Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

And she stomps off like an army of Jimmy Choos on parade.

I am so relieved that I have not had to explain myself to my Miss Temple (although I never would or could; I am a firm believer in the Sphinxlike expression as the best course in touchy situations), that I do drift off to sleep upon my Donna Karan leather sofa. Everything is designer-something nowadays. Perhaps I need a corporate logo for Midnight Inc. Investigations.

Maybe a tie-in reality TV show: Las Vegas MSI: Midnight’s Scientific Investigations.

This is but a dream. I wake to the limpid tones of a heavenly host.

No, I have not joined the late, lamented Simon in the afterlife. It appears that I have been “discovered” by a shopper possessing true taste.

“Goodness! I had never seen a more ingratiating and lifelike stuffed cat. Well, ‘stuffed cat’ hardly fits this magnificent

faux feline. This is a work of soft-sculpture art. I must have it!”

“Uh, ma’am.” The unprepossessing Jerome is back and glancing around nervously. “I am not a sales associate. I just do .

. . windows.”

“You do? Young man, I may have a part-time job for you.” The speaker is a woman of that certain age and weight that permits her to be described as a “matron.” Since the only “matrons” I have run into are keepers of female prisoners, I am a bit disconcerted. Does this woman wish to remove me to a place on incarceration? I think not.

“Display windows, ma’am,” Jerome says with surprising firmness. Apparently even a professional jellyfish may develop a spine. “Let me find a sales associate.”

“I only want to know how much this handsome fellow is … Funny, there is no tag around his neck.”

Right on, lady. Collars are for dogs and sex slaves. “Perhaps it is on the rear. We should turn him over.” What?!

“Sometimes they put a little satin tag there, just where the … well, you know, would be.”

I discern that Jerome is as appalled by this shocking lack of sensibility as I am. “I do not know, ma’am. Let me get you a sales associate.”

“Sales?” She arches a penciled eyebrow. “I understood Maylords shied away from such commercial terms.”

“Well, ordinarily, ma’am. I will find an … article placement person for you. No doubt this, uh, soft sculpture is listed on a

computer, along with its price.”

No way, Jose. I have no price and no computer record ei-ther, thank you very much.

“Oh, this lovely beast is priceless,” the lady proclaims, resting on my head a chubby hand with the fingers swelling against several carats of large, obvious diamonds. “No wonder there is nothing as obvious as a price tag on it. He is the Eternal,

Mysterious Black Cat. I must have him!”

Would that the Divine Yvette felt so strongly! Oh, well. Icringe as Jerome skedaddles in search of some crass commercial agent. Obviously this dame would pay plenty for me. I daydream what the computer might turn up. Six hundred dollars. A diamond collar to go? I may have a day job here. The lady has turned to view Simon’s vignette. “Art Deco! He was such a fabulous designer! I love everything he does. I had no idea Maylords employed him. Now where did that rabbity young man go?

Imagine not tagging a wonderful accessory like a black velvet panther.”

She waddles off and I take the opportunity to hit pad to pavement-cool polished travertine, in this case, not parboiled Las Vegas asphalt-and get myself out of this madhouse.

At least I have not run into Miss Temple, but I have plenty of things about Maylords to consider, including the fact that they could use a Midnight Louie signature accessory line. Amelia Wong, watch out!

Chapter 36

G a i n f u l E m p l o y m e n t

Temple couldn’t believe what a quick Tuesday afternoon stop at Maylords had netted her: Rafi Nadir cruising past before she’d made it out of the atrium and dropping several typed sheets into the Black Hole of her everpresent tote bag.

What a smooth snitch!

Temple had some free time. Perfect! No Wong events were scheduled until the arts council reception in the Maylords atrium tonight to celebrate Maylords’ support of local cultural issues. Now if only nothing scary and violent and worthy of a CSI: Crime Scene Investigation script happened… . No shot-out windows, no stabbed sales associates.

Even a seasoned PR person like Temple found it hard to believe the week’s schedule of events, with slight adjustments for murder and mayhem, just kept rolling along. A bunch of UFO fanatics had trespassed at Area 51, which swept Simon’s murder to a few short paragraphs inside the newspapers. A pop tart girl singer had French-kissed a boxer dog onstage at the Oasis, which pushed TV film of the murder Murano to a fifteen-second flash at the end of the news. She found Kenny Maylordhappily watching Amelia Wong and assistants presenting one of their daily feng shui demonstrations to a standingroomonly crowd in the small auditorium off the caf� area. It was as if Simon Foster had never been part of the hoopla, as if he’d never been here, excited to debut his vignette designs, eager to adjust every picture frame and fluff every silk-tasseled pillow.

Even the Murano no longer stalled at stage center in all its gory orange glory. Kenny had wanted to replace the impounded vehicle with a new one, but the dealer wasn’t about to take back a murder car, even though the police said that Simon had been stabbed elsewhere and placed in the Murano long after blood had flowed. Temple had convinced Kenny to bring in an equally new and hot orange model: the Cadillac CTS.

Changing out vehicles didn’t shut out reality. Temple closed her eyes. This was all about Simon. The viewing was tonight. She’d have to leave the party, abstentemious, and rush, uh, drive safely to the funeral parlor. Matt had asked her, gingerly, about when and where the visitation would be and had offered to escort her. Temple had declined. Mostly because he looked too much like the dear departed, from the back.

Had somebody been after Matt all the time? Hard to believe, but then who would have believed he’d have attracted a homicidal stalker either. Although in that case he had only been a handy substitute for the real prey, Max.

Just then Matt’s seminary friend, Jerome, came shuffling by, toting something as usual, looking like a total flunky. Temple caught a glimmer of distaste in his expression as he passed her.

Why pick on her? She was nice to people. Oh. People included Matt. Strange places, those seminaries. Male clubs, really. Even though token women were now finally admitted, they couldn’t aspire to any real power. Matt had admitted as much.

In a sense, Matt had rejected Jerome. Would that merit a knife in the back, even if it was the wrong back? Underdogs could show surprising nerve … especially if the counterattack was cowardly.

Temple shook her head. She’d check out the ex-employees on Rafi’s list before speculating further. Someone who’d been let go so soon might have an even bigger grudge against those who’d stayed, and especially those who’d stayed because they were gifted at their jobs, like Simon.

God, she dreaded tonight.

Temple drove off the Maylords lot and stopped the Miata at a curb two blocks away in a pittance of shade under some overgrown oleander bushes.

She dug out Rafi’s papers, her fingers clumsy with excitement. Maybe someone on this list would have a clue as to why murder had become a key accessory at Maylords Fine Furnishings.

Jubilation was her first reaction when she scanned the list. It was blessedly thorough: name, address, phone number-even e-mail address-for each employee. Every newsie, every PR person’s heart rejoiced to see hard facts marshaled like little tin soldiers in black type on white paper.