Unknown - 23_Cat_In_A_Vegas_Gold_Vendetta

“If she thinks that’s Alexandra, I guess it’s as good as a belief in Father Hell’s magnets,” Savannah chattered on. “I can’t believe she named me the heir.”

Neither could Temple.

“Once she was ensconced here, Violet told me the news and said she was much impressed by my maturity and faithful care of the cats. And she loves my ‘little pet rat.’”

Captain Jack popped up from the status purse and seemed to wink at Temple over Savannah’s shoulder. Then she realized that was because a tiny patch over one already masked eye gave him a bit of a leer.

“Naturally,” Savannah said with an eye-roll of her own, “I’ll have to keep up all that cat care and visiting Violet here. Still, a girl can use a financial cushion down the road.”

A girl? Temple smiled and shook her head.

“By the way, Temp, I suppose you solved Pedro’s murder along with a few others. We never did decide on a fee.” Pause. “Now don’t go getting stratospheric, because I have that old house to keep up and only a couple hundred thousand that you only know about because you sneaked a peek at the will without my permission.”

“Here’s my fee, Savannah: give yourself a break and find good homes for all Violet’s cats.”

“Oh. Well, that’s easy.”

“It is? It’s hard to find a home for one adult cat, even if it’s fixed. What makes you think you can place thirty of them in good homes?”

“Easy. You just don’t get it. I am a cel-eb-ri-tee. I will just do a charity event for some shelter, and since I’m in charge of the cats now, everyone will rush to get a pre-owned Savannah Ashleigh pussycat.”

“What about Yvette and Solange?”

“Poor itty-bitty babies.”

Savannah hoisted her huge designer bag on her shoulder.

“I have them back, safe and sound. They’ve both had ‘lion cuts’ to remove the knots,” she said. “They look so ferrety and cute shaved, so I cut a cat-and ferret-food TV commercial deal for all three! ‘Captain Jack and the Persian Pirates’ for Fishy Feast Ahoy.”

Savannah leaned down to whisper in Temple’s ear. “I’ll make out like a bandit. You could have asked for real money, but I’ll be sure to tell all my H-wood friends about your PI work. Ta-ta.”

Temple watched Savannah and ferret clatter to the Sky convertible and glide away.

Temple’s cell phone played “Hallelujah,” and she got it out to read a text message.

“Howd ur 1st solo outing sans scabs go?”

“Supr. Home 4 suppr.”

“Xpct gourmet.”

“W/pillos?”

“W/everything.”

Temple smiled at Matt’s message and was about to close her cell when it hailed her again. Hallelujah.

“U kild that case. Gd t C U smlng n th sunshine. Mx.”

She looked up and around. All she saw was a lot of Las Vegas sunshine.

Right.

Chapter 51

Hanging Out

I stare through the window, hoping to spot a friendly face.

Heck, an unfriendly face would be welcome.

If I thought that clinging to a mesquite tree eight feet up was a risk to life and limb—my limbs, not the tree’s—I have never been more wrong.

I am now on the twelfth floor of an ominously named high-rise, having inched along a ledge barely wide enough for a squirrel, much less a dude of size.

So it is with more than hope but sheer desperation that I tap my shivs on the double-paned glass, longing to see a familiar face, but willing to greet the Wicked Witch of the West if she will but let me in by the hairs of my chinny chin-chin.

I tap out an SOS. I even look skyward for a handy, lost California condor I could hitch a ride on.

At last! My window view fills with not one, but two lovely faces.

They make sexy French moues at me, their green eyes as round as flying saucers as their spidery whiskers flatten against the glass that separates us.

With eye rolls and head nods the Persian sisters manage to indicate a balcony about twenty feet farther along the ledge.

Well, it is a toss-up if the balcony or retreat is nearer. I inch along, losing sight of my motivation. When at last I squeeze my middle through the iron bars, I discover the balcony is only a foot wide. It has curtains over a sliding glass door, all right, but is not meant to be stepped on by human feet.

Luckily, mine are much daintier by those standards. Yet I do not confront the easy-opening French doors on my Miss Temple’s condo, and on the second floor.

I hunch in a funk, safe behind prison bars, but with no way of entrance and my only egress requiring more pussyfooting than I can manage at this point.

The sound of the door sliding open has me pasted against the hot glass. I slither along it to the foot-wide crack, about to duck in when a sudden snowfall covers me in flakes the size of … dust bunnies. A mop is shaking them down onto my head.

I sneak around the opening and hide behind the inside curtains before you can say “sneezing spell.”

Luckily, the maid is moving on to another room, and I am following in her footsteps.

“Louie!” a sweet mew greets me in double-time when I reach the main living area, which is full of overstuffed furniture in floral tones of pink and lavender.

I turn to meet the aforesaid green eyes, but my own grow wide with disbelief as I view lean torsos of yellow and gray.

“Yvette. Solange. You have turned … squirrelly since last we met.”

“Are you saying we are lacking in the little gray cells, Louie?” Yvette huffs with attitude.

“I am saying you are all tail fluff with the skinny torsos of the breed know as Sphinx.”

“Those cats have no fur at all,” Yvette sniffs. “We have kept the best parts.”

Well, I am always interested in best parts, and I see on longer inspection that only the torsos and the tops of their legs have been shaved to the skin, giving the girls a Puss-in-Boots look with fluffy lower legs and furry tail tufts on the end. And an Elizabethan ruff of hair around their faces.

“No wonder they call it the ‘lion cut,’” I exclaim. “I am not sure it is flattering.”

While Yvette hisses and spits at my last word, Solange smoothes her ruffled, golden-shaded feathers … er, fur.

“The style is light and comfortable in this Las Vegas heat, Louie,” she says.

“You are under air-conditioning most of the time,” I point out.

“It will be hot,” snaps Yvette, putting on airs despite a ludicrous lack of hairs, “when we go before the cameras for our new cat-food commercial contract.”

I have heard of this deal and well know I have been omitted in favor of a piece of vermin.

Speaking of which, I hear the maid scream in the other room, “A rat, a rat!”

I race to the scene of the crime, sensing the Persian girls hot on my tail. There is no breed better for the merciless pursuit called “bugging.” I have seen the Divine Yvette take down a moth faster than the Jaws shark swallowed a fishing boat.

The maid has her eyes squeezed shut and stands atop a boudoir chair, embracing her mop like it was Ashton Kutcher.

I bound onto the foot-wide concrete ledge. Hanging from it between the bars is a pair of long-clawed feet. One swipe and my usurper would be a flying squirrel for twelve stories down. Then … history.

No one can see past my large muscled torso to see what I actually do.

The possibilities are tempting.

Then I sigh. I have been on rescue duty at Violet’s house for too long. I stick my kisser through the bars and down, snag Captain Jack by the furry nape of his neck, and toss him over my shoulder to firm ground.

He is unsinkable. He scampers to his feet and heads straight for the maid’s chair.

Meanwhile, the resident dames prepare to get grateful.