Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“Said with the total clarity and sensitivity the adoring public, including me, expects from Mr. Midnight."

“Temple, I've never had a girlfriend before, much less a fiancée. Max must have had several, starting way back with Kathleen O'Connor. You have to cut me a lot of slack."

“But I don't want to cut you slack." She grabbed him by the creamy Fontana Brothers lapels. "Not one bit. I want you on your toes, working to make me a very happy girl."

“That's not work."

“That makes me want to make you a very happy boy."

“I think we're in sync on the personal front. What can I do here and now? I have to put in my time with the detectives, but then I'm yours."

“Report back to me on everything they want to know about. Meanwhile, I'm going to cruise this crazy, mixed-up crowd to see what I can find out.”

When Matt had vanished into the frantic stew of milling redand-purple women, Temple began to circulate. She often did her best work—in PR and as an unofficial PI—while eavesdropping.

Rumor was making the rounds, but benignly. Word was one of the Black Hat Brotherhood guys had suffered a heart attack. Poor fellow, but that Type A behavior no doubt brought it on. Why won't middle-aged ever men listen and slow down?

The Black Hat Brotherhood was slowing down now, after the shock of Elmore's collapse. Temple had seen their hats lined up at the Crystal Court bar, as they knocked back some high-octane liquid tranquilizers. Elmore's attack had unnerved them as well as the women in the audience.

Many of the women here were widows. A man collapsing at the debate table revived their memories and losses.

Several women were zooming around on motorized scooters, lacking mobility but making up for it by driving as if racing in the Indy 500. Everywhere, she spotted signs of female zest. These seasoned women were not going to let themselves become invisible, just as they weren't afraid to look bizarre while clinging to the epitome of feminine accessories despite sagging chins and boobs and butts, varicose-veined legs, drawn-on eyebrows, purple and red wigs, every exaggerated feminine grace that age was assumed to strip away. And they reveled in flouting the politically correct act of fading into a corner and dying.

Temple had never seen so many sparkling eyes, whether under white hair or gaudy wig. Every gal here was a one-woman support group for every other gal here. One, in her late eighties, had driven in from California, Red Hat regalia packed in her red convertible.

The red and purple colors everywhere made even the feeblest woman look vibrant. Temple was soaking up energy. Zap! Thatshe had even for a moment thought thirty-one was a significant birthday seemed so incredibly shallow now that she wanted to run around the block thirty-one times in penance, and a Las Vegas Strip block was gigantic!

And penance was a Catholic concept, Matt's hang-up, not hers.

And yet. She was beginning to see that she'd be as baffled by Max's instant and unhailed defection in thirty years as now. And that a sixty-something her would still have a thirtyish heart, and memory, as these women did.

So. This killing and perhaps attempted killing weren't silly senior citizen affairs, but possibly came from the still-living heart of what may have happened decades ago. Our bodies aged, but our deepest, dearest . . . and darkest . . . emotions didn't.

How could a callow, thirty-going-on-thirty-o nefilly like her solve mysteries of the heart leading to murder at the other end of the age kaleidoscope?

Chapter 30

Mad as a Hatter

"I am so humiliated," Miss Midnight Louise says.

I am so amazed. I did not think anything could humiliate this feline Gloria Steinem.

Gloria Steinem is a passé name in the media world now. Have you noticed what rare birds major media feminists are nowadays? Myself, I could not be happier about it. After witnessing the brouhaha outside the Crystal Phoenix, I am think- ing my sympathies lie with the Black Hat Brotherhood. I do not wear a hat, but I am black.

Miss Midnight Louise is black like me and she does not wear a hat, but I sense that we have our differences, as usual.

“Those Black Hat Brotherhood thugs," she fusses. "Turning my turf into a circus act."-You think that the Red Hat ladies were not already doing that?"

“Only in the sense of admirable joie de vivre.”

Okay, my "joie" is about to go DOA. Dead On Arrival. "You have to admit that they are a rather ... feathery ... lot," I say. "It is all in the name of fun."

“The last time I looked, pursuing feathers was in the name of survival for our species."

“Only in the wild. And in the wild, the male of the species is usually the more colorful and flagrant. That is so unfair. It is only right that these Red Hat Sisterhood ladies opt for a brighter plumage in their mature years."

“So what can I look forward to you wearing in your mature years, which are admittedly a fair ways off?"

“ Not a flamingo fedora:' she says, referring to my unfortunate brief stint as a cat food commercial huckster wearing that obnoxious article.

Gadzooks, Midnight Louie is cooked! I did not think anyone remembered my ill-fated venture into TV stardom. The greatest and most effective weapon of a female, what makes her indeed deadlier than the male, is a long memory.

“This was a put-up job," I comment.

“I thought so too. Your MissTemple was caught flat-footed, which is hard to do with a person as prone to wearing stiletto heels as she is."

“Flat-footed at first. That is permissible. The last I saw, she was flying around like a madwoman trying to put a lid on things."

“I see we are back to the subject of hats," she notes.

“Yes. It is odd that no one much wears hats today, and yet they are so central to this case."

“Central how?"

“A plethora of hats at a convention can hide a lot of things.”

“Identities," she suggests.

“Yes."

“Weapons?"

“Could be. The crown of a hat can conceal a lot. Not to mention all the hatboxes being toted into this hotel."

“ Humph. The best concealing headgear so far is the high-crowned ten-gallon hats those would-be cowboys affect.”

“Yup," I say.

“They are the loose cannons in this convention."

“But they are not in this convention. They are convention-crashers."

“I wonder why."

“They have grievances, or think they do."

“Still, why make a spectacle of themselves?"

“Their so-called ex-better halves are having all the fun?"

“That is a silly motive. Men are used to going off and drinking beer and shooting things all on their own. Why should they deny the women in their lives the harmless hobbies of shopping, spending money, and looking outrageous?"

“All those things you describe could be addictions to the weak human personality."

“As if you are not addicted to catnip and female gullibility!”

“Females? Gullible? Louise. Please

“Some are," she says softly. "And these women with their red chapeaux and Chardonnay and brave spirits are fighting off what could be a lonely old age with others of their kind. Ma Barker is such a one, with no mate, no certain home, and many dependents to look after."

“She will have a home," I growl. "At the Circle Ritz. I just have to get my people's attention off the hullabaloo and homicide here so I can enlighten them on what is needed under their very noses and on their doorstep."

“That is very noble of you, Dadster.”

I cringe, as usual, at the impudent form of address.

She muses on. "I am not about to let Mr. Max go gently into that dark night. I find the doings at his address most suspicious and intend to stake it out indefinitely. So I guess you will have to spring Miss Electra Lark from suspicion, or Ma Barker and her gang will have traipsed the length of Las Vegas, at your recommendation, from Nowheresville to Nothingsville for naught.”