Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

Now, I am not much for mirrors, though I long ago figured out that the suave gentleman in black I glimpsed in them was merely my own self. Many of my kind are convinced they are viewing twin littermates. These benighted sorts are not candidates for more sophisticated roles in human society, such as shamus.

As an ace gumshoe, I immediately decided I needed more inside operatives and must call on the Ashleigh girls.

I did say “girls,” did I not? I have already discovered that they are well acquainted with mirrors but are among the deluded type who mistake their own image for a rival (although a bewitchingly attractive rival) for their mistress’s affections. It is bad enough that there are the two of them. Luckily, both are inverse images of each other, so they will never mistake a sister for a twin. If that makes any sense.

I paw their bedroom door, shivs politely retracted. That subtle sound, rather like a steel brush hissing across a snare drum skin, instantly perks up the ears of my kind. It has the advantage of sounding like some leaf blowing along a sidewalk, a phenomenon universally ignored by Homo sapiens.

And speaking of Homo sapiens, surely Miss Savannah Ashleigh must be the sappiest around.

So, in a moment, a curled soot foot is pushed under the door frame and then come tempting little jiggles of the door, abetted by my leaping to apply my weight near the doorknob until the catch springs … and out through a narrow opening push the pretty-in-pink noses of the Persian sisters.

When I compliment them on their pink proboscises, they feign ignorance of the word “proboscis” and state that the breed standard for their kind’s noses is the color rose.

So a rose nose is a rose nose is a rose nose, but plain old pink in my book.

Once in the hall and over our terminology debates, I explain that what I need is not noses, of whatever shade you want to call them, but eyes and ears.

“Quite right, Louie,” Yvette says with a shaded silver brush along my side. “Noses are a canine sense: loud, snuffly, and vulgar. We can see and hear without being seen and heard, in perfect silence.”

“I agree,” say I, “especially about the perfect part.”

behind us, Solange makes discreet retching noises. It may be the common malady of a hair ball, or it may be an editorial comment.

I know better than to be caught between them. That would be like being the Jack of Spades sandwiched between the Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Diamonds. Lunch meat.

I tell my new staff about the latest Zorro attack: evil words on a bathroom mirror.

“Our mistress writes in the steam on the bathroom mirror all the time,” Solange offers.

“Indeed. You would say she is a skilled graffiti artist then?”

“I would say,” Yvette puts in, with a corrosive glance at her sister, “that family secrets are family secrets. She writes down the phone numbers of her various gentleman friends so she does not forget them.”

“Why would she not use a little black book, or a computer?” I wonder.

“Blackmail,” Solange purrs thrillingly. ‘Too easy to access. The tabloids are always stalking her.”

I do not point out that they do so because Miss Savannah Ashleigh always provides them with useful opportunities, such as sunbathing in the nude with Yvette and her litter of unwanted kittens. The tabloids got a lascivious closeup of Yvette nursing with Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s bare anklebone in the background that time.

“We could use some tabloid photographers on these crime scenes,” I point out. “The only cameras here are indentured to the producers. They will either be suppressed so the show can go on, or … even more devious, the show planned these disruptions and this is a Fear Factor pattern rather than a makeover pattern.”

“What is a makeover?” Yvette asks with touching curiosity.

“Humans,” I explain, “do not all come with luxuriouscoats of fur, airy whiskers, dainty limbs, kaleidoscope eyes, and expressive tails. Many of them are handicapped from birth. Hence their need to remake themselves in a better image.”

“Poor things!” Solange cries.

“But our own,” I point out. “I am sure you wish to serve Miss Savannah Ashleigh as much as I do my Miss Temple.”

“But, Louie.” The Divine Yvette’s voice rises to an imperious tone. “Your Miss Temple is not here.”

Ooops.

“That is correct, Yvette. As usual, your perceptions are formidable. However”—I am thinking, thinking, thinking—“however, little Miss Mariah is here, and she is not only an acquaintance of my Miss Temple, but in my own view, she and her mother, a noted law enforcement personality in this town, are to be commended for adopting a pair of”—here I gaze soulfully at Yvette—“striped homeless kittens last fall. In my own view.”

A silence holds. Yvette unwillingly bore a litter of yellow striped cats once erroneously purported to be mine. They were given up for adoption, naturally, once the tabloid interest had died down. I cannot believe that Yvette is indifferent to those who adopt striped nobodies.

She sniffs. I cannot tell if it is the usual French sniff, as is used to dismiss an inferior wine, or a snuffle, as is used to record a deep but unacknowledged emotion.

“I understand, Louie,” she says finally. “Your devotion to the underdog does you credit.”

Hmmm. This is an edged compliment at best but I let it pass.

“Yvette and I,” Solange agrees in the flash of an eyelash, “will happily aid you in protecting the Mariah kitten.”

Hallelujah! It is not easy to turn purebred Persians into legmen. Er, leg ladies. And I certainly expect a lot less back sass than I get from Midnight Louise. Having claimed to be my relative, she is therefore free to call me anything she likes.

Devoted is not on that list, along with a lot of other sterling qualities.

Chapter 28

Contingency Plan

“I’m glad Old Cold Marble isn’t calling in the police,” Mariah said. “My mom would be all over this place, and I’d be outed.”

She was sitting on the bedroom carpet with Temple, leaning glumly against the end of the bed and facing the door.

They’d decided to do their own guard duty. Light from one of the bedside lamps cast a soft campfire glow on the lavish furnishings.

“Why does someone hate the contestants so much?” Mariah asked after awhile.

“Let’s see. It could be one of us.”

“No way! Why would anyone ruin her one chance at fame and fortune?”

“Fame and fortune, my latest Lash ‘n’ Flash eyeliner! Did you read the contest rules? All the contestants get is a non-invasive makeover and a few new clothes. That doesn’t begin to offset the fortune your mom paid for your Teen Queen clothes. So the two division winners get a highly chaperoned date with some boy band has-been and a few more new clothes and a rhinestone crown you can get at a dozen outlets in Vegas. So what?”

“And a car!”

“And a car. A really sexy Dodge Neon, sure. Don’t you have three years to go before you could drive it anyway? That’s forever in Teen Time.”

“Two and a half years. Then I get a learner’s permit.” Mariah’s dark glance slid toward Temple. “You’re one to sniff at a car. I’ve seen that red Miata you drive. You got yours. And you can diss boy band guys. I hear you have a real Bad Boy on the string.”

“Really? Exactly how did you hear that?”

“It’s a small house. I can’t help overhearing things. I heard my mom and her friend Matt talking about him once. Max.” Mariah slid her another glance. “He sounds cool.”

And lately Max was being way too cool, Temple thought. “Your mom’s mistaken about Max.”

“She’s not usually wrong about her job.”