ravens. Poe.”

Maeveleen’s broad smile showed her dimples. “Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven’, is a mystery classic. Mystery is about the dark side of everything.”

“Speaking of the dark side,” Temple said, “it’s getting late. Why would Electra be examining that building now? Its interior is darker than a bank vault even in daylight. I doubt any electricity is available.”

“I’m sure Electra has her own plans for the space.”

“Yes, but it helps to see the layout. Do you keep a decent flashlight here?”

“I park around the side, so no need.”

Temple looked over her shoulder to the door. The shop was so cheerily lit, especially the front window in which Ingram basked, that you forgot the time. The sun set about eight thirty. That old building would be as dim as King Tut’s tomb by now.

While Temple fretted, Maeveleen bustled away.

She returned and handed Temple something black plastic and bulky. “The Hardy Boys anniversary edition Junior Detective flashlight. I did put batteries in it so customers could try it out.”

“I’m being silly,” Temple said. “Let me call Electra again.” She did.

“Well?” Maeveleen asked as Temple tapped the cell phone screen and set one impatient toe tapping.

“No luck. ‘Leave a message.’ Electra always keeps her cell on, given the things that can come up at an apartment building.” Temple took the boxy flashlight. “I’ll check the building, in case. She could have fallen on that rickety staircase.”

Maeveleen looked dismayed. “I’d go with you, but I can’t leave until closing.”

“I’ve got a magic cell phone.” Temple waved her (yes) new zebra-pattern Austrian crystal case before returning it to her tote bag with the printouts. Vegas hotel shops sold tons of crystal-embellished phone cases in every pattern under the sun, moon, and stars. “It should only take a few minutes to check this out, and I’ll call you. I already entered your shop number in my contact list.”

“Wonderful, dear.” Maeveleen looked down. “Now don’t you trip in those high heels.”

Temple glanced down. “These are my pitons, like a cat’s claws.”

Even as she said it, she felt a small shiver of anxiety and rushed to get out the door.

The soft passage of air as it closed brought out goose bumps on her calves. That was odd, because the night air was as thick and temperate as lukewarm potato soup—maybe a baked potato with exotic toppings eatery, she envisioned—but the street was already darker than expected. Her imagined shops might show window lights or headlining neon at this hour, but once past the Thrill ‘n’ Quill only the occasional street lamp was on.

Temple phoned Matt. He wasn’t answering either, although he often used the later hours before his show to do errands, Vegas being a 24/7 town. This was starting to feel ominous.

She looked back to see Maeveleen working at her computer and lit up like a sitting duck inside. Ingram had deserted the window. He probably had been lured away by the bright, copy-reading lamp next to Maeveleen’s computer, like Louie was on her desk. And if there were papers nearby, he’d be lying on them.