Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

“She is a lot bigger than your Miss Temple,” Louise notes.

“Miss Temple is exquisitely petite, like the Divine Yvette.”

“That feather-headed Persian!” Louise spits. “You always did go for those shallow showgirls. The lady sitting with Mr. Matt looks

solid. Good breeding stock, but brains too. At first glance I took her for Miss Lt. C. R. Molina, but I see now that she is a different sort altogether.”

While we are speculating, someone walks into the picture beyond the glass we peer through.

It is Miss Temple Barr herself, all dressed up in the sparkly silver ’60s knit suit she had tried on for my approval earlier and my

signature pumps of solid Austrian crystal stones, with my suave black profile glittering subtly on the heels!

“Ooooh!” Louise transfers her weight from mitt to mitt in anticipation. “I predict a cat fight of major dimensions.”

I admit that my neck tenses. This will not be pretty.

But Miss Temple merely stops before them and chats. Everybody smiles. The strange lady nods at Miss Temple while Mr. Matt

introduces her. I wish I could hear what they are saying! It is like watching the opening scene of a film without a sound track.

There is more odd about this scene that the nauseating cordiality of all concerned. The sofa Mr. Matt and his new lady friend perch

upon is not the red suede vintage number my Miss Temple found for his apartment at the Circle Ritz. It is not a free-form Vladimir Kagan design from the ’50s that would make a great museum piece. It is a vivid orange leather that simply cries out for an elegant noir kind of dude like me to stretch out on it … and knead my front shivs into its soft, hide-scented surface. Ummmm.

‘That sofa is good enough to eat,” I cannot help remarking. “Orange is definitely our color,” Louise agrees. Like me she is as black

as the jack of spades, except she is a jill.

“And I was born on Halloween,” I add. “Some would consider this a bad omen for a dude of my coloring, but I sneer at silly

superstitions.”

“You sneer at a lot of things, Daddy Dudest,” she notes dryly. “I do not know when I was born,” she adds.

.

This is a dig, because she is convinced that I am responsible for her advent on earth and should be mensch enough to at least remember the month.

“Halloween is months away,” I say vaguely. “I wonder what they are all doing here.”

“It is a big Las Vegas opening,” she points out.

“It is a very minor Las Vegas opening.”

“Then why did we come?”

“I heard Chef Song was catering it and there will be lots of leftover shrimp scampi and other saltwater delights.”

“Then should we not scampi around back by the Dumpster and be first in line?”

I gaze into Louise’s narrowed golden eyes, so cynical for one so young.

My own eyes are green, limpid, and as innocent as a three-dollar bill.

As one, in this if nothing else, we head for the buffet-lineto-be out back, leaving our humans to handle their own messy

affairs for once.

Chapter 6

Chatty Catty

“So what are you doing here?” Matt asked Temple. This didn’t sound as smooth a conversational transition as he had hoped. “I’m doing PR for Maylords. And you?”

“Uh, Janice is on the staff.”

“Oh, really?” Temple took the opportunity to perch beside Janice on the sofa arm.

Maybe her high heels were killing her, Matt thought, though they seldom did. So maybe it was curiosity.

Temple continued, “I heard everyone on staff went through a tough six-week training session before the opening. Boot camp for the retail set. But on salary. Pretty impressive. Maylords is really slinging the cash around for this opening. What do you do here?”

Janice’s amused expression grew quizzical. “I’m in an odd position. I’m not a fully qualified interior designer yet, but I

directed the overall look of the artwork in the displays. The staff is either designers or sales force, so I’m a bit of both.”

“Listen,” Temple said, “I’ve seen some of your own artwork. You’d be qualified to photo-style the Taj Mahal, I’d bet.”

“And you’ve done a fabulous job with the opening party and the press. Matt has always said you were very creative.”

“Oh, he has? How nice.”

Temple looked at him. Janice looked at him. Why did Matt feel like chum dangling between two attractive but circling ,

sharks?

“I envy you both,” he said. “Your minds are always concocting something out of nothing. I just sit in a chair nights and psychoanalyze strangers for fun and profit.”

“Being a radio shrink is not an easy gig.” Temple tolerated no self-deprecation except on her own behalf. “You do actual good for people.”

He wished he could do some good for himself and escape this awkward situation. Why it was awkward, he couldn’t say,

but it was.

“So.” Temple turned to Janice again. “I see the store will be doing monthly art shows in the framing area. Any of your pieces scheduled?”

“No.” Janice shook her head as she smiled. “However upscale it is, Maylords is a furniture store. It shows and sells art that would be considered … wallpaper. Nothing too meaty.”

“And you’re meaty.” Temple nodded. “I’ve heard so much about you, but have never had a chance to compliment you. I saw those police-style portraits you did from Matt’s descriptions. It’s too bad computers have superceded police sketch artists, but how lucky that ‘Lieutenant Molina suggested Matt try you for help in finding his stepfather. Those sketches you did for him, both phenomenal … at least the one of the man was. I met him once. Briefly.” She shuddered slightly at a brutal memory Matt wished they both could forget. “I never did see that woman face-to-face.”

“From what Matt said about her, you were lucky.”

When, Matt wondered, had he been totally cut out of this conversation?

Temple smiled grimly in agreement. “We’re all going to be lucky to see or hear no more of her. Matt did tell you?”

Janice just nodded. Matt could see Temple softly riffing hertangerine (she never missed a nuance) enameled fingernails on the silver metal evening purse in her lap. He knew she loathed short, uninformative answers, being an ex-TV news reporter and professional wordsmith. Words were her paint, and Janice was keeping her personal profile very sketchy indeed right now.

While Matt tried to think of something to say-it had to be his turn by now-their trio suddenly became a quartet. “Temple, you minx, you’ve been hiding!”

The man’s frame was as wiry as his cannily bleached, curly blond hair. Matt knew him, so he was free to spring up and shake hands.

“Danny Dove, the choreographer,” Temple said, glancing at Janice. “Janice Flanders is an artist and was in charge of the store’s opening look.”

“Fabulous!” Danny’s waving hand indicated the overall ambiance, then captured one of Temple’s hands. “I hate to drag you away, munchkin, but there’s someone I’ve been dying to have you meet.”

“We can’t have Las Vegas’s premier choreographer dying,” Temple answered, nodding farewell to Matt and Janice. “If you’ll excuse us?”

Matt was left standing, his hands in his pants pockets. Janice stood up beside him.

“Danny Dove,” she said. “Wow. He’s big-time in this town.”

“Funny, no matter how massive the Las Vegas tourist trade gets, it’s still called a town. Temple worked with him on a couple of special shows.”

“She’s one multitalented little murichkin,” Janice said. “True.”

“In fact, she’s adorable.”

“Temple would cringe to hear that. She hates being reminded that she’s small and cute; she wants to be taken seriously.” “Danny Dove didn’t get a rise out of her.”