Unknown - 19_Cat_In_A_Red_Hot_Rage

She lifted a red satin-covered forearm to her eyes against the glare of fully illuminated ceiling lights.

“How badly have these cats clawed you, ma’am?” Alch asked, always the gentleman.

At this point, Temple was only a luckless bystander. The hatbox sat untouched three feet away. Temple had no proof that it had lured the woman here.

“Ma’am?” one of the young cops asked, sounding worried. Something was wrong with the woman, beyond cat scratches. Her head hung like sunflower on a gossamer stem. Her ankles kept turning out so her feet slipped off the wedgie shoes to the floor, twisting the ankle straps.

It was like trying to keep the Strawman from The Wizard of Oz in upright custody. Impossible.

Liquor? Temple wondered. Drugs?

“We need to have this lady walk the line,” one of the uniform cops suggested.

Alch regarded the three cats still milling around her bony ankles and tattered fishnet hose like they thought real fish might be in there somewhere.

“Off with her hat,” he said.

After a tiny pause, one of the cops obliged. The purple wig came with it, to reveal a bald head.

Temple gasped. The poor woman had alopecia or cancer!

She felt terrible that her cat’s purebred posse had attacked her. Maybe the poor thing “shopped” the convention store alone at night to select what she needed, not wanting to face exposure by daylight. Maybe she didn’t want Oleta’s hatbox at all! Maybe it was all a terrible mistake. Hers.

Alch pulled away the boa to reveal bony shoulders and no breasts.

Cancer, surely! This public undressing was cruel!

Why were the uniformed cops chuckling?

“Say, Detective. Guess we have a shemale here. Must be from one of the shows down the Strip.”

Okay. Temple turned her expectations 180 degrees around.

Tall. Boney. Ankles like silly putty on the high wedge heels. No hair on head. No boobs on torso. This was not Candy Crenshaw, however thin. This was not a transsexual in transition. This was a regular guy! In disguise.

Temple watched the red-gloved hand pulled down to reveal badly made-up lips and eyes. Almost clownish. No wonder Temple had assumed the person was Candy Crenshaw… .

“Elmore Lark?” Temple couldn’t have sounded more astounded if she had tried.

Good thing that Molina wasn’t here to hear that amazed squawk. And why wasn’t Molina here? She’d have to ask Alch before they all scattered for the night.

Louie, meanwhile, was strutting and hissing as if he’d always known the identity of the attackee. Louie was even better than Temple at putting on a show of omniscience.

“You were trying to steal Oleta’s hatbox,” Temple accused.

“It was my life too,” Elmore said. It sounded suspiciously like a whine. “I just wanted to make sure she hadn’t said any dam damning things about me. Women are so vindictive.”

“Some men are so worthy of it,” Temple answered.

“I’ll conduct this interrogation,” Alch said. “First, Mr. Lark. Do you need medical attention?”

“Sure. Those cats’ claws are like an arpeggio of needles. Mainly, I hit my head going down after they ambushed me. So I got nothing to say until I reach my lawyer in Reno.”

Temple watched the two officers escort their broken-down Red Hat lady out of the ballroom.

Alch was shaking his head.

“Here we have Keystone Kops and on the stage we have a Wax Museum of Horror. We can hold this goofball for unlawful entry and false impersonation, I guess. I want custody of that hatbox, but not the cats. The department can only handle so many silly elements at once. I think we can sort all this out unaided. You and the Pussycat Patrol are outta here.”

Temple didn’t object as another officer took her arm and escorted her to the now-gaping double doors to the ballroom. The Ashleigh girls, herded by Louie, wafted alongside her ankles like overgrown marabou bedroom slippers.

High-intensity lights and crime scene investigators were flooding the lobby outside.

Temple hadn’t even had a chance to fully explain Natalie Newman’s motives, which now that she had been murdered, were moot. She certainly hadn’t had a chance to read everypage of Oleta Lark’s book manuscript, but she would now, in what was left of tonight, before Alch discovered the dummy book in the hatbox lid.

Hat. Lid. Box. Dummy.

Temple’s mind was in freefall as she passed a shrieking Savannah Ashleigh at the doors.

“Yvette! You’re covered with common turkey feathers! And Solange! I thought you were missing. Mummy was so distraught.”

The overdone actress squealed with a strange combination of delight and distaste when two put-upon officers lifted an overexcited Yvette and Solange into each of her beseeching arms. Then all four clawed feet windmilled, slashing their mistress’s clothes. Savannah began shrieking again. For real.

Louie was no longer making like a wreath around Temple’s ankles; he probably had other things to attend to, as did she, and had vanished into the crowd of onlookers.

Temple sleepwalked to the hotel entrance, numbed by the unexpected death and the spectacular public failure of her attempt to set a hatbox trap for a murderer. Elmore Lark looked like a vain jerk for falling for her stupid stunt, but if just being in the ballroom after hours made someone Natalie’s murderer, then Temple herself was a prime suspect.

She was so puzzled and upset she wondered if she was up to driving her Miata home.

Outside the hotel the air was hot and still, like warm soup, despite the late hour. The parking valets were inside gawking at Elmore Lark’s debut as a Red Hat Sister in drag.

Then a low black car purred under the porte cochere and paused. The passenger door opened. A pale-clad arm and an inviting baritone suggested she needed a ride home.

Temple fell into the leather seat.

She sat speechless, thinking, watching the lights of the Strip speed by like long, electric strands of neon taffy.

Chapter 58

Dude with Hattitude

A gentleman always escorts his ladies home for the night.

I am pleased that my Miss Temple recognizes that my first allegiance is to my species, especially to the vixen-clawed hellcats who took down the individual who fell into her hatbox trap.

Imagine. A fully grown human male tripped up by a hatbox and a pair of Persian Mixmasters. Do I know how to pick my associates, or what?

Unfortunately, Miss Savannah Ashleigh comes to her senses as she enters the elevators and notices my presence.

“Out, you foul alley cat!” she screams. “My poor darlings have blood all over their enameled nails, thanks to you, some of it mine! Out, out, damn inkspot!”

I have never been dismissed in such Shakespearean termsbefore, so I pause to preen while the elevator doors close and sever me for the nonce from my little razor-nailed fluff puffs. Well, for the night, at least.

But, never fear, sharp-edged femme fatales are never far from Midnight Louie’s front, rear, or side view.

“Some excitement at the Crystal Phoenix!” Midnight Louise notes from behind me. “While I am absent following up on your roommate’s affairs, you manage to turn a whole division of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department loose in my hotel.” I turn, quickly smoothing my ruffled bib. “I was only discovering another murder victim and unmasking a transgender impostor. All should be hunky dory and the usual peaceful by morning.” Louise sits, shaking her head. “How unfortunate that restraining orders do not apply to rogue male cats.”

Hmm. I rather like that “rogue male” soubriquet. Reminds me of an elephant. Something big and imposing and good at crushing impediments.

“Do not get your whiskers in a self-congratulating twist. You can tell me what you think went down here later. I have news from the front.”