Unknown: 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

“No! Has purse poochery come down to this? At least, the underground link to Gangsters has been certified rat-free by the health department, and the Neon Nightmare access has been cemented shut.”

“That case and the secret tunnel may be closed, but more crime in the making is brewing somewhere. Just keep watching and listening.”

Something more than mere vermin is afoot, and it has peroxided hair and mighty high arches.

Chapter 3

Violets Are Blue

“I want to hire you,” Savannah Ashleigh told Temple, after their ordered drinks had arrived.

“I’m strictly Las Vegas–based,” Temple said, although that might shortly become Chicago if Matt’s career break materialized. “You … work out of L.A., I would think.”

“You would think wrong. I’ve relocated to Las Vegas because my precious Captain Jack is not allowed to be maintained in the style to which he is accustomed in California.”

“Your ‘precious Coco,’ isn’t it? I saw during the Red Hat Sisterhood convention that you’d retired your Persians, Yvette and Solitaire—”

“Please. Solange.”

“—and Solange, in favor of a small dog.”

“Coco is a papillon, but he too is retired. Too much piddling.”

“So Captain Jack would be—?”

Savannah reached down to probe her designer bag, which carried enough clanking brass straps and buckles to outfit an ancient Roman soldier. She lifted out something lean, long, brown, and crew-cut furry that resembled no minidog or -cat Temple had ever seen.

A small face masked like a raccoon’s peered over Savannah’s thin, veined hands.

Words like weasel, mink, and wolverine—wait! chinchilla or sable—darted through Temple’s mind, but they were hardly domesticated. She decided to find out.

“Well, Captain Jack seems to have the eyeliner concession down for the role. Is that a baby raccoon?”

“Of course not. A raccoon is a wild animal. Captain Jack is just wildly darling.”

Savannah reached a dagger-nailed hand into the side pocket and pulled out a long supple creature that reminded Temple of an animated blond mink from the bad old days when women flounced around with a posse of full animal skins flagellating their shoulders.

Captain Jack ably escaped his mistress’s clutches to circle her neck, run down and along the boosted ledge of her bodice, then cradle himself on her forearm.

Temple studied the close-set, bearlike ears, the ratlike pink nose, and clawed toes. She now saw the rhinestoned harness fastened around the lean and furry body. A pet that some states might allow and others ban would be a …

“He’s a ferret?”

“Not just any ferret,” Savannah cooed. “He is his mumsy’s adorable little mischief maker.”

Watching Savannah’s seriously over-collagened lips making kissy-face with a ferret had to be high on anyone’s Ick List. The actress chattered on.

“Captain Jack is a daring and brilliant rascal. Did you know, Temple, that ferrets are among the most popular pets in the country, and members of the cat family?”

“Nope.” Temple, dumbstruck, doubted Savannah’s extravagant claims but forgot them when she felt a feathery agitation at her bare ankles. She gazed down at a creeping carpet of glossy-leaved indoor groundcover to spot two bewhiskered black furry faces with narrowed eyes of green and gold.

“What are the predators for this sort of creature?” Temple asked, worried.

“Coyotes, great horned owls, golden eagles, prairie falcons, badgers, foxes, and bobcats,” Savannah answered proudly from some guidebook, probably Ferrets for Dummies. “But that’s in the wild. We’re in Las Vegas.”

“I’ve known plenty of coyotes, badgers, foxes, and bobcats in Vegas,” Temple said. “Birds of prey, not so much.”

“Whatever, nobody is going to get Mama’s little oochum-moochum. Really, Temple. May I call you that?” When Temple nodded, she rushed on. “You must consider dumping that misbehaving alley cat of yours for one of these darlings. They can even be vasectomized, as I so kindly—if accidentally—provided that service for your Twilight Toby, or whomever. So they have the cutest fuzzy little—”

“Ouch!” The agitation at Temple’s ankles had developed claw tips.

“Oh, my dear,” Savannah said, “you mustn’t personalize ‘fixing’ our little boys. The surgery really doesn’t hurt. Don’t be so … tenderhearted.”

“I’m more tender-ankled at the moment,” Temple said. “And my cat’s name is Louie, Midnight Louie.”

“Don’t be grumpy either. It can’t be good for your business to contradict clients.”

“You’re not my client yet.”

“I will be.”

Temple sincerely doubted that, but sipped her wine spritzer, giving Savannah time to take a huge gulp of her mint julep before continuing.

“You see, Temple, you do remember Yvette and Solange. Who could forget my silver and golden Persian beauties? My apartment in L.A. was too crowded for them when I got Captain Jack, and I travel so much, so … I left them with my aunt Violet here in Vegas.”

Temple noticed the groundcover at her feet shifting as if a huge, hungry boa constrictor were slithering beneath it. She guessed that Midnight Louise was restraining Midnight Louie from going for Savannah’s ankles for real.

He had performed in TV cat food commercials with Yvette, and Solange was no stranger to him, either. Hearing they’d been dumped for a dog, for a purse pooch at that, and dumped so near to his own doorstep and he’d never known, would not soothe the savage feline soul.

“I don’t understand,” Temple said, glancing at her watch.

The half-wine, half-sparkling-water drink was not settling the butterflies in her stomach, and she had a lot of driving to do this afternoon and tonight. Granted, distances around the Las Vegas Strip were short, but they were traffic jammed too.

“You want me to dream up another commercial gig using the ferret?” Temple asked.

“Captain Jack is not an ordinary ferret, but this isn’t about him or your Midnight Moocher. It’s about my aunt Violet’s yardman being found dead in some kind of … sinkhole at the back of her property. I find the incident most suspicious. Violet lives alone and has collected a lot of nice things. She’s been harassed by phone calls and e-mails. She’s reported some of her suspicions about neighbors to the police, but they brushed her off like a case of dandruff, so Violet doesn’t want to involve the cops any more than they have to be after the death she is certain was meant for her. I need a PI to look into things.”

“Not a PR?” Temple asked, joking. That was on her business card: TEMPLE BARR, PR, with the words PUBLIC-RELATIONS SPECIALIST below.

“Why would I want a Puerto Rican?” Savannah wondered aloud. “My cousin lives near a Mexican neighborhood.”

Temple shook her head, knowing Savannah was too ditsy to grasp the concept of political correctness, much less the name of the cat she had once falsely accused of fathering Yvette’s first and only litter.

On the other hand, Temple was a teensy bit flattered. This was a legitimate offer to investigate.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Oh, you are always around when bad things happen in this town, and I figure you wouldn’t want anything fatal to befall Yvette and Solange, since your Chewie or Chewbacca or whomever is sweet on them. My aunt Violet is a pretty smart ginger cookie, but she does have her little ways. She won’t give me the cats back, and I’m afraid if her yardman was murdered, like I think, the evil will seep into the house pretty soon.”

Temple nodded. “I have some business that will take up the rest of today, but I could look into this tomorrow. Where does your aunt live?”