Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

“Whatever he wants, it is worth tailing him. And keep your nose alert for that noxious sweet scent I mentioned the other day.”

“Shhh!”

Rafi turns and sweeps the flashlight over the unadorned wooden floor, missing us by that much.

We open our eyes once the searchlight has passed. I hear slight scrabbling sounds behind us.

“Mice,” Miss Louise dismisses them. “That is what we are dealing with, not a murderer.”

“A murderer is still in this house. We could, in fact, be tailing him now.”

This snaps her to literal attention.

“Rafi Nadir has the scent on his shoes?”

“Yes, but he could have picked it up out by the pool. The hot sun had melted what traces of it I found that day, so anyone could have accidentally stepped in it.

Except myself, of course. I have been certain to keep my toes well out of it.”

Louise’s tail is hitting the wood planking like a woodpecker’s beak, hard and fast. That betrays her thinking. “So. This substance is a sure link to another murder scene … and to the mischief here, but like rabies it has spread to innocent carriers. Still, we might learn something by tracing every one who has spread it.”

“Exactly.”

“I admit that this Rafi Nadir has been showing up at every recent murder or crime scene for some weeks now.”

“Agreed, yet I hate to suspect him. He treats my Miss Temple right, in his way.”

“So he could not possibly be a killer,” she concludes sarcastically. “Perhaps he is stalking your precious Miss Temple.”

“I do not think so but I have detected the sticky substance on some others who might be.”

“Such as—?”

“Do not forget the cameraman who tried to kick me when I first arrived.”

“Right. I was not here then. I missed that. Pity.”

“And Ken Adair, the Hair Guy.”

“That could merely be some stinky hair gel that got on his shoe.”

“True. Most of these girls would put recycled bubblegum on their locks if a beauty consultant told them to.”

“Any other suspects?”

I hesitate.

“Spit it out, just not literally?’

“Miss Sulah Savage, aka Miss Temple’s aunt from Manhattan, whom I bunked with at Christmastime, Miss Kit Carlson.”

“Whew! I did not guess the relationship. This place is a snarl of hidden relationships as well as secret tunnels. Miss Sulah Savage has been most generous to me with tidbits at mealtime. She could have innocently walked through a bit of it herself.”

We hear a crack of something opening or shutting far down the corridor of darkness.

“Quick!” Miss Midnight Louise is all tracker now. “I do not want to lose Mr. Rafi.”

We take off and there is a double echo of pad thumping wood behind us that only I hear, because I am listening for it.

We hit a hidden flight of stairs and go streaking down it too fast to stop. More dark hallway. Our whiskers ease us through, warning us before we slam our pusses into solid wall.

A far sliver of light tells us where Mr. Rafi Nadir has gone.

We race to that point, pause, and then Louise sticks her nose into the light. (She is very good at sticking her nose where it does not belong.) It widens to whisker width. The light comes from a lit lamp. In its intense circle, we spot Mr. Rafi bending over a desk and chair. I notice some fresh four-tracks on his upper arms, but he is too busy to pay much attention to a few wounds.

I realize where we are: on the wrong side of the crime scene tape, and so is he.

This does not seem to bother him as he moves around the room, examining this and that.

“This is Miss Marjory Klein’s office,” Louise hisses in my ear.

I flatten my offended appendage. Her hisses are sharper than a biker’s switchblade.

We push against the wall as Mr. Rafi comes back into the passage, shuts the door disguised as a wall on the other side, and moves farther along it.

Last I had heard of the pursuing Persian girls was some muffled thumps on the surprise staircase and some choice curses in Farsi.

Amazing how one reverts to one’s roots in times of stress, even natural blondes like the Divine Yvette.

Yet I dare not rush to her assistance and give away that we are not alone.

Rafi is sure giving the place the once-over. We follow him left and follow him right, and then follow him right into another office.

This is Ms. Beth Marble’s office, and once again we are all on the wrong side of the crime scene tape.

Miss Louise is the first nose through the hidden door, of course, and she reports to me in short little pants.

“He is examining her drawers.”

In other situations, this would not be rated family fare, but since Miss Beth Marble’s mortal remains are long gone, I am sure that everything is above board.

Besides, it is clear to me that Mr. Rafi is tracing the passage’s access to the crime scenes. Certainly it is clear how a body might be transported from Mr. Dexter Manship’s office to this one without being observed.

In fact, I turn us around and, using my instinctive feline radar, lead Louise to a site that Mr. Rafi has not discovered yet.

There I instruct her to jump up at a certain spot until the apparent wall turns into a door.

I sit back on my haunches and enjoy the exercise, since it is not mine. Eventually she hits the sweet spot that opens the concealed entrance.

No light this time, as no one bearing a flashlight is in our party, but I bound inside, whisker my way to the desk, and leap up to punch the lamp’s switch.

Light blinds me for a few seconds, but, sure enough, I am inside Mr. Dexter Manship’s office. No doubt cameras are recording my presence. I recall too late the strange snipping noise that preceded Mr. Rafi into the offices he visited. He had cut the camera cords, which were no doubt placed too high for me to reach anyway.

Ah, well. I am very telegenic and will be dismissed as harmless vermin, as usual.

Miss Louise has skittered in at floor level and is sniffing deeply under the desk.

“Mr. Manship is indeed another bubblegum shoe suspect,” she confirms my previous conclusion with satisfaction. “A pity everybody tiptoed through the exercise mats during the shaving cream graffiti episode. We need the film of that time to check who got close enough to infect their shoes.”

“Yes, yes. Proof is fine, but right now I need suspects. Ours is not to make the case, ours is to point out the possibilities.”

“How? We are hardly legitimate consultants.”

“About your own suspected origins you may speak for yourself, Louise. I know my sire and dam.”

“Braggart!”

I inhale deeply the atrocious tutti-frutti scent deposited under Mr. Dexter Manship’s desk. It is particularly strong and there are even a few stringy remnants of the source. Let us hope his shoes are so endowed tomorrow, during the Teen Queen finals.

I have an urge to unmask a murderer, and cannot think of a more deserving candidate.

Miss Louise carps about our worthless expedition on our way back to the mirrored door.

I make no defense, and not only let her precede me back into Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s domain, but show her the hall door with all due courtesy.

“I am going to inspect Miss Savannah’s shoes,” I tellher. “No sense being sexist and omitting a female suspect. You may want to do the same with Miss Sulah Savage’s closet. After all, she does use a pseudonym.”

Off the little chit goes, dreaming of Manolos, as in Blahniks.

Personally, I do not think Miss Kit indulges in status symbols as blatant as Blahniks. So I wait by the mirror, checking the state of my best bib and tucker and licking it into submission.

On the room’s king-size bed, Miss Savannah Ashleigh snores softly, no doubt the result of a Beverly Hills nose bob.