Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

“I’ll just have to find who did know his habits and used them to try to kill him.”

“That’s nice, dear. Now can you sit down and have some Crystal Light so poor Karma will be reassured that no one will be leaping up unseemly and shouting and she can gather her psychic thoughts and come out from under the sofa?”

Subdued, Temple complied, wondering all the while how she could nail a killer with a doctored powdered sugar theory. Maybe “Spoonful of Sugar Helps the Medicine Go Down” Mary Pop-pins could, but Temple wasn’t a magical English nanny. She was just a PR woman with a strong sense of protecting her friends.

Chapter 38

A Kick in the Karma

Usually I can count on my MissTemple to lock up a case of murder in four days flat. Double murder, or second attempt. Five days flat.

But my esteemed associate (not Miss Midnight Louise) is not her usual razor-sharp self, partly because our beloved landlady is in the hot seat, but mostly because she herself is trying to be this human insanity called “faithful” to two tomcats. (Not to mention myself, who has always been her steady fella and only real roommate, night-in and night-out. My nights out, that is.) It is so simple in the feline world, as I tell Miss Midnight Louise again and again. One hot young queen. Two potent neighborhood toms. You are talking a litter of adorable goldens and blacks, not a shabby combo for a mama of any species.

But, no. Humans have to make a pair out of a possible full house. Any gambler will tell you this: the more players, the better the odds. And the more fun!

Still, I have cast my lot in life with my MissTemple, and I generally have no complaints. I must admit, now that push has come to shove, that I am already missing the always-impending presence of Mr. Max. That guy knew how to build an audience’s expectations onstage, shatter them, and then show up behind them with an armful of tame doves. Yum-yum. I am talking about the doves, not Mr. Max.

But Mr. Matt is an okay guy. If you want sincerity with a Capital S, not to mention that smoldering sort of sex appeal that comes from a restrictive upbringing, my MissTemple could do no better.

But, see, I have always thought that she could do herself the biggest favor with both. What is so wrong with that? It has been the feline way since before we bit the hands that fed us. Since before there were hands to feed us.

Speaking of which, I am standing in the Circle Ritz parking lot fretting about human behavior, when I am suddenly held up to dry on my own impeccable good intentions and behavior.

“You slug!” I hear hissed from the nearby oleander bushes.

Something snarled and black (and snarling) rushes into my face.

It is my purported mother, Ma Barker. Jeez, I wish she had a couple of consuming tomcats on her mind. But no. She has her whole damn litter of a gang on her mind.

“We are starving. You said down-Strip would be the Promised Land. Free food from gullible humans who would not try to trap us.”

“There are no traps.”

“There is nothing in our traps, either, fool! We have walked off all the spare fat our spare frames could sparer Okay. I could edit that sentence. Eliminate redundant “spares.” Okay. That would not be life affirming in this current situation.

“What about the Free-to-BeFeline piles I have led you and the Chosen Felines to in my own domicile?” I ask.

“That stuff sucks, my son.” Ma Barker responds.

I cannot disagree.

“Okay.” I say. “But that is all I have for now. It will get better later, I promise.”

Ma Barker gets a bit dewy. “You sound just like your father.”

“I mean it! The head lady of this place is too busy to cook for the gang. She does not even know you are here yet. She is facing major murder charges!”

Ma Barker desists her howling and lays back into a purr. “This place is run by a head lady, human style?”

“Right.”

“And she is up on murder charges?”

“False, of course.”

“My kind of human. Except for the false part. So what are you going to do in the meantime, sonny?”

“I will … ah, consult the resident, urn, goddess.”

“It is human or feline?”

“A bit of both, I fear. Just settle down here

“We no longer have the energy to climb that arch of rugged trunk for a few nuggets of dried green rabbit dung.”

“I agree! I will see about getting you something more succulent.”

“Succulents are watery cacti, son. Not nourishing.”

“I meant moist, meaty, thick, tasty.”

“Like lizard tongue.”

“Ah, more like a major cat food brand.”

“I prefer baby food.”

“That too.” I sigh, my work cut out for me.

I take the despised palm tree route to the Circle Ritz’s fourth floor, then claw my way up the exterior to the penthouse.

Panting outside the French doors, I finally see a ray of light. A scimitar of claw has pulled a door ajar.

Now, I suppose, I must do obeisance to the resident goddess, Karma.

I roll into the desirable shade inside, hearing the soothing wheeze of the air-conditioning device. The dimness is also soothing. I could have a nice nap.“Slug!” I hear in dulcet sacred Birman tones.

I bet the Dalai Lamas did not have to put up with this, but they are mostly extinct these days. As I may soon be.

Miss Karma is circling around me on her miraculously white-footed feet.

“Are you responsible for that low-end, homeless riffraff in the parking lot being here?”

“Yes,” I am forced to admit. “They were starving uptown.”

“What makes you think they will not starve downtown?”

“As soon as the human Circle Ritz denizens can get their attention off of your … roommate’s survival, I am sure they will all see the need around them and meet it.”

“Hmph. You are a lowly mixed breed.”

I hold my tongue. And teeth.

“You have served the lowest desires of both kinds.” I hold my tongue, but it is hard.

“You have delusions of being a force-about-town.” I hold my shivs.

“You hold to no guiding principle but self-interest.” I growl.

“And that of a favored few humans of your acquaintance. No mystical human figure has blessed you with its favor.” Well, there was Elvis. Or his ghost.

“No miracle has occurred to paint your outer coat to celebrate your inner courage Okay, so these Birmans got their coloring centuries ago from dying to protect the Dalai Lama of their time. Did not work, did it? And the current Dalai Lama, cool dude as he is, may be the last of his kind, while their kind gets exhibited in fancy cat shows. Huh! They are all just hand-me-downs. I am one-of-a-kind, because I am no kind in particular.

“No miracle occurred for you, Louie?”

“No,” I say. But then, my just being here after having been abandoned in an alley is some kind of miracle to my way of thinking. Which is not divine. Or Birmanish.

“Very well. I will beseech Buddha for loaves and fishes for your wandering kin.”

Uh, that was the other guy.

Karma thrums her shivs on the carpeting. I think I hear a temple bell ring, but then I realize it is a microwave tinging.

“My obedient servant has left a warm meal for me. If your followers can get it, they are welcome to it.”

Hmm. Warm, meaty, fishy, not-Maurice-endorsed product. At least two bowls full.

I bump the patio doors open with my sturdy rear quarters and signal the corps. Ma Barker’s rangy, somewhat raccoon-customized form comes scrabbling up the palm tree trunk, everyone but poor three-legged Gimpy after her.

I look at Karma. “I can work the microwave. You think your Divineship could transport a little grub down to the three-leg waiting below’?”