Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

I have already overheard enough phone calls around this joint to know that this is a second Very Bad Day for Miss Temple Barr and her Case of the Roving Romeos.

Much later this afternoon, she must again drive to nearby McCarran Airport, this time to pick up Mr. Matt Devine. I hope his long week in Chicago has left him in better physical and mental condition than Mr. Max Kinsella’s longer recent jaunt.

I rather doubt it. Being the fond object of a large extended Polish family and high-powered TV executives hunting a hot property for a week is probably about as bad as dodging political assassins.

Meanwhile, I am aware she is also planning a solo visit to Miss Violet Weiner’s residence first.

Thank God! I am not eager to encounter Miss Savannah Ashleigh and her latest portable purse pet, Captain Jack, especially after I read up on the ferret kind over Miss Temple’s shoulder. I was sitting on her desk, pretending to be slitty-eyed asleep, but, of course, my predator eyes were speed-reading everything about the breed.

It is commonly known that domestic cats were worshipped by ancient Egyptians, and we have been considered wise in all cultures and time periods. Few know that the cat god, Bast, gifted us with the ability to read some two thousand years B.C. Great Bast knew we would never again be so cherished by an entire civilization and might even be persecuted at times, as we were. Great Bast knew that hieroglyphics were not the future of human communication, although I doubt that Great Bast anticipated e-books.

I shudder to think how much more difficult our daily survival would be without some of our seeming “extrasensory” perception, although, alas, most of my peers have long ago lost my “secret weapon.”

Also, being Miss Temple works at home alone, often with me beside her, she has taken to commenting on her online researches aloud to me in a conversational tone.

“Look at this, Louie. Huh. I thought they were a weasely kind.…”

My sentiments exactly! Vermin.

“Ferrets are related to polecats. They have scent glands and do all that catlike ‘marking.’ But … wait! They do the ‘weasel war dance’ while making soft clucking sounds, called ‘dooking.’”

Oh, my scented grandmother!

“Imagine what one can do in the deepest recesses of Savannah Ashleigh’s purse. I think she has gotten accustomed to her aunt’s cathouse odors and isn’t noticing that Captain Jack has a few bad habits.

“They can live in feral colonies,” she adds, nodding my way, as if saying, See, just like you cats. “Although I doubt that polecats are your real relatives.”

I should hope not!

“You know, they remind me of mongooses, which would be handy to have along in one’s purse if you encountered any rattlesnakes. Not that I plan on doing that. I was lucky I did not meet any in that wilderness behind Violet’s house.”

That is what research does to Miss Temple, sends her off into the wild blue yonder of speculation. I can understand she would like her mind taken off Mr. Matt’s imminent arrival and greeting him with the revelation that her “ex” is no longer conveniently absent, but very inconveniently returned.

“Well,” Miss Temple says, shutting down the World Wide Web, “you can keep snoozing. I am going out and I do not need any extra passengers.”

Actually, I have my own assignation this evening, so I need to stay home and get my beauty sleep. Or so I let her think.

Chapter 17

Up for Grabs

As she headed for Aloe Vera Drive that afternoon, for all the upheaval in her private life, Temple found herself worrying about the old woman in that half-hidden house surrounded by suspicion and rescued cats.

Confined to the island of her hospital bed and mind, Violet was helpless except for the weapon of her unsigned will. The moment she selected an executor-heir … who knows what would happen to her?

Temple’s mind replayed her impressions of the sad, scary scene and the cats and people around Violet as she drove. And she couldn’t forget the ghost who haunted the whole kit and caboodle, Alexandra, the tragically dead daughter who died far away and forever estranged from her mother, thanks to the actions of a freak random killer.

Alexandra was not like the victims of the Barbie Doll Killer. A killer with such a specific trademark was actually the more common kind. Drugstore tamperers were rarer, even more random, and, when Temple did a computer search, the hardest to find. The most notorious case involved potassium cyanide–laced capsules in an OTC painkiller bottle. When family members came for one of the victims’ funeral, some stayed in the family house … and two died from taking the same contaminated headache remedy before anyone put the cause into focus. Tragically tripling the death toll for this one family alone.

Temple might find Savannah over the top, but her aunt’s situation was another human tragedy waiting to happen. Temple realized her face had assumed a grim set, despite the ever-sunny Vegas skies and the convertible ride’s breezy vim and vigor.

As she pulled to the curb in front of Violet’s place, the Miata’s small red snout was pushing at the solid white-fortress rear of a parked Chrysler 300. The muscular yet cushy model was a favorite of middle managers, or … hmm.

This time she noticed the overgrown driveway around the house’s side, snarled with stubby mesquite trees and the rears of a tattooed Volkswagen van, which was probably Jayden’s, and a dusty red Ford Focus, which made her think of Rowdy Smith. The name made her smile. He was such a homespun guy. She could see why a pampered, neurotic flower like Alexandra had been drawn to him despite her mother’s flabbergasted objections. What a way to rebel against parental authority, before death took over the job.

Temple put up the Miata’s top and approached the house, tote bag and shoulders making a solid front of it.

Before she could knock, the ponderous door swung open.

A heavyset woman filled the open frame.

Her hair was dyed ultraviolet red, white scalp showing through. She wore eighties shoulder pads and peep-toe pumps. She was shaped like an inverted pyramid or an opera singer or ocean liner of the old school, all imposing shoulders and bust and slim hips on thin stiltlike legs.

“I’m Freddie LaCosta. Who are you?” she asked, nay demanded.

“Temple Barr.” Temple bristled like a schnauzer. “Violet’s niece asked me to look after what things I could for her.”

“You’re not going to be in the will.”

“I don’t want to be in the will. I want to see Violet and the cats, and that they’re all right, and that I will do.”

“Where do you live?”

What nerve! “In Las Vegas.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “House?”

“Ah, condo.”

“Then come in, my dear.” The door swept wide and the wide woman stepped aside.

Temple reentered the house of litter dust and shadows, puzzled even more.

*

Temple headed straight for Violet’s bed, unaccountably worried.

“Hello, my little Legend of Ireland, Deirdre of Ulster, the redheaded girl.”

Violet’s voice was a soft rasp, and her pupils were as large as a cat’s could get in the dark. “I so hoped you’d come again. My Whisper is still gone, and the bewitching Rebecca, the tuxedo cat, too. Can you find them?”

Given where Max had just come from and what he’d had to say of Kathleen O’Connor using the name Rebecca, Temple felt a chill from her nape to her tailbone.

“Rebecca the tuxedo witch?” Temple said, thinking of Kitty the Cutter using the name.

“Oh, so enchanting. Black-and-white. My little baby dolls are dwindling. Savannah said you could help.”