Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“No”

I am forced to wrack my brain, which is pretty wrecked by now. "I cannot guess. Like yourself, Miss Lieutenant Molina does not have a lot of friends of the male persuasion.”

Louise taps a foreclaw on the marble tile of the floor. It makes a sharp, impatient sound.

“Anyway," I say. "I have no time to sit around luxury hotels and speculate. Ma Barker's gang is back at the Circle Ritz, wondering where their headwaiter is. I need to get home to feed the homeless. Chef Song here at the hotel wouldn't have any tidbits suitable for starving relatives?”

She hisses at me. "You know that Chef Song does not do takeout. I will retum with you to the Circle Ritz and help you distribute nuggets of your unwanted Free-to-Be-Feline to your poor relations.”

That is not exactly how I would describe my charitable endeavors, but at least I will have company back to the Circle Ritz, where my Miss Temple is no doubt breathlessly awaiting my company and insights. Or maybe I mean Mr. Matt's company.

Chapter 59

Curb Service

Ralph, the youngest Fontana brother next to Nicky, was just as dreamy-looking as the rest, but somehow his all-American name didn't convey the same mystique.

However, he was every bit as eager to oblige, which is an excellent thing in a man.

After dropping her off at the Circle Ritz, he promised to return shortly.

Temple had barely trundled upstairs, changed into a bellbottomed jumpsuit, ditched the red headgear, and settled down again with Oleta's manuscript, when her doorbell rang.

Ralph awaited without, bearing equipment. She could run the DVD disc on her computer, but wanted to see the video on the bigger living-room TV screen. In no time he'd replaced her outdated VCR (that only Max had heretofore managed to program with a bit of magic). Then he ran her through the new DVD player's workings, particularly the pause, fast forward, and reverse. Finally, he opened the hideously expensive bottle of wine he'd brought, poured the first glass, and put the bottle on a coaster on the coffee table.

Oh, and made a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

A Fontana Brothers Production was nothing if not thorough. Assured that Temple wanted for nothing (besides a mur- derer with a cast-iron motive), he bowed and left.

To read or just sit back and watch? That was the modem Hamlet's dilemma.

She and Matt were a new couple. There was no tacit plan to spend their nights together either here or there. Temple, on her own for more than two years, preferred suspense to habit by now. Max had trained her well for his unexplained absences.

Except this one. Was Molina right? Had he been the Phantom Mage? He hadn't missed a beat when dealing with the White Russian exhibition acrobatics. He seemed in peak form. Something may have gone wrong, but Temple couldn't saddle her new relationship with worries about an ex-boyfriend.

She sipped the wine, turned down the lights, and ran Natalie's secret recording, a notebook on the sofa arm, roller-ball pen in hand. The manuscript would be next.

Chapter 60

A Fool and His Honey

Temple woke up with daylight oozing through the sheer cur- tains on the French doors to the balcony.

A set of those doors were ajar and a trail of Free-to-BeFeline nuggets—like large, army-green ants—were marching from there to the kitchen. Or vice versa.

“Louie?”

The protesting meow came from the other side of the couch. Louie was coiled there like a furry snake, his one open green eye looking very annoyed.

“I guess you had a big night last night too," she admitted, patting his head.

He barely restrained a hiss.

On the other hand, his access to the Ashleigh girls had been suddenly cut off.

“I didn't get any last night, either," she consoled him. Oddly, this didn't seem to console Midnight Louie. He yawned to show his fangs and tongue, then licked his whiskers. "More food? You've been going through that Free-to-Be- Feline like there's no tomorrow lately.”

He jumped down to the floor, then stalked to the kitchen, where he turned and glared accusingly at her.

Temple pushed herself up from the corner she'd been curled into and went to open another ten-pound bag. What was going on here? Louie would soon be the size of Nero Wolfe.

While she was up, Temple poured and drank a glass of milk, then dribbled the dregs over the Free-to-Be-Feline.

Louie remained bowed over the bowl, but only making the occasional crunching sound. No wonder he was full! He'd been through three bags of it in the last week.

With him taken care of, Temple went to shower, sharpen her brain, and gather her evidence for a fast trip to the LVMPD Crimes Against Persons unit.

Did she have a crime scenario for them! All thanks to Oleta's manuscript, Natalie's film, and Fontana brother wine.

Luckily, nice Detective Alch was in when she phoned, although he was sure it was unnecessary to see her.

“I have physical evidence as well as theories," she said. "You've been holding something back from the police?" Nice Detective Alch was sounding sharp.

He'd been looking frazzled lately, come to think of it. Molina must be riding the rag. Okay, that was sexist. Shame on Temple! But she felt no rules of politically correct behavior applied when it came to her, and Max's, archenemy.

“Have you still got Elmore Lark in custody?" she asked.

“No. We don't have any crime scene evidence connected to the murder of Natalie Newman, aka Markowitz, and we don't have any on Oleta Lark."

“But Elmore nearly killed himself trying to make Electra look guilty."

“We don't have enough evidence on her either. And Elmore Lark is an obvious loon, dressing up in that crazy drag outfit to pursue your obvious trap of the hatbox. This whole case is laughable."

“But any other possible suspects are leaving town with the convention."

“We're not closing the case. We just don't have one on anybody yet.”

Temple decided arguing with the police was a lost cause. She made her good-byes and hung up. She had a feeling something was distracting Alch these days. Maybe a personal problem.

At least Electra wasn't in danger of imminent arrest, but she wasn't completely cleared either.

Maybe it was time for the Red-Hatted League to take matters into their own hats and swing into action.

Six hours later, Temple and Electra and the core Red-Hatted League members were hunkered down in a minivan way too new for the Araby Motel parking lot. They'd had a lot of fun wetting down the dust in a vacant lot and throwing handfuls at the vehicle until it acquired a disreputable patina.

They were all wearing scruffy clothes anyway, jeans and faded velour jogging suits saved as car-washing rags. Temple even had white tennis shoes on.

The older women were the utter opposite of their gaudy, glitzy Red Hat selves.

Except for Starla. Her lips and nails were a fresh, gleaming crimson color. She was out of her Red Hat Sisterhood red and purple, but poured into denim glitz: low-rise rhinestone-decorated jeans and matching jacket, low-cut white T-shirt featuring a sequined image of a sexy cowgirl on a bucking bronco horse.

Her frankly bleached blond hair was sprayed into a hussy hive of bedhead waves and her painted red toenails peeked out from strappy hooker-high heels.

She was "strappy" someplace else: in the recording wire taped to her torso. The ex-bounty hunter had all the right equipment for going undercover, if not under the covers, with Elmore Lark.

“It's wonderful you know how to get wired," Electra commented.

“When you're a bounty hunter," Starla explained, "sometimes you gotta surprise 'em, or ambush 'em. And sometimes you gotta trick 'em." She heaved her breasts higher in the tight T-shirt, giving the cowgirl a potent buck. "And sometimes you gotta seduce 'em."